Chapter Text
Katsuki spends the next day getting the skin ripped off of him in relentless sparring sessions. The benefit of that is that Kirishima is still weirdly territorial about being the one to patch him up afterwards, which gives Katsuki a good excuse to stare at his focused pout.
Their class—most likely on advice from Shinsou, gives Kirishima a wide berth. Kirishima seems calmer for it, even if he still eyes every room he enters with an eerie, calculated gaze. He happens upon Hagakure once, and it’s jarring, seeing his nose twitch, and his head tilt, angling himself in front of Katsuki.
Part of Katsuki rankles at the idea of an alpha insinuating that he’s too weak to defend himself. The larger, more rational part of him lightly brushes his wrist against Kirishima’s and scolds him while Hagakure leaves the kitchen.
Katsuki doesn’t think he’ll miss this hypervigilant Kirishima. There’s a weird vibe in the dorms, like the building itself is unsettled. Of course there is. Kirishima’s the centre of their class, and now he straightens up like a military guard whenever someone comes within twenty feet of him.
He can already see Kirishima when this is all over—red-faced, bowing so low his forehead touches the floor, offering everyone food, or chore privileges, or whatever else he deems fit. It’s not really necessary, considering they all get weird during their cycles, and Kirishima, at least, doesn’t feel the need to moon people on his way to the bathroom, Kaminari , but he’ll beat himself up over it if he doesn't apologize “properly”—and, likely, even after he does.
When they’re going to sleep, though—Kirishima’s back pressed like a warm line against Katsuki, eyes trained on the door—Katsuki catches the smallest, barest change in his scent. Sweeter, without the strong, sour tinge of fermentation.
His rut’s breaking. It’s been accelerated this whole time. Most likely he’ll be back to normal by morning—and Katsuki will have to see whether he was serious about courting him or not.
He’s never been the type to get paralyzed over anxiety for what’s to happen. Kirishima, as always, manages to introduce him to a new frontier.
There’s the obvious worry—which is that he’ll have forgotten the whole thing and Katsuki will have to pretend like nothing happened. There’s the alternative, where he remembers, but tells Katsuki that it really was all rut-driven, the kind of thing he’d only wanted because he’d had his teeth in someone with his hormones dialed up to one hundred.
And there’s—there’s the very, very small possibility that he actually follows through with it. That he wants that, even when he isn’t in rut.
That he just wants Katsuki.
Katsuki remembers Kirishima thrashing like a hunted animal when he’d first fucked him. He remembers how his own heart had stopped when he’d held up the white flag, said I submit.
Being courted—what if Kirishima puts in all this effort—because he’s exactly that kind of person, to make it the most thoughtful fucking gesture known to man—and Katsuki ruins it because of his instincts?
It’s unlikely, true. But it could happen.
Katsuki’s not—he’s not the best there is. He is not the most compatible. He is definitely, definitely not the easiest.
Kirishima makes a small noise in his sleep. His leg shifts, ankle hooking around Katsuki’s.
Then again, Katsuki’s the one Kirishima chooses to lay his head beside. That has to count for something.
Katsuki wakes up short of breath. It feels like his chest is being slowly crushed by a block of concrete. Two years ago, this would have been a panic response. Now, it’s just indicative of a different kind of nightmare.
Kirishima is sprawled out on top of him, face approximately two inches from Katsuki’s. His eyes are wide, excited.
“Hi! Sleep well?”
“I can’t breathe, you piece of shit,” Katsuki says, lightly shoving at his head. This does nothing, as Kirishima’s skull is filled with actual cement.
“You’re used to that, aren’t you?”
Katsuki gapes at him for a second, genuinely taken aback. Kirishima’s mouth struggles, trapped in a flat line—before he dissolves into giggles, dropping his head onto Katsuki’s chest.
“I’ve been friends with you for too long,” Katsuki says, a little awed. “That’s a fucked up thing to say, Shitty Hair.”
“Maybe,” Kirishima says. He yawns, snuggling deeper against Katsuki. “You’re still laughing, though.”
“Hey, no, get up.” Katsuki tugs at his ear. “We have class. You’re gonna make us late. Weren’t you just up?”
“And now I’m tired again,” Kirishima whines. “Can’t you just go to class for me?”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “No.”
Kirishima doesn’t move. If anything, he clings more stubbornly to Katsuki’s body.
Katsuki bites his lip.
This whole time—it’s been Kirishima making the first move. He’s the one who asked Katsuki to join him for his presentation. The one who offered to help with Katsuki’s rut, the one who checked on him in the shower and came back upstairs with him. The one who initiated scenting. The one who asked to court Katsuki.
The one who first bared his throat, without ever being asked.
Katsuki could have rejected him any one of those times. He never had, not once—but Kirishima couldn’t have known that, and he’d still asked.
It’s possible he’s forgotten what he’d said last night. It’s possible he remembers, but doesn’t feel that way anymore.
Katsuki owes this to him regardless.
Heart in his throat, voice leashed to false casualty, he asks, “How are you going to court me if you’re asleep?”
Kirishima raises his head. His eyes soften, like snow in spring. He inhales, a sweet little whisper of a breath.
Katsuki cradles his face in his hand. Kirishima pushes into the contact, beaming.
“I could court you in bed,” Kirishima says. “You want me to write Cementoss’s essay for you? Hand me your laptop.”
“Court me by showering,” Katsuki says, and he can physically feel his heart shaking in his chest, like a wind chime in a hurricane. “You smell like shit.”
