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Chapter Text

The air in Gym Gamma was thick with the smell of ozone and pulverized concrete. A three-on-three exercise was winding down, and as usual, Katsuki Bakugo was at the center of the storm.

"DIE!" he roared, rocketing forward on a continuous, thunderous explosion. His target, a hastily constructed barricade, vaporized into splinters.

From the sidelines, Ochako Uraraka winced, lowering her binoculars.

"He's so… loud."

"Indeed!" Tenya Iida chopped a hand through the air beside her. "But his efficiency cannot be denied! He has successfully created a diversion for Ashido to secure the objective!"

"It's a little much for a diversion, ribbit," Tsuyu Asui commented, a finger to her chin.

They watched as Bakugo landed, smoke curling from his sweating palms. His team had won, decisively. But as he stomped toward the "captured" flag, his red eyes scanned the gym, finding Midoriya on the opposing team. A fresh scowl twisted his features. The victory wasn't enough; it never was when Deku was involved.

All Might's voice boomed over the intercom, slightly strained.

"Excellent work, young Bakugo! But perhaps a tad less… structural demolition next time! The city pays for that, you know!"

Bakugo just scoffed, kicking a piece of rubble.

The class was gathering near the exit, chattering about the match, when the main doors to the gym exploded inward.

A figure shrouded in a tattered, shimmering cloak stood in the wreckage. His skin glowed with an unstable, golden light, and his eyes were wild, panicked.

"Stay back!" he shrieked, holding up hands that crackled with dangerous energy. "I didn't mean to… it just… I need to get away!"

Aizawa's capture weapon flew out before anyone could blink.

"Stand down! You are trespassing on UA property!"

But the villain—a desperate man, not a mastermind—stumbled forward, tripping over the debris he'd just created. With a cry of surprise, he flung his hands out to break his fall. A massive wave of golden, concussive energy erupted from him, uncontrolled and wide.

It wasn't aimed. It was a accident. A panicked discharge.

Bakugo, ever impulsive, didn't dodge. He lunged forward, palms sparking to meet the threat head-on.

"THE HELL YOU—"

"Bakugo, don't!" Uraraka cried out from behind him. Without thinking, driven by pure instinct to help, she darted forward to try and pull him out of the way.

The golden wave hit them both at the same moment.

There was no pain. No force. Just a blinding, overwhelming light that swallowed their vision and a sound like a thousand bells ringing all at once. The world dissolved into a silent, brilliant gold.

Then, blackness.

Ochako's head was pounding. It felt like she'd tried to float the entire gym and passed out from the strain. Her body ached, a deep, muscular soreness she wasn't used to. She groaned, forcing her eyes open.

The world was blurry. She was lying on her back on the cool gym floor. She could hear the frantic voices of her classmates and the sizzle of Aizawa's quirk nearby. She tried to sit up, pushing herself up with her arms.

Her arms felt… wrong. Too heavy. Too corded with muscle. And her hands… she held them up, blinking to clear her vision. They were large. Palms rough and calloused. And they smelled faintly of nitroglycerin.

A high, sharp voice next to her screeched:

"What the—?"

Ochako turned her head. And saw herself. She saw her own face, her own brown hair, her own UA uniform. But the expression on that face was one of pure, unadulterated horror. An expression she never made.

Those wide, brown eyes were staring directly at her. And the voice that came out of her mouth was not her own. It was a voice she heard every day, yelling about victory and death.

It was Bakugo's voice.

"WHAT DID YOU EXTRA DO?!" the voice screamed.

Ochako's blood ran cold. She looked down at the body she was in. The black, spiky costume. The grenade-shaped bracers. She brought a hand—his hand—to her face.

This wasn't happening.

"Wh-why do I sound like…" she started to say, and then froze. The voice that came out of her mouth was low, rough, and unmistakably male. It was his voice.

Panic is too small a word for what happened next.

"WHAT IS THIS?!" Bakugo-in-Ochako's-body shrieked, scrambling backward on the floor and staring at his—her—new hands in terror. "WHAT THE HELL DID THAT VILLAIN DO TO ME?!"

"Kacchan?!" Izuku Midoriya gasped, having rushed over. He looked frantically between the two of them, his analytical mind short-circuiting.

Ochako-in-Bakugo's-body could only stare, mute with shock. She saw her own body hyperventilating, tears of frustration welling in its eyes, and a deep, sympathetic panic began to claw its way up his throat.

"Bakugo?" Kirishima asked, approaching slowly with a look of utter confusion. "Dude, what's going on? Why are you so calm?"

He nodded to the silent, wide-eyed Bakugo-body.

"This is unbecoming of UA students!" Iida chopped a hand toward Bakugo-in-Ochako's-body. "Uraraka-san, please cease this impersonation of Bakugo's speech patterns at once! It is not humorous!"

"I'M NOT THE ROUND-FACED CHEEK GIRL, YOU IDIOTS!" Bakugo-in-Ochako's-body screamed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and sheer, unadulterated panic.

From where he had the original villain subdued, Aizawa-sensei looked over his shoulder. His hair was floating, his eyes glowing red, but the quirk was already used. The damage was done. He took in the scene: one Uraraka having a meltdown with Bakugo's personality, and one Bakugo sitting in stunned, horrified silence.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh so deep it seemed to carry the weight of the entire world.

"Problem Children," he muttered, the word dripping with exhausted finality. "I have a new set of Problem Children."

Chapter Text

The principal’s office was oppressively quiet, a stark contrast to the bedlam they’d just left. The only sound was the gentle clink of a china saucer as Nezu took a sip of his tea.

