Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The entry hall wasn’t dirty or underlit like he expected it to be. It didn’t smell like sweat and wasn’t full of crumpled trash. There was no bodyguard at the beginning, or the end, and there weren’t rodents nipping at his heels.

Bakugo wasn’t sure why he’d assumed it would be that way, maybe because that’s how they showed things like this in the movies.

Plenty of money was going through the place. If he’d thought about it more, he might have expected the perfectly waxed marble and gold-leafed lighting fixtures; the subtle fragrance of lemon and vanilla that drifted in with the air conditioning in gentle waves. The soft hum of music that filled the spaces between conversations, piano and sax playing the kind of jazz some students played during long nights of studying. (Not that he’d listened to that kind of jazz; he listened to stuff that got his blood and his mind focused.)

The red door at the end of the manicured hall was heavy. There was gold filigree etched into its surface and a gold door handle that was cool on his palm. Bakugo pulled it open to reveal an equally beautiful room with lower ceilings and dark navy floors that made it feel much cozier. Ahead of him, a man stood at a podium, grinning like a fuckin’ Cheshire cat.

“Good evening, monsieur. Will you be joining us for tonight's event? Do you have your invitation?”

He slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out the envelope he’d been given. This was probably his last chance to turn back.

“Yuh, I got it right here.” He’d never turn his back on a mission.

Bakugo steeled any nerves he had as the man opened the envelope. He gave Bakugo a once-over, seeming to take in his appearance. He hadn’t dressed up for the ‘event.’ He just wore his street clothes. No one warned him otherwise; hopefully it wouldn't be a mistake. The man closed the cardstock back into the envelope and smiled, outstretching his hand to return it.

“Excellent. Now would you like to place any bets? The base buy-in is 10,000 yen.” He waited expectantly for a beat.

“Nah, if I wanna I’ll swing back.”

“Yes, but unfortunately the betting pool does close before each match.”

He grunted in affirmation and lifted his hand in a wave, already walking away. “Thanks. Maybe you'll catch me later then.”

Now that he could take a good look at the room, he could tell it was an entirely different beast. He had grown up in comfort, but this was opulence. It was a cavernous, lush playground for powerful people with a lot of cash to burn. Cocktail tables were scattered around the room, with scantily dressed waitresses bouncing in between them to pass out drinks that probably cost as much as a meal. Lining the walls and chatting in small groups at the tables were rich-looking fucks in varied suits and gowns, some of them smoking cigars.

Bleh , the smell of the smoke made his face twist. Cigars smelled worse than skunk weed.

His eyes fell to the middle of the room, where a pit yawned its jaws at him, surrounded by little more than a rope barrier. The room around it ascended in rings of seating and tables, as if the whole room was set up just to look inside. He walked up and peered down, not trusting the velvet rope to hold his weight. It was a fighting ring with two doors at either end and dubious stains on the floor.

This was an arena. He let out a low whistle. Well damn.

Bakugo looked up, done sightseeing and ready to get into what they sent him in for. Endeavor had said there would be a contact. He even said it might be a UA student. Bakugo didn't know if he’d rather see a stranger or a familiar face here.

He scanned the crowd slowly just to see. Not that it’d matter who it was. He was here to do a job, and damnit he was gonna do it, no matter what idiot they might pair him with. Bakugo meandered through the crowd, eyes searching for the black owl pin he’d been told to look out for.

The job was already a strange one, but one thing he never would have expected in a million years was the tuft of lilac hair his peripheral caught sight of on the other side of the crowd. He weaved toward whoever it was like a man possessed. There was no way… after years of silence… that eyebags would be here of all places.

Yet there he was, sure as shit, examining the nails on one of his hands with mild disinterest, a black clipboard in the other.

Shinso was dressed… nice. Fancy even. His halo of hair was sprouting at all angles, but it looked combed, at least. He wore an embroidered black three-piece and leather shoes that didn’t seem out of place in this setting, but were so at odds with the Shinso he knew that he almost laughed.

Used to know , his brain corrected, shaking him from a mild stupor. Did we even know each other before?

Still, even with all the awkwardness that might linger, Shinso was a familiar face in this lion's pit that he’d been thrown into. He didn't waste time overthinking it. “Hey eyebags, long time no see.”

Bakugo wasn't sure, but it seemed like Shinso did a double take, swearing under his breath when he saw him.

“Bakugo? What are you doing here?” He looked around, probably making sure no one was eavesdropping. “I can't really talk right now. I'm working and the show is gonna start soon. You should—”

Shinso finally looked Bakugo squarely in the eye and he paused—then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should really go, I'm supposed to be waiting for someone.”

Multiple thoughts raced through his head. Shin was waiting for someone? What kinda someone? But he said he was working. Shinso looked really nice—who knew he could clean up so well? If he was working, who was he here with? From the info he got, there weren’t supposed to be other undercovers except... for his unknown partner that was supposed to be waiting at the bar.

“Wait a minute, mockingbird?” He almost blurted the keyword for the code phrase he’d been given, spotting the pin on his lapel soon after.

Shinso’s eyes widened then closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. A pained breath, “Damnit… sings a lonely song at night.” Shinso finished the phrase.

Well that was what he was looking for, but not the response he wanted. He pushed down any spur of irrational happiness that his undercover partner was Shinso with that response. Obviously, it was not reciprocated.

“You don't have to jump for joy about it.”

“Shut up for a moment.” Shinso snapped.

Damn, what got up his ass? Bakugo was just here to do a job; he hadn’t wanted to run into Señor Grape either. Funny thing is… he would've thought that was a good matchup, but Bakugo was starting to wish someone else had been waiting at the bar.

He didn't have time to contemplate further as the lights dimmed and the crowd let out a roaring cheer. Shinso muttered, “Fuck, they never start on time… Come on, follow me,” before turning toward the throng of spectators. Shinso set off into the crowd, smoothly making his way through a sea of shoulders that only stayed clear for a moment or two before closing behind him.

Bakugo followed as closely as he could, keeping his eyes locked on the tuft of lilac hair bobbing a few steps ahead. The crowd thickened as people neared the pit, all peering in. He found Shinso right at the edge of it.

By the time he got to Shinso’s side, the announcer’s voice was booming through the overhead speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen. It's that moment we have all been waiting for. Betting has closed and we have our first match!” Raucous cheering erupted. The announcer kept talking, setting up the fighters. Across the ring, two men entered from opposite doors, one clearly terrified and the other raising his arms and shaking his fists.

The announcer counted down and the larger man rushed the scared one, rocky surfaces sprouting from his skin as he did. The other one, a beta based on the reek of fear he was putting out, managed to stretch his fingers into razor-sharp blades in time, bracing himself for the inevitable impact.

Shinso leaned in close, voice low in Bakugo’s ear. “Just watch for now, okay? I can catch you up after.”

Bakugo nodded, tearing his gaze away from Shinso—who pulled back into the crowd—to focus on the fight. Rock man landed a heavy blow. Knife guy tried to hold his ground. The crowd jeered as the underdog slammed into the unforgiving floor. Money changed hands faster than he could track.

 (•̀o•́)ง           (¬_¬) 

From his usual vantage point, Shinso stared down at the fighters, but the brutal exchange of blows barely registered. He was too busy watching Bakugo, trying to figure out how he was supposed to work with him, of all people.

Little jolts flitted under and across his skin. He couldn’t help the reaction his body was having to being near his soulmate again, but did his heart have to pound so hard in his chest? Maybe he was having an attack.

…Fuck. Not just fuck, but Fuck.

Shinso was screwed. What was he going to do?

Did he really have the bad luck of getting Bakugo as his partner? He’d spent the years away from him trying to avoid and detach. He had tried so hard to move on without looking back. Not that Bakugo hadn’t been on his mind... He never left. But he doubted Bakugo felt the same. Bakugo hadn’t even tried to contact him in years.

Now he was here? In the club Shinso had been working to take down. He would've been relieved that he got back up at all, even if it was Bakugo. Hell, in another lifetime he may have even been happy to have him around at all.

But not in this life. He had too much going on to deal with this, with him .

Something in Shinso bristled. He could not go back to giving a shit about that blonde menace...

Every roar of the crowd rattled his nerves, making it harder to keep his expression neutral. He couldn’t afford to look rattled in front of these scumbags.

He would not be fazed.

A quiet tap on his shoulder jerked him out of his thoughts. He turned to find his contact, Daiki—tall, lanky, a mess of chopped hair brushing his eyes—looking faintly amused.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Daiki teased, voice pitched low. The cacophony from below swallowed his words to anyone beyond a foot away.

Shinso forced a tight smile. “Guess you could say that.”

Daiki was one of the few people he had trouble bullshitting, and not just because they’d been close once. Growing up in the system together, running into each other through the years in and out of foster homes, forged a bond that was hard to break—even if they’d ended up on wildly different sides of the law.

He hadn’t seen Daiki for years until, by some bizarre stroke of luck, he’d recognized Shinso one night at a dingy bar. The same bar the ring’s recruiters liked to haunt. They’d grabbed a drink, reminisced about their old foster families, and Daiki had admitted he was working for a “special operation” that paid well. Real well. Said he could put in a word for Shinso if he needed money, or just wanted to channel that “dark quirk” of his into something more lucrative.

Shinso had tried not to flinch at how earnestly Daiki offered him a ticket into this den of vipers.

Back then, Shinso had already been on the agency’s radar for undercover ops. Daiki’s offer was exactly the inroad they needed. Shinso remembered how his conscience twinged at the idea of using Daiki—someone who only ever looked at him with open warmth, like they were still scrawny kids fighting over who got the top bunk. But his superiors insisted. And so, here they were. Neither of them who they used to be.

Daiki glanced down into the pit where one fighter roared, spikes of rock jutting from his arms. “That new guy’s no joke. I’m taking bets he’ll go undefeated for a while. Unless you plan to… y’know.” Daiki lifted a brow, wiggling his fingers like puppeteer strings.

Shinso shrugged, keeping his voice casual. “I only use my quirk when they ask me to. That’s the deal.”

Daiki nodded thoughtfully. “Right, you don’t wanna step on the boss’s toes.” He flashed a grin that might have been teasing—except Shinso knew Daiki was dead serious about pleasing the people in charge. He thought they were good for him, for both of them. They’d given him a job, status, money. That wasn’t nothing for a kid from the system.

“Anyway,” Daiki said, nudging Shinso’s shoulder with surprising gentleness. “The boss is real happy with your performance. Word on the street is they might move you up the ranks again soon. You deserve it, man. It’s about time someone recognized your talent.”

