Birds of a Feather

Dropping everything at a moment’s notice is part of the job. It always has been. He has never regretted being a hero—he’s dreamed about it for as long as he can remember dreaming.

But for the first time, he almost regrets it now. And he wonders if one day, he really will.

Before he can dwell on that uncomfortable revelation, however, he arrives on the scene. Eijirou is dusting debris from his hardened body by the time Katsuki lands, the force of his explosions scattering loose dust around them. Behind him, an office building has been reduced to little more than a skeleton of twisted steel and concrete.

“The fuck happened?” Katsuki gapes.

“Some sidekick’s gone off the rails,” Eijirou sighs. “Soundwave quirk. He’s aiming it at buildings. We’ve barely been getting people evacuated in time.”

“And which dumbass hero hired this fuckin’ jackass?”

“Shindou’s agency,” Eijirou says grimly. “He’s been adamant we can’t hurt the guy. Kid’s young. Just graduated, got licensed, and scouted. We’re trying to figure out what’s...influencing him.”

“You think it’s some outside force?”

“Must be. The kid was at the top of his class at Shiketsu. I think it’s pretty unlikely that a bad apple could maintain that kind of—”

Eijirou cuts himself off when the ground suddenly trembles beneath them. The street cracks, and windows shatter. A deafening boom tears through the air. Both heroes cover their ears and whip toward the source. Half a block away stands a young man in a sidekick uniform.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow as soon as he realizes who the culprit is—it’s the same sidekick from the Billboard Charts. The bastard who kept turning around and shushing him and you.

The sidekick grins, giving Katsuki what he thinks is a sinister, eerie, knowing look. And then the guy’s face melts. It fucking melts. He gapes in horror as he watches flesh drip off of the guy’s face before completely transforming. Skin shifts and features blur. The sidekick’s face vanishes, and instead, your face stares back at him. You. 

Katsuki freezes.

It’s not you. It’s not you. It’s not you. He knows it—of course he does. He left you at your apartment. Dropped you off there himself, and felt you under his own palms. Held you in his lap. Kissed you goodbye at the door. You’re not here, and this...this villain is not you. It can’t be. He knows that logically, but then the villain tilts his head, wearing your smile.

And he fucking freezes, every muscle in his body tight.

“I missed you, Katsuki.” The voice is so sickeningly sweet—sweet in a way that almost feels like it’s a nightmare taunting him. Is he awake right now? Is this even real? 

His blood runs cold as a million thoughts spiral in his brain. Eijirou stiffens beside him. The heroes surrounding the area stand there in confusion.  

“What the hell?”

“Who is that? Did he just…”

“Is that this guy’s ability?”

The villain laughs. And then he changes again. Your features distort, your jaw sharpens, and crimson eyes emerge. The bastard becomes...Katsuki. For one horrible second, he is acutely aware that there are two Dynamights standing in the middle of the street.

Then the fake one lunges.

“Hey—” Eijirou shouts.

The villain slams into Katsuki, and before anyone can react, explosions erupt between them. This...this guy can replicate his quirk? But how? How is he able to mimic his entire face and body, let alone his quirk? Is it someone who knows him? Someone under his nose that he somehow never suspected? But—

The blast swallows both of them. Concrete buildings explode, and the ground caves inward. The two identical blondes disappear beneath a collapsing cloud of rubble. Katsuki groans, standing as he rolls his arm—his shoulder is definitely dislocated. He grits his jaw, inhaling sharply as he sets it back in place. 

The sickening pop echoes through the pocket of rubble.

“Motherfucker.”

When he gets his hands on this bastard, he’s going to regret that. And a lot more. 

How this guy got enough about you to replicate your entire body, Katsuki is going to figure out—how this guy knows enough to understand that taunting Katsuki with you will be a sore spot, he is going to figure out. He will. He isn’t going to let you get dragged into the storm that is him. His life. Not when he just got you to himself (and really, he doesn’t even fully have you just yet—he has to work even more for that.)

The sweat on his palms is tingling as he scans the rubble for this man. He doesn’t even know what he properly looks like. Or is it a woman? It could be. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. But he does know that he needs to take this idiot out and get him detained because whoever this is, they can walk around with your face, and your voice, and they know at least some of what you mean to each other, and he cannot, will not, get you dragged into his mess. He won’t. 

“Katsuki.”

Your voice cuts through the darkness. He stiffens. You sound hurt. No—worse. You sound terrified.

Slowly, he turns his head, and there you are.

Your body is pinned beneath a slab of concrete, and your arm is bent at an unnatural angle. Blood pours from your leg. His heart lurches so violently it physically hurts. Take the shot, his brain screams. Take the fucking shot. But you’re looking at him, looking up at him with wet eyes and trembling lips and a face twisted in pain. And for one awful second, he hesitates.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real—

“Katsuki,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Please. It hurts.”

“Fuck off,” he croaks. Even now, his gauntlets tremble. “You’re not real. I’m not stupid.”

“Are you sure?” you ask softly. “It’s me, Katsuki. You know me.”

His eyes narrow immediately. “You don’t call me that yet, you fuckin’ imbecile.” For the first time, your expression slips. The smile twitches, and the illusion cracks. “You should know your targets a little better than that.”Your face morphs into irritation before melting away again—features dripping and reforming into someone he doesn’t recognize. An old man this time. Wrinkled skin that sags and grey hair. And every injury covering your—no, the villain’s—body vanishes instantly with the transformation, as though they had never existed at all. A healing quirk, maybe? How many people can this bastard become? And by extension, how many quirks can he use? Katsuki forces himself to think instead of charging forward. He’s not some reckless teenager anymore. There is too much on the line now. Too many variables. Too many people. He wishes he weren’t cut off from the others—something his younger self would have scoffed at. But he has too much to consider.

How does hurting this guy affect the people he’s copied? Are they completely separate? Unharmed? He didn’t feel anything when the villain became him, but what if that’s a choice? What if it’s something the bastard can control?

“You know,” the new face drawls, looking at him with a twisted sort of amusement, “I knew she was clinging to you a little too close that night. And that dress matched your costume so well, I mean, c’mon. Were you even trying to be subtle? But it was the way you dragged her out and left—rookie mistake, Dynamight. I...I almost expected you to be a bit smarter than that.”

“Be quiet,” he growls. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I must admit, I thought you were closer than that. But she still doesn’t even call you by your given name?” He chuckles. “My mistake, I suppose. It’s just...the way she was looking at you in the Uber home while she kissed you...” He sighs almost wistfully. “Well, you can’t blame a man, can you? I thought for certain you meant a greater deal to each other. Unless, of course, she means more to you than you do to her.” His grin widens. “How tragic for you, hm?”

The Uber? Was he the driver that night? How did this guy even manage to be—

“My only regret, of course, was that I couldn’t get a chance to leave the Billboard event and become your driver then, too. I would’ve loved to figure out where she lives.” He clicks his tongue. “But I’m sure you understand how it is when you parade around in a hero costume. People pulling you every which way. Cameras. Interviews. Handshakes. Such a shame, truly.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “Stay the fuck away from her place. And her, too, while you’re at it, ’cause I’m fuckin’ blowing your ass to—”

“Blow me up?” The old man laughs. “See, that’s the thing about you young heroes. You’re all so lively. So full of energy. You do everything so quickly. You just don’t care to stop and plan things out, do you?” He shakes his head. “Patience is a virtue, you know. Take that as some advice from an elder.”

“That’s enough, you fuckin’—”

He surges forward to grab the bastard, but the old man’s face starts melting again. Within an instant, he’s shrinking. Smaller. Smaller. Smaller. Until he’s no larger than a mouse, having taken on the form of some tiny woman Katsuki has never seen before. The villain slips past the blast effortlessly, almost as though he’d predicted exactly where Katsuki would aim. The force of the explosion tears through the rubble and opens a jagged hole overhead. Light pours into the dark pocket of concrete they’ve been trapped inside. A fucking opening. Katsuki’s eyes widen. Did he...did he plan that? Did he bait him into using his explosions? Use Katsuki’s own temper against him just to create an escape route?