“Says you,” Kirishima says. “You could beat All For One with your morning breath.”
They insult each other out of bed, trading shots as they collect their shower caddies and towels. Kirishima sticks to him as they walk down the stairs, elbow bumping against Katsuki even though the stairwell is more than wide enough for the two of them to walk comfortably side by side.
“Good morning,” Tokoyami greets, meeting them on the first floor. His eyes dart over to Kirishima. “You’re…?”
“Feeling better!” Kirishima assures, slamming his fists together. “Thanks so much for being so patient with me, man, I really appreciate it!”
“You were fine,” Tokoyami dismisses. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I really wasn’t,” Kirishima says, frowning a little. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make it up to all of you!”
“There’s nothing to—”
Katsuki snorts, reaching for the bathroom door. “See, I told you—”
Kirishima’s hand snaps around the handle, a millimetre above Katsuki’s own hand.
Tokoyami stops talking.
They stare at each other.
“I’m in front of you,” Katsuki says.
“Yeah, but I’m—”
“What, you thought this was going to go one way?”
“You never said—”
Katsuki glares at him. “Do I need to explain every fucking little thing?”
Kirishima’s brows draw together. “Well, it would be nice if you did it just once —”
The door opens, and they both go stumbling back. Iida stands on the other side, looking perplexed until he catches sight of them, at which point he just looks tired. “I thought the door was broken. And that I was going to have to call someone to take a look.”
“No harm has befallen the door,” Tokoyami says. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Right,” Iida says. He sighs. “If you two are going to fight again—”
“No fighting here,” Kirishima says brightly. “I’m all done with rut, I promise.” He bows so low his head almost makes contact with his knees. “I’m really sorry about the past few days, man, put me down for extra chores, okay?”
“I will not be doing that,” Iida says. “You were under the influence of a drug, which we still don’t know much about. If anything, you should get less, as you recover.”
“I’ll take his,” Katsuki says quickly.
“You are not—”
“Please,” Tokoyami implores, holding his caddie in front of him like a shield. “Can I please just go brush my teeth.”
Katsuki looks at Kirishima. Kirishima looks at Katsuki. They both nod, set aside their differences, and walk into the bathroom.
Tokoyami lets out a great sigh of relief.
Katsuki makes the executive decision to start playing some offence. It’s insane to him that, after the hoodie and two ruts, let alone the last three years of Katsuki letting Kirishima get away with a frankly ridiculous amount of dumbfuckery, he still thinks Katsuki was just going to sit back and let himself be courted with no reciprocation to speak of.
Katsuki’s pretty progressive and all, but allowing himself to be courted without providing anything in return is about where he draws the line.
He finishes getting ready before Kirishima and barges into his room, smirking at the sight presented to him—Kirishima, only just shrugging on his white shirt. His eyes flick over to Katsuki, unsurprised.
“Give me a sec, man, it takes a little longer when you actually wear the uniform properly.”
“Your shit’s not even ironed, you call this proper?”
“I didn’t have time—” He stops, eyes going wide, as Katsuki knocks his hands away and takes their place, fingers walking up Kirishima’s chest, button by button. He almost forgets the top two buttons but Kirishima always does them up, so he does too.
He straightens the collar, loops the tie around Kirishima’s throat, and, under his incredulous gaze, ties a clean, perfect knot. He folds the collar down and adjusts the knot—tugging Kirishima forward, just a bit, and bites down the smirk at the small gasp that escapes his mouth.
Kirishima coughs. “If you’re—if you’re so good at this, why don’t you do it for yourself? I thought you didn’t know how to tie a tie.”
“I know how to do everything,” Katsuki says bluntly, holding the uniform jacket behind him, and nudging Kirishima’s arms into them.
Kirishima snorts. “You know what I really admire about you? Your humility.”
Katsuki doesn’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to button up the jacket and smooth down the tie.
Kirishima looks good. Katsuki’s hands feel warm.
Kirishima raises his eyebrows, as if playing it cool is going to distract Katsuki from the cotton-candy flush of his cheeks. “Are you going to put my shoes on for me, too?”
“Sure.”
Kirishima chokes. “Wait—”
But Katsuki’s already dropped to his knees, pulling grey socks up over Kirishima’s feet, and gently shoving them into his shoes.
“I wasn’t clear, before,” he intones, eyes trained on the laces of Kirishima’s scuffed shoes, crossing them an extra time for a double-knot. “If this is really something you want, that’s fine. I’ll let you do whatever you want. But you’re dumb as hell if you think it’s going to be one-sided.”
“You’re such a dick,” Kirishima complains. His voice sounds wobbly, like he’s about to cry.
Katsuki pressed a quick, soft kiss to his knee and gets to his feet, smirking at Kirishima’s red, red face.
“C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”
Kirishima stumbles after him.
“What is this?” Hagakure sounds confused, and a little amused, at the offered energy drink.
“I was rude to you,” Kirishima says, bent in a deep, apologetic bow, holding the drink aloft. “You were only trying to help, and it was probably really tough for you, getting close to me like that in the first place. I’m sorry! I promise next time I’ll be better prepared, so I don’t snap at any of you!”
Hagakure’s quiet for about half a second, and then she erupts into pleased giggles, gently ruffling Kirishima’s hair. “Stand up, man, c’mon. You’re so cute, you know that? None of us—seriously, none of us, I know you have a whole apology tour planned—care, okay? You were better than any of us would have been, by, like, a longshot.”