Shinso forced another small smile. “Thanks,” he managed. “We’ll see how things go.”

Daiki clapped him on the back, heedless of Shinso’s tense posture. “Hey—quit brooding. You’ve always had that scowl. Even when we were in Ms. Tachibana’s place, you’d stare holes in the walls.”

“Old habits. This face isn’t changing anytime soon.”

Daiki snorted, his eyes shining with genuine fondness. “Fair enough. I gotta get back to the side entrance. Some VIPs are showing up, and they want me on door duty. Catch you later?”

“Yeah. Later.”

He leaned harder against the railing, nails biting into his clipboard like a lifeline. Guilt had its claws in him, twisting around his ribs until it was hard to breathe. It wasn’t Daiki, it was Bakugo. Always Bakugo.

Shinso had thought he’d be fine by now—thought he’d shoved all that regret into a box, taped it up, and dropped it in the darkest corner of his mind. But the second Bakugo appeared, every memory shoved its way back to the surface. Their last conversation echoed like a broken record, the words he’d latched onto so tightly, so angrily.

He could practically taste the smoke on his tongue again—the way Bakugo used to pass a joint back and forth with him, lazy grins softening all the sharp edges they carried around. Could feel the warmth of Bakugo’s muscled stomach beneath his long fingers. He took a deep breath.

A recollection of old nights seeped in—the rank of sweaty gym mats, the bite of scuffed knuckles, the press of a body that pinned him behind a locked door. Heated nights of whispered insults and rough hands. He’d realized his feelings had a fated weight to them around the same time Bakugo had told him explicitly that he didn’t give a fuck about soulmates.

If Bakugo wanted no part of the bond, Shinso couldn’t exactly force him. So he’d made the preemptive strike—left without a proper goodbye, no reasons given. Figured he’d hurt less if he was the one walking away. It was stupid. Cowardly. Maybe Bakugo had known they were soulmates, but if he did, he never said a word. It felt safer that way back then. No confessions, no rejections. Just distance. But at least he’d been in control.

Now he felt anything but.

He couldn’t lose focus. The mission mattered—rescuing these forced fighters, digging out the ring’s leaders. As the fight neared its end, Shinso gave one last look toward where Bakugo was standing so he knew where he was headed. If he didn’t keep himself together, Bakugo might end up paying the price right along with him.

Something in his gut knotted. A fresh wave of cheers rolled through. Even seeing the spiked angles of Bakugo’s blond hair through the crowd brought memories of the same man who roared during sparring practice, who clutched Shinso’s wrists in bed and refused to let go until the adrenaline wore off.

This was going to be a long assignment.

Chapter Text

When the match ended, Bakugo didn’t bother watching them haul the limp beta away. The musk of tension in the air left a nasty taste in his mouth; too many people, too many scents. Too many jeering laughs with an underlying thrum of fear, anxiety.. Shinso yanked at his sleeve and slipped off toward a side door by the bar, moving too fast for Bakugo to do more than grunt in irritation and follow.

As they slipped through a narrow hallway Bakugo noticed he could barely tell how Shinso was feeling, his scent thoroughly masked by the blockers Bakugo realized he must still be on. All he could smell was the scent of sweat, liquor, and something sour Bakugo didn’t want to name. It was a stark contrast from the polished façade of the main room—just what he’d expected from a seedy underground club. Faded posters of famed fighters lined gray concrete.

Finally, Shinso shoved open a door at the end, and Bakugo squinted against the sudden brightness of an alley floodlight. The back exit spilled them onto wet pavement, the stink of rotting trash mixing with the faint tang of city air. A large figure lurked at the alley’s far end, but Shinso ignored him, pacing erratically before rounding on Bakugo.

“Are you really my partner?” He seemed to look Bakugo over for the first time, really taking him in. 

Shinso raked a hand through his hair, then added flatly, “Of course you are. They really didn't tell you shit, huh? You're dressed like someone off the street.” 

Bakugo’s anger flared, but before he could get a word out, Shinso laughed. “Still the same hothead. Fuck, man—if you're gonna be working with me, you gotta keep your scent under control. You’ll give us away the way you stink. Oh that’s right, you're never on blockers. Fucking Christ, couldn’t they have given me someone else? I’ve been working this gig for months now and if you fuck it all up—”

“Oh, fuck you. You're lucky they paired you with someone as good as me.”

“Weren't you one of the last to be licensed? Please, be for real.” 

Bakugo had no idea what switch flipped, but Shinso was aiming below the fucking belt—and he was not one to take it lying down. Fuck that noise. “At least I wasn’t fucking up so bad they had to call backup! Believe me, I’d rather work with anyone else.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve made it real clear in the past you’re more of a solo kinda guy.” Shinso rolled his eyes.

“Yeah? Well, at least then I only have to account for myself. Don’t have to worry about your sorry ass. My first day on the job and you can’t even keep your shit together.”

“Not my fault they gave me you!” Shinso seemed to realize that his voice was rising in volume and he continued in a rough undertone, “Not my fuckin' fault there’s history.”

“History? What fucking history? There’s nothing between us anyway, right? Nothing there. You've shown me that much.” Bakugo spat the words.

The door they’d come through creaked open, and they both whirled to face the omega cowering in the doorway. Their combined rage must be strong enough that he seemed to feel it the way he peeked out of the door.

“Shinso…” He looked between them frantically. “Do you need me to get security?”

“No. This idiot’s with me. What do you want?”

“They need you. Someone won’t go out.”

Bakugo saw his face harden. “I’ll be right there, Mura. Just let me finish.”

“The round’s supposed to start soon…” At a cold look from Shinso, he course-corrected. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll go tell them you’re on your way.”

Shinso nodded and waited for the man to leave before turning back to Bakugo, who had been watching the exchange in tense silence, a little impressed. Shinso was an alpha after-all. Same as him. When he turned it on he was intimidating. 

His voice still carried that commanding tone when he spoke again. “Now’s not the time, Bakugo. You have no idea what we’re dealing with here. The magnitude of it.”

“Go do your job then, and let me do mine.” Bakugo bristled. He wasn’t going to back down. 

Shino left without a reply. The door slammed hard behind him. 

“Asshole.”

Bakugo took a few minutes to clear his head and his scent before going back inside. He made it back to the edge of the pit in time to see another poor bastard get hauled off. Shinso had disappeared down a different hall, leaving Bakugo to watch the fights on his own. 

His partner was supposed to give him the rundown—fill him in on everything his agency should’ve told him.

Guess he’d have to figure it out himself.

(•̀o•́)ง         (¬_¬) 

Shinso pressed his shoulder to the wall. The door’s slam still bounced off the narrow hallway, louder in the stale air. Something behind his ribs burned. He dragged a sleeve across his mouth, found it damp with sweat. The mirror in the hallway caught him — hair crooked, tie half-loose from tugging anxiously. He combed his fingers through the mess, tugged the knot straight, and forced his lungs to move slow.

Past the staging room door, Mura shifted from foot to foot, biting a ragged thumbnail. The girl beside him might’ve been carved out of candle wax — shoulders rounded, hair stuck to the side of her face. A strip of fight tape still dangled from her wrist, half-peeled, gummy with sweat.

Her eyes kept landing on the exit sign. The red letters spilled across her cheekbone. She looked younger than him, barely 20. A pit formed in his stomach. 

My first day on the job and you can’t even keep your shit together. He steeled his nerve and tucked it away in a box in his mind. At least I wasn’t fucking up so bad they had to call backup! He tucked Bakugo in there too. 

“Name?” Shinso’s mouth felt full of dust.

“K-Kina,” she mumbled. Fingertips squeezed together until her knuckles pinked.

Mura lifted his chin at Shinso. “Won’t go out. Says she’s sick.”

The next match bell clanged down the corridor — a bright, iron clang that scraped the skin behind Shinso’s ears. Kina flinched at the sound. Her knees shifted inward, trying to fold into herself.

He let his shoes scuff the grimy floor, slow, deliberate. Her scent twitched — rank with fear, sour and sweet all at once. He kept his eyes level with hers. Every breath dragged the copper edge of old blood from the pit’s direction.

“Look at me, Kina.” The hallway bulb flickered behind his head. The shadow it cast stretched long enough to swallow her shoes.

Her gaze flicked up once, then fell to his shoes. Sweat pooled at her temple. A bruise under her jaw blossomed purple-yellow, half-hidden by damp hair. 

“You’ve been trained. You can do this, and you know what happens if you run, right?” His voice lost its shape, flattened into something sharp. Mura tensed behind her, eyes darting between the door and Shinso’s shoulder. 

“Yes–” Kina’s hands went slack at her sides, fight tape curling toward the floor as his quirk took hold. She wavered on her feet like a drunk on a dock.

Shinso let his fingers tap against his leg. Each tap matched the dull thud behind his ribs. 

“Eyes up.”

Kina’s lashes fluttered. She blinked, slow, then lifted her chin. Mura drew back a step, mouth pulling into a thin line. 

“You’re gonna step into the pit,” Shinso’s tone dropped into the well-worn cadence, the one that left the back of his throat raw. “You’ll keep your guard up. Three rounds, no hero shit. You’ll lose safe. You’ll be back in control at the starting bell. Don’t run, it will only make things bad for you. After the fight you’ll come back here and Mura will take you home.”

“Three rounds. No hero shit.” Shinso repeated for good measure. Something distant looked through her pupils–like a candle flame behind thick glass. 

Mura reached for her elbow, flinching when her skin met his like it was contagious or something. He turned her by the shoulder and steered her down the hallway, shoes squeaking in the half-dark. 

Shinso leaned into the concrete until the grit bit his cheek. Cool seeped through his suit coat, left the sweat on his spine clammy. A low laugh drifted from the other side of the room, muffled by the lockers. 

Shinso stood and put himself back in character as one of the higher ups, Mustard’s voice cut through, smooth as a knife on wet rope. He came around to Shinso’s side. A gas mask hung at his side next to a gun holster. Gray hair peaked out beneath a green helmet, accompanied by a forgettable face. A clipboard dangled from one hand, like an afterthought. 

“Good job with her, I was waiting here to see what she’d pick. You saved her from a gristly end.”

“Not why I did it, sir.” He said, cracking his neck and feeling around his pockets for a cigarette in a way that he hoped looked bored.

“Oh? Why then?”

“It’s my job.” He said with a smile, holding the cigs out in case Mustard wanted one. 

“That’s my boy.” Mustard replied, clapping Shinso on the shoulder and refusing a smoke. Shinso shrugged and put them back into his inner jacket pocket. 