“A most fascinating Quirk!” the principal began, his beady black eyes sparkling with academic delight as he looked between the two students. “The individual you encountered is known as ‘Goldmine.’ His Quirk allows him to store and release vibrational energy, but it seems he recently underwent a stressful event that caused it to mutate. It now appears to be capable of transposing the metaphysical consciousness—the ‘soul,’ if you will, though that term is unscientific—between two physical vessels upon simultaneous impact!”

He set his tea down with a cheerful finality.

Aizawa-sensei, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, leaned against the wall, his capture scarf loose around his shoulders. His glare was a physical weight.

“The short version,” he deadpanned, cutting off Nezu’s impending lecture, “is that your brains got shoved into each other’s skulls. We don’t know how long it will last. The villain’s Quirk is new and unstable. It could be hours. It could be weeks.”

“WEEKS?!” The screech came from Ochako’s body, which was currently vibrating with Bakugo’s rage. He’d been forced to sit in a plush chair, and he looked about ready to incinerate it.

The form of Bakugo, in contrast, was unnervingly still. Ochako just stared at her own hands—his hands—clenched into fists on her—his—knees. She looked pale.

“The hell are you gonna do about it?!” Bakugo-in-Ochako demanded, pointing a finger that lacked its usual explosive threat.

Nezu steepled his paws.

“Research, of course! This is a unprecedented opportunity for study! But until we find a solution, you will have to adapt.”

Aizawa pushed off the wall, his shadow falling over them.

“Which brings me to the rules. Listen carefully because I will only say this once.” His voice was low, leaving no room for argument. “One: This does not leave this room. Recovery Girl and All Might have been informed out of necessity. No one else. Not your friends, not your parents. Is that clear?”

“But my—” Ochako started, her voice a rough, unfamiliar baritone. She flinched at the sound.

“No one,” Aizawa repeated, his eyes flashing red for a fraction of a second. “The last thing we need is a media circus or a targeted attack while you’re both compromised. Two: You will continue your classes. You will continue your training. You will act as normally as possible.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako barked a laugh that was horrifyingly out of place on her face.

“You expect me to be her?!”

“And I expect you,” Aizawa said, turning his grim stare to the real Ochako, “to be him. This is a top-priority undercover assignment. The success of your careers and the safety of this school depend on your ability to not blow this. Which leads to rule three: You will live in each other’s dorm rooms. You will use each other’s belongings. You will be each other. Any deviation that leads to exposure will result in the most creative detention you can possibly imagine. Am I understood?”

The silence that followed was heavy with dread.

“This is a nightmare,” Bakugo muttered. It was beyond strange to hear his thoughts spoken in Ochako’s softer, higher register, even if they were dripping with venom.

“It is a test of your heroic resolve!” Nezu chirped. “Think of it as an intensive course in empathy and operational secrecy! I have every confidence you’ll both learn a great deal!”

Ochako finally found her voice.

“S-sensei… how… how am I supposed to…” She gestured vaguely at Bakugo’s powerful body.

“Figure it out,” Aizawa said, his tone leaving no room for appeal. “Start now. Bakugo, you need to learn to speak without screaming. Uraraka, you need to learn to scowl without looking like you’re about to cry. Dismissed.”

They were herded out of the office by a grim-looking All Might, who gave them a sympathetic but helpless shrug.

The walk back to the dorms was a silent, tense affair. The second the common room door clicked shut behind them, and they confirmed they were alone, all hell broke loose.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body yelled, stomping a foot. The gesture, usually intimidating, was now just… small. “I’M STUCK AS THE PINK, ROUND, FLOATING CHEERFUL IDIOT! AND I HAVE TO LIVE IN YOUR STUPID, CUTE ROOM WITH ALL THE STUPID STARS!”

He grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and chucked it across the room. It was a pathetic projectile.

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body watched, her—his—mouth agape. Seeing her own face contorted in such raw, unfiltered fury was deeply unsettling. She took a step back, bumping into a wall. The movement was clumsy; Bakugo’s body was all lean muscle and height she wasn’t used to. She felt like a puppet with tangled strings.

“Stop… stop yelling in my voice,” she pleaded, the request coming out as a low, rumbling growl. She flinched again. “Someone will hear you.”

“I DON’T CARE! LET THEM HEAR! LET THEM ALL KNOW THIS IS BULLSHIT!”

“But Aizawa-sensei said—”

“SCREW AIZAWA!” he shrieked, though it lacked its usual basso profundo threat. It was just loud and shrill.

Ochako slid down the wall to sit on the floor, pulling Bakugo’s knees to her chest. It was a vulnerable pose the real Bakugo would never, ever make.

“Oh no! Oh, this is bad… my parents… my training… how am I supposed to use your Quirk?! I’ll blow my own hands off!”

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body was mid-rant, about to kick a helpless footstool, when he caught sight of himself.

Not in a mirror. But the other him. The body that was rightfully his, currently curled into a ball of anxiety on the floor, looking utterly lost and pathetic. The sight was so bizarre, so fundamentally wrong, that it short-circuited his rage.

He stopped. His shoulders—her shoulders—slumped.

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body looked up, tears of frustration she was desperately trying to hold back welling in his red eyes.

For a single, fleeting second, their gazes met. Not as Bakugo and Uraraka, but as two people trapped in the same impossible, ridiculous nightmare.

He saw the panic in his own eyes. She saw the exhausted resignation on her own face.

A silent understanding passed between them. This is happening. We are both screwed.

Bakugo-in-Ochako let out a long, weary sigh—a sound far too mature for the face it came from.

“This is so damn stupid,” he grumbled, but the fire was gone, replaced by a grudging, horrified acceptance.

Ochako-in-Bakugo just nodded miserably, the movement feeling foreign in his neck.