Katsuki huffs. That’s exactly what he said when Kirishima made him recite every event of the previous two days in blistering detail. He hadn’t wanted to forget a single offence—not that anyone with half a brain even took offence from any of his presumed misdemeanors.
Kirishima hesitantly straightens up, cheeks flushed. He pushes the drink into Hagakure’s hands. “Still. Take it, please?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Hagakure pleads. “Bakugou, how do you deal with this, huh? I feel like I’m holding a gun to a baby.”
“That’s because you’re weak,” Katsuki says, instead of admitting that his batting average against Kirishima’s stupid puppy dog eyes clocks in at about zero percent.
Hagakure’s derisive laugh lets him know that she’s already figured that out. “Hey, I’ve been wanting to try this flavour out,” she marvels, after examining the bottle. “Kirishima, how’d you know?”
“I thought I remembered you saying something about that a few days ago! Let me know what you think, okay?”
Hagakure ruffles his hair again. “Seriously,” she says, fondly. “Better than all of us combined.”
Kirishima ducks his head, looking pleased.
Katsuki should maybe snap his teeth at someone’s else’s hand in his—his chosen mate’s hair, especially if it’s got his cheekbones burnished a coral pink. He doesn’t, though. He’s not jealous, or insecure, or any of that. He’s happy that Kirishima’s being reassured, that he has good friends who know exactly what he needs.
He nods to Hagakure as they turn to leave her desk, and she lightly knocks their fists together.
“Figured it out?”
“Hm.”
He hears the grin in her voice. “I’m glad.”
Kirishima drags him around for the rest of the apology tour, even though just about everyone refuses to let him feel an ounce of guilt. Katsuki has the pleasure of seeing the remaining tension melt out of his shoulders over the course of the afternoon, though, as Kaminari lightly punches him in the shoulder and tells him they’re even, and Shinsou wryly says that his behaviour was kind of badass, actually.
“I’ll buy everyone dinner tonight,” Kirishima says, resolute.
Katsuki rolls his eyes, but pulls out his phone. “What’re you craving? Or do you want to let them decide?”
“What—hey! No, stop, if you do it, that defeats the purpose.”
“I’m courting you, aren’t I?”
Kirishima side-eyes him. “Are you going to be one of those alphas?”
Katsuki snorts. “Why’d you say it like it’s a slur? What, I can’t pay for you?”
“You can if you ask nicely.”
Katsuki bites his tongue. Kirishima’s grinning, eyes crinkled, looking pleased the way he always does when he knows he’s getting on Katsuki’s nerves.
“Fine,” Katsuki grits out. “May I pay for the class’ dinner. On your people-pleasing behalf.”
Kirishima gets a deeply irritating look on his face, and says, “Y’know, most alphas would probably take that as a sign of disrespect. I would be within my rights to challenge you right now.”
Katsuki groans. This fucking guy.
But no. This is exactly what he gets, for choosing to court this piece of shit. He can hear the old hag yapping in his head. You made your fucking bed, now lay in it, dumbass.
“What, you’re not tired from your rut? Need to get another one in before patrol?”
“I’ve got like twenty minutes,” Kirishima says, eyes flickering down. “Not like I need more than that to beat you, though.”
Katsuki barks out a laugh. “You fucking wish.” He punches Kirishima’s shoulder and Kirishima takes it, cackling, before shoving him back with that same shoulder, which probably hurts him more than it does Katsuki.
“Okay,” he says, with a loud sigh, like he’s about to address the nation. “You can pay for me, I guess, if it means that much to you.”
“Wow,” Katsuki says dryly. “How lucky am I, to have such an understanding alpha.”
“You are,” Kirishima says, nodding importantly. He winks. “If I’m going to be debasing myself like this, I need something in return.”
“How the hell did you reach that conclusion,” Katsuki demands, valiantly ignoring Kirishima’s sniper-gun-eyes, which are already trained a little south of his eyes.
They’re headed back to the dorms—Kirishima on his way to change for work study while Katsuki has a free period, which isn’t exactly free, which all the shit Endeavour’s sent him. There are people sitting further out on the lawn, a few of them close enough to notice the way Kirishima crowds Katsuki up against the broad trunk of a maple tree.
Kirishima comes in close. Katsuki turns his head—on instinct.
He doesn’t care. He never has. But doing something like this outside their dorms, or even their class, who are too damn pack-minded to gossip about their business with anyone else—is something different. The groupies that crowd Kirishima’s every move, waxing poetic over his scent, his strength, his myriad of other good traits that Katsuki has spent the better part of three years being relentlessly assaulted by—they’ll call it quits.
Kirishima’s face doesn’t look like he’s thinking about any of this. He just looks annoyed. “You said you would court me,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Court me properly.”
It’s a challenge.
“You want this.”
“I’ve wanted this since I was fifteen.” And then, sounding a little like his callous, bloodthirsty rut-self: “If you make me ask again I’m going to hurt you.”
“Uh-huh,” Katsuki says—but it’s enough to make him laugh, and turn his head—and Kirishima kisses him, leaning in, pressing close, two lines of contact burning white-hot through the thin cotton fabric of their uniforms.
Katsuki drags his fingers down Kirishima’s strong jaw, swallowing the soft noises Kirishima always makes—like he can’t help himself, like something as simple as kissing Katsuki is enough to make him feel that good.