“Where’s that prize pup you promised me?” He added as Shinso lit it and took an easy drag. He was grinning wide enough to show the chip in his incisor, gold glint catching the overheads. “You said you’d bring him for intake tonight, right? Gotta get the forms, the cuts, the purse set. Paperwork, Shinso. Paperwork keeps this place real.”

Shinso’s jaw tensed as the cheers from the pit rose — Kina’s fight. He didn’t let his eyes give him away by glancing toward the screen on the wall.

“He’s not ready. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Mustard’s grin curled like burning paper. “Big game, huh? Your golden ticket? Hope he’s worth the trouble. The math’s tight this week.”

Shinso lifted a shoulder. “Six tomorrow. Do your cuts then.”

The clipboard smacked against Mustard’s palm– once, twice, then he shoved it under his arm. “You staying late today? Big night. Might have other fighters try to drop out.”

Shinso's eyes drifted and finally snagged on the video screen on the wall, broadcasting the fight. There was a smear of blood on the canvas where someone’s teeth must have scattered. Kina’s shape blurred between ropes, arms loose, feet dragging back to her corner. She was still moving, that was a good sign.

“Got work to do. Not tonight.”

Mustard’s tongue clicked, half laugh, half snarl. “Don’t get sloppy, Shinso. You’re good with pretty words, but you fuck me on the numbers, you won’t have enough teeth left to talk.”

Shinso’s mouth lazed into an easy smile. “You know me, boss. You’ll never catch me slipping.”

Outside, the air roared up his nose, heavy with street grit and fried oil from the corner stand. His phone practically buzzed between his fingers until the glass turned warm. Reading through old texts and forgotten memories. He did need back up, and Bakugo was who they sent. So he did need Bakugo. 

Shinso took a breath, composing a new message. 

SH: Tomorrow, same place @6p. Bring your ID. Intake.

BK: Aight

The buzz settled into his palms. The street behind him spat out a horn and a burst of laughter from kids ducking into the convenience store. Shinso faced the alley mouth, where neon signs sputtered and danced like flames on dirty water and a hulking figure still lingered on guard duty. 

Behind him, the pit crowd roared. The sound rattled the brick all the way up to the roof.

Shinso let the phone screen go dark and started the journey home. He’d said he had work, but he really just wanted to curl up with his cat and something warm to drink.

Needed to compose himself and get his shit together, as Bakugo would say. 

Chapter Text

Bakugo went to the same building at 6 pm the next day. He was still jarred from yesterday’s altercation. Still a little pissed if he was honest, but he wouldn’t be caught slipping on something this early just because the guy that told him to be here was a dick.

So, here he was.

It was different this time. This early–before the crowds of bourgeoisie assholes paraded through.  The venue stayed raw-boned, ribs showing under the harsh fluorescents. No candles lit. Chairs perched upside down on tables like sleeping crows. The bar sat quiet, metal tap-heads glinting in the half-light. No stuffy prick at the entrance giving him a dirty look–just a kid too young to be bored, half-awake, waving him through after a glance at the clipboard. 

Employees bustled about, not minding him in the least. He walked with purpose to the backhall door he had gone through the night prior. A guard leaned against the wall there, flicking a lighter open and shut, thumb calloused from the click. One mention of “intake” and the man jerked his chin down the corridor. “Third left. You’ll see the line.”

The halls were no less hollow, no less destitute without Shinso there to lead him about. Same cracked linoleum, same old fight posters curling off of cinderblock walls. He wandered a bit, finding a maze, trying to see what he could before it would be suspicious of him to search and get ‘lost.’ A busted camera in a corner kept a dead eye on him. 

Eventually, when he decided nothing worth seeing would be that easy to find, he found intake. The hum of voices seeped around a corner–low, anxious, hungry. He rounded it to find the intake door propped open. 

It turned out intake was more than just a guy taking names and pleas. It wasn’t in some dungeon, it was in a little waiting room. He wouldn’t call it ‘official’ by any means, but there was some order to it. There was a sign in sheet with a  row of signatures above his–all with that same shaky hook to their last letter. He made his match, as if somehow unsure now that he was done. He was a professional after-all. He knew little things like that could blow a whole operation if seen by the wrong people. 

There was a line of people, shuffling like cattle in a chute, who ranged in demeanor from desperate to boisterous. Some clutched duffle bags tight to their ribs, eyes pinned to the floor. Others puffed their chests out, arms covered in faded ring scars like badges. One kid in a patched bomber jacket kept bouncing on his toes, grin wide as a fresh bruise. Alphas, betas, omegas; women and men lined up to sell their lives for whatever they could get. 

He joined the queue and schooled his face into mild boredom. He would just observe and listen as unobtrusively as he could. 

He could hear someone with a nasally voice plead with the woman at the counter. “Please, I need to fight. How will I get enough to pay her medical bills? They said- my daughter- please.” The nasally voice broke into a sob.

“That is quite enough.” The woman said curtly, impatience in her sharp tone. “No one cares about your sob story. Can you fight? Have you any training?”

“Yes! I do, I- I was on the wrestling team in college.”

“Hmph, that’ll have to do. ID please. Put down your quirk and sign here… here.. and here.” There were pauses and shuffling papers, sounds of the man rummaging in his pockets. She asked him a few more questions. Bakugo couldn't see them that well from the end of the line but he could hear the clip in her tone.

“Thank you, thank you. You saved my daughter, thank you so much.”

“Next!” She called without acknowledging his gratitude. 

The line moved slowly that way, people pleading or people bragging about how good of a fighter they were, clearly thinking they're about to make it big. It didn’t matter what dragged them down the halls and through that door–a debt, a sick kid, an ego too starved to stand another normal day; those that passed whatever bar she had set seemed so grateful to join. She doled out approvals and rejections with no room for argument based on some standard Bakugo didn’t understand yet, maybe it was a desperation she sensed.

Bakugo let the line drag him forward, boots scuffing against the ratty carpet. A few spots ahead, a girl no older than sixteen lied about her age — the paper in her shaking hand proof enough the woman behind the table didn’t give a shit. She stamped it without blinking, flicked her eyes up, and barked for the next.

A text pinged his phone. 

SH: I’m stuck working all of the fights tonight.
Don’t wander. Wait for me after.

His turn came up on the heels of an alpha bragging about some neighborhood fight ring. The intake woman didn’t bother to fake a smile; her lipstick cracked at the corners, a half-finished cigarette stuck behind one ear like a pen.

“Name,” she snapped.

“Katsuki Bakugo.” They’d told him he was too high profile to lie back at the agency. 

She looked him up and down. “Alias?” She asked like she knew he had one.

He raised a brow. She waited, looking up at him. Bakugo leaned in just enough to let her catch the gleam in his eyes. Him and Kiri had spent a day thinking up villain names once. Just for fun. “Blast Edge.”

“Sure.” She responded, completely unimpressed.

She went back to her forms. A quick scratch of ink across the line. “Blood type. Weight class.” He rattled them off. She looked up once–just once more–to check his arms. Scars, muscles, tattoos. She slid a form across the counter. 

“Sign it. You’re in the system now. Don’t miss your call time. Waste our time,  you’ll wish you’d never come in.”

Bakugo’s hand swallowed the pen. He ticked off boxes and filled in lines with his scrawl, signing just like he was supposed to. 

The pen clacked back down. She’d already moved on to the next.

He drifted to the side of the room, back to the wall. The queue snaked forward, slower now. The faces behind him in the line blurred — kids with bruises, wiry old men with cauliflower ears. A new scent of antiseptic drifted in from a door cracked open behind the desk — the medic room, probably. A man with gauze wrapped around his throat shuffled out, bandage seeping pink through the layers.

He’d wait outside.

After a while he was growing impatient.  That asshole was supposed to come find him. The bastard probably just dipped. Bakugo fumed, pulling out his phone to text back the years-old number he never deleted. That dickhead better answer…

He stopped, scrolling up past Shinso’s invite to intake. The screen had their last conversation, dated years ago. 

Sh: You alive?

BK : Barely
What do you want

SH: Just seeing if you wanted to hang

BK: Got shit to do

SH: Okay so you’re free
Bring that loud mouth into my orbit

BK : Maybe
Whats in it for me

SH: My sparkling personality
Weed
Snacks

BK: …what kinda snacks
I have weed already

SH: The good kind
Yeah but I roll better than you

BK: Bullshit

SH: Prove it

BK: Challenge accepted
Text when you're close
I gotta clean up

SH: Already outside
Too bad bwahahaha 

And below that… wasn’t much—just the one attempt Bakugo had made to reach out after weeks of radio silence.

Bk: Wanna spar this weekend?

The question went unanswered. Bakugo had never tried again. He wasn't some simp... Still, looking at it now he regretted not trying harder. He could have texted sooner… or more than once. But so could Shinso. He frowned, suddenly annoyed like a flash fire.  

SH: Wait for me after.

BK: Where the fuck are you eggplant head?

He hit send before he could think it over.

He thought over the things he did know while he waited for a response that probably wouldn’t come.

Throughout that first night, Bakugo had figured out some of it. Most of the fighters were down on their luck—maybe even being trafficked. There was also a guy somehow forcing people to fight. Some came out looking bewildered and scared. He didn’t know how… yet. But he could ask Shinso later. When he saw him again.

He better fucking see him again.

SH: Eggplant head? That’s a new one.
Very creative, you must get top marks in
that elementary school of yours 

BK : Not sure what marks you’d get
didn’t even answer the fuckin question
at least i can read

SH: Sorry, omw, I got pulled over 

BK: By who? Tell them to fuck off. 
Im waiting in front

SH: One of the fighters, wants to take me to
dinner, shoulda said yes, would have been
better company. And kk

One sec, I need to grab my jacket,
they designed this building stupidly

BK: Get over it, theres better things id
rather do than be stuck with your dumbass

...?

Hurry up

SH: Jeez you’re impatient, turn around porcupine

“Fucking finally. I’ve been waiting forever. What took your ass so damn long?” Bakugo looked around to check for eavesdroppers. “We gotta catch up, Mindfreak. Lots to talk about.” He started walking, expecting Grapedick to follow.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shinso picked up his pace to match. “Forgot you’re always roaring to go. I’ll tell you when we’re a little further away.”

Shinso looked more tired than he had the night before. Calmer in a sleepy way. He pulled out a joint and lit it, the flame sparking briefly in his palm from a silver lighter. He took a long inhale and held it out to Bakugo as they walked. “You still smoke?”