The common room was silent again, save for the quiet, hitched breathing of a boy who was really a girl, trying not to cry in a body that was built for anger, not for tears.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the cafeteria felt like a minefield. Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body moved with a stiff, unnatural caution, as if she were piloting a bomb-disposal robot. She’d managed to get the spiky blond hair into something resembling its usual shape through sheer force of will and a terrifying amount of hair gel.

She saw her usual friend group—Izuku, Iida, Tsu, and Todoroki—sitting at their regular table. A cold wave of panic washed over her. Act normal. You’re Bakugo. Bakugo doesn’t sit with them. Bakugo scowls and sits alone.

But Aizawa’s orders were clear: Act as normally as possible. And the normal thing for Ochako Uraraka to do was to go sit with her friends.

She took a deep breath that strained the seams of Bakugo’s uniform jacket and marched over.

Meanwhile, Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body was having a worse time. He’d spent twenty minutes just staring at the cheerful, star-patterned pajamas he’d been forced to sleep in. Now, dressed in her uniform, he felt exposed and infuriatingly… floaty. He spotted the nerd table and felt a familiar surge of annoyance. But his own squad—the Bakusquad—was being too loud, too early. Kirishima was already waving him over with a sharp-toothed grin.

Be normal. Be her. Be cheerful. I’d rather die.

He shuffled toward Deku’s table, a plastic smile already straining his—her—face.

“Uraraka-san! Good morning!” Iida boomed, his arm chopping a precise greeting.

Bakugo-in-Ochako flinched. He slid into the seat next to Todoroki, who gave a slow, silent blink of acknowledgment.

“M…morning,” he gritted out, trying to pitch Ochako’s voice into something light and friendly. It came out as a strained, airy squeak.

Izuku looked up from his notebook, a slight frown on his face.

“Are you okay, Uraraka-san? You sound a little… tense.”

“I’M FINE!” Bakugo-in-Ochako said, the smile now a rictus grin of pain. He forced a laugh. It sounded like a teakettle being stepped on. “Just… peachy! Ready to… learn! And be… cheerful!”

The entire table stared. Todoroki’s eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Ribbit,” Tsu said, her finger touching her chin. “You seem like you’re in pain, Ochako-chan. Did you pull a muscle?”

“YES. A MUSCLE. IN MY FACE.” Bakugo-in-Ochako’s eye began to twitch in time with his fake smile.

Across the cafeteria, Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body approached the Bakusquad’s table with the trepidation of a soldier approaching a active warzone.

“Hey, Bakubro!” Kirishima called out, scooting over. “You’re late! Saved you a seat!”

Ochako-in-Bakugo gave a stiff, shallow nod.

“...Thanks.” She sat down, back ramrod straight.

The table fell silent for a beat. Kaminari leaned forward, squinting.

“Dude. You okay? You’re all… quiet. It’s weirding me out.”

“I am… contemplating,” Ochako-in-Bakugo said carefully, picking her words from the limited vocabulary she associated with Bakugo. It was better than her first instinct, which was to say ‘Oh, thank you so much, Kirishima-kun! That’s so manly of you!’

Mina grinned, leaning her elbows on the table.

“Ooooh, is Bakugo being deep today? Whatcha contemplatin’? New ways to say ‘die’?”

Sero snorted.

“Nah, he’s probably just tired from all the yelling he did in his sleep.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s instinct was to giggle at the friendly ribbing. She barely managed to suppress it, converting the sound into a low, non-committal grunt.

“Hn.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened.

“Whoa. A grunt? That’s it? No explosion to the face? You’re being so… manly and reserved today, Bakugo!”

Ochako-in-Bakugo felt a bead of sweat—Bakugo’s sweat—trickle down her temple. This was so much harder than she’d thought. How did he manage to be so angry all the time? It was exhausting.

Back at the nerd table, the horror continued.

“So, Uraraka-chan,” Tsu said, “what did you think of the math homework last night? I found problem seven particularly tricky, ribbit.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s brain short-circuited. Homework? He hadn’t even looked at Round-Face’s homework. He’d been too busy having a silent meltdown over the decor in her room.

“IT WAS… A JOKE,” he declared, slamming a fist on the table. Ochako’s delicate hand stung with the impact. “PATHETIC. ANY IDIOT COULD SOLVE IT. EASY. TOO EASY.” He was desperately trying to sound arrogant and dismissive, but it was undercut by the high, trembling voice.

Iida looked scandalized.

“Uraraka-san! Such language! And such a dismissive attitude toward academic enrichment is most unlike you!”

“SHE’S EVOLVING!” Bakugo-in-Ochako yelled, desperate to explain the behavior.

Todoroki took a slow sip of his juice.

“Into what, exactly?"

At the other table, the Bakusquad was trying to get their friend to engage.

“C’mon, man, cheer up!” Kaminari said, slinging an arm around Ochako-in-Bakugo’s stiff shoulders. She froze entirely, like a deer in headlights. Physical contact! From Kaminari! Bakugo would never allow this!

“Yeah,” Mina chimed in. “Let’s play a game! Never Have I Ever! I’ll start! Never have I ever… secretly wanted to give Deku a hug!”

It was a classic Bakugo-baiting question. The real Bakugo would have erupted, calling them all idiots and denying it with extreme prejudice.

Ochako-in-Bakugo, whose first instinct was always to be kind and inclusive, and who absolutely had wanted to give Izuku a hug on several occasions, panicked.

She looked at their expectant faces.

“I… I would not be opposed to… platonic physical camaraderie… with a fellow classmate… in a moment of… victory?” she offered weakly.

The entire Bakusquad stared. Kaminari’s arm slowly retreated from her shoulders.

