Exposed

The press room buzzed with anticipation.

Izuku Midoriya stood behind the curtain, fingers tightening around the edge of his hero costume’s gloves. Five years since the war. Five years of rebuilding, of climbing the ranks, of proving himself worthy of the power that pulsed through his veins. And now here he was, standing on the edge of a stage where dozens of reporters waited to hear from the hero who had helped bring down All For One.

He should be used to this by now. The interviews, the cameras, the endless questions about his quirk, his training, his plans for the future. But something felt different today. The energy in the room carried an edge he couldn’t name.

“You’re up in two minutes, Deku.” The coordinator touched his shoulder briefly, clipboard pressed to her chest. “Standard format. Opening statement, then Q&A. Should be about twenty minutes total.”

Izuku nodded, forcing a smile. “Got it. Thank you.”

She moved away, and he exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. This was fine. He had done this a hundred times. All he had to do was talk about his recent missions, his goals for the coming year, maybe deflect a few questions about the Number One ranking competition. Simple.

The curtain parted.

Lights hit him immediately, bright and unforgiving. He walked to the podium with practiced ease, lifting one hand in a small wave as cameras flashed. The room was packed. More reporters than usual, he noticed. Several network logos he didn’t recognize.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” His voice came out steady, amplified by the microphone. “Thank you for coming. I’m honored to have this opportunity to speak with you about the work we’ve been doing at the agency and our plans moving forward.”

He launched into his prepared remarks, hitting the familiar beats. Villain apprehension rates. Community outreach programs. Collaborative efforts with other agencies. The words flowed easily, muscle memory carrying him through.

When he opened the floor to questions, hands shot up immediately.

“Deku, can you comment on the rumors about your rivalry with Dynamight for the Number One spot?”

Standard. Expected. “I have tremendous respect for Dynamight. We push each other to be better heroes, and I think that competition benefits everyone.”

Another hand. “What’s your response to critics who say One For All is too dangerous a quirk for any single hero to wield?”

Also familiar territory. “I’ve spent years training to control this power responsibly. My focus is always on saving lives and minimizing collateral damage.”

The questions continued in predictable patterns. Izuku felt himself relaxing, settling into the rhythm of call and response. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe he had been worried over nothing.

Then a voice cut through from the back of the room.

“Hero Deku. How do you plan to maintain your position as a top hero when you’re an Omega?”

The room went silent.

Izuku’s heart stopped. For one terrible moment, everything around him seemed to freeze, the question hanging in the air like something physical, something with weight and edges.

His secondary gender was classified. Sealed in medical records that should have been inaccessible to anyone outside the Hero Commission’s highest levels. He had never presented symptoms. Never released pheromones. Never given anyone any reason to suspect.

How did they know?

“I…” The word came out thin. Wrong. He could feel the blood draining from his face. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

But his hesitation had already betrayed him. The silence stretched too long, his denial arrived too late, and he watched the realization ripple through the crowd like a wave. Reporters exchanged glances. Someone in the front row leaned forward with sudden, predatory interest.

“So it’s true then.” The original questioner stood up, a man with sharp features and a press badge Izuku didn’t recognize. “You are an Omega. An Omega wielding one of the most powerful quirks in recorded history.”

“An Omega shouldn’t have that kind of power,” someone else called out. “What happens when you go into heat during a crisis? How can the public trust you to stay in control?”

More voices joined in, overlapping, building on each other.

“Is the Hero Commission aware of this? Did they knowingly allow an Omega to—”

“What about the safety of the Alphas you work with? Aren’t you a distraction on the field?”

“Are you medically suppressing your pheromones?”

Izuku gripped the podium. His knuckles went white. The questions kept coming, each one landing like a blow, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the words to make them stop.