He pulls Kirishima closer. Kirishima comes willingly, almost crying into his mouth. Katsuki thinks he can taste the desperation. Kirishima had said, before, since I smelled your rut, and now this, since I was fifteen, which goes even further back—is want like alcohol? Can it age, ferment? If Katsuki kisses Kirishima enough, will he be able to taste it on his tongue—the number of years Kirishima’s been waiting?
Kirishima digs his knuckles into Katsuki’s sternum.
“‘M gonna be late,” he mumbles, doing an abysmal job of pushing Katsuki away. “Stop kissing me, I gotta go.”
“Sorry,” Katsuki says, immediately stealing another kiss. Kirishima’s lips just look wrecked, is all, and he’s panting, and his eyes are blown, and his big hands are still low on Katsuki’s hips, tugging on his belt loops. “Sorry,” he says again, tasting the sweet corner of Kirishima’s mouth. “Sorry, fuck, tell me to stop.”
“Stop,” Kirishima says—in a low, fucked-out voice, that narrows into a whine when Katsuki kisses his neck, right over the pink skin of his scent glands.
“Just give me a minute,” Katsuki murmurs.
It ends up leaning closer to five, and Kirishima’s so busy rushing to change that he only bruises Katsuki’s shoulder once—which is light work; according to him, the rest is coming when he gets back from patrol.
He assures Katsuki that he’s going to blame him, and Katsuki can have fun dealing with Fatgum’s wrath—and it holds absolutely no weight, because Kirishima can’t stop fucking beaming, the whole way through the threat.
Kaminari rescues Katsuki from Endeavour’s soul-sucking assignments by inviting him out for an evening game of soccer. He and Uraraka need even teams—three on three—and the other team is already stacked between Sero, Hagakure, and Todoroki.
Uraraka makes sure Katsuki’s aware that Ojiro was her personal choice, but he’d turned them down in favour of going out for dinner with Shouji and Tokoyami which—Katsuki tells her —is completely fair, because who would want to spend an evening with Uraraka anyways, if they didn’t have to.
“Sometimes I feel like your weird relationship with Deku just kind of spilled over onto Uraraka by association,” Kaminari comments.
“What, like in sickness and in health?” Sero asks.
Hagakure snorts. “Are you calling Bakugou a disease?”
Katsuki shoots an explosion in her direction.
“Bakugou!” Hagakure sounds touched. “That almost got me!”
“Bakugou is not a disease,” Todoroki says primly. Katsuki doesn’t even bother thanking him for the defence, knowing some inane garbage is about to spill out of his mouth in approximately half a second— “Diseases are curable. Bakugou is like leprosy.”
Kaminari frowns. “That’s curable, man.”
“Nahoko died from it in ‘The Wind Rises.’”
“Well, yeah, because that was set in forties.”
Todoroki’s brow furrows. “Oh.”
Uraraka peers at him. “Isn’t your brother a doctor?”
“Everything he says probably flies over Halfie’s head,” Katsuki dismisses. “Are we going to play now, or what?”
They play for a while, working up a good sweat. Despite Uraraka’s initial objections, Katsuki ends up scoring half their team’s goals, which he gleefully brings up at their self-imposed half-time.
“Where’s Ojiro now, huh?”
“Probably somewhere quiet,” Uraraka chirps. “Must be so peaceful!”
Katsuki looks around for a water bottle to throw at her and realizes he’s coming up empty. Fuck. He’d forgotten to bring a water bottle down with him.
He’s about to call a real time-out, just to go inside and get one—it’s hot as shit out, so he really will need it after he’s done bludgeoning Uraraka—when an unfamiliar voice rings out over the field.
“Anyone need water?”
A student approaches the bleachers where they sit, loaded down with water bottles. She has purple hair and a wide grin covered in braces that are almost bigger than her actual teeth. They would look cute on Kirishima, who has the kind of smile that can carry anything.
Katsuki blinks. The girl’s actually trying to talk to him.
“That was such a nice goal, Bakugou!”
She doesn’t have Kirishima’s tone (genuine compliment)—or any of his other classmates’ (taking the piss). It’s a secret third thing that Katsuki can’t figure out.
“Do you guys know each other?” Hagakure asks.
“No,” Katsuki says, right as the extra says, “Yes!”
Uraraka coughs into her hand. Kaminari and Sero don’t even bother hiding their amused grins.
“So which is it?” Todoroki asks. Katsuki can’t tell if he’s intentionally being a jackass, or if he’s genuinely confused. Knowing Todoroki, it’s an irritating marriage between the two.
“We know each other,” the girl who Katsuki most definitely does not know repeats, apparently doubling down. “Kayano Kaede from the Support Class, remember? You came in because you were having a problem with your gauntlets, and I fixed them?”
Katsuki frowns, trying to remember.
“It was two months ago,” Braces attempts. “You came in with Kirishima, remember, and—”
Oh. Katsuki remembers now. Normally, Katsuki handles any problem with his gauntlets himself, but Kirishima had been giving him boatloads of grief about it’s not safe to have your gauntlets like that and you need to let someone else take a look at it instead of doing everything yourself and come on, a second eye can’t help, I’ll even talk to them for you and you can just cross your arms and glare, hey, yeah, just like that, you’re a natural!
Patronization aside, it had worked, and Katsuki had focused on every step of the fix, and since then he’s known exactly what to do whenever that specific malfunction pops up.
“You fixed them,” Katsuki says. He pauses. He can almost see Kirishima looking disappointed in him, the little downward pout of his lips, insisting be polite, man, especially when someone’s helped you out. It’s the manly thing to do! “...Thanks,” he grits out.