“Dude,” Sero whispered, his eyes wide. “Who are you and what have you done with Bakugo?”

The bell rang, signaling the end of breakfast. Bakugo-in-Ochako practically launched himself out of his seat, desperate to escape the inquisition.

“See you in class, Uraraka-chan!” Izuku said with a warm smile. “Let me know if you want to study later! You’re always so good at explaining the practical applications of the laws!”

“Yeah,” Tsu added. “You help me stay grounded, ribbit.”

Iida nodded vigorously.

“Your positive attitude is a boon to the entire class!”

Bakugo-in-Ochako stopped, one of Ochako’s feet halfway to the door. He looked back at them. The nerd. The frog. The engine loser. They were all looking at her—at him—with genuine warmth and expectation. They weren’t just tolerating her; they relied on her. For studying. For mood. For… grounding.

It was a weird, uncomfortable thought. He’d always seen her as just another extra, a mildly annoying presence always hanging around Deku. But to them, she was a cornerstone. A fixed point.

He didn’t know what to do with that. So he did the only thing he could think of. He gave a jerky, awkward nod that was entirely unlike Ochako’s usual cheerful bounce, and fled.

As he walked away, he heard Todoroki’s quiet, monotone observation:

“She’s been very strange today.”

You have no idea, Bakugo thought, a strange, foreign feeling of something that wasn’t quite annoyance sitting in his—her—stomach.

Chapter Text

Gym Gamma had once again become a house of horrors. Aizawa-sensei stood with his arms crossed, looking more like a disappointed funeral director than a teacher. Before him stood his two problem children, one radiating panic, the other pure, undiluted fury.

“The purpose of today is damage control,” Aizawa droned, his voice echoing in the vast space. “You cannot function as heroes if you cannot use your Quirks. More importantly, you cannot function as each other if you accidentally reveal your situation by setting the school on fire with the wrong power. Uraraka.” He nodded to the form of Bakugo. “You first. Basic explosion. Target the designated slab.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body swallowed hard, a lump in a throat that wasn’t hers. She stepped forward, raising a palm toward the distant concrete slab. She focused. She’d seen Bakugo do this a million times. It was all about the nitroglycerin-like sweat, the ignition, the controlled release. Simple. Terrifying.

She concentrated, pouring all her will into the command: Small pop. Tiny spark. Just a little one.

Her palm erupted.

It wasn’t the controlled, concussive BOOM of Bakugo’s power. It was a wild, sputtering firework show of orange and yellow, licking up her arm and singing the sleeve of his costume. The recoil, which Bakugo’s body was built to absorb, sent her stumbling backward with a yelp.

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Too much output. You’re thinking about it like a demolition. Think of it like… lighting a single match.”

Across the gym, Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body let out a derisive snort that sounded utterly bizarre coming from her mouth.

“She can’t even light a match without a manual, Sensei!”

“Bakugo,” Aizawa said, his voice dangerously calm. “Your turn. Basic Zero Gravity. Make that cinderblock float.” He pointed to a single, innocuous block.

Bakugo-in-Ochako cracked his—her—knuckles with a smirk.

“Finally, something that doesn’t require a brain.” He sauntered forward, pressed the pads of Ochako’s fingers together, and tapped the block. “Be free, you piece of crap.”

The block shot upward like it had been launched from a cannon, slamming into the ceiling high above with a sickening CRACK that rained dust down on them. It didn’t stop there. It began pinballing around the ceiling beams, ricocheting at insane speeds, a hyperactive, destructive balloon.

“RELEASE IT!” Aizawa yelled over the chaos.

“I AM!” Bakugo-in-Ochako yelled back, frantically pressing her fingertips together. “IT’S NOT LISTENING! STUPID, FINICKY QUIRK!” The block zipped past his head, and he ducked with a curse.

Ochako-in-Bakugo watched the block careen wildly.

“You have to be gentle!” she called out, her voice a low rumble. “It’s not about force! It’s about a soft touch!”

“OH, A SOFT TOUCH?” Bakugo-in-Ochako screeched, dodging another pass from the rogue block. “LIKE THIS?”

He slapped his hand on a smaller piece of rubble nearby. It gently lifted off the ground, hovered serenely for a second, and then spun like a top, faster and faster until it flew apart into a hundred pieces.

An hour later, the gym was a disaster zone. The walls were scorched from wild, sputtering explosions. The ceiling was pockmarked from the out-of-control cinderblock, which had finally come to rest embedded in the far wall. Smaller bits of debris still floated or spun lazily in the air.

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s costume was smudged with soot, and she was nursing a slightly burnt hand. Bakugo-in-Ochako’s hair was even more disheveled than usual, and she was covered in a fine layer of concrete dust.

“This is YOUR fault!” they both shouted in unison, pointing at the other’s original body.

“My Quirk is precision and power, not… sputtery campfires!” Bakugo-in-Ochako snapped, gesturing at the black marks on the floor.

“My Quirk is gentle and weightless, not a ballistic missile launcher!” Ochako-in-Bakugo shot back, pointing at the hole in the ceiling.

“You just have to mean it! You have to want to blow it up!”

“You have to not mean it! You have to want to let it go!”

They stood there, fuming, breathing heavily in each other’s forms. The sheer ridiculousness of the argument began to dawn on them. Here they were, each yelling about how the other was using their own power incorrectly. Bakugo-in-Ochako’s face was flushed with anger, but on Ochako’s features, it just looked like a pout. Ochako-in-Bakugo was trying to loom menacingly, but the attempt was undermined by the way she was cradling her singed fingers.

A snort escaped Ochako-in-Bakugo. It was a rough, unfamiliar sound.