“I, that’s, the thing is—” The mumbling started before he could catch it, his thoughts spilling out in fragments. “Secondary gender shouldn’t, I mean statistically speaking Omega heroes have comparable success rates when you account for, but that’s not really the point because the assumption that biological designation determines capability is, which isn’t to say there aren’t valid concerns about pheromone interference but in my case specifically I’ve never actually, so the premise of the question—”

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling. The words tumbled out faster and faster, none of them making sense, none of them helping. The camera flashes felt like strobes now, disorienting, relentless.

“What the hell does any of that matter?”

The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Izuku’s head snapped up. Across the room, near the side entrance reserved for hero personnel, Bakugo stood with his arms crossed and murder in his eyes. He must have slipped in during the chaos. No one had announced him. No one had noticed.

They noticed now.

Bakugo stalked forward, and the crowd parted for him instinctively. He radiated dominance the way other people radiated warmth, his Alpha presence so thick it was almost visible. Reporters shrank back in their seats. The man who had asked the first question sat down abruptly, as if his legs had given out.

“I asked you a question.” Bakugo stopped at the edge of the press area, close enough that Izuku could see the tension in his jaw, the barely contained fury in every line of his body. “What the hell does his secondary gender have to do with anything?”

No one answered.

“He’s saved more lives than half the heroes in the top twenty combined.” Bakugo’s voice carried through the room without a microphone, sharp and absolute. “He’s taken down villains that made the rest of us look like amateurs. He held the line when the world was falling apart, and he’s still standing. That’s what matters. Everything else is none of your damn business.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bakugo turned his glare across the assembled reporters, letting it land on each of them in turn. Some couldn’t meet his eyes. Others looked away entirely. The scent of burnt sugar hung heavy in the air, a warning that needed no words.

The coordinator rushed forward, seizing the opportunity. “I think that’s all the time we have for today. Thank you all for coming. Hero Deku will not be taking any further questions at this time.”

The room erupted into noise again, but it was different now. Subdued. Reporters gathering their things, murmuring to each other, casting uncertain glances at the Alpha still standing guard at the edge of the stage.

Izuku hadn’t moved. He stood frozen at the podium, hands still gripping the edges, watching Bakugo with something he couldn’t name. Gratitude, maybe. Shock. The strange, fluttering warmth that always seemed to bloom in his chest when Bakugo defended him.

Bakugo caught his eye. Held it for a moment. Then looked away with a rough exhale, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Tch. Get off the stage, nerd. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Izuku blinked. Swallowed. Found his voice somewhere in the wreckage of his composure.

“Right. Yeah. I should… right.”

He made it to the side exit on unsteady legs. The coordinator was saying something to him, words of reassurance that washed over him without registering. He nodded at appropriate intervals, let himself be guided down a corridor away from the press room, and didn’t realize Bakugo had followed until he heard the door slam shut behind them.

They were alone in a small waiting room. Gray walls, uncomfortable chairs, a water cooler humming in the corner. Izuku sank onto the nearest seat and dropped his head into his hands.

“How did they find out?” The words came out muffled. “It was classified. No one was supposed to know. I’ve never even… I don’t produce pheromones, Kacchan. I’ve never had a heat. There was no way for them to tell.”

“Someone leaked it.” Bakugo’s voice was flat. Certain. “Medical records, registration files, something. Doesn’t matter how. What matters is what you do now.”

Izuku looked up. Bakugo stood by the door with his arms crossed, watching him with an expression Izuku couldn’t quite read. Not pity. Never pity. Something harder than that, but not unkind.

Something occurred to Izuku then. Bakugo hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t shown even a flicker of surprise when the reporter dropped the word “Omega” like a bomb in the middle of the press room. He had just… reacted. Defended. As if the information meant nothing at all.

“You’re not surprised,” Izuku said slowly. “About me being… you didn’t even blink out there.”

Bakugo shrugged, the motion careless. “Why would I be?”

“Because I never told you.” Izuku’s voice cracked slightly. “I never told anyone. I’ve been hiding it since we were kids, Kacchan. Even from you. Especially from you.” He laughed, but it came out weak. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you’d think less of me. That it would change things.”