He looks around. The villain is…gone. Fuck, he thinks, panicking. This guy can turn into you. He can turn into you. And he’s escaped. Katsuki let him fucking escape. He let him take advantage of his mind, weaken his senses, and escape. And now he can be out and about and shift into you whenever he pleases and do god knows what with your appearance.

Katsuki makes a small explosion from his palm and propels himself forward to get out and search. The bastard couldn’t have gone far. Unless he has a quirk for that, too. Teleportation. Super speed. Some sort of stealth ability. Katsuki doesn’t know what the fuck he’s working with here. How many quirks this guy can stockpile. How many bodies he can wear. What his limits are between switches. If he even has limits. But he’s going to find him. He will. Despite the dust clogging his lungs, the grit stinging his eyes, and the dull, throbbing ache in his shoulder, he’s going to—

“Katsuki,” Eijirou breathes, appearing beside him in an instant.

He stiffens and jerks away immediately. Eijirou falters, confusion flashing across his face.

“Man, what happened—”

“Who the fuck are you, really?”

“Huh?”

“Prove it. That you’re you. How long did we bet Dunce-Face was gonna pine over Ears before he finally did something about it?”

Luckily, Eijirou seems to understand far too quickly what he means. Eijirou watched that fucking lowlife turn into you. Then Katsuki himself. So Eijirou wisely realizes that Katsuki isn’t asking for the answer—he’s asking for proof. Easily enough, he mutters, “Well, you said he was gonna die a virgin, so—”

“Kay,” Katsuki says, relaxing by a fraction. “Only the real Ei would know that.”

“Well, at least now I know you’re the real Katsuki,” Eijirou mutters, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “So this guy can turn into anyone?”

“I dunno. But me and Hellcat for sure. And some random people I never seen before. But it’s the quirks that are the problem.” His jaw clenches. “The fact that he can fuckin’ copy ’em—as if the faces weren’t enough.”

“We need to come up with some sort of signal so we know who is really—”

Eijirou is cut off by a commotion in the distance. Both of them look up. The sidekick from earlier—covered in dust, grime, and looking thoroughly disheveled—is pinned face-down against the pavement by several heroes.

“Wait, wait, I’m me,” he pleads desperately. “You have to believe me—”

“Turning back into the same guy while you’re covered in filth?” another hero scoffs. “Do you take us for idiots?”

“I swear, I’m—”

“Take him in for questioning,” another interrupts.

Katsuki watches from a distance. The sidekick’s eyes find his immediately. For just a second, something dark flickers across his face. Something knowing and amused. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before vanishing so quickly that Katsuki almost convinces himself he imagined it. Almost. Something cold settles in his chest. Dread. He immediately starts striding over, fixing the police with a hard, serious look.

“Oi!” he barks. “Don’t let that idiot outta your sight. Not for one fuckin’ second. He’s plannin’ something.”

The officers exchange looks.

“Yeah, that’s the point of taking him in, Dynamight.”

“I’m serious,” Katsuki growls. “Do not let him outta your sight.”

The sidekick immediately recoils.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I don’t know what happened. One minute, I was leaving the Billboard Charts, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in some abandoned building. You have to believe me!”

“Convenient,” another hero mutters.

“It’s the truth!” the sidekick cries as they shove him into the back of a van. “Please!”

Katsuki watches him carefully. Then he exhales, rubbing his temple. You’re safe, that's all he can think. You’re safe and unharmed, and you’re at home. Not here.

—

TODAY 7:53 PM

Bakugou: hey. dont take the train to work anymore Bakugou: im getting you a driver

Hellcat: What? That’s really not necessary Hellcat: Also I’m not broke

Bakugou: no. this is coming from company budgets not my pocket Bakugou: im serious hellcat this isn’t a joke Bakugou: either you come on company transportation or you don’t come to the office at all

Hellcat: What happened out there?? Hellcat: Are you okay? Hellcat: Something is up just tell me

Bakugou: see u in the office. driver will be outside waiting for you every morning

────────────────────────

Transportation provided by Riot Grenade Agency feels like you are the president of the world. Someone opens the door for you, letting you into a car with completely dark-tinted windows. There is someone who sits in the back to make sure you aren’t being followed, and the driver takes a long route with four left turns just to be sure you aren’t being tailed. 

Whatever happened in that villain attack, it’s spooked Bakugou enough to take your commute to and from work rather seriously. You let it happen for the sake of his worrywart mind—you know enough to know that the villain was detained. Besides, you like being chauffeured around on company money. It feels like an added perk. 

The follow-up from the Billboard Charts event, despite Bakugou’s fit of paranoia, is rather positive. 

Despite it not being Bakugou’s intention (as his intentions were rather petty and self-centered, you like to think), dragging you along with him to the Billboard Chart event brought a good amount of visibility to you. Everyone is still buzzing about the fact that Riot Grenade Agency’s publicist has not only managed to aid with jumping Red Riot four whole ranks at his first official re-evaluation since debuting solo, but also managed to keep Dynamight from slipping before the top twenty, even after the long list of negative incidents bulleted under his name. 

And you intend to milk that advantage this PR has granted you for everything that you’ve got. 

“Thank you all for applying to be sidekicks at this agency,” you hum, flashing the group a bright smile. A solid handful of recently licensed heroes sit before you—fresh from graduation and undoubtedly searching for the opportunity that will launch their careers. “As you all know, this agency is co-owned by none other than Japan’s most explosive—literally and figuratively—hero, Dynamight. And I firmly believe that if you can handle being his sidekick, then you can handle just about anything the hero world throws at you.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the room.

“So here’s the deal,” you continue. “If you can prove to me that you’ll work efficiently alongside him, then I’ll treat your reputations and public images with the same care and attention that I give my actual clients. The position comes with a minimum two-year contract if you’re selected, though we’re absolutely open to negotiating a longer term if that interests you. Or you can sign on for two years, and renew it once it’s over if you don’t want to commit that long just yet. But, if, at the end of your contract, you decide you’d rather go out on your own and try a solo career, that’s perfectly fine too.”

You clasp your hands together, face turning more serious before your next promise.

“If you’re selected for this position, then for those two years, I intend to build your names and reputations throughout the industry as though you were already established pros running agencies of your own. You’ll receive the same level of effort, care, and opportunities from me that my paying clients do. But make no mistake—I am still your superior in this agency, so I expect you to conduct yourselves accordingly. Keep in mind that when your contract is over, if we part ways on good terms, you’ll leave this agency with industry contacts, professional experience, and a very generous recommendation that I will personally send wherever it needs to go.”

Your grin widens slightly.

“So I really hope none of you take this opportunity for granted.”

Just as you finish explaining, the door to your office swings open.

“Oi! Hellcat, Eiji says you got some shit I need to sign for tha—” Bakugou cuts himself off mid-sentence. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in the handful of aspiring heroes seated in front of your desk. He blinks once. Then twice. “...Who the fuck are all of you, and what are you doin’ here, huh?”

You smile. Honestly, his timing couldn’t have been better.

“Bakugou,” you say pleasantly, “excellent. You’re here.” The applicants collectively stiffen at the sight of him. “These are some potential sidekicks I’ve selected for interviews. Instead of having you conduct that process yourself, I’ve decided to handle it. The candidates who advance past the interviews based on my judgment will work alongside you in the field for a one-week trial period. If they can keep up with you, we’ll consider them for the position.”

A beat passes. Bakugou looks at the applicants. Then, at you. And then his lips tug into a dark, satisfied grin as he realizes that not only have you managed to find a way to hire people professionally, but you’ve also set up an opening for him to weed out the people he actually wants to keep. An opening for him to find someone who actually stands a chance of hoping to surpass him. 

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, amused. “Good luck with that, then.”

You sigh, but your eyes brighten at his clear positive reaction to the news. “Thank you for those incredibly inspiring words of encouragement.”

“What? If they’re scared already, then they ain’t cut out for the job. Anyway. My paperwork?”