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s so funny, Cheeks?”

“You,” she said, the laughter breaking through. “You’re trying to look scary, but you’re in my body. You just look… really, really mad about a misplaced pastry.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako opened his mouth to retort, but then he actually looked. He saw his own body, usually a monument to controlled aggression, trying to hold back giggles, its shoulders shaking. The sight was so surreal, so utterly stupid, that the anger just… evaporated, replaced by sheer, bewildered absurdity.

A choked sound escaped him. It wasn’t a teakettle scream. It was a giggle.

It started as a single, shaky exhale from Bakugo-in-Ochako. Then another. And then, he was laughing. Really laughing. It was Ochako’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, but it was fueled by Bakugo’s sense of the grotesquely hilarious.

Hearing her own laugh coming from her own body, but knowing it was him… it broke the last of Ochako’s control. She let out a full, deep belly laugh, a sound Bakugo’s body had never, ever produced. It was a rich, rumbling sound that echoed in the gym.

They laughed until they cried, clutching their sides—or rather, each other’s sides. They laughed at the scorch marks and the floating debris and the hole in the ceiling. They laughed at the memory of breakfast, of Bakugo’s terrifying cheer and Ochako’s polite reserve. They laughed at the impossible, stupid, unbelievable situation they were in.

For a full minute, there was no panic, no anger, no fear. Just two people sharing a moment of pure, cathartic absurdity.

The laughter slowly died down, leaving them breathless and wiping tears from each other’s eyes. They caught their breath, looking at each other. Really looking.

And for a split second, something shifted. The line between “Bakugo” and “Uraraka” blurred. He wasn’t just the angry boy in her body. She wasn’t just the nice girl in his. They were just two people, trapped together, who had finally found something to share besides misery.

There was a warmth in the air that had nothing to do with the lingering smell of smoke.

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s smile—a real, genuine smile—faded first, replaced by a look of faint surprise, as if he’d just tasted a new flavor and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s laughter subsided, leaving a soft, unfamiliar fondness on a face usually set in a scowl.

The moment hung between them, fragile and new.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the silence from the observation deck, dry as dust.

“If you two are quite finished bonding over property damage, the cleanup won’t do itself.”

The spell broke. They both jumped, looked away, and the familiar walls of awkwardness slammed back into place. But the memory of the shared laughter lingered, a tiny, glowing ember in the wreckage.

Chapter Text

The invitation was delivered with trademark Iida efficiency: a formally worded text message to Ochako’s phone, requesting her presence for a “collaborative academic review session” in the common room.

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body stared at the phone like it had personally insulted him.

“They want me to study. With them.” He said the word ‘study’ with the same disgust most people reserve for ‘landfill.’

“It’s what I do,” Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body mumbled from where she was slumped on his bed, trying to decipher his chaotic, explosion-annotated notes for Modern Hero Art History. “It’s normal. You have to go.”

“I’d rather chew off my own foot.”

“That’s my foot!” she protested, sitting up. “And Aizawa-sensei said—”

“I KNOW WHAT AIZAWA SAID!” he yelled, but it was a contained, internal scream. He was learning. Grudgingly. He typed out a reply with stiff, angry jabs of Ochako’s thumb.

FINE. WHATEVER.

The common room table was a bastion of organized learning. Iida had arranged textbooks, notebooks, and highlighters with geometric precision. Izuku was muttering a mile a minute, a cloud of scribbled theories floating around him. Todoroki was silently eating a cup of soba, and Tsuyu was calmly reviewing her notes.

Bakugo-in-Ochako slid into a chair, his posture radiating the energy of a bomb squad technician defusing a volatile device.

“Uraraka-san! So glad you could join us!” Iida boomed. “We were just reviewing the ethical ramifications of the Quirk Restriction Laws of 2032. Your perspective is always so grounded and practical!”

Bakugo-in-Ochako stared blankly.

“Yeah. Laws. They’re… meant to be broken. I mean, followed! They’re meant to be followed. Stupidly.”

Izuku looked up from his muttering storm.

“Oh! Actually, Uraraka-san, that’s a really interesting point! There’s a strong argument that the early restrictions were too broad and did stifle heroic expression, which is why the amendment in 2035…” He launched into a detailed, mumbling analysis.

Bakugo-in-Ochako felt a vein throbbing in her forehead. The nerd was right there. In his element. Mumbling. It was agony. His hands, Ochako’s hands, clenched into fists under the table. He had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to stop himself from screaming ‘SHUT UP, DEKU!’

“...and that’s why the precedent set by the Sky Egg incident is so crucial, don’t you think?” Izuku finished, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes.

Bakugo-in-Ochako took a deep, steadying breath.

“Totally,” he gritted out through a forced smile. “The Sky Egg… thing. It was… sky-high. And egg-cellent.”

The table went silent. Todoroki stopped slurping his soba.

“Ribbit,” Tsuyu said. “You usually call it a landmark case for rescue-based hero rights, Ochako-chan.”

“I’M EVOLVING MY OPINIONS!” he squeaked, his eye twitching.

On the other side of the common room, the Bakusquad had commandeered a couch and several floor cushions. Their “studying” was a much louder, more chaotic affair.

“I don’t get it!” Kaminari whined, holding up his physics textbook. “How can light be a particle and a wave? Make it make sense!”

Kirishima nodded vigorously.

“It’s so unmanly to be so confusing!”

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body, who had been trying to look preoccupied with Bakugo’s own textbook, glanced over. Her helpful nature overrode her need to appear antisocial.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” she said in Bakugo’s low rumble. “Think of it like… well, think of Sero’s tape. It’s a solid thing, right? But when he shoots it, it moves in a wave-like pattern. It has properties of both.”