Except, for some reason, that isn’t the end of it. She’s still standing there, holding out water bottles.
Katsuki looks at the bottles. Back up at her. Her smile doesn’t move.
“I was just bringing these to my friends, they’re by the tennis courts,” she explains.
“I didn’t ask,” Katsuki says flatly.
Uraraka makes an odd noise, halfway between a laugh and a baby choking on a piece of corn.
“Do you want one?” Braces asks. “I’m sure they won’t mind, and you look like you could use it.”
“I’m fine,” Katsuki says.
“Are you sure?” She rubs her neck, flushing. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t come here to just talk about Support things. I mean—of course, I was really grateful that I got to help with your gauntlets, but I just—um. You’re a really good soccer player.”
“I know.”
Kaminari drops his head into his hands. “You are so goddamn lucky,” he mumbles. Katsuki’s about to ask him what the hell he means by that, when Braces starts up again.
“No—that’s not—well, it is, but it’s not what I—I just wanted to ask—if you’d like to—?”
Sero seems anxious, looking at something above Katsuki’s head. “Hey, Kayano, maybe you should—”
Katsuki knows, before he’s even said anything. The scent of mandarins carries in the evening breeze, and Kirishima follows soon behind, casting Katsuki in his familiar shadow.
He clasps a hand across Katsuki’s throat, pushing his head back, and leans down to kiss him. His lips are warm, and he tastes clean, like he’d just come out of the shower. Katsuki sighs into it, hands twitching to pull Kirishima into his lap, kiss him properly—when he remembers that they’re in front of their friends, and this is something that they’re going to give him shit for until he’s six feet under.
He pulls away, and clears his throat, making a concentrated effort not to make eye contact with anyone. “You’re back late.”
“You miss me?”
“What are you, five?”
Kirishima just holds out Katsuki’s water bottle. “You forgot this inside,” he says casually. “That’s bad. If you don’t drink enough water in the summer you’ll die, you know that.”
Hagakure gasps dramatically, bangles clinking as she covers her mouth with her hand. “Bakugou, is that true?”
“Obviously fucking not, do you think anything that comes out of this joker’s mouth is for real?”
“It’s true,” Kirishima says, nodding. “His dad told me his mom almost died, once, when they were courting—”
“Why the fuck were you talking to my mom—”
“And to make sure it didn’t happen to you—”
“I think I would know if my mom almost died, shithead—”
“It was a yacht club in July, and even though they were surrounded by water, there was none to drink, and she almost fell overboard, which, honestly, at that point might actually have been good for her—”
Katsuki’s had enough and he detonates a flurry of explosions in the vague direction of Kirishima’s ridiculously large mouth. Kirishima is already laughing, of course, because he can’t keep up a bit to save his fucking life.
“It’s like we’re not even here,” Kaminari muses.
“Should we leave?” Sero asks. “Game’s over at this point, no?”
“Hey, Kirishima, do you want to sub in for Bakugou while he recharges? We wouldn’t want him to get a heat stroke.”
“I’m not going to—”
“I’ll see you guys around, then,” Braces says. Her voice sounds funny, and her face is bright red.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Kayano, right?” Kirishima laughs. “That was so rude of me, I’m sorry. You’re the one that did a really good job on Katsuki’s gauntlets, right?”
“Here we go,” Uraraka mutters.
Braces stutters out an affirmative. “Yes! Yes, that was—um, that was me. Sorry, I just came to say hi—”
“Did I interrupt you guys? That’s my bad, I’m really sorry,” Kirishima says, laying his wrist flat against Katsuki’s scent glands. It’s a little out-of-character for him to do it in front of a stranger, but Katsuki figures it’s just a holdover from his rut, so he lets him do it.
And it’s—well, nice. He leans into it, eyes closing for just a second. Kirishima’s wrist is warm. He smells good. He’s steady, when Katsuki rests his head against his stomach.
When he opens his eyes, Braces is flushed a deep, deep red. Her gaze keep zeroing over Kirishima’s hand on his wrist and then wrenching away, as if she’s looking at something she’s not supposed to.
“Sorry,” she stutters. “I—I just, um, sorry, I didn’t realize—I thought you were—”
Katsuki frowns. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says, backing away. “I’ll—I’ll see you later. Bye!”
Kaminari waits approximately half a minute, before he doubles over in laughter. Hagakure is snorting, the freak, and Sero wipes literal tears from his eyes. Even Todoroki has an infinitesimal uplift to his lips, which is the equivalent of a full-out grin. Either Katsuki’s missing something, or being annihilated in soccer has given them a case of hysterics.
He tugs on Kirishima’s hand, waiting for the explanation.
It never comes.
Kirishima’s face is bright red. He’s staring across the field instead of meeting Katsuki’s eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Katsuki asks.
“He’s feeling fine,” Uraraka wheezes. “Aren’t you, Kirishima?”
“I’m great,” Kirishima says. He looks down at his wrist—still pressed into the crook of Katsuki’s neck—and hastily removes it. “Bakugou—”
“So he’s Bakugou, now?”
“Shut up.”
“Leave him alone,” Katsuki grunts, without actually knowing what he’s defending Kirishima for. “What was all that, anyway?”
Todoroki looks at him, dumbfounded. “Really? Even I understood that.”
Katsuki debates burning his eyebrows off. “Is it that difficult to answer a fucking question?”
“Dude,” Sero says, struggling to speak through his laughter. “She was trying to ask you out, you dumbass.”