“I’ll have your assistant drop it off at your desk in a bit.”

“Fine.” He turns toward the door, but pauses just before grabbing the handle. Looking over his shoulder, he adds, “Oh, and one more thing. If you’re gonna be my sidekick, then you’d better be prepared to beat me.” His red eyes sweep across the applicants. “Otherwise, you’ve got no place here.” A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Only the best step foot in this agency and stay.”

And with that, he leaves as the door clicks shut behind him. For a moment, the room remains silent. Then you look over the candidates. The nervousness from earlier is all but gone, and it has been overtaken by something else entirely. Determination. Challenge. There are more than a few bruised egos from his words. Several of them are staring at the closed door with the sort of heated expression that tells you they’re already imagining proving him wrong.

You hide your smile behind your hand.

You think you’ve found yourself a rather promising batch of applicants—a batch that is very, very eager to prove Bakugou wrong.

────────────────────────

It’s a rare, miraculous day when Bakugou earns himself what you’re certain will be a considerable jump in the fan-favorite rankings—and, for once, it has absolutely nothing to do with your efforts.

Pro Hero Deku has made his official debut two weeks after the Billboard Chart event, and Dynamight’s generous involvement in the return of one of the country’s greatest heroes has become a wildly popular topic. People are thrilled that Deku has returned to the world of pro heroism. You, meanwhile, are simply thrilled that Bakugou seems to be in the best mood you’ve ever seen him in because of it. His performance reflects the fact that his greatest rival—and by default, greatest motivator—is back in the scene. (Though you wisely refrain from mentioning that fact aloud. The last thing you need is for him to immediately revert to his natural state of perpetual grouchiness and tank his recent increase in good PR.)

It’s a Monday morning when Bakugou pulls into the parking lot of Riot Grenade Agency in a shiny, brand-new, undoubtedly expensive Porsche just as you and Kirishima are approaching the front entrance.

You stop walking. Kirishima lets out a disbelieving huff.

“He really got it.”

“Huh?” you ask, furrowing your brows.

“He’s been eyeing this car for a while,” Kirishima says, shaking his head. Despite himself, his eyes remain fixed on the vehicle as he admires it. “I didn’t think he’d actually buy it this impulsively.”

It is a nice car. Nothing you could ever hope to afford, of course, but you’ve never particularly cared for that sort of extravagant purchase anyway. Still, you can’t help but admire it—and, more than that, feel a small sense of pride on Bakugou’s behalf. He works hard, and you know that better than anything.

“You losers just gonna stand there and gawk?” Bakugou steps out casually, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The smug grin that appears when Kirishima shoots him a half-hearted glare only makes it worse.

“You got it without telling me?” Kirishima all but whines as he walks over to inspect the sleek black finish. “That’s fake.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You’ll live.”

“You gotta gimme a ride.”

“Absolutely not.” 

The refusal is immediate, and Kirishima is visibly not pleased. “C’mon! That’s totally not fair!”

“Shut your face, you shitty-haired freak.”

“I’m gonna harden and poke holes through the roof, then.”

“Hah?!”

Before Bakugou can detonate the entire parking lot, you step between them with a sigh. “Now, now, children,” you say tiredly. You sometimes wonder if your full-time job is public relations or internal conflicts. Perhaps a little bit of both, against your will. “This is a well-respected agency. You don’t want people seeing you bicker like brats and getting the wrong impression, do you?”

“The only brat here is Katsuki,” Kirishima pouts. “He gets one nice thing, and suddenly he’s too spoiled to share. Only-child syndrome.”

“You don’t have any siblings either, hair-for-brains, so fuck off,” Bakugou shoots back. “You’re the one who can’t handle not gettin’ your way.”

“Okay, how about this,” Kirishima bargains smoothly, “I won’t poke holes in the roof if you come to dinner on Friday—and give me a ride since we’ll leave together.” Then he turns toward you. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come with us?”

The dinner in question is Class A’s celebration for Todoroki’s placement as number two in the Hero Billboard Charts. Kirishima has invited you several times already. So has Mina—who now texts you semi-regularly. Each attempt has been met with a polite decline. Bakugou never adds much whenever the topic comes up, but the lingering look he sends your way every single time is enough for you to know—he wouldn’t mind your presence. Not even a little. Something tells you he’d be a little more willing to join if you were there. (It’s just a small hunch that you have.)

Still, you decline.

Even with all the ways you’ve gradually become entangled in Bakugou’s life—and, by extension, the lives of the people closest to him—you can’t quite bring yourself to attend a reunion meant for a former class. A class that trained together, and fought together, and grew up (albeit too fast) together. They have formed bonds through experiences you will never truly understand, and you can’t justify tagging along like you have a place in that room.

Not too long ago, the thought of not belonging would have sent you spiraling. They would have left you dwelling on the distance between your world and Bakugou’s until it became impossible not to let it mess with your head. But strangely, they don’t bother you anymore. Your mind does not play that cruel game it loves to start when you think about whether or not being involved with someone like pro hero Dynamight makes sense for someone like you—instead, you are content with declining an invite and making peace with the fact that you are different. He still likes you for it, after all. 

“I’m good, Kiri, really,” you hum. “But thank you. You guys have fun!”

“M’not going,” Bakugou says instantly.

“You will if you like your new car’s roof,” Kirishima practically sings. The blonde sends him a seething look in return.

You giggle before adding, “Just please make sure you both don’t do anything that will end up on the news when I wake up Saturday morning, though. I don’t want a worse workload next week.”

“She’s talking to you,” Kirishima gives Bakugou a taunting look, “she’s just saying it to both of us so you don’t feel singled out.”

“I’ll fuckin’ explode you to bits—you want that, Dumb-Hair?”

“I’m going inside,” you sigh tiredly at their antics—and then, you give Bakugou a hard, warning look. “This week, the sidekick candidates I’ve selected will do their trial periods with you on the field. I expect that you will decide to keep at least two of them, because I really went through a lot of trouble to find you some good fits. Got it?”

He grumbles, crossing his arms. Kirishima turns to you instantly. 

“What about me?” He whines, “How come he gets special treatment and gets you to do the searching for him? Is it because he’s bribing you? Is that what this is? You’re picking favorites already?”

Your face flusters at his loaded words—and, judging by the slight amusement in his gaze, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What?” You squeak, “N-no! That…that’s not it, honest! Bakugou is just more hopeless when it comes to this than you, so…”

“Hopeless?” The blonde does a double-take. 

Kirishima huffs, “Yeah, yeah. Pretty soon, you’ll be tanking my rank on purpose to help your boyfriend get ahead.”

“He’s not my boyfriend! And I would never do that—”

“As if I need her help to beat you, you Shitty-Haired freak! Fuck off—”

Kirishima grins a toothy, smug little playful grin before he walks inside and leaves you and Bakugou standing there alone while you both try to defend your honor. After a moment of silence, you huff and cross your arms as you turn to face him. 

You give him a warning look as you hiss, “You better find a good sidekick in one of those candidates because look at the position you put me in, asshole.”

“Me?! What, so I held you at gunpoint when we were—”

You walk off, shutting the door to the front entrance behind you and cutting him off mid-sentence. It’s going to be a long workday. 

—

TODAY 10:41 PM

Bakugou: hey. hellcat Bakugou: u home?

You: No I’m at the airport

Bakugou: wait what Bakugou: where are u going this late??? Bakugou: are u by urself????????

You: Lol relax I’m kidding. Yeah I’m home You: Why do you ask?

Bakugou: oh. goodBakugou: ofc u would be home by urself on a friday night Bakugou: i’m coming over in 5

You: What does that even mean????????? You: Also you can’t just come unannounced whenever you want You: It’s considered impolite. Just so you know

Bakugou: well i just announced it right now. see u in 5

—

Bakugou knocks on your door in five minutes on the dot. You open it instantly—you decide there’s no point in overthinking if that makes you look like you desperately waited for him (which, you did) because if you wait, then you’ll overthink if your apartment is tidy enough or if he’ll think you live in an absolute war zone. (Curse him for showing up at the last minute when you least suspect it.)