“You still ask stupid questions?” Bakugo took it and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs before passing it back. It’d been a while since he shared smoke with someone—especially Shinso. It was familiar but odd.

“There he is.” Shinso replied.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, trading insults here and there. Bakugo had to admit, even with the tension, it felt… comfortable? Like no time had passed. It was confusing.

He shook his head. The smoke must be clouding his judgment. Time had passed—and they weren’t dumb college kids anymore. They were just fighting in an alleyway 24 hours ago. “Okay. Fill me in. Stop being so secretive.”

“What do you know already? That’ll be faster. What did they cover in your briefing?”

“Not enough. No names. I think they want to keep this thing tight, but that means not much gets out. From what I gathered, a lot of the fighters are coerced—by you and some other guy I noticed. Place rakes it in with the bets. Looks classy. Probably got security that’s solid with all that money rolling through.”

“Pretty much on the mark. Can’t believe they sent you in blind. That could’ve gone badly. You’re not… unknown to some of my associates. Then again, I have to admit, I thought it through and it does make sense it’d be you. Everyone’s seen you being aggro at some point or another. Even at the sports festival…”

He trailed off, seemingly sidetracked. Bakugo wondered if his mind went to the same place his own did. Their encounter in the locker room after the sports festival… When Bakugo had been too tired to stop Shinso from spitting his cum back into his open palm.

“That's all yours. Took so little to get you there. Guess I'm just good with my tongue. You were pretty docile when I got you where I wanted you for a big, scary, alpha.” He’d laughed as he made his way to the door, giving a wave over his shoulder but not looking back. “Name’s Shinso by the way. See you around then.”

Shinso hadn’t finished, seemingly lost in thought. Bakugo was curious, despite himself, about what he’d say next. “Earth to Hitoshi?” Bakugo couldn’t shake the easy way they fell into a pattern.

“Oh… Hitoshi?... Yeah…” He paused. “So it would make sense. We were classmates. I can say I invited you because I thought you’d be a good fit. Always ready for some action, dissatisfied with hero work and all that. You’ll have to fight at least once to be seen as credible.”

He scoffed.  “Did you fight? If you did—I’ll be fine.” He could take any loser they threw at him.

“I fight every once in a while, not for a minute though. They’d rather have me in the back. If there’s a dropout they might throw me in, but that isn’t often the way they’ve got me working. I’m sure you’ll make a splash… But I would regulate your quirk usage if you can. Flashy gets attention, but being too obviously strong puts a target on your back. We need you to get close to them… Oh god, I just remembered who I’m talking to. Do you know what ‘covert’ means?”

“Yes, I know what covert means. I’m a goddamned professional.” Bakugo shook his head and led them into the packed bar. He hadn’t picked a specific one—just somewhere noisy, where he could drink in peace and they could talk without worrying about being overheard. “C’mon.”

They didn’t talk about the mission while they looked for a table, or ordered drinks and food. But they didn’t sit in silence, either—why would they, when they could indulge in their favorite pastime: bickering and talking shit. They were lulled into companionship, both seeming to forget their mottled history long enough for things to seem almost normal.

“—No, they called bullshit on that theory.” Shinso sipped from his cup. ‘Just water, thanks.’

“No one told the guy leaning against the jukebox.”

“Mm… maybe he thinks it’ll get him a mate, I guess.”

“I thought you’d be all in on that—thinking music attracts mates. You always had those damn earphones on.”

“Alas, it didn’t work. What a waste of good music taste. I’ll just say it was to tune you out. You breathe loudly.”

He barked a laugh. “I breathe too loud? Maybe you're just sensitive as hell.”

“You already know how sensitive I am.” Shinso raised his eyebrows, smirking. The sudden flirtation caught Bakugo off guard. Before he could think of a comeback that didn’t make him seem flustered, their food arrived.

Shinso dug into his tempura greedily, unbothered.

Bakugo hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until the steaming burger landed in front of him. He devoured it like a python swallowing prey. Halfway through, he paused, setting the remains down and glancing at the lavender-haired idiot across from him.

“Huh… I guess I thought you already got one.” He said it casually, eyes flicking anywhere but at Shinso.

“One what?” Shinso asked through a mouthful of food.

“A mate.” Bakugo looked at him briefly. Shinso’s eyes were very intent on him now. He looked away again, scanning the busy bar. “Kinda figured you’d run off with somebody or something.” He shrugged. “But I guess I was wrong.”

Shinso was quiet while he chewed a bite of sweet potato, thoughtful. Every nerve in Bakugo’s body told him to crack a joke, to change the subject—but he let the words hang between them.

“I did find out who my soulmate was back then, but they didn’t want me. So I gave up on all that a long time ago.” Shinso said finally. 

“Oh yeah? Can’t relate.” Bakugo didn’t even know his soulmate. 

“Good for you, must be nice to always be wanted. Hope that goes well for you.” Shinso stood, voice carefully neutral. His scent even more unreadable than usual in the packed space. “I’m gonna grab a real drink at the bar, then we can get into the debrief. Be right back.”

He stretched his hands far above his head before clasping them behind, purple hair sticking out in tufts between his fingers as he walked off.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Bakugo pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Why the hell had he said that? He was just… shocked. Not only did Shinso have a soulmate—but they weren’t together. And Shinso still hadn’t wanted him anyway.

He breathed in deep.

He wasn’t some consolation prize—but damn, that stung.

Bakugo lifted his head and scanned the bar for the object of his frustration. He wasn’t entirely sure Shinso wouldn’t just ditch him.

That thought didn’t have long to fester. Shinso reappeared with two drinks in hand, passing one over and sitting back down. Beer for Bakugo and some kind of liquor on the rocks for himself. He must have abandoned the idea of water only. He barely had time to register that Shinso’d remembered to get a beer he’d actually like before he picked up the work talk.

“Okay. Let’s get into this… Where did we leave off…? So your role is to get close to the other fighters. I haven’t been able to get a foothold with them because of my proximity to leadership. They’re worried about snitches. And also a little afraid… of the big guy. And me, to be honest. I don’t blame them—it just makes things harder.”

“Afraid of you?” Bakugo remembered sparring with Shinso—and losing. “Not that you’re not scary-” he raised an eyebrow, “-but some of your fighters don’t seem like the scared type.”

Shinso drank deeply before answering. “They’re not. They trust their bodies to carry them through whatever comes at them, in the ring and out. But what about when you lose control of your body? Harder to trust it then. Harder still to trust the guy that did it to you.”

“That’s where I come in, then. They don’t trust you so I’m supposed to earn their favor.”  It wasn’t a question. Bakugo saw it in the way Shinso’s eyes went distant. The pieces clicked. There was no one better suited than Shinso for something like that… but he wasn’t exactly the best pick for making friends. He’d have to channel Kirishima or something. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your quirk in action,” Bakugo muttered. “I’m guessing that’ll change soon.”

“If I do my job right, you won’t see it at all.” Shinso smiled and tapped his glass to Bakugo’s bottle. “Any questions? I feel like we’ve covered the bases, yeah?”

Bakugo turned that over in his head, thinking like a fighter. “So… I get to fight, then?”

“That’s where you fit in.” Shinso repeated what he’d said earlier with a nod into his drink.

“Then…” Bakugo’s lips spread into a wicked smile. “You have to use your quirk on me.”

Whiskey sprayed into the air, misting what was left of Bakugo’s burger. Shinso coughed and grabbed a napkin to blow his nose.

“How do thoughts come together in that spiky head of yours? It should be studied for genetic anomalies. How is that your conclusion?”

Bakugo grimaced, wiping away the mess on his side of the table. “Ew. So fucking gross. If you got any on me, I might have to kill you.” He paused. “Then again, wouldn’t be the first time I got your fluids on me.” He said, slinging back some of Shinso’s earlier flirtations.

“I should spit it at you on purpose next time. Bet you’re into that sort of thing,” Shinso grumbled, downing the rest of the liquor.

“Stay focused, idiot.” Bakugo leaned forward. “As I was saying, before you decided you can’t hold your alcohol—you have to force me out to fight. Otherwise, how will the other fighters trust me? I have to seem like someone unwilling—until I’m forced out there.” He tapped his temple. “Get it now?”

“Hm. Okay, but… not the first fight. They might already think you’re a hothead. Makes sense for you to be recruited. We should stage it before your second fight. You can say you’re done, that you’re quitting the whole thing—and I’ll laugh evilly or raise an eyebrow and say, ‘Too bad. You’re mine, Ariel. You sold your soul to the sea witch.’”

Bakugo glared at him from across the table. “You are so fucking—” Funny. “—dumb. I’m being serious.”

Shinso raised his glass to a passing waiter for another.

“My idea still holds,” Shinso said, lifting a brow. “Unless you know this place better than I do.”

“Fine then. Point taken. We’ll do it your way.” 

(•̀o•́)ง         (¬_¬) 

The streets were lightening by the time they left the bar a couple hours later, painted warm with the lingering reflections of summer’s heat. Shinso couldn’t remember the last time he’d headed home at what Aizawa might call a reasonable hour. Not that he was one to talk.

Now that he lived alone, it was almost easier to be out and about than stuck in a small room, crawling up the walls and waiting for the sun to rise. The alcohol was a warm fuzz in his mind, his body floating along, unbothered. 

At some point in the night he’d decided to get as drunk as possible, one drink easily following another. He couldn’t remember why, but he was happy with the decision now. 

And Bakugo was with him. What a great surprise. Well… not so great at first. He’d very nearly taken off running when he realized they would be working together, but it felt nice now, with the booze dancing through him. It felt like he was getting away with something.

“I’m glad you’re my partner,” Shinso said, mind a little hazy. What a 180. He almost had whiplash; but he meant it. “At least in this moment, I’m glad.”

Bakugo didn’t say anything for a few seconds before replying, “Yeah, me too.” Quiet enough that Shinso wasn’t sure he’d heard it right.

He hiccuped, leaning against a wall to stop the world from spinning. There was this burning in him—the need to reach out and touch the other alpha. He was sure Bakugo could smell it on him. His blockers had to have worn off by now and he wasn’t trying to control his scent at all.

Shinso pulled a cigarette out lazily and placed it between his lips. He grabbed Bakugo’s hand—skin on fire wherever they connected—and brought it up toward his own face.

“Light this, please,” he said, eyes locking with Bakugo’s like magnets.

Bakugo held his gaze a moment before dropping his eyes to the cigarette. He sparked a flame and held it steady. “Do I look like my name is Bic? Fuckin’ aye.”

But he still lit it. Shinso took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke in a long stream. Bakugo glowered back at him, waving a hand in front of his face.