“Who the fu—”
“It was so obvious, man,” Hagakure continues. “Even Todoroki picked up on it, are you kidding? She brought all those water bottles for you, man.”
“And you didn’t even remember her until she brought up Kirishima,” Uraraka says—and they all burst out laughing again, screeching so loud they lose their balance and knock into each other.
Katsuki looks up at Kirishima. He’s biting his lip, looking upset. Did he actually think that Katsuki was going to say yes, when he hadn’t even realized he was being asked out?
It occurs to Katsuki, all of a sudden, that Kirishima is a little bit of an idiot.
He isn’t like Katsuki. He likes things to be laid out in verbal terms. Like with courting—Katsuki had thought it was obvious, that he would be courting Kirishima too. He’d given him the hoodie. He’s been cooking for him for the past three years. But he’d never said it aloud, so Kirishima hadn’t taken it that way.
Katsuki has kissed him and scented him and fucked him, but he’d never said outloud, verbally, that they’re together. That he is Kirishima’s, and Kirishima’s alone.
“We’re going inside,” he says, getting up. “Call someone else.”
“Have fun,” Kaminari leers, and Katsuki lovingly shoots an explosion at his Cheshire Cat grin.
Kirishima is doing a very bad job of pretending to be okay. There’s an acrid edge to his scent, like a charred orange peel, and his jaw is set. When they get to Katsuki’s dorm, he tries playing it cool.
“Did you eat?”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Like two hours ago. You?”
“With Amajiki.”
“Good.” He raises eyebrows. “Did you think I would say yes?”
Kirishima doesn’t look at him. “No, obviously not.”
Katsuki frowns. “So then what’s the issue?”
“There’s no—”
“You’re acting like a weird freak instead of a normal freak. Be honest, or I’ll beat it out of you.”
“You have such a way with words,” Kirishima says sweetly. He coughs, then, and directs his words at the far wall. “I… I guess I just got a bit annoyed about—about Kayano asking you out.”
“Who?”
Kirishima looks exasperated. “The girl we just talked to. You probably just called her Braces.”
Well. Katsuki can’t exactly give him the satisfaction of being right. Kirishima must read the answer in some infinitesimally small twitch of his left eyebrow, or something, like a freak, because he huffs out a laugh.
“Yeah, well, her. She just—I mean, I’m not going to presume, because it’s not like I know her all that well, or anything, but—but it kind of sounded like—you know. That she didn’t know that you were…” When Katsuki doesn’t complete his sentence for him, he sighs, and says, red-faced, “Taken.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Katsuki says, steadily growing delighted. “You were jealous?”
“No!” Kirishima squawks. Katsuki just raises his eyebrows and waits, and the wind steadily deflates out of Kirishima’s sails. He slumps, looking ashamed. “Fine. Fine. I know it isn’t manly, at all, and I know—”
“That you don’t need to be,” Katsuki fills in. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever given a shit about that way. You know that.”
“Obviously I know that,” Kirishima snaps. “I know that, and you know that, and our class knows that, but everyone else doesn’t know it, and you look like that, and that’s my problem!”
He stops abruptly, face red.
Katsuki tries very hard not to laugh. “I look like…?”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” Kirishima grumbles. He’s pouting, clearly embarrassed, and it’s the cutest thing Katsuki’s ever seen, paralleled only by every other face Kirishima makes.
“I’m not fishing,” Katsuki says, grinning. “You’re the one getting all upset. We should talk about this, Eijirou. That’s what you do in a relationship.”
“Stop talking like that,” Kirishima says sullenly. “You sound creepy. And anyway, you wouldn’t know how to communicate if your life depended on it.”
“Sure I do,” Katsuki says, tugging him closer. Kirishima resists for about half a millisecond, before he’s slumping into Katsuki’s body, and hiding his face in his neck. “Look, I’ll do it now. You’re an idiot, and I don’t know why you’re letting one person get you this fucked up—”
“It’s not one person,” Kirishima says, briefly lifting his head to glare at Katsuki. “You’re dumb, and too busy looking at me all the time, so you don’t see it, but people look at you all the time.”
“Right,” Katsuki says, even though he’s pretty sure Kirishima is the real idiot here for being too preoccupied with Katsuki’s imaginary suitors to notice the significant number of U.A. students who have whiplash from breaking their necks to look at him when he passes them in the halls. “How can I fix it then?”
“Huh?”
He digs his thumb into the dimple gracing Kirishima’s cheek, smirking at the irritated look at his face. “If it bothers you, I’ll fix it. What can I do, huh? You wanna claim me now? Make sure everyone knows I’m taken? You want me to tattoo your name on my arm? You want me to spit at anyone who looks at me?”
“That’s unhygienic,” Kirishima says, but he’s smiling from ear-to-ear.
“Sure it is,” Katsuki agrees. “I’ll do it though, if you ask me.”
Kirishima hides his grin in Katsuki’s face. His face is warm.
“Would you let me? Really?” His mouth brushes Katsuki’s scent glands.
Katsuki swallows.
Claiming is—it’s not legally binding, the way a marriage is. It doesn’t give them a joint account, or priority in healthcare decisions, or tax advantages. It doesn’t require a license, or witnesses, or anything.
But it means something. To anyone who cares about tradition even a little, it means a life together.
People tend to wait until they’re done with school. People also tend to wait until they’ve been courting for longer than a couple hours.