Your door swings open, and Bakugou brushes past you immediately. No greeting. No explanation. Not even a kiss—not that you kiss him regularly enough to expect one, or anything, but…still. All you get is a sulky-looking Bakugou. Which is not to be confused with grumpy. He can grump and sulk at the same time, sure, but they are two very different versions of Bakugou. You have enough experience to know that much.

“Hello to you, too. Thank you for interrupting my Friday evening. How lovely to have you!”

“Tch. You’re not doin’ shit on the weekend. Boring ass life.”

“How rude!” (He is, of course, not wrong—but you won’t let him disrespect you in your own home like this. Not when he’s standing in the unit that you pay for with the paycheck you work very hard to earn. The paycheck that is really only as hard as it is because he happens to make your job hard.)

The door clicks shut behind him. He kicks off his shoes, walks past you, drops onto your couch, and proceeds to slump onto the cushions with a heavy thud. You remain standing for a moment, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Nothing does. He says nothing, and you’re beginning to get worried.

“Okay,” you sigh. “What happened?” 

Silence. 

“Out with it—c’mon, what did you do?”

He glares over at you. “Why d’ya automatically think I did something?”

You narrow your eyes. “You always do something.”

Bakugou narrows his eyes right back, and now grumpy Bakugou is making an appearance alongside the sulky version of him. Not your preferred company on a Friday night. “No, I don’t.”

You walk over with a sigh and sit beside him. Or rather, you attempt to sit beside him. The second you get close enough, his arm hooks around your waist and tugs you firmly against his chest without warning, pulling you into his lap.

You yelp.

“Jus’ wanted to see you,” he mutters quietly. So quietly, you almost miss it—but luckily, you don’t. And your heart immediately starts beating harder in your chest.

“I think that’s very sweet,” you say cautiously, “but there’s clearly something up with you. You…you know you can tell me what’s on your mind, right?”

He sighs, letting out a heavy, almost miserable breath as his chin settles onto the top of your head, and his arms hug you closer. Tighter. And you like it—you like feeling like this. Like he needs you when something is clearly wrong. You dare to let yourself believe you’re what he needs when there is something that is bothering him, and you’ve never felt an ache in your chest quite like this to fix something for someone. 

“Long night,” he mutters.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Hey,” you poke his forehead. His lips curl into a deeper frown. “C’mon, you have to give me more than that.”

“S’nothin’.”

“Did somebody piss you off at dinner?”

“No.”

“Did you run into an overbearing reporter?”

“No.”

“Did Kirishima eat his CalorieMate in your car and get crumbs in it?”

“...Yeah. Fuckin’ asshole.”

You smile, giggling a little. Bakugou doesn’t find it as amusing, but he doesn’t even make the effort to scowl deeper when you laugh at his expense. And that’s what finally convinces you that something is definitely wrong. Your hand finds his, and his fingers immediately intertwine with yours. The motion is so automatic that it makes your chest ache worse.

“C’mon, stop pretending like it’s nothing,” you say softly, “you’re usually better at pretending things don’t bother you. Did you run into a fan who crossed some boundaries?”

“No.”

“Is there something from tonight that’s gonna be on the news and make my job harder? I’ll find a way to undo the damage, if that’s what’s bothering you—it’s what you pay me to do. Yeah?”

You cradle his face as you press a kiss to his nose. That softens him a smidge, but he’s still staring ahead, not meeting your eyes as he mumbles, “Nothin’ with the press. Quit worrying.”

“Hey,” you force his face to turn to you. Reluctantly, he meets your gaze. “You can trust me—you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“So let’s hear it,” you peck his lips. 

He kisses back briefly before sighing, slumping back as his head falls against your couch with a thud, and he throws an arm over his face. “I asked the nerd to join the agency today.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You asked Midoriya to join Riot Grenade?”

“Yeah.”

You blink. “...And?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Still hiding behind the arm lying across his face and stubbornly trying to avoid his problems. You feel like you’ve pressed enough, so you’re almost about to tell him that it’s okay, and he doesn’t have to say anything when—

“He said no. He’s gonna keep teachin’, ’n stuff and just…do hero shit on the side.”

“Isn’t that good?” You press, gently tugging his arm off of his face to reveal his expression to you. He stares up at your ceiling blankly. “He seems happy with the cards he’s been dealt. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He says it almost glumly, so you raise a brow. He huffs before letting out a long groan and rubbing his face. “I just…I thought things would be the way they were when we were kids. I thought we’d start competin’ ’n stuff again and…and—fuck, I don’t know. I’m better at improving shit when I have that fuckin’ nerd to win against.”

“Oh,” you say softly. Now you understand. 

Bakugou isn’t a conventional hero—you’d be a liar if you tried to argue that he is. He’s not sweet or charming, and he certainly doesn’t soothe people with carefully chosen words. Those are all things that make your job incredibly difficult and your strategies infinitely more complicated. But they are who he is, nonetheless, and who he is is not a bad hero. He’s far from that. You know a hero with potential when you see one.

For better or for worse, he is unapologetically himself, whether that is on the field or off it. He does not know how to present a polished version of himself to the world, nor does he have any interest in learning. He says what he means, and he means what he says, and he leaves everyone else to deal with it. You wouldn’t ask him to lie about who he is, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has never made your job easy—not even after growing strangely fond of you.

The hero world is more than raw power and flawless victories. It is vulnerability and compassion and throwing your humanity into the open so that people will trust that the human that is within the saviors before them, will be human enough to do what is right, even when it’s hard. And Bakugou will do what is right. Every time, over and over, without a doubt, he will do the right thing. But he won’t show that he is delicate, or that his feelings are tied to the same fragility that all people are tied to, no matter how powerful he is on the exterior.

But somehow, when Midoriya is involved, it comes more naturally. You’ve seen it—even as a mere teenager who observed him on the sidelines, even as a side character who could do nothing but watch as he fought tooth and nail for a fight that should not have been his. Midoriya has always had a way of dragging the human out of him on the battlefield, no matter how much he hated it—pushing and prodding at him until the better parts of him step forward, whether he intends them to or not.

Midoriya will push Bakugou to improve. And he will do it in the way that he is comfortable. In the way he is natural. In the way that keeps who he is intact and doesn’t force him to tolerate the annoying, bothersome strategies on the media that make him palatable to people—that market him as enough to do the right thing when he has always done it all along.

He scoffs when he sees that look in your eyes, grumbling, “S’not that big of a deal, I was just—”

“Don’t be sad, baby,” you hum. 

Baby. You honestly don’t mean to say it. It slips out so naturally when you’re fixated on making him feel better that it almost scares you. It should scare you, but your mind can’t focus on the things it should—not when there is Bakugou to focus on. Hearing the name makes him stiffen for a moment until you lean in and kiss his nose. 

He wrinkles it, huffing. “M’not fuckin’ sad. The damn nerd can do what he wants.”

“You seem a little sad,” you murmur, cradling his face. Your thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and you are stunned, as you always are, at how beautiful Bakugou is. He is the afterglow of a blinding light—the soft, hazy colors that your eyes focus on after the explosion.

“I’m not sad—quit fuckin’ saying that,” he grumbles.

Despite what he says, he’s certainly not happy about being turned down by Midoriya, and you can sense the faint traces of melancholic acceptance creeping in around the edges of a reality he won’t admit bothers him. His goals and his hopes did not turn out the way he imagined they would. And perhaps that is not all bad—perhaps things were always meant to unfold this way, and he was always going to find a way to do what he’s set his heart on regardless. But he will still need the time it takes to properly accept it.

“I think, whether he joins your agency or not,” you kiss his jaw, “Midoriya going pro is enough. Yeah? He’ll still be a good rival for you—and you did a really nice thing getting him that suit. You’re a good person, you know?”