Bakugo was quiet for a moment. Then he snorted, shaking his head.

“I’ve known since middle school, idiot.”

Izuku’s brain stuttered to a halt. “What?”

“You think I didn’t notice when you got pulled out of class for those ‘routine health checks’ every few months? Or when the school nurse started keeping a separate file on you?” Bakugo rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Deku. I figured it out years ago.”

“But you never…” Izuku stared at him, something shifting in his chest. “You never said anything.”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Bakugo said it like it was obvious. Like Izuku was being dense for even questioning it. “You being an Omega doesn’t change who you are. Doesn’t change how you fight. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re one of the only people who can keep up with me.” He looked away, jaw tight. “So no, I didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing to say.”

Izuku felt his throat close up. All those years of hiding, of being terrified that the truth would cost him everything. And Bakugo had known. Had always known. And it had never mattered to him.

“Kacchan…”

“Don’t get all weepy about it.” Bakugo’s voice roughened. “I’m just saying, you wasted a lot of energy hiding something that wasn’t worth hiding. At least not from me.”

“What I do now,” Izuku repeated after a long pause, his voice steadier than before. “I don’t… I don’t know. I didn’t plan for this.”

“Then start planning.” Bakugo pushed off from the door frame, taking a step closer. “You think this changes anything? You think being an Omega makes you less of a hero? Bullshit. You’re still the same stubborn, reckless idiot who threw himself at villains before you even had a quirk. That’s not going away just because some asshole reporter decided to make your biology his business.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Izuku felt his eyes stinging, and he blinked rapidly, trying to force the sensation away.

“I know that,” he said quietly. “I know it shouldn’t matter. But it does, doesn’t it? To them. To the public. To the agencies.” He laughed, and it came out hollow. “I already heard my agency director talking last week about ‘reconsidering team compositions for optimal pheromone balance.’ They’re going to pull me from missions, Kacchan. They’re going to sideline me because they think I’m going to distract the Alphas.”

Bakugo’s scent spiked. Sharp, sudden, burnt sugar and ozone flooding the small room.

“Like hell they are.”

Izuku shook his head. “It’s not up to you. It’s not up to me either. That’s the point. The Commission sets the guidelines, and now that everyone knows what I am—”

“You’re a hero.” Bakugo cut him off, stepping closer still. “You’re one of the best damn heroes this country has ever seen. And if your garbage agency can’t figure that out, then they don’t deserve you.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Izuku stared at Bakugo, at the fierce certainty in those red eyes, at the tension in his shoulders that said he was ready to fight the whole world if it got in their way. Something shifted in his chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with gratitude.

“Kacchan…”

“Don’t.” Bakugo held up a hand. “Don’t do the thing where you get all emotional and start mumbling about feelings or whatever. I’m not here for that.” He paused. Looked away. “I just came to tell you that you’re not alone in this. So stop acting like you have to handle everything by yourself.”

Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Thank you,” he said finally. Simply. “For what you said out there. For coming at all. You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well.” Bakugo shrugged, already turning toward the door. “Someone had to shut those idiots up. Might as well be me.”

He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Get your head on straight, Deku. This isn’t over. Tomorrow’s going to be a shitshow, and you need to be ready for it.”

Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Izuku alone with the hum of the water cooler and the lingering scent of burnt sugar.

Izuku sat in the silence for a long moment. His hands had stopped shaking. His heart had slowed to something approaching normal. The panic was still there, lurking at the edges, but it felt more distant now. Manageable.

Bakugo was right. This wasn’t over. Tomorrow the headlines would be everywhere. His face, his designation, his every flaw dissected for public consumption. He would have to face it all. The scrutiny. The doubt. The whispered questions about whether an Omega really belonged at the top.

But he would face it.

He had been fighting his whole life to prove he belonged. This was just one more battle.

Izuku stood up, squared his shoulders, and walked out of the waiting room.

The war was over. A new fight was just beginning.