Kirishima’s teeth are a hair breadth’s distance away from his skin. It would be nothing, to bare his throat, to let Kirishima sink his teeth in. He could do it in seconds. He could ensure a life together in seconds.
“If you want to,” he says, finally. “You can.”
Kirishima pauses. He looks up at Katsuki. “I’m only going to do it if you want to. Don’t—”
“Force myself?” Katsuki snorts. “You really think you’re forcing me?”
Kirishima doesn’t look convinced.
Katsuki sighs. “Look, when I said no before, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, it was because it was never the right time. I mean—the first time you were presenting, and then I was in rut, and then you —anyway. It would have been fucked up, to do it then.”
“And now?” Kirishima asks. “Do you think I’m rushing? I mean—” He looks away. “It’s kind of stupid, right? To do it just because I got jealous?”
“I’ve been yours since you met me,” Katsuki says bluntly. “It was always going to happen. Now’s as good a time as any.”
This is the truth that he’s finally realized. He could have spent as long as he wanted, waffling about their designations, or their friendship, or their careers—but the truth is that it was only ever going to be them.
“That’s so corny,” Kirishima chokes out. “You’re such a loser.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you want to be with this loser for the rest of your life, so what does that say about you, huh?”
Kirishima’s smile is brilliant. He pushes Katsuki back into his bed, a little aggressive in his enthusiasm, and Katsuki goes down with a sharp exhale. He barely managed to prop himself up against the headboard when Kirishima drops down over him with zero regard for his safety, giddily pressing kisses to Katsuki’s face and throat.
“Love you, love you, love you, I love you so much—”
“Get on with it,” Katsuki says. He clasps the back of Kirishima’s neck, squeezing lightly.
Kirishima lets out a pleased noise. His eyes go half-lidded, heady. He presses a soft kiss to Katsuki’s scent glands.
“Katsuki?”
“Hm.”
“I really love you, man.”
Katsuki stares at him incredulously, about to ask if he’s really about to call him that when he’s about to claim him—but the look in Kirishima’s eyes stops him. He looks—incandescently happy. Like he’s looking at everything he’s ever wanted. Like he can’t believe he gets to have it.
Katsuki knows Kirishima loves him. Katsuki knows he is Kirishima’s favourite person. Katsuki knows that Kirishima could identify him by nothing else but the sound of his beating heart. But it’s something else, being confronted by physical evidence like this. The love in Kirishima’s eyes is like a cup overflowing, and, what’s more, he doesn’t even bother trying to hide it. It’s all there, out in the open for Katsuki to look at, and be amazed by.
“Yeah, I know,” he says quietly. “C’mere.”
He guides Kirishima’s head into the crook of his neck, and he bares his throat.
He had thought there would have been that twinge of wrongness, that spark in the back of his head, the match held aloft, ready to light the torch and alert his body to action—of another alpha, of someone strong, of someone ready to sink their teeth into his skin and wring him dry.
There’s none of that.
Being claimed is like being let into the Garden of Eden. Kirishima’s mouth is a sanctuary. His teeth are gentle, his hold is steady. Katsuki exhales, and Kirishima inhales.
After an eighteen-year-long winter, some latch on his heart comes free, and warm blood pours forth like a waterfall in spring, unfrozen at last.
Kirishima presses his tongue flat against the broken skin, kitten-licking at the blood. He stays there for a moment, mouth lingering over the bite, pressing soft kisses when the bleeding stops—and then just resting there, his breath over the bite like wind through wild grass.
Katsuki pets his hair, fingers carding through the strands. The gel must have been washed out in the shower because his hair is so, so soft, curling at the nape of his neck.
Kirishima giggles. “Tickles.”
“You complain about everything,” Katsuki says, tugging lightly at his hair. And Kirishima’s scent—pushes outwards, strong as anything and smelling like sweet wine.
Katsuki’s mouth suddenly feels dry. “Really?”
“Shut up,” Kirishima says, cheeks hot. “Ignore it, it’s just—it’s just all the—you know. Pheromones. Your scent is just really strong right now, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Katsuki says—and tugs his hair again, harder this time, enough to make it hurt—and it has to, because Kirishima lets out a pained little whimper, hips twitching in Katsuki’s lap.
“Fuck,” he groans. “ Katsuki—”
“Yeah, puppy?” Katsuki noses at his neck, grinning at the overwhelming rush of citrus. Kirishima just gets worked up so quickly. Sometimes Katsuki almost feels guilty, the way it falls into his lap. It should be something he has to work for. It should be the kind of thing that he has to scale mountains for, cross trenches for, brave frostbite for—but instead Kirishima’s desire just curls neatly into bed with him, wound around his fingers like a game of cat’s cradle.
“C’mon,” he coaxes, kissing a line down Kirishima’s throat. “You were so good to me just now, it’s my turn. What do you want, puppy? Tell alpha, he’ll do it for you.”
“You’re such a dick,” Kirishima gasps. He rolls his hips down shamelessly, then, grinding down against Katsuki’s cock.
“Fine, then I guess you don’t—”
“Hey,” Kirishima snaps, chokeslamming him against the headboard.
The wood rattles against the wall and Katsuki stares up at Kirishima in wonder. His hands are steady and his eyes are irritated and his scent is so encompassing that Katsuki feels like he’s drowning in it.
Kirishima’s fingers press down on the oversensitive claiming mark, and Katsuki curses, the pain arching up through his neck.
“This means you’re mine,” Kirishima snaps. “Say it.”