“You should lay off the cancer sticks, y’know. Bad for you. Not that I care.”

He smiled at Bakugo playfully. “Not that you care.” Shinso took another drag, peeling himself off the wall and wobbling on his feet a little.

Bakugo gave him a bored look. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Where are we going next?”

Bakugo stretched, face scrunching as his arms reached above his head and his shirt rode up. “I dunno. I live pretty close to here. Figured I’d walk home.”

Shinso’s eyes strayed to the smooth line of skin revealed along Bakugo’s stomach, a little entranced. It all felt unreal—Bakugo here, next to him, walking a little wobbly down a quiet street at night just like old times. Maybe it was all some elaborate dream he’d wake up from. 

What had he been so stressed about earlier? It didn’t seem to matter now. Everything was great, he was great, and Bakugo looked great . Better than great, he looked...

“See something you like?” Bakugo asked, noticing Shinso’s gaze drifting over him. His eyes were heavy—likely from all the beer or the late hour—but there was something more behind them, something that made Shinso’s pulse quicken.

He felt a surge of heat in his chest and smirked, trying to mask the way his pulse raced. “Maybe I do,” he replied, his voice low, teasing.

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. He leaned back, holding Shinso’s gaze. The air between them thickened—charged with a challenge that made Shinso’s skin buzz.

“You’re drunk,” Shinso said, his tone casual, though his heart hammered in his chest. “I should probably walk you home.”

Bakugo smirked. “First off, you’re drunk. Do you think I need a babysitter, Shin?” He pushed off the wall and started walking, hands shoved in his pockets. “Ha, alright, I’ll bite. Let’s go.” 

Shinso let him lead for a beat or two, his own smile growing. He might’ve been obvious, but judging by the scent in Bakugo’s wake, he was on the same page. Grinning to himself, he jogged to catch up. “You move pretty quick for having those short legs.”

“Fuck you. My legs work just fucking fine.”

The warm night air wrapped around them as they made their way down quiet streets. The soft hum of distant traffic played with the occasional rustle of leaves in the thick breeze. Streetlights cast an amber glow on the pavement, stretching their shadows long and thin.

There was something comforting about Bakugo’s presence—a solid, steady energy Shinso found himself drawn to all over again, despite the volatile exterior. Even so, as they reached the corner near Bakugo’s apartment, reality began to settle in.

The glow from the bar had faded, leaving behind a companionable, if slightly awkward, silence. Shinso’s mind drifted to the countless nights he’d spent like this—wandering the streets alone, cigarette in hand. Tonight was different. Tonight, Bakugo was with him.

They stopped in front of a mid-sized apartment building. Bakugo faced him. “Well, this is me,” he said, nodding toward one of the doors at the top of the stairs.

Shinso hesitated, his earlier bravado fading as the sun crested the horizon and the weight of the night caught up with him. Bakugo was painted in dawn, looking like some kind of prince. All at once Shinso realized he was in it… his second chance. Knee deep. 

The charge between them still lingered, but the clarity of the moment shook Shinso awake. Made it obvious to him that nothing more should come of it tonight. 

He wouldn’t let himself fall into Bakugo again, not so soon, not so carelessly.

“Thanks for the company tonight,” Bakugo added, a touch softer than usual. There was an invitation in the lilt of his voice. Come inside, the phantom of Bakugo said inside his head.

An invitation he craved more than he wanted to admit  

“Anytime,” Shinso replied, offering a small smile.

An invitation he craved and yet… The heat that had been simmering between them cooled, settling into something more familiar. Something safer.

Bakugo nodded, his usual scowl replaced by a shrug and a smile. He turned and made his way up the stairs to his apartment, the gate in front of the stairs never quite closing. Shinso watched him go, aching deep in his chest. The lingering effects of alcohol made everything feel just a little surreal.

As he disappeared inside, Shinso took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and crushing it under his heel. Sleepiness settled over him like a blanket. He turned and began walking back to his own place.

Nothing had happened—and that was probably for the best. 

He’d almost made a mistake there, gotten caught up in the moment and tripped over his own foolishness. He didn’t need any of that. 

Still–despite the way he’d reacted and the panic that had taken him earlier–he’d warmed to the idea of them being partners. 

Maybe it was the alcohol talking but damn, he’d really missed the motherfucker.

Chapter Text

Bakugo woke up to a nasty hangover, but that wasn't his main concern. It was more like the barrage of insecurity that rushed him as he woke up… alone. Again.

But this time?

It was so stupid… 

There had been so much change, so much movement in his life—but he still felt the same. Still felt like the same old fucking Bakugo. Not that he ever minded being himself, but lately… he was tired of it.

Tired of himself.

So maybe that had changed.

He’d never cared if others got tired of him. Why would he care what some plebs thought, anyway? Until he was eating himself alive thinking about what one person in particular thought—fucking dying to know what was on their mind.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? He’d spent his whole life not giving a shit. Now his stomach twisted over the absence of one person’s attention, like some pathetic punchline in a romantic tragedy he never meant to write.

Bakugo found himself worrying about him too, in a way he never had. Was he okay? How had his internship gone, long ago as it was? Did he miss him while they weren’t talking? Did Bakugo’s image burn in his mind the way Shinso did in his?

It disgusted him, thinking like this. Not knowing the answers. Questions like: Where did he go? Why hadn’t they talked? Did he do something wrong?

The questions didn’t come in calmly—they raged. They hammered through the crevices of his skull like fists on a locked door, relentless and loud and unforgiving.

These thoughts were hot coals in his mind, burning holes in the quiet places he used to keep untouched. Even when he tried to ignore them, they lingered—waiting for his attention to drift, ever burning at the edge of his consciousness.

It ate at older insecurities. The same loop of thoughts after Kamino. He couldn’t help thinking maybe he just wasn't good enough. Maybe it was all his fault. Who else could be responsible? He hadn’t been strong or fast enough. A small part of him still carried the weight of it, even after All Might had spoken to him. That same guilt clawed at him now.

A guilt with long teeth, sharpened on every failure.

The last few years at U.A. had been hard. He saw Shinso constantly, but whether through fate or by design, they never really talked again. Just short, clipped interactions. Shinso had gotten busy.

And just like that, they were strangers again. If they ever knew each other at all.

He’d taken it too far with Shinso. If he’d just stuck to what they usually did, maybe they’d still be togeth—

He stopped the thought. They weren't together. That was the point.

Besides, it didn’t fucking matter. He was gone. Maybe again after this mission was up. Maybe until Shinso wanted him again. All Bakugo could guess was that he’d gone too far that night—cared too much, gotten too close.

And it’d happened again last night. Getting his fucking hopes up.

Hope. What a useless thing.

Or maybe it really was as simple as Shinso being busy.

At least the worst thought of all—the one that often kept him up at night—that Shinso had found his soulmate and didn’t need him anymore… was gone. Shinso had told him himself.

So it must mean he just didn’t want him.

But it was Fine™. Bakugo didn’t need him either. Didn’t want him. Didn’t crave him when he was lonely and high. Didn’t miss his dry laughter, his wry smile, his comebacks.

No, he was better than ever without Shinso.

He was busy too—with internships, with getting his license, with graduating and moving out, with life, with proving to Deku and everyone else that he was good enough. Fake it till you make it, right?

He hid it well, he thought. Or maybe everyone just sucked at noticing. Maybe both. Why look for something that wasn’t obvious? Who cared, as long as he kept performing? As long as he kept his bravado?

If anyone did notice, they damn well kept it to themselves. As they fucking should. He didn’t need to talk over his feelings like some loser. Except with Kiri, that shit didn’t count.

Even on his worst days, he was still better than the lot. Even then, he gave as good as he got. He still got up every day and busted his ass.

Like he had to do right now.

Fuck.

He did not want to.

But he did. He got up and showered and shook the familiar train of thought off. He didn’t normally allow it to get that far, but the early mornings and late nights were some of the only times he had to think. When he was lying alone in bed, his thoughts could wander—he could look at everything he shoved away during the day.

Like thinking of Shinso.

Bakugo was really good at not thinking of him otherwise. Or at the very least, he’d gotten good at it after a while. At first, his mind would wander every time he was reminded—like when he saw purple or smelled weed. That was super annoying.

Now it was manageable. Like a phantom limb—sometimes it ached, but he didn’t flinch anymore.

Now he was more focused. Back with his eyes on the prize.

He looked in the mirror after his shower and shook his hair out, making it spike into its usual style. The sharp angles of his reflection stared back—tired, but composed.

He’d already had intake, and later–possibly his first fight. No more distractions.

(•̀o•́)ง         (¬_¬) 

Shinso’s heart thumped in his ears as he stood on the catwalk overlooking the makeshift arena. The air below him was hazy with cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood that was never fully washed off. Roaring cheers from the crowd usually rattled his nerves, but he would be lying if he said his anxiety was only because of that as he stood at the edge of the pit looking down. It wasn’t that he didn't trust Bakugo; but if this didn't go well, or even if it went too well, it could put the mission in jeopardy. No biggie. It’s not like I’ve poured years of my life into this or something. Just months.

Just long grueling months.

He rubbed his temples.

At the very least he knew Bakugo still had it. The media covered his success as much as his temper. Normally Shinso would worry his popularity would blow his cover but that's why he was perfect as a fighter. He wouldn't be the first pro to go underground for some extra dough, wouldn't be the last either he was sure. Bakugo was young, blatantly ambitious, and his personality was often perceived as hostile or unheroic.

He really was perfect. 

For the role, anyway. For the role. 

He would be coming out soon, although not that many people were focused on the ring. First timers rarely got the same attention as the more experienced fighters and people wouldn’t look at his alias and assume it was the Bakugo Katsuki. Popular as he was in media though, it wouldn’t take long for the bets to start pouring in his favor. Maybe it was just because Shinso knew better than to underestimate him.

Shinso got him a good fight too, locked it down with someone Bakugo wouldn't totally demolish. The other fighter came out. The crowd let out a few whoops and cheers.

Shinso didn’t bother to double check his name but he remembered his face. He had won a few matches, thought he was hot shit for a newcomer. He couldn’t remember his quirk either but he’d figure it out soon enough.

The moment Bakugo stepped into the ring Shinso already knew it was going to be a problem. Not a mission-threatening kind of problem–no, Bakugo was too damn good for that. But a different kind. A personal one. 

Bakugo was shirtless, muscles defined and tattooed. Had he always looked this good? How had he managed to pull Bakugo ? Shinso leaned over the railing from his usual post on the catwalk above the pit, trying not to look too interested as the match up was announced. 