The entire squad stared at her.

Mina’s eyes widened, and a huge, delighted grin spread across her face. She leaned forward.

“Whoa. Bakugo. That was… actually a really good analogy. And you didn’t even call him an idiot.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo froze. Right. Be Bakugo. Be mean. She scrambled to recover.

“I—I mean, of course it’s a good analogy! Because he’s a total idiot for not getting it! A wave-particle idiot!” She tried to inject a sneer into the words, but it came out sounding like a question.

Kaminari, instead of being offended, just looked touched.

“Aw, you called me an idiot! You do care, man!”

Sero nodded.

“Yeah, that’s the most helpful you’ve ever been. You feeling okay?”

Mina’s grin turned sly. She nudged Ochako-in-Bakugo with her foot.

“I know what it is. You’re being nice because someone’s put you in a good mood. Did you finally talk to that certain someone you’ve got a crush on?”

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s face, Bakugo’s face, flushed a deep, brilliant red.

“I—what—no! There’s no one! SHUT UP, RACOON EYES!” The denial was a little too loud, a little too flustered. It was the most Bakugo-like thing she’d said all night, and it was a complete accident.

Back at the study table, the topic had, mercifully, shifted away from law.

“...and Uraraka-san’s really amazing, you know?” Izuku was saying to the group, but he was looking at Todoroki. “I was so nervous on my first day, but she was the first one to really be friendly to me. She’s just… inherently good. She always knows how to make people feel better.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako, who had been trying to melt into the chair, went still. He was listening. Really listening.

Iida nodded.

“Her unwavering optimism and moral compass are assets to Class 1-A!”

“She’s a good friend, ribbit,” Tsu added. “Always reliable.”

Bakugo stayed quiet. He looked down at the hands that weren’t his. He’d spent years seeing Deku as a pebble to be kicked, an obstacle to be surpassed. He’d never stopped to consider what Deku saw in other people. And here he was, hearing the nerd heap genuine, heartfelt praise on the girl whose skin he was currently trapped in.

It sparked a strange, defensive feeling in his chest. It wasn’t the usual possessive rage he felt over his own victories. This was different. It was a prickling, protective urge. Yeah, she is, he thought, surprising himself. She’s a damn good hero. Better than you lot know.

The thought was so foreign, so un-Bakugo-like, that it shocked him. He quickly covered it with a scoff.

“She’s not that great. She’s just… decent. For an extra.”

The table fell silent again, all eyes on him.

Izuku’s face fell into a confused frown.

“Uraraka-san? Why would you say that about yourself?”

Shit.

“I MEAN SHE’S GREAT! THE GREATEST! NOW CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT SOMETHING THAT ISN’T SO STUPIDLY NICE?!” he yelled, his voice cracking with panic.

Later that night, as the groups disbanded, Kaminari slung an arm around Ochako-in-Bakugo’s shoulders again. This time, she was slightly more prepared for it.

“Thanks for the help, man. Seriously,” he said, his usual goofiness replaced with genuine gratitude. “You’re a lot less scary when you’re not yelling.”

“Yeah, don’t tell anyone,” Sero joked, “but we might actually try to study with you again.”

Kirishima gave her a solid, friendly punch on the arm.

“It was super manly of you to be patient with us, Bakugo! See you tomorrow!”

Mina just winked.

“Think about what I said!”

They wandered off, a jumble of laughter and shoves. Ochako-in-Bakugo stood alone in the common room, watching them go. She’d always seen the Bakusquad as people who just tolerated Bakugo’s anger because they were immune to it. But that wasn’t it at all. They weren’t just tolerating him; they were trying. They kept inviting him in, kept breaking through his walls with relentless, friendly persistence. They saw something in him worth sticking around for.

She thought about Kirishima’s unwavering loyalty, Mina’s playful teasing, even Kaminari’s dumb jokes. They were his friends. Real friends. And they cared about him, even if he was terrible at showing he cared back.

It was a side of Bakugo Katsuki she’d never seen before. Not because it was hidden, but because she’d never been in a position to look.

She headed back to his—her—room, the image of his friends’ easy, caring smiles stuck in her mind, juxtaposed strangely with the memory of Izuku’s earnest praise.

Both of them, it seemed, were surrounded by people who saw the best in them, even when they couldn’t see it themselves.

Chapter Text

The dorms were finally, blessedly silent. The clock on the nightstand—currently in Bakugo’s room, which meant it was a brutalist, functional thing with no soft edges—ticked past 2 AM. Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body lay stiffly on the too-firm mattress, staring at the dark ceiling. Every muscle in this new body was wound tight with a day’s worth of suppressed instincts and forced aggression.

A soft, almost inaudible tap tap tap came at the door.

She sat bolt upright, heart hammering in a chest that felt too broad. Aizawa? Deku? Had they been found out?

The door cracked open. A sliver of hallway light illuminated the figure of Ochako Uraraka, her face pale and drawn.

“I can’t sleep,” a voice whispered, but it was all wrong. It was low, rough, and saturated with pure, unadulterated frustration. It was Bakugo’s voice, coming from her mouth. “This room is… it’s too pink. It’s giving me a headache.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It wasn’t an authority figure. It was just him. The only other person in the world who understood.

“The stars on the ceiling glow in the dark,” she whispered back, her voice a gravelly rumble. “It’s… cheerful.”

“It’s a nightmare,” Bakugo-in-Ochako grumbled, stepping fully inside and closing the door behind him. He was wearing a pair of his own black sweatpants and a tight-fitting tank top that looked bizarrely out of place on her smaller frame. “I’m going to burn them.”