You kiss his cheek, and he flushes under your attention. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m some kid,” he snaps—there’s no real bite to it. His hands dig into your hips and pull you closer despite his words. You’ve gotten used to speaking his language—his words may say one thing, but his actions always say another, and you’ve become fluent enough to understand what everything truly means. 

When he says, stop that, it translates to, you make me feel vulnerable. When his hands tug you closer, he is saying, please don’t leave—not when only you can make me feel this way.

So you kiss his nose, his lips, his chin, the Adam’s apple along his throat. He swallows thickly as you do. Gently, you whisper, “Can’t have you being sad on me. I’ll make you less sad.”

“M’not sad,” he clicks his teeth. “But how do you plan to do that?”

“Hm,” you grin, pecking his lips once more before slowly pulling away and crawling your way down between his legs. His breath hitches as you do, his legs parting to make room for you while he swallows thickly at the sight of you there. “I have an idea or two.”

“Yeah?” He croaks.

“Mhm,” you breathe.

His sweatpants boxers are easy to pull down and discard—he lifts his hips for you without protest, and you waste no time pressing kisses along his inner thighs the way he’s always done for you. His cock is slowly, with every press of your lips, hardening between his legs.

There’s pre cum leaking at the tip when you finally reach and touch him, making him let out a soft, shaky breath as your thumb smears at the dribbling slickness at the head of his cock before you coat his length with it and give yourself a lubricant. His head falls back, and he lets out a low, deep groan from the back of his throat as you stroke him.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, “m’gonna need to be sad more often.”

“I thought you weren’t sad,” you raise a brow.

He looks down at you and gives you a sly grin. “I’m fuckin’ devastated. S’that gonna get me anything special?”

“You don’t have to be sad for anything special,” you murmur, kissing his tip before your fist slowly drags up and down along his length.

His eyes flutter shut, and his lips part as he lets out soft groans as your hand slides over his velvety skin—when you take the time to trace over a thick vein, he lets out a particularly long moan and jolts his hips a little at the sensation. You watch him eagerly as you take in his reactions—as you watch him bite his lip and scrunch his face when your fist squeezes a little tighter at the tip, and as you watch him breathe harder and pant when you twist your hand at the base.

Your hand moves for long enough that his breathing is labored, but when you finally switch it for your mouth, he chokes. He’s salty on your tongue—your lips surround him before you slowly sink down on him, inch by inch, until your nose is practically brushed against his pelvis. You think for a moment, when you look up at him from behind slightly watery eyes as his tip hits the back of your throat, that Bakugou is the only person you would do this for. Get on your knees and take care of him like this only because he is sad for an evening. That he is the only one who is worth doing this for. That he is the only person you’ve ever wanted to really do this for. 

If it were some time ago, you’d sit and wonder if he’d even want this from you. If a man like him, who is surely what everyone wants, who is surely deserving of someone as good and worth it as he is, would ever settle for you and what you have to offer. 

Now, though, you think that after all this time, after all the people he’s surely met and surely could have had, he’s picked you to be here because you give him something he cannot find elsewhere. That he picked you to come to when his mind was heavy because you are able to lighten the load of his thoughts. It’s a good feeling—you like being what he needs. You like it because he is what you need, too, and you also like the way he makes you feel when you are with him. Next to him. Cared for by him. Wanted by him, too. You like how he makes you feel about yourself, and the way he teaches you to stop making yourself little to make room for all of his big. 

You like existing with Bakugou Katsuki. He has infected your heart with a disease that you once thought you were immune to catching from him. But you are infected all the same, and you think that you don’t mind that you are sickened by him—not as long as he is there to take care of you and treat you for the rest of your life. 

You hollow your cheeks, sucking around his cock and bobbing your head up and down along his length, and he answers the gesture with a long, throaty moan as his hand settles on the top of your head. He doesn’t force you down on him, doesn’t make you follow the pace he sets for you. He’s gentle with you—cups the back of your head like you are special and fragile, and that he is lucky to have you there. 

“Ngh…shit, sweetheart,” he bites his lips. His unruly, blonde hair is dampened from the sweat, clinging to his forehead a little as he stares down at you with bleary, lust-hazed eyes. They darken when they land on your parted lips, and the way they surround his cock as it disappears into your mouth with every time you swallow him. “You’re…you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this—c-can’t believe you’re real.”

Your tongue presses along that thick vein along his length that you’ve memorized by now, tracing it with pressure from your muscle as you take him down your throat, and he responds with a sharp gasp. 

He’s close. You can tell—you’ve learned his telltale signs by now. How his cock twitches. How his eyes scrunch, and his bottom lip gets tugged between his teeth. How he forgets what to do with his hands, roaming them along your head and then the couch cushion and then his hair. 

You move faster, taking him down your throat as your head bobs along it with a quicker pace that he’s started to match a little without realizing, through small upward bucks of his hips. Once. Twice. Finally, one final thrust of his hips into your mouth, and he’s scrambling to pull you off to your surprise as he curses under his breath. 

“F-fuck, m’close, dammit—”

He pulls out of your mouth just fast enough that his hand replaces where your lips were, stroking himself quickly and desperately as the first few ropes of cum spill from his tip and coat along his fist. It makes a mess along his shirt, and you’re sure afterwards he’ll be sulky about that—but for now, you’re too focused on the beautiful man in front of you to be too worried about that.

He groans your name as he falls apart. Breathes it like a prayer as praises fall absentmindedly from his tongue like they’re his subconscious, instinctual default. Words that speak of you with reverence. That think about you, you, you—and how he really sees you.

So perfect. Fuckin’ beautiful. Don’t deserve you. Make me crazy. Can’t get enough. That’s what you hear between soft groans and choked words. That is what his mind, when blissed out and out of his control, thinks of you. High praise and deep desire. 

And you are disease-ridden by this festering feeling in your heart for Bakugou—it spreads quicker than you can hope. It’s already spread far, far along every organ and into your veins. You couldn’t hope to slice yourself open and discard the parts that he’s affected. There’s too much, and you wouldn’t survive losing those parts of yourself—not now that they’ve been touched by him.

So you stay disease-ridden. And you hope you will survive this disease that you are too scared to name. Too scared to call it for what it is in case speaking it out loud will make your heart stop altogether. 

“Shit, Hellcat,” he pants when he’s come down from his high. You stare at him with wide, glassy eyes, lips swollen and coated in your spit and his pre cum. It’s messy, but you don’t mind it. Not if it’s him. “You’re crazy.”

“Why’d you pull away?” You tilt your head, pouting slightly. “You could’ve—I don’t…I wouldn’t have minded, you know. If you…uh, finished, like…without pulling away.”

His face flushes a bit of a darker pink, but he still snorts in amusement at your words, humming as his hand reaches to cup your cheek. You lay your other cheek against his thigh, letting him stroke your face with a calloused thumb as he admires you. 

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted to,” he shrugs, “s’alright. Still felt good.”

“Next time, don’t pull away,” you huff. “I wanna make you feel good all on my own.”

“S’that an offer for another round in the future?” He grins.

You give him a tired, exasperated look, and he laughs—it’s more boyish and less rough than anything you’ve ever heard from him. Your heart squeezes at the sound, and you know, you know more than anything that he has afflicted you with a terminal, forever case of this disease you are suffering at his hand. 

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a disease at all. 

“You’re the worst,” you hiss.

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. Then he tugs you upwards, pulling you to climb onto his lap as his hands grip your waist and he mumbles, “C’mere. My shirt’s ruined, so I gotta take it off.”

“Then take it off,” you breathe.

“S’only fair if you take yours off, too.”

“Mine isn’t ruined,” you raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes before he leans in and bites your chin lightly—you shriek in shock.

“Quit bein’ so fucking difficult all the time, you damn idiot.”

“Are you still sad?” You ask, letting his hands trail under your shirt and glide over the bare skin of your back. He hums, slowly lifting your shirt over your arms.

“Nah,” he grins. “Never sad when I got this all to myself.”And then he kisses you sweetly, even despite the fact that he can probably still taste himself on your mouth, and you think you’re unwell. Sickened by him and his touch and his smile and everything about him.