It had been three months since Shinso embedded himself in the club. Three months of playing errand boy to the ring’s lieutenants, letting his quirk speak for itself. Three months of different venues, different contacts, and contracts.

By design, people learned quick not to cross him; especially after that one time he made a guy rip his own earring out for mouthing off. That story got around fast. These days, no one looked him in the eye unless they had a death wish. People flinched when he walked by. Even the higher-ups gave him room. It worked. It meant he could move through the place mostly unbothered, collecting intel, watching patterns. Listening. And when asked–controlling the fights for leadership. Earning their trust. 

But it also meant he couldn’t be seen slipping. Someone was always waiting for him to fail.

He kept his expression carefully neutral as Bakugo cracked his neck and bounced lightly on his heels, waiting for the bell. Shinso could feel the low thrum of tension in the air, the buzz of the crowd growing louder as a few people recognized him. 

Bakugo had the gall to smirk as his opponent rolled his shoulders and started to grow, the alphas muscles expanding to make his already bulky build even more intimidating.

But not to Bakugo it seemed

“That's cute,” The blonde laughed loudly. “This is gonna be more fun than I thought.”

Then the bell rung and the hulking alpha lunged at Bakugo- who easily dodged, sidestepping out of the way.

Shinso could see him scoff from up where he was but he couldn’t hear the tch that accompanied it. He was surprised he hadn’t launched his own attack outright. It wasn’t even that Shinso thought he couldn't take the guy, it was more like Shinso had fought him many times, lost to him many times, and it wasn’t often he saw him wait. Bakugo was quick and direct in his takedowns. He was brutal.

“C’mon loser ass, ain’t got all fucken day.” Bakugo ducked out of his grasp, hitting the larger alpha in the ribs. No flames, just regular punches.”Can you at least try and hit me?” He laughed again.

Was he toying with him? Shinso told him to take it easy and hold back to avoid raising suspicion but this was a game to him.

Bakugo stepped out of reach again, the giant growing burlier the longer he was evaded. This time Bakugo sent an explosion in his direction when he danced behind the alpha. It wasn’t the biggest explosion he’d seen Bakugo make, just loud and hot enough to make his opponent recoil. 

Maybe he was holding back after all. Bakugo could be sizing him up.

Most rookies came in swinging wild, trying to prove something. Bakugo played it differently. Tactical. Controlled. Letting the crowd underestimate him, then striking hard enough to snap a tooth loose. Blood hit the canvas, the wet sound covered by the crowd’s growing cheers. 

His mind was racing. This was good. Better than good. Bakugo was fitting in like a glove, playing the part perfectly. And if the way the crowd was reacting was anything to go by, they were buying it. Two bangs back to back and then Bakugo landed a punishing left hook, his opponent’s knees buckling. 

Shinso watched every step, every shift of weight, every calculated restraint. He knew how much power he held back when he wasn’t trying to kill. The opponent grunted and lashed back–a punch, a kick–met by a blast blocking them in midair like they hit invisible cement. They guy was usually good for counters. Useless if he couldn’t land a grab.

Bakugo took a glancing blow to the ribs, narrowly missing one such grab, then caught him with a sweeping leg kick that dropped the other fighter like a bag of bricks, a blast firing into the air as he held his fist high; rather than being aimed at his opponent. The guy was defeated but Bakugo didn’t finish him off. Didn’t rub it in.

He wasn't just fighting to win; he was fighting to belong. That impressed Shinso, more than he wanted to admit– instead of smiling he glared. 

 (¬_¬)           (•̀o•́)ง 

He met up with Shinso in a side hall behind the locker rooms, concrete walls sweating under buzzing strip lights. Bakugo was still flushed from the fight, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, practically humming with leftover adrenaline. Shinso looked like he hadn’t moved in an hour–arms crossed, face blank, mouth already turned down and talking like he had something to complain about.

“I was building up sweat, dumbass.” Bakugo snapped at him, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “And feeling him out. I wasn’t trying to kill the fuckin guy, shit.”

“Well can you not do it in a way that draws so much attention?” Shinso shot back, eyes narrowing.

“You told me to be entertaining!”

“Not like that!” Shinso hissed. “Lowkey at first. You came in looking like a headline.”

“Yeah?” Bakugo leaned in, all post-fight energy and heat. Why was Shinso being such a dick about this? “Well maybe next time you wanna write the script, you fight the damn match.”

Shinso didn’t flinch. He took a slow breath and rubbed his temples. “Look, you were good. Too good. It was supposed to be close. You’re supposed to look raw, hungry. Not like a pro biding his time.”

“I am a pro. They know that. If anything, me being a pro should earn me some more attention behind the scenes. I was ‘ lowkey’ . I didn't utterly demolish him out the gate, did I? Seems pretty low -fuckin- key to me.” Bakugo flared, his scent sharp in the aftermath.

“You have the subtlety of a damn bull in a china shop, but-” Shinso paused, head lolling from side to side. “I guess you didn’t sell yourself out. You’re still damn cocky, and it shows.”

“Whatever. Keep your backhanded compliments. I know the crowd loved the shit outta me, that’s all I gotta know.”

But even as he said it, Bakugo's chest pulled tight. The truth was, it wasn't the crowd he gave a shit about. Not really. It was Shinso's opinion that had been clawing at his thoughts since the fight ended. The way he watched from above. The way he always looked like he saw too much—or not enough. Bakugo hated that.

Why the hell did it matter so much what Shinso thought? Why did he find himself replaying the look in his eyes, the set of his mouth, trying to figure out if he was impressed or disappointed?

He didn’t need validation.

And yet...

“Hey,” Shinso said quietly, a beat too late. “You did good, okay? Better than I expected. I’ve just been stressed out, but we can spin this in a good way.”

Bakugo looked at him sharply, the compliment too direct to shrug off. Shinso rarely gave those freely. Something bitter and warm coiled under his ribs.

“Thanks for not making me say that twice,” Shinso muttered, gaze darting away.

Bakugo snorted. “You really that allergic to sincerity?”

“Only when it smells like desperation,” Shinso replied. But there was no bite to it.

Bakugo smiled, a little smug. He knew he’d done a good job. Shinso caught the look on his face and sighed. “You want a medal or something?”

Bakugo smirked. “Nah. Just wanted to hear you say it. You give compliments like they cost blood.”

“I don’t give praise for free. You earned it.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bakugo spoke again. “We should do the next part soon.”

Shinso blinked. “What?”

“The control thing. Your quirk. If we’re gonna make this work, they need to see you turn me into your puppet.”

Shinso crossed his arms tighter. “We don’t have to rush that.”

“My second fight, right? That’s what you said. We should start planning it.” Bakugo stepped forward, dropping his voice. Shinso’s scent washed over him. No blockers this time, Shinso must be feeling more in control. Why did he always smell so damn good? “Let me start by pushing back.”

“Maybe you want more money?”

“That’s good, and then when you say no–”

“Because you’re still fresh meat.”

“I’ll act like I’m done. You corner me-”

“No one gets out aliiivvveeeeee.” Shinso wiggled his fingers, finally uncrossing. Bakugo was terribly endeared.

”I go feral. You shut me down with a word.”

Shinso stared at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re really not weird about me using it on you?”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You think I’m scared of your whisper-trick? Use it. I want them to think you’ve got your leash on me. They’ll lower their guard.”

Shinso's jaw tightened. “It won’t be fake.”

“I-” trust you . “-know. I’m counting on it.”

Shinso looked away, too quickly. “That’s dumb.”

Bakugo shrugged. “Probably.”

They stood like that for a bit, energy sparking between them. Then Shinso sighed and nodded.

“Alright, I’ll write the script, you just sell the scene.”

Bakugo grinned, teeth sharp. “Hope you’re ready to break me in front of an audience, then.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Finally, a smile. 

Bakugo followed him down the hall, heart pounding. Not from the plan. Not from the crowd, though he’d liked it more than he thought he would. Liked fighting a lot, actually. From the weight of Shinso’s words still echoing in his chest. You earned it.

Whatever. He didn’t need approval. But it meant something coming from Shinso.

Chapter Text

“What did you just say?” Shinso asked over his shoulder, voice projecting an authority Bakugo hadn’t heard before. All alpha. 

“I said,” Bakugo started, “That I’m not gonna be playing in your fuckin schoolyard brawl. You didn't pay out what you fucking said.” He crossed his arms and pushed out his chest, exuding pheromones that would let anyone know how serious he was. “And fuck you too.”

Shinso turned to face him, face a blank mask. Except his eyes and his scent. Both reflected an icy rage that might have given him serious pause if he hadn’t already known they were in on this together. 

He lifted his chin, a challenge. The room quieted as a dozen pairs of eyes turned towards them, some peeking less than stealthily from behind lockers.

“If you have an issue with your compensation you can speak to me about it at the time of payment. You were paid 25% percent of the takings. That’s a first time winner’s percentage.”

“How the hell was that 25? There’s no way that math is accurate, and you said 40% for a knockout. I wiped the floor with that guy, I have the strongest quirk here by a mile!”

“Wrong!” Shinso stepped towards him menacingly, voice raised. “There was no knockout, and your ability doesn’t count for shit here. You’ll get 40% when people start asking to bet on you by name. When they show up early for a chance to shake your fucking hand or suck your fucking cock. You’ve fought one time. No one cares about you, you arrogant son of a bitch. So shut the fuck up and get through those doors.”

“How about you suck me off instead and then we can talk about me going, aubergine.” Bakugo smirked, grabbing at himself through his pants just for a little added flavor. Bakugo knew they were both faking but that didn't mean the pheromones in the air didn't get his blood pumping, didn't mean he couldn't have some fun and get under Shinso’s skin.

“ You’d like that? ”

“No, but I bet you-” Bakugo’s brain filled with cotton. His body was rigid, breath shallow, the faces blurred around him and he realized what had happened. 

Shit, he thought, it was so fast , trying to get his limbs to move. But the fog was thick, wrapping around his mind like a vise. This is what it felt like. It had been a long time since he'd been here. There was only Shinso, and Bakugo felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He was at Shinso’s mercy. Something at the base of his spine thrummed at the thought.

Shinso took his time stepping forward, his movements deliberate and slow. Each step echoed off the walls, the soft scrape of his shoes filling the room as the other fighters held their breaths. His voice was cold, almost clinical, when he spoke again. 

“Feel that, Bakugo? That’s me reminding you where you stand.” He circled Bakugo like a predator sizing up prey, his hands clasping loosely behind his back. “I don’t care how strong your quirk is. You’re nothing here unless I say you are.”