“You will not!” she hissed, standing up. Bakugo’s body uncoiled to its full height, making her suddenly tower over him—over her own body. The power dynamic was visually absurd. “Let’s just… go somewhere. Before we wake someone up.”

They moved through the silent dorm like ghosts, two shadows in a familiar place that had become utterly alien. The destination was unconscious, inevitable: the kitchen. The site of a thousand midnight snacks and whispered conversations.

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body hopped up to sit on the cold kitchen counter, swinging legs that were too short to reach the floor—a gesture that was entirely Ochako’s, but felt strangely natural. Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body leaned against the refrigerator, arms crossed over a chest that was now flat and hard.

“Iida almost had a hernia today,” Bakugo said, the words sounding so strange in Ochako’s soft voice, even when laced with his customary annoyance. “Asked me to pass the salt at lunch. I told him to get it his damn self if he wanted it so bad.”

Ochako winced, a expression that looked terrifyingly angry on Bakugo’s face.

“Oh no. What did he do?”

“He spent ten minutes lecturing me on the importance of communal cooperation and supportive language.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I almost blew up the table. Would’ve been a disaster. These hands can’t even make a decent spark.”

A small, rough chuckle escaped Ochako.

“You think that’s bad? Kirishima tried to give me… you… a high-five after training. A high-five.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s eyes widened in horror.

“You didn’t.”

“I did!” she moaned, burying her face in hands that were too large. “I just… my brain short-circuited! I said ‘Good job, fellow human!’ and gave him a thumbs-up.”

A sound escaped Bakugo-in-Ochako. It wasn’t a laugh. It was a choked gasp of pure, empathetic agony.

“No. You didn’t. Cheeks. A thumbs-up? He’ll never let me live that down. He’ll have it engraved on my tombstone.”

“He just smiled and said ‘Thanks, man! You’re so weird today!’” she mumbled into her palms. “I wanted to die. Or for you to die. I’m not sure which.”

The shared confessions hung in the air, transforming the kitchen from a place of potential discovery to a secret confessional. The tension began to bleed out of them, replaced by a weary, shared commiseration.

“It’s exhausting,” Ochako admitted, finally looking up. “Trying to be… you. All the time. Being angry is really, really tiring.”

Bakugo was quiet for a moment, looking down at Ochako’s small, delicate hands. Hands that were supposed to be gentle.

“Yeah, well. Trying to be you is a pain in the ass, too.” He didn’t say it with malice. It was a simple, stark fact. “Always smiling. Always being nice. Always having to give a crap about everyone’s feelings. How do you not just scream all the time?”

“I want to scream right now,” she said, and it was the truth. “I just… don’t. I usually go to the gym and punch things. But I can’t even do that right now without breaking my—your—hands.”

He snorted.

“Tell me about it. I tried to do a single push-up in your room. Your arms gave out. It was pathetic.”

“Hey!”

“It’s a fact! You need to work on your upper body strength, Round Face.”

It was the first time he’d used the old nickname. It didn’t sound like an insult. Here, in the dark, it sounded almost… fond.

They lapsed into a silence that was, for the first time, not entirely uncomfortable. It was the silence of two soldiers in the same trench, taking a momentary breather from the war.

“Your friends are… persistent,” Ochako offered, remembering the Bakusquad’s relentless friendliness.

“Your friends are nosy as hell,” Bakugo countered, thinking of Deku’s analytical stare.

“They care about you,” she said softly. “A lot.”

He didn’t deny it. He just looked away, a faint flush on Ochako’s cheeks.

“Tch. Whatever.”

Another silence. This one felt heavier, charged with something new. The initial panic and anger had burned away, leaving behind a raw, honest exhaustion and a dawning, reluctant understanding.

They looked at each other then, truly looked. Not at the body they were trapped in, but through it. He saw the girl who was strong enough to carry the weight of constant kindness. She saw the boy whose fierce drive was a burden as much as it was a gift.

The faint, post-midnight light from the window caught Ochako’s brown eyes in Bakugo’s face, making them seem softer. It caught the determined set of Bakugo’s jaw on Ochako’s face, making it seem less severe.

The laughter from their shared embarrassment had faded, leaving them in a quiet intimacy that was more profound than any argument. They were just two people, stripped of their usual armor, seen at their most vulnerable and ridiculous by the only other person who could possibly understand.

Bakugo-in-Ochako hopped off the counter.

“We should go back. Before Ponytail or someone comes down for water.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo nodded, pushing off from the fridge.

“Yeah.”

They didn’t move immediately. They stood there for a moment longer in the dim kitchen, a tall, brooding boy who was really a girl, and a small, gentle-looking girl who was really a boy, sharing a look that held a universe of unspoken things.

Then, without another word, they turned and slipped back into the darkness of the hallway, returning to their wrong rooms, but carrying with them the first, fragile thread of a real connection.

Chapter Text

The Bakusquad was lounging in the common room after classes, a familiar scene of controlled chaos. Kaminari was sprawled on the rug, playing a handheld game with intense, if not particularly skilled, focus.

Ochako-in-Bakugo’s-body was doing her best impression of brooding silence in an armchair, pretending to read one of Bakugo’s tactical manuals. It was mostly pictures of explosions.

“Hey, Bakugo,” Kaminari said without looking up from his game. “Pass me those chips?”

It was a simple request. A test she’d faced a dozen times. The old panic flared—What would he do? Yell? Ignore?—but she was getting better at this. She grunted, a low, non-committal sound she’d perfected, and nudged the bag of chips with Bakugo’s foot toward him.

Kaminari paused his game. He didn’t reach for the chips. He slowly looked up, his eyes narrowed. 

“Dude.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo froze. Did I do it wrong? Was I supposed to kick them?