It’s the best you’ve ever felt, somehow. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “S’been long enough. Can we just say I earned that date and do things the right way now?”

You hum, shifting on his lap to fiddle with the end of his shirt and pull it over his arms in return. You’re no longer scared. You’re going to take the fall and trust that he will be there to catch you. This disease will not kill you—not if it is Bakugou who is caring after you. “Fine—maybe if you’re good this coming week, I’ll finally take my chances and give you a shot next Saturday.”

“Take your chances? You’re the one who got on your knees for me willingly and—”

“You’re hotter when you talk less. We should fix that.”

He gives you a disgruntled look when you pull him into a kiss again, but he complies, nonetheless, and you think that he can cozy himself up in your heart like a virus for just a little bit longer.

(You won’t let him see it, but you’ve never looked forward to a Saturday like this before.)

────────────────────────

You should have known that when things get good for you, it’s really just a sign that they’re about to get particularly bad. It’s like a short high before you black out. You wake up, and every good memory is nothing but a dream, and you have been thrust back into reality. 

Bakugou and you are from two separate worlds, and you were never meant to mesh. You should have known that.

When the headlines come, he refuses to talk to you. Refuses to say anything, or explain himself, or give you any sort of reasoning or context. He doesn’t even argue with you. Just completely shuts you out—you don’t understand it. You thought things were getting good. Better than good. That you were getting somewhere with him. That you had earned a place beside him. 

Every headline is relentless:

Pro Hero Dynamight Under Investigation Following Altercation With Shishikross

Witnesses Report Dynamight Initiated Attack Against Fellow Hero

Questions Raised After Dynamight Confronts Shishikross During Ongoing Villain Investigation

Hero Commission Requests Statements Following Dynamight Incident

Dynamight Faces Scrutiny After Public Clash With Pro Hero Shishikross

“What is the meaning of all this?” You storm into Bakugou’s office. 

He closes his eyes and exhales sharply, like you’re annoying him. Like your presence in his office is a nuisance, and your attempts at your job that he hired you to do are an inconvenience to him. 

“Meaning of what?” he asks flatly. 

“You know what!”

“Don’t speak in codes, woman,” he snaps. 

You stare at him, bewildered. This is not Bakugou. Not your Bakugou at least—not the one you’ve gotten to know and see and feel and…and be with. The one who fights to keep you by his side and show you that you’re supposed to be there. That it wasn’t some fluke accident that you got there in the first place. 

“Why did you attack another hero?”

“I fuckin’ didn’t. Got it?”

“There’s video evidence,” you cry, exasperated. “How am I supposed to mediate this? I can’t even write a statement if you don’t give me any context, and people have been contacting me left and right for a statement! Do you have any idea what your temper has gotten you into this time—”

“It wasn’t my fuckin’ temper,” he slams his hands on his table, standing up. You flinch, and he doesn’t even seem to notice. “I already gave my statement to the hero commission, and they’re lookin’ into it. They’re the only ones who need to know what’s happened, and they cleared me to continue work, didn’t they? So fuckin’ drop it and leave me alone.”

“Tell me what’s happening,” you demand, walking over and pointing a finger into his chest. “And tell me the truth!”

“You don’t need to know,” he fires, “I already told you, everyone who needs to know, knows. So just mind your damn business and—”

“Mind my business? This is my business—I literally get paid to make it my business! Hello? You pay me to help you keep your image up, or did you forget that? And you think that this is helping your image? How do you ever expect to claim that number one spot you want so badly like this—”

“I don’t care to be number one this fucking way!” he snaps. You pause, looking at him in confusion as he frustratedly clenches his fists and glares at you. “I’m gonna be the number one hero because I’m strong and capable and can save every damn person who needs saving—I’m gonna beat every fuckin’ villain that gets in my way and stop those idiots because I win. That’s what I do. This fuckin’ bullshit of buying my way to the top with brand deals and cheeky posts and stupid performative shit is beneath me!”

You blink, processing his words. 

Bakugou is, despite the critiques he often gets, a good hero. You’ve always known he was a good person at heart. He fought a war and died and then came back just to fight some more, for crying out loud, and he’s only thrown himself into more danger since then to keep at it. He’s never hurt anyone he’s meant to save, or put them on the back burner as a side priority in favor of being a flashy, successful, wealthy pro. He saves them so dedicatedly, like saving them isn’t enough—he has to save them with his all. He’s worked so hard and so relentlessly to get where he is, and it’s because he wants to be the best at what he does: using his quirk to stop idiots who use their own quirks for shitty, fucked up reasons that disrupt peace. 

You know those things to be true because you see him, and you know him, but you’ve never actually heard directly from him his own thoughts on his job, and how he approaches it, so you can’t help it when you say, “You’re an actual idiot—I never saw that coming from you.”

He bristles as he growls, “Hah? The fuck did you just say—”

“You think people are going to trust you to save them because you’re fucking strong?” you glare up at him, “huh? Is that it? You think you’ll just prove yourself to be the strongest man out there, take out all the bad guys, and everyone will just accept that you’re the best man for the job?”

“Of course—”

“You know what I would think,” you interrupt, “if some strong ass guy was just there, beating everyone he fought? If he proved himself as the best and the strongest? I’d think, geez, wouldn’t it be fucking awful if this guy decided to be a villain? If he just decided one day to do as he pleases and hurt people? That would suck—he’d be strong enough to get away with it, wouldn’t he? And look—you beat a fucking hero up! So now what do you think people will think, huh?”

His veins all but pop as he snarls at you, almost hurt and offended, “What’re you saying, huh? You think I’m capable of bein’ a villain, s’that it?”

“I know you’re not. But people don’t know you,” you hiss, “They just know you’re a guy who’s strong and can fight. Why should they trust you? Especially with a headline like that? Slapping on the title of pro hero doesn’t make you a good person—you saw that for yourself. You have to earn people’s trust by showing them who you are.” 

Bakugou does not take your job seriously—despite the way he has grown fond of you by chance, and despite the undeniable respect that he has for you, you have never been naive enough to think that it means he sees your profession as anything more than an extra source of nagging that he has to deal with. You know plenty of people like Bakugou who share the same mindset about your job. People who only see you as a strategic means to market others and make them seem likable, taking advantage of trends and good media and whatever else it is that you can get your hands on. 

You don’t mind that he doesn’t see it as the most useful thing in the world. You love your job. You’re good at it, and you’ve wanted it since you were a kid. 

You realize all too soon into your childhood that you’re no hero. That a quirk never manifests in that useless body of yours, and you’re frail and weak compared to someone who has power running through their veins. Your genes had decided that you were weak. You couldn’t save anyone if you tried, not even yourself—you are the kind of person that can only be saved. You can only cling to hope that someone will be there to make up for your shortcomings, watching out for you since you cannot do it yourself.

You’re no hero. But you decided a long time ago that maybe, if you tried hard enough, you could still find a way to make use out of your existence and help heroes in some other way. You decided a long time ago that even if you cannot offer anything meaningful yourself, then perhaps you can at least aid someone else in offering what they can. 

Your heart just yearns for the things that it does—bleeds for it. It’s yearned to be a hero since you were young, but you’re no hero, and you will never have the chance to be. You know that better than anyone. But you could still be a part of their world in some minor, partially useful way. You could help, even if it’s behind the scenes and not worthy of any real praise. You could be the small cog in the machine that makes weak people like you stare at the television screen and feel like someone is there to do what you cannot do for yourself.

You sigh deeply, rubbing your hands together as you mumble, “Look, I know your job is more serious than acting like some internet personality. I get it—I’ve never been on a battlefield like you or risked my life, so I can’t really speak, I do get that. But people need to know you care—”

“Exactly,” he says bluntly, “you can’t speak. You’re not on that battlefield, and you should stop stickin’ that nose into matters about the battlefield. That’s not for you—got it? Just go back to your office and figure out some brand deals and call it a fuckin’ day. For fuck’s sake.”