“Means I’m yours,” Katsuki gasps, blinking through the pain.
Kirishima presses down harder. There are spots of black flooding Katsuki’s vision.
“You have to do whatever I want,” he says harshly. “That’s what it means. So stop—stop teasing.”
“Sorry,” Katsuki says immediately, rubbing circles into Kirishima’s hip. “Sorry, puppy, alpha’s sorry. You wanna fuck me, baby? You want me to suck you off? I’ll do it, sweetheart just tell me.”
Kirishima shakes his head, frustrated. “No, not—Take this off, first.”
He yanks Katsuki’s shirt over his head, and immediately crowds close to his body, digging his nails into Katsuki’s shoulders.
It stings—he’s drawing blood, Katsuki knows, because he can smell it—and when Kirishima’s hands trace down his front, he can see the blood, dark under his nails.
“Yours too, puppy?” He asks, tugging at the hem of Kirishima’s shirt. “Wanna see you, c’mon.”
Kirishima ignores him, moving instead to pull Katsuki’s cock out of his gym shorts. His grip is hard, punishing. Katsuki—for a second—wonders if he’s flown too close to the sun, and all he gets for mating with an alpha is his dick crushed in a competitor’s fist.
But Kirishima lets go, then, and pulls his own cock out. It’s so— pretty, flushed the same pink as his bitten lips, and Katsuki wants to touch him so fucking bad—
“Please,” he begs. “Please, sweetheart, Eijirou, let me touch you, I’ll do whatever you want, fuck, please —”
He almost chokes on his spit, trying to hold himself back from fucking up into Kirishima’s hand as he slides their cocks together, hips rolling down in one torturous movement.
Katsuki understands, then.
He spits in his palm, too hungry to bother looking for anything better, and takes both of them in one hand.
Kirishima lets out a small, plaintive whine. It’s like all the dominance rushes out of him the second Katsuki gets a hand on him, and he digs his face into Katsuki’s neck, hiding his face as Katsuki plays with his cock.
“This what you wanted, puppy?” He asks, his free hand clamped around Kirishima’s twitching hip.
“Yeah,” Kirishima murmurs. His voice is breathy, already fucked out. “Alpha’s doing good.”
Katsuki can’t help giving him a soft kiss on the cheek—ludicrously out of place amongst all the blood. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Want more, though,” Kirishima says quietly. “I like—I like your hands.”
Katsuki grins. “Whatever you want, remember?”
Kirishima just scrapes his teeth against the bite instead of saying anything. Katsuki’s entire body jerks from the shock of pain, his hips rutting up against Kirishima’s cock—and it makes the prettiest sound run out of Kirishima’s mouth.
“Katsuki,” he says, voice low and desperate. “‘M gonna—”
“Yeah, me too,” Katsuki says. “C’mon, pretty baby, come for alpha, he wants to see it.” He’s close, too—he’s been close, ever since Kirishima scented him in front of the entire fucking soccer field, and everything after has just been a lesson in self-control.
He only gets a second’s warning—the wet press of Kirishima’s teeth against his mark—and then his teeth are sinking in as he comes.
Blinding pain surges, eating up his nerve endings—and Katsuki must be some kind of fucked up because that’s all he needs to come, knot swelling. Electricity arcs through him as his knot presses against Kirishima’s, and then again, when Kirishima’s hand comes down to squeeze his knot, his callouses dragging against the sensitive vein.
Katsuki just floats, for a little while. It’s too much—the eye-gouging pain, the world-ending pleasure, the simple miracle that is Kirishima, tucked in his lap like wildflowers in a vase.
“Fuck,” he groans, when he can talk again. “That hurt, you piece of shit.”
“Did it?” Kirishima asks, looking smug and satisfied and completely unrepentant.
Katsuki squeezes his knot in retaliation, and Kirishima yelps, shooting him a betrayed look.
“Mean!”
“What’s mean is you coming all over me, you freak,” Katsuki grumbles, ignoring the fact that a) half of it’s his, anyway, and b) he’s not… entirely opposed to it.
Kirishima raises his eyebrows like he’s accepting a challenge Katsuki has no recollection of ever actually propositioning—and licks a wet stripe from Katsuki’s collarbone up to his chin.
Katsuki coughs, and tries not to sound like someone who has completely fallen off the deep end. “What the hell are you doing.”
“Clean-up,” Kirishima says blithely. He gets this look on his face, then, as he eyes Katsuki up and down. “Not gonna do all of it, though. It looks good on you.”
“You’re delusional,” Katsuki says, trying not to smile at him. It would just be encouraging bad behaviour. It’s kind of hard to talk around whatever pathetic thing his mouth is doing, though, and Kirishima’s eyes are crinkled in an answering grin, so it’s probably a lost cause.
“Everyone’s gonna know, now,” Kirishima says, looking so damn happy that Katsuki can’t help ruffling his hair.
“Know what, idiot?”
“That you’re mine,” Kirishima says, tapping the bite mark.
And Katsuki—
Katsuki thinks about Jirou, asking if they weren’t already together on the first day of Kirishima’s presentation. He thinks about the first-years dissecting Kirishima’s oddly spiced scent, and the disastrous seminar, and Kirishima’s half-feral alpha kneeling in front of him, placing heart-shaped Band-Aid’s on tiny cuts. He thinks about whatever instinct had possessed Kirishima, freshly presented and high on a cocktail of pheromones, to bare his throat to his best friend.
“Puppy,” he says, trying not to laugh, “I think everyone already knows.”