“You just… passed me the chips,” Kaminari said, his voice low with suspicion.

“...So?” she rumbled, trying to inject menace.

“Without calling me a ‘thieving extra.’ Without threatening to electrocute me with my own Quirk. Without even a ‘get it yourself, Dunce Face.’” Kaminari sat up, pointing an accusatory finger. “You just… did it. Politely.”

Kirishima looked over from the couch. 

“He’s been working on his teamwork, man! It’s manly!”

“No,” Kaminari said, his expression turning grave. He leaned in closer, whispering loudly. “This is beyond manly. This is… spooky. I’m telling you guys. I’ve seen this in a movie. I think Bakugo’s been possessed.”

Mina gasped, clutching a pillow to her chest. 

“Ooooh! By a friendly ghost? Maybe it’s the spirit of a past UA student who just wants to help!”

Sero nodded sagely. 

“It would explain the thumbs-up.”

Ochako-in-Bakugo felt a cold sweat break out on Bakugo’s brow. Possessed. It was almost worse than the truth. 

“SHUT UP!” she yelled, seizing on the most Bakugo-like response available. “I’M NOT POSSESSED, YOU IDIOTS! I’LL SHOW YOU POSSESSED!” She stood up, palms sparking with a threat she couldn’t actually follow through on.

The squad just stared, unfazed.

“See?” Kaminari whispered. “The denial. It’s what a possessed person would say.”

Across the room, the other half of the problem was unfolding.

Bakugo-in-Ochako’s-body was trying to engage in what he considered inane chatter with Izuku and Tsuyu. It was like pulling teeth. His own teeth. With a rusty wrench.

“—and so I think the structural integrity of the building was the primary concern, not the villain’s Quirk output,” Izuku mumbled, looking up from his notebook. “What do you think, Uraraka-san?”

Bakugo-in-Ochako fought the urge to roll his eyes so hard they’d get stuck.

“Obviously. Anyone with half a brain could see that. The foundation was compromised. It was a shoddy build. Should’ve been condemned.” He realized, too late, that he’d slipped into his own analytical, if brutally delivered, style.

Izuku blinked. 

“Wow, Uraraka-san! That’s… a very specific and critical assessment. I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable about construction law.”

“Ribbit.”

Tsuyu’s simple, blunt sound cut through the air. She was staring at him, her large, unblinking eyes seeing far too much.

Bakugo-in-Ochako felt a prickle of unease. The frog girl was always observant. 

“What?”

“You’ve been different lately, Ochako-chan,” she said, her head tilting. “You’re quicker to anger. Your analysis is sharper, but… meaner. And you haven’t talked about your family or money once this week.”

Shit. Bakugo’s mind raced. He knew nothing about Round-Face’s family. Or her finances. They were a complete blind spot.

“I’M EVOLVING!” he insisted, his voice cracking. “PERSONAL GROWTH! IT’S… GRITTY!”

Tsuyu didn’t look convinced. “It doesn’t feel like growth, ribbit. It feels like you’re hiding something. Did something happen during the villain attack?”

That night, in the stolen sanctuary of the kitchen, the reports were filed.

“They think I’m possessed,” Ochako-in-Bakugo groaned, her head thunking against the refrigerator door. “Kaminari is trying to find an exorcist.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako, perched on the counter, let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Tch. Idiot. At least it’s creative. The frog girl thinks you’re having a mental breakdown because I’m being ‘mean’.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I was reading a lot of… critical theory. And that it was making me… grittier.” He said the words like they were a foreign language.

Ochako stared at him. 

“Critical theory.”

“I panicked! It was the first thing that popped into my head! What was your brilliant cover story for the polite chip-passing?”

“I… said I was trying a new form of psychological warfare. Killing them with kindness before I kill them for real.”

Bakugo stared at her. A slow grin spread across Ochako’s face. It was a terrifyingly feral expression on her. 

“...That’s actually not half bad, Cheeks.”

“Really?”

“No, it’s stupid. But it’s stupid in a way I might actually say. We’ll go with that.” He hopped off the counter. “From now on, if I have to be you, I’ll be… gritty. And if you have to be me, you’re using… psychological warfare. It’s the best we’ve got.”

As they turned to leave, Ochako-in-Bakugo hesitated. 

“Hey,” she said, her voice low.

“What?”

“Today… when you were talking to Deku. About the building.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “You were right. About the foundation. I didn’t even notice that in the case study. I was so focused on the civilian evacuation routes, I missed the structural weakness entirely.”

Bakugo-in-Ochako shrugged, a delicate motion on her frame. 

“It was obvious. The whole thing was a deathtrap. A hero who can’t see that is a dead hero.”

It wasn’t a boast. It was a simple, cold statement of fact. And it hit Ochako with the force of a revelation. She’d always seen his brilliance in a fight—the raw power, the explosive strategy. But this was different. This was a quiet, analytical precision she’d never associated with him. He didn’t just smash things; he saw exactly where and how to smash them for maximum effect. He saw the flaws everyone else missed.

He wasn’t just a blunt instrument. He was a scalpel. A very loud, very angry scalpel.

“You… you really see everything, don’t you?” she said, the awe slipping into her tone.

He looked at her, and for a second, the perpetual annoyance on Ochako’s face softened into something else. Surprise. He wasn’t used to being seen that way. 

“It’s not about seeing everything,” he muttered, looking away. “It’s about seeing what matters. Now come on. We need to figure out how to make your ‘psychological warfare’ less pathetic before tomorrow.”

He walked out, leaving her standing in the kitchen. Ochako looked down at Bakugo’s powerful, calloused hands. For the first time, she didn’t just see the weapons. She saw the mind that aimed them.