“Is that all you think of me?” You hiss, tears collecting in your eyes. He falters for a moment—a moment so fleeting, you almost wonder if you imagined it. “That’s all you think I am, just some person who—”

“I think you’re takin’ up too much of my time, and I’m fuckin’ busy. And—”

“You know what, you’re right,” you laugh, but it’s humorless, and the tears have already started streaming down your face for you to maintain the facade of being uncaring. “I’m taking up too much of your precious time, and I’m clearly not worthy of that time, so let me just know my place, right?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth—”

“You have fun figuring this out,” you interrupt. “Since you’re so fucking smart and above all this.”

The door to his office shakes the walls with the force of your slam behind you, and you pretend like you don’t see the way everyone turns to look at you as you wipe your tears and stomp to your own office, slamming yet another door for a second time.

────────────────────────

It’s been three days, and you’ve still yet to talk to Bakugou. 

Well, in person, at least—everything gets handled by emails, and you intend to keep it that way. You’ve even looked for other job listings here and there, to your shame. Every time you do, though, you think about Kiri and the disappointment that would surely paint over his face, and you quickly leave the tab. 

“Miss,” one of Bakugou’s new sidekicks nervously gets your attention and breaks you from your thoughts. You force a tight smile, looking up to meet his gaze expectantly as he says, “Pro Hero Pinky is outside the building—I saw her on my way in. She wants me to tell you she’d like a word.”

“Oh?” you hum, tilting your head. “Did she say why? She usually texts me if she wants something.”

He shrugs. “Not really sure. She did say she forgot her phone—and she asked for you specifically. I think it’s about Mister Dynamight’s recent scandal...n-not that it’s my business, or that I’ve been paying attention to it or anything—I would never do any digging, p-please believe me—”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as you hold up a hand.

Ah. So Mina must be here to talk about Bakugou’s latest bout of stupidity. You can’t really say you’re shocked. Part of you is relieved that Bakugou has such good friends. The other part only finds itself growing more irritated with him on their behalf.

Here is Mina—genuine enough, sincere enough, concerned enough—that she would come in the middle of her workday just to speak to you about his career. Cares enough to forget her phone in her haste. And then there is Bakugou—who shoves aside everyone trying to help him, who never meets anyone halfway, not even you, his publicist, who was hired specifically to help his reputation and has somehow become his...lover?

(No, not quite. You think you cannot call yourself that. Not yet. But what is the word for someone who is more than a friend and less than a lover? You are not entirely sure.)

“No worries,” you smile kindly. The sidekick visibly relaxes, his shoulders slumping. “I wouldn’t blame you even if you were doing some digging. You are associated with Dynamight during all this, after all. I’d be concerned if I were you, too. In any case, thank you for relaying the message. I’ll go see her now.”

You give his shoulder a gentle squeeze on your way past him, taking the elevator down to the first floor and walking out through the agency entrance. Sure enough, Mina is outside waiting for you. Relief immediately floods her face when she spots you approaching.

“Oh my god,” she sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank god. I was starting to think you weren’t gonna come.”

You blink. “Oh, sorry if I took too long—”

“I have so much to talk to you about,” she says, grabbing your hands. “I’m worried about Bakugou.”

Fondly—and painfully—you think about how lucky Bakugou is. To have people who care like this. To have people who show up like this. To have people he brushes aside so easily and still have the knowledge that they will always be there waiting for him.

“I’m glad you wanted to talk,” you sigh. “I can’t get through to him. So maybe...maybe if someone who understands him better spoke to him...”

“C’mon,” Mina says immediately, tightening her grip on your arm. For a moment, her expression turns unusually serious. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

“But it’s still the middle of my workday—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she laughs. “He’s not gonna say anything to you. Especially not if I get onto him. Relax, just come with me.”

You hesitate, but only briefly. It’s Mina. Even if your career somehow suffered from disappearing for an afternoon—which it wouldn’t—Mina would never let anything happen. So you nod. She beams instantly and quickly guides you away from the agency, steering you toward a waiting car parked farther down the street.

────────────────────────

“Where the fuck is Hellcat?” Katsuki stalks through the agency floor, already feeling a vein throbbing in his temple.

Eijirou sighs from where he’s leaning against a desk. “I dunno, man. I’ve been looking for her, too. She was here earlier. I’ve got emails I forwarded that I need her to look at and—”

“She’s with Miss Pinky,” one of his sidekicks pipes up.

Katsuki blinks. (He forgets the kid’s name. He really needs to get better about that.) “The fuck do you mean she’s with Raccoon-Eyes?”

The sidekick visibly wilts. “Well, Miss Pinky was outside when I came in and...a-and she asked me to send her down and...I-I just thought it was important and—”

“Unbelievable.” Katsuki throws up a hand in disbelief before turning toward Eijirou. “D’you hear this shit? She’s stealing our employees from under our noses, and our other damn employees are helpin’ her do it.”

Eijirou pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s not stealing your publicist.”

“What’s next?” Katsuki continues. “We wire her our fuckin’ payroll, too? Help fund her agency while we’re at it?”

Eijirou sighs. “You should call her.”

Katsuki grunts. “Yeah.”

Eijirou looks exhausted. Just as exhausted as Katsuki feels. And even though Katsuki knows Eijirou understands, knows he doesn't mind helping shoulder the burden right now, the guilt still settles heavy in his chest. This mess is Katsuki’s. Not Eijirou’s. But it’s taking a toll on both of them. On the agency. On every person around him. Not telling you the truth is taking an even worse toll on Katsuki, though. Not just because you'd know how to fix this PR nightmare—Katsuki just hates lying to you.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t fucking get it. How the hell did that creep get out of police custody? And since when did Katsuki think so emotionally? He’s better than that. Smarter than that. But he remembers so vividly the rage that flooded his veins when Shishikura—or whoever the hell had been wearing Shishikura’s face—looked him dead in the eye and whispered, that publicist of yours really is lucky having someone to look out for her, huh? Getting her a driver and bodyguards. Tell me, does she call you by your given name yet?

He still remembers the way his palms had started tingling. The way his hands had shaken. Still remembers knowing, with every fibre of his being, that if he didn't stop that bastard right there, things weren't going to end well. That they might not end well for you. He can't imagine that. Can't imagine a world where you're hurt, and he's forced to watch it happen. Can't imagine letting something happen to you right under his nose when he knows he can do something about it. Can't imagine caring about anything else in that moment except getting the bastard detained again and under better watch—under his watch—until he's locked away somewhere so far from you that he can never, ever reach you again.

But Katsuki failed. Again. He keeps failing and failing and fucking failing. Failed to keep the villain contained. Failed to figure out who he really is. Failed to stop him before he got close enough to learn about you. And if Katsuki can't keep you safe, then he has to keep you at arm’s length. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much it tears him apart to watch you cry over someone like him. He won't—can't—let you get dragged into this while he figures it out. Not you. Never you. You're better than this. Better than him.

He pulls out his phone and dials once. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. A third time. Voicemail. Fourth, then a fifth. Voicemail.

The dread settles low in his stomach. Something about this feels wrong. His instincts are never wrong—they have kept him alive for too many years to ignore them now. No matter how pissed you are at him, you would never ignore him this many times, would you? Something, his gut is telling him, is seriously wrong.

He forces himself to relax. It’s just Raccoon-Eyes. She’s probably filling your head with some stupid advice. Ignore him, and make him sweat! That’s probably what she’s telling you right now—some girl-talk bullshit. Yeah. That’s all it is.

He dials Mina’s number instead. She answers on the first ring.

“Blasty-babe,” she sings. “And what might I help the great Dynamight with in the middle of his very busy day?”

“Cut the shit,” he snaps. “Send Hellcat back to the agency. We’ve got too much work to do.”

Silence. 

Then, Mina’s voice comes through the line, a little too convincingly confused when she says, “What?”

Katsuki frowns. “Quit playin’ dumb.”

“Katsuki,” Mina says slowly, “what do you mean exactly by send her back?”