Bakugo’s teeth wanted to clench, but the fog was there, swallowing up his thoughts and movements. Damn him. Damn his stupid quirk.  This might be what they agreed on but that didn't stop the haze he felt. He was powerless, completely free of his own will.

Shinso stopped in front of him. For a moment, there was no anger, no heat. Just a strange, unsettling calm. He told him to lift a hand and Bakugo did, watching his arm move on its own volition, confirming that Shinso was in control.

“Good boy.”

The air charged between them, like static electricity the dynamic tingled across his skin in a way that was definitely not unpleasant. 

“You think you can come into my territory and throw your weight around? You’re playing a game you don’t even understand yet.” Shinso’s breath was cold against Bakugo’s ear, minty, his words just loud enough for the others to hear. “You signed a contract like everyone else here. You’ll get your 40% when you’ve earned it. Until then, stay in line.”

Bakugo would punch Shinso in his stupid fucking face, if he could. Shinso was probably reveling in his little power trip… Big surprise. 

But… It was still Shinso after all, and that had to be something. Right? After all they had been through he may not like him, but he knew him well, once. Or so he thought. The trepidation faded a bit. He might be powerless, a puppet, but he was a puppet for him . Bakugo’d give him hell for this later. 

Although… this kind of ego didn't look bad on Shin, quite the opposite. Heat built at the back of his neck.

It was almost showtime. He reminded himself that this was just a segue until he was back in familiar territory: The ring. He might be frozen but he could feel his blood thrum with anticipation and something else. Maybe it was the eyes that were still on the two of them, some filled with awe but mostly a sort of terror.

Before he could pinpoint that something… the warmth that was starting in his gut, a bell rang. 

“That’s our queue. Get out of my staging area and go fight. You’ll wake up after the first punch lands on you, unless you go down in one hit.” 

I won't. He wanted to say, but no words were able to form on his leaden tongue. His feet started to move of their own accord, carrying him to the door leading to the pit.

His breath may have been cold but there was a warmth that spread through Bakugo. He couldn't place it. This is what they'd agreed on. Even if Shinso was pushing it, really putting on a show for these fuckers... he still felt safe under Shinso’s control. Something else crept up on him, if he wasn’t deep in enemy territory it might have even bloomed into arousal. 

It seemed to be working, all the people were gawking and cowering from his peripheral vision. Soon he would go to fight and then he’d be in his element again.

(•̀o•́)ง         (¬_¬) 

Shinso was used to keeping a level head but he would be lying to say that their back and forth hadn’t put him on high alert. It wasn't even that it had been too heated or that Bakugo’s alpha macho act had gotten under his skin, he just felt anxious. Anxious that Bakugo was walking into a fight without total control, anxious that he was the one that had done it, had put Bakugo in danger. 

But… they had agreed to it. Bakugo had asked to be put under his quirk. That had never happened before. Not as far as he could remember. No one had ever asked, or treated it like anything more than a curse.

He shook his head, trying to loosen the tight grip it had on his nervous system. He kept pace walking up to the club, not looking back or meeting the eyes of any of the people who scurried at the sight of him. He just looked forward stoically. Nothing new there, nothing to see. How easily he’d made people here afraid of him. It stung. 

The club itself was packed tonight. Maybe word had spread that there was an explosive new fighter after all. Maybe. 

He reached the edge of the pit and looked down, keeping his face in a neutral stone mask. The fight had already begun. Fists were flying but Bakugo seemed… off. His dodges were half a step behind, his blows a second too slow. 

The fight should be a challenge but not impossible. Shinso was high up enough that he made sure Bakugo would at least stand a chance. But who was he kidding, Bakugo was one of the best fighters he’d ever fought against and that was in back college. It had been some time since then. If the growth of Bakugo’s muscles were any indication–his muscles that rippled as he landed a hit, focus, he was stronger now. 

So what was going on?

There was a thud as Bakugo’s back hit the wall, then his opponent swung on him landing several blows to his ribs. Bakugo managed to get his arms up to block, finally. He brought up his elbow sharply to hit him across his chin.

When the larger man stumbled back Bakugo used the timing to get off the wall, circling towards the center ring with his arms still up in fists. 

The man whirled after a second and charged, knuckles glinting as he activated his quirk. If Shinso remembered correctly he could form rocks or something like that across his fists. They looked sharp even from where he stood. Bet they probably hurt too.

Bakugo bounced on his heels in anticipation then deftly slipped out of the way. But not before a sharpened fist glanced off his jaw. The brute stepped into his space, quick for someone his size and rained another flurry of cutting blows onto Bakugo. The crowd called out the other fighter’s name. Himato, that’s right. 

Bakugo raised his hands and sprayed fire at the guy, allowing him enough time to land a solid roundhouse to his side. 

The crack of Bakugo’s kick echoed through the club, but Himato barely faltered. Shinso winced as the larger man twisted back with a snarl, his rock-coated fists slamming toward Bakugo’s head. Bakugo ducked, moving with a fluidity that seemed to bring his focus back—if only for a second. Come on, Bakugo, stay in it, Shinso thought, tense as he watched. In Bakugo’s eyes there was that dangerous glint of razor-sharp focus he recognized all too well. Finally.

Bakugo spun low, sweeping Himato’s leg out from under him. He stumbled, cursing as he fought to regain his balance. Bakugo was relentless, surging forward with fists blazing. Shinso could hear the crowd chanting Himato’s name, a signal that he was a favorite here—but Bakugo was giving them something worth watching. Their support was losing its enthusiasm. Everyone loves an underdog.

Himato snarled again, activating his quirk as the crowd roared louder, this time for Bakugo. Sharp stones erupted along his forearms as he swung down. Bakugo managed to backpedal, but not before one jagged fist grazed his shoulder, ripping through his sleeve and drawing blood. Shinso’s heart leapt, his neutral expression slipping for just a second into a flinch before he forced it back. He knew Bakugo could handle himself, but the fight was brutal, and Bakugo didn’t need to lose any more blood. I should stop this, I should stop this, I should stop this, he’s getting really hurt I should stop this. 

“This is a good fight.” Shinso looked up to see the boss, Mustard, watching nearby. A smile on his face. Well fuck, too late to stop it now.

Bakugo barely flinched, his eyes narrowing as he bounced lightly on his feet, a feral grin spreading across his face. Blood colored his smile. Darting in again, he feinted left before pivoting and slamming his knee up into Himato’s abdomen. The impact was solid, forcing the man back and doubling him over.

But Himato wasn’t finished yet. He sucked in a breath and pushed forward, the crowd chanting his name once more as he raised his rock-covered fists and came at Bakugo with another furious swing. Bakugo ducked, his movements faster now, more precise. As Himato’s swing passed over him, Bakugo shifted his stance and threw an elbow down onto the back of Himato’s head with a resounding crack.

The crowd gasped, but Himato wrenched himself free, stumbling before letting out a roar and charging once more. Shinso felt his jaw try to clench. He could see Bakugo’s confidence in his body language, that devil-may-care stance he always took in the face of a challenge. As Himato swung again, Bakugo sidestepped, bringing his knee up with brutal force to connect with Himato’s face, blood splattering onto the floor with the impact.

Himato reeled back, his stance shaky, and Bakugo didn’t hesitate. He shot forward with a ruthless precision Shinso hadn’t seen from him in years, his fist blazing as he landed a crushing uppercut to Himato’s jaw, sending him backward.

Himato swayed, trying to hold his ground, but Bakugo was already preparing the final blow. With a deep breath and one last push, Bakugo surged forward, putting his entire weight into a powerful punch that struck Himato square in the chest. The impact echoed with an explosion, and Himato flew back, hitting the wall hard and crumpling into a heap.

The club erupted into thunderous applause, a chant of, “Blast Edge! Blast Edge!” filled the air. Mustard let out a cheer of his own. Shinso could see the wild grin on Bakugo’s bloodied face as he stood victorious, raising his fist to acknowledge the crowd.

 Shinso felt himself sigh out the breath he had been holding. 

Chapter Text

Bakugo spit blood into the sink, grimacing. He cupped water in his hands and rinsed his mouth again, nearly giving up hope this time it'd be clear. It wasn't.

Ugh. He looked up into the mirror and ugh he looked fucked. His eye was turning purple, swelling so it was harder to see. His jaw was sore as hell when he tried to touch it. There was blood crusted around his nose, on his cheek. He hadn't been beaten up this badly since… since he can't remember when. He hadn't even done a body check yet. Fuck. 

That guy was no joke, especially with Bakugo holding back on his quirk usage. 

His phone started ringing and he answered it just to avoid the burst of pain in his head at the noise. Was he concussed?

“What do you want?” He growled, not bothering to check who it was.

“Thank fuck. I was worried-”

Bakugo barked a laugh, Shinso worried over him? What a joke. “I'm fine.”

“Open up then, I’ve been knocking for like ten minutes.” 

Bakugo hung up. No way that loser was here. Sure, they’d walked home together from the bar but they’d been drinking… He went to the door just to see if Shinso was lying. He wasn't. Purple hair was on the other side of the peephole, sitting on the stairs near his door. Damn it. He didn't need this right now. He didn’t need to figure out how he felt about Shinso being in his apartment sober.

“Go away!” He called through the door.

He watched as Shinso sighed and got to his feet, shaking his head. “No way man, just let me in.”

“I said fuck off, damn idiot.” Bakugo should definitely not open the door, if just for the fact that he looked like hot garbage right now. “What can you do anyway?”

“I brought some first aid stuff.” 

“I know how to do first aid, eyebags.”

“Yeah, but I’m better at it.” Bakugo started to protest but Shinso kept going, “Come on Bakugo, I’ve been worried sick. Just let me in. I’ll take a look at your ugly mug and be on my way.”

His voice was smooth and even, projecting loud enough to reach him, all the arrogance of their earlier conversation drained. This would really be a bad idea. 

He put his hand on the knob. He would be all alone with that voice. He started to turn it. 

Fuck it. 

Bakugo hung up and opened the door fully, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. “Don't think I need your pity or some stupid shit. I'll be fine.” Like always.

Shinso stepped past without waiting for an invite, addressing Bakugo over his shoulder from inside his apartment. The audacity. He walked to the living room like he’d been there before. “Come sit down, do you have a lamp in here?” He started looking around for a light switch or a cord to pull, dropping a plastic bag Bakugo hadn’t seen onto the couch. 