“She’s with you, isn’t she? One of my sidekicks said you came by the agency and asked him to send her down.”

The silence that follows is wrong. It feels wrong—wrong, wrong, wrong. Something is so seriously, awfully, sinisterly wrong. The hairs on the back of Katsuki’s neck stand up. Across the room, Eijirou notices his expression change, and his own grows anxious.

Mina’s breath catches from the other end of the line. “Blasty,” she says quietly, “I haven’t seen her since the Billboard Charts.”

Katsuki’s blood runs cold. “What?”

“I’m at my agency,” Mina says, voice rising with panic. “I haven’t left all day. I was never at your agency.”

The world seems to narrow. The noise of the agency fades. Katsuki feels like the world is spinning, and he can’t keep his balance. A twist in his gut is telling him that there is something terribly wrong, and his gut is never wrong. Never. 

And for the first time in his life, Katsuki finds himself wishing—desperately, stupidly—that it was.

as always if u enjoyed, comments and reblog tags are really appreciated!!! i loveee to hear ur thoughts!!!

"I'm working, babe," he sighs out, fighting the urge to melt into your loving embrace, but you can see right through his act.

"But I need you, Kento," you whisper in his ear, your voice resembling a whine while your hands travel further down, caressing his sculpted body until you reach the forming bulge in his pants.

You can feel his muscles tense further and the way he clenches his jaw when you gently caress his half hard cock through his trousers. A smirk forms on your lips upon feeling the effects of your simple touch - yearning.

Nanami grabs your arm and pulls you onto his lap, your legs straddling one of his thick thighs while your face rests mere inches from his. His eyes are cold when he looks at you, stern, judgmental.

"Move. You needed me so bad, then get what you want and let me finish this," he states calmly but there's a challenge in his tone. Challenging you to take from him what you want, what you need. He will give it to you, as he does with everything else.

Your hips get to move, slow, calculated moves that rub your aching cunt over his thigh, clad in the soft fabric of his suit pants.

Your head rests in the crook of his neck where you place small but needy kisses, your hips not stopping once.

It should be embarrassing, the way your arousal slowly dampens the fabric of his beige pants, leaving behind evidence of your desperation for him, yet he doesn't speak, doesn't touch - His eyes remain focused on the screen in front of him but his typing gets more aggressive, the wetter you get.

The moment you fall apart on his lap, moaning so softly into his ear, his laptop suddenly closes shut with a loud click. Strong arms wrap around your lower back to keep you grounded against him, but his hand gently wraps in your hair to make you look at him.

"I think I should take you to bed now, make sure you get what you deserve," his voice is calm again but you can now hear the desperation in his voice too, his pants drenched with your arousal but he didn't care about the mess. Not this time at least.

All he knew was that he should make sure you're properly taken care off, fucked until your legs no longer keep you on your feet, perhaps then he can finish his papers. Maybe he can make you keep him warm while he works? Let your cunt stay wrapped around his aching cock? Perhaps you could also put your bratty mouth to good use, thank him for everything he gives to you.

You'd lovingly cupped his cheek, his cool skin so soothing against your palm while you'd reassured him that nothing was awry. There had been a sliver of doubt in those deep blue eyes, but he'd ultimately yielded to your wish and left for his little hideaway, swearing he'd be back a week from then.

It had been four days.

It had felt like months.

Not that you hadn't tried to keep yourself occupied and busy, but it was limited how much you could realistically pass the time from the too empty bed.

The first day had been fine, you'd made your favorite dinner after spending the afternoon reading and drawing in Albedo's study as you often did when he was home as well. The second day was significantly worse.

From the moment you opened your eyes it was clear that getting out of bed would be a challenge. And on top of that, everything was just wrong. The sounds of nature a little too shrill, the light hurting your eyes, the texture of your bedsheets feeling like small hooks grabbing onto your skin.

Kaeya had stopped by a little past noon, smirking as he recounted how Albedo had made him swear to check on you every other day. It was clear that your husband had prepared his friend thoroughly, and you couldn't suppress a small smile as you sat in your favorite chair and watched him do his utmost to tiptoe around and take care of some household tasks so you wouldn't have to.

The third day was hell.

As you woke up on the fourth day of Albedo's absence you had to take a deep breath to calm your frayed nerves. It was going to be fine, it always was, no matter how much it didn't feel like it. The words felt hollow in your mind, having no effect other than aggravating yourself further. The sun was already high in the sky, although that didn't surprise you much with how little sleep you'd managed to get the day prior. Your thoughts were already spiraling downwards and burying your head under the blanket to shield yourself from the day didn't help.

A frustrated groan left your lips as the pillow beneath your head became uncomfortably wet. The urge to scream bubbled up in your chest, but just as your lips parted the sound of the bedroom door creaking open snapped your focus back to the present. Your mind was running a thousand thoughts a second, fear of the intruder making your chest constrict painfully until you registered a soft voice filling the oppressive silence of the room.

"Love? It's just me. Can you give me an indicator if you're awake?"

Albedo's voice carried a clear hint of worry although he did his best to mask it behind the soothing tone. Feeling too drained for anything else, you settled on shuffling beneath the blanket, reaching a hand out from your sanctuary. A soft hum indicated that he'd moved closer to you, ever mindful not to get into your space unless invited.

"How are you feeling? I received words you were getting worse," as his words registered you let out a soft sigh, closing your burning eyes, the tears having long since run out.

Kaeya had noticed and gotten Albedo to come back, once again you were just a burden to him.

"...your status, my flower?"

Ever patient, his voice remained a gentle caress although the underlying urgency in needing to asses you was barely hidden under the surface. Hesitantly, you turned your hand palm up in a silent invitation to him, letting him know that his presence was appreciated. Barely a second passed before his cool fingertips grazed your skin, slotting his hand perfectly against yours. He must've felt your heightened pulse, knowing your body a little too well.

"I'd much rather be here with you when you need me. Everything else can wait," there was such a certainty to his words, his voice not wavering once.

It brought a certain ease to your heart, the simple words reassuring you that this relationship was as much his choice as it was yours. He'd picked you, and would always pick you over anything else. The passage of time was lost on you as you remained in the darkness provided by the blanket, Albedo remaining silently by your side, never letting go of your hand.

"I've been working on something better to relieve the pain, it's not quite ready. But soon. I promise," you wanted to cry at how the sorrow permeated his words, his hand gripping yours a little tighter.

"I'll be back in a moment, flower" and before you could protest, the bed creaked as he stood up, the soft patter of feet retreating down the hallway of your shared home.

When he came back, you'd shifted enough that the top of your head was above the blanket. A small smile broke out on his face as he saw you, although worry persisted in his expression as he took note of your state. In his hands was a wooden tray containing your favorite mug, steam rising lazily from it, a plate of snacks and a book.

"There's my lovely wife," his loving smile stayed as he made his way over, setting down the tray onto your nightstand.

He quickly stripped himself down to only his underwear, moving over to climb in from his side of the bed. There was nothing but pure admiration in his gaze as he looked at you, positioning himself so he was sitting against the headboard. Knowing what he was offering you moved over to sit between his legs, letting his hands slide under the blanket and rub lightly at your shoulders and arms, tracing small circles into the soft skin.

You took a shuddering breath, trying to enjoy it despite every reverent touch of his hands leaving behind a feeling akin to a pinprick in it's wake. You moved a bit away and he took the hint instantly, muttering a sweet apology as he removed his hands and let you wrap the blanket fully around yourself again, taking respite in the soft texture. As you finished settling, his arms wrapped around your little cocoon, giving a light squeeze that made your body flood with a sense of security, the unpleasant sensations dulled by his presence. Your voice felt shaky and foreign as you forced a couple of words out, barely speaking above a whisper.

"I'm sorry..." another subtle squeeze of his arms before one of them loosened, reaching over to bring the cup to your lips.

His reply was prefaced by a gentle kiss pressed to the top of your head. "I'll always come back for you, it's never a bother, don't you dare for a moment believe I'm not exactly where I wish to be."