“Sure Shinso, come right on in, make yourself at fucking home I guess.” He spat sarcastically to himself instead of answering. Still, he flicked on the switch by the door as he closed it. The room flooded with light. Bakugo leaned back against the cool wood. He wasn’t keen on showing Shinso the limp he was sporting. “How’d you know where I live? Didn't think you remember. Weren't you fuckin’ wasted?”

“Mm,” he busied himself with the bag, taking a seat on the couch. It seemed to him like Shinso had grabbed a bunch of things from his own apartment and shoved them into a crumpled grocery bag. He pulled out an old looking first aid kit and some smaller pouches and containers. From his jacket pockets he extracted two cans of ginger ale and a can of soup. 

“Hey, I'm talking to you. You can't just show up at my door then ignore me.”

“I’m not trying to ignore you… I was just thinking.” He scratched his head like he was contemplating a complex problem. “It’s probably going to be hard to get you to come sit over here without more discussion than I have energy for… any chance you’ll just do it so we can save some time? I don’t feel like fighting tonight, I just want to help.”

Bakugo didn't even know why he’d asked, Shinso could very easily put him under the spell of his voice. He shivered. Good thing Shin didn't abuse his quirk. “Just one thing… I don't want your damn help. Go die for all I care.” 

The words lacked their usual venom. Bakugo didn't really want Shinso to leave. He also just couldn't stand the idea of vulnerability. Didn't wanna be some helpless thing in Shinso’s hands. Like earlier…

“Sure, Bakugo,” Shinso stood up from the couch, coming over until they were just a few feet away from each other. The light played through his hair like a purple halo. “You don’t need my help, I get it. You don’t need anyone, right? Cool, now that that’s established–let me help you anyway.” He smiled sweetly, “Just because I’m saying please.”

“I haven't heard a single please yet.” 

“Please?”

He rolled his eyes. Well, it was too late now. The menace was already in his apartment. The fastest way to get him out was probably just letting him do his thing. So he ambled towards the couch, pushing past Shinso with little regard. He was too busy grimacing when he tried to walk. He still hadn’t checked over his body fully but he knew there'd be plenty of damage. “Whatever, just make it quick, fuckin extra.”

Bakugo sat down, holding in a hiss. Shinso sat beside him. They didn’t speak for a few moments as Shinso pulled out an ice pack of sorts. He cracked it, waiting for the cold to spread before handing it to Bakugo. 

“Put that on your eye, crybaby.” 

“Fuck you.” He said, tossing the pack aside.

Shinso took out some antibacterial things and rolled up Bakugo’s sleeve. He flexed just a little– out of reflex–no other reason, as long fingers gripped his bicep, holding it still. Shinso’s hands were cool as he worked, cleaning up scrapes and applying iodine to some of the nastier cuts before closing them up with butterfly stitches or superglue. “That guy’s got a nasty quirk… cut right through you in places.”

“I still kicked his ass though.”

“That’s to be expected, he did have a big ass, hard to miss even for you,” he replied.

“You know I never miss.”

Shinso smiled to himself, not looking up from where he was bandaging Bakugo’s knuckles. 

Having him close was… so familiar. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to be near him over the years they’d spent apart, to smell him. Shinso’s touch left a trail of cool fire in its wake. 

He could watch Shinso as he worked with no risk of getting caught looking. His purple hair was disheveled, sticking out in all directions like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked tired.

Well, he always looked tired, but the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed extra mottled. His face had returned to a blank canvas in concentration as he moved on to the other hand. His mouth seemed more prone to frowning than smiling as it had before. He wondered when that had changed and why.

Bakugo let his gaze linger—just a second too long. Not enough to call it out loud, but enough to catalog the way Shinso’s fingers moved. Controlled. Careful. They had that same slow, deliberate energy as the rest of him—like he was never rushed but somehow always ahead of the moment. There was something grounded in it, something steady. Shinso moved like he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, like he’d figured out his own rhythm and didn’t give a damn who kept up.

Bakugo liked that. Liked the way Shinso’s shoulders tensed when he worked. The flick of his eyes when he checked the bandage placement. The quiet steadiness of his breath. It wasn’t just attraction—it was gravity. A pull he felt in his bones even if he didn’t have the words for it.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept watching, letting the silence stretch out, letting himself be still while Shinso’s hands worked over the raw, red skin of his knuckles like he was something worth tending.

Bakugo flipped his hand over reflexively and for just a second it was like they were holding hands. Their eyes met and held. “Take your shirt off.” 

Bakugo raised his eyebrows, “Uh…”

“So I can treat your wounds, idiot.” Shinso added, dropping his hand and rolling his eyes like he could read Bakugo’s mind. Or more likely, he could smell his surprise. Bakugo was never good at squashing his scent down.

He looked away, scowling at the wall. “Yeah I knew that, freak.” He peeled off what was left of his shirt, the black tee had been shredded in some places. Looking down, the damage wasn't as bad as it felt, just some cuts, some bruises. No biggie.

“Bakugo, what the fuck? I knew I should've stopped the fight.” He shook his head and that stupidly big mouth turned down at the corners.

“M’fine. I’ve been worse off than this.”

“When? In fact, don’t answer that. I don’t want to have to worry about you out there getting your ass handed to you. I need to sleep at night.” He started rummaging through his bag again.

“Pft, we both know you don't sleep anyway.” Did he say he was worried about him? “Besides…I can always handle my own. Made it this far.”

“Mm.” Something passed through his scent but it was too quick for Bakugo to catch. Masked in the blink of an eye. He’d forgotten how damn good Shinso was at hiding stuff. It drove Bakugo crazy. He got up with a cloth and went into the kitchen, “Don’t follow, I’m just getting a bowl of hot water.”

He was in there for a few minutes, the sound of cupboards opening and running water the only real indication that he was doing as he said. Bakugo checked on him through the television’s reflection. He was facing away, leaning over the sink with both hands braced against the counter while he looked up at the ceiling. He must be waiting for a bowl to fill. Why was he here?

“Did you really come over just to patch me up, Dr. Zzzquil?” Bakugo asked drily once he was back in the room. Shinso didn’t take a seat next to him, hovering like some distant clinician instead.

“Is that so hard to believe? You’re my partner.” His hands moved mechanically, one of them dipping a cloth into the hot water bowl that he held in his other. He began to gently cleanse a cut on Bakugo’s arm, who felt rigid. 

“Yeah, it is,” the words came out flat and cutting, like a blade sharpened by bitter truth. “You don't give a fuck about me.” It wasn’t an accusation, it was a fact he was aware of and he said it like one. 

Shinso scoffed, though it seemed forced, like he was hiding behind the sound. “You got hit so hard you lost some brain cells I guess. People care about you.”

The words hung in the air but Bakugo’s expression didn’t soften. Sure, people like Deku or Kiri cared about him. They were always looking out for him even when he didn’t want them to be. In fact, he had an unanswered text sitting in his phone from both of them. But he wasn’t used to Shinso caring like this, in a way that felt tangible and real. The words Shinso spoke felt hollow and Bakugo wasn’t about to be pulled into a dangerous lie. 

His gaze darkened, anger bubbling up as his mind traveled to the moment that had been gnawing at him for far too long.

“You wanna talk about caring? What about when you left? You didn’t even look back. You were gone, just like that, like I didn’t fucking exist.” The words came out in a flood, held too long unsaid.

Shinso’s hands froze mid-motion, the cloth hovering over Bakugo’s arm. He didn’t meet Bakugo’s eyes, didn’t flinch, but his shoulders tensed and Bakugo could smell the momentary panic that filled him. Good. No more dancing around it.

“I didn’t think that would matter.” He started cleaning again. Muttering, “I didn’t think it would even register for you.”

Bakugo’s temper flared, hot and immediate, a sharp, bitter laugh breaking from his throat. “Wouldn’t register? You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” The words cut his throat like shards of glass as they came up.

He yanked his arm away and stood, hissing in pain but bringing them face to face. Making sure Shinso couldn’t keep dodging his eyes. The room felt too small, suffocating him.  

“Yeah, I figured there was nothing there you’d miss.”

“Nothing there, huh? What about that last time we fucked when we were high?” His voice felt raw, stripped of all pretense. “That sure was nothing . We never talked about it, but something was there. What the fuck was that, huh?” He could smell the anger and resentment from them both permeate the air, Shinso’s scent finally breaking loose. Mixing with something deeper he didn’t want to feel. Hurt.

Shinso’s face was set in a mix of confusion and defensiveness. “What the fuck was that?” He echoed, voice shaking. His scent control had slipped entirely and Bakugo was grateful for it. He’d always had to monitor Shinso’s face for the smallest changes in expression to get any insight into what the guy was thinking and he was rusty. Let Shinso try to lie to him about how he felt with anger and… regret? rolling off him in waves.

Their eyes locked. Bakugo felt his insides roiling, like he was burning alive from the inside out. “Yeah, what the fuck were you doing, staring into my eyes all soft and dreamy and shit?”

“You were staring right back!” Shinso fired, daring Bakugo to deny it.

“You… but you called me baby!” 

“So what if I called you baby, why does that matter?” Shinso demanded.

“It’s demeaning!” Bakugo snapped, eyes narrowing. He wasn’t even sure if he meant it or if he was just trying to force the moment into something he could control. Anger instead of hurt.

“Demeaning?” Shinso scoffed again, taking a step away from him. His scent flared with irritation. “You’re the one who asked me– Wait, Bakugo you just said something was there and now you’re saying no, it was demeaning– do you even hear yourself? So did it matter or not? Was I wrong to leave, or not?” 

Should he take it back?

“You know what, maybe you weren’t wrong. There was nothing there. Saved me a hell of a lot of effort at least.” 

Shinso dragged a hand down his face in exasperation. “You know what? It doesn't even matter. You are… ridiculous! Irrational and…goddamn unprofessional. I'm asking for a new partner. I can't do this.”

The words stung more than Bakugo wanted to admit but he tried to mask his scent with anger, clenching his fists. It seemed Shinso was onto him though because he hesitated instead of walking out. Bakugo did his best to shove down the sting and sudden fear that threatened to swallow him. 

Was he doing it again? Whatever it was that he’d done before to push away the one person who… 

He wanted to take it back. Everything was going off the rails but his mouth kept moving. “You don’t know a damned thing about what I’m dealing with. I don’t need anyone’s help, and I sure as hell don’t need to be your fucking partner.” The pit in his stomach churned.

“I get it, you’re Bakugo.” Shinso continued, sounding a little unhinged as he began pacing around, water splashing from the bowl with every turn. “You can handle everything alone and you don’t need any help, and you don’t want anyone calling you baby because that’s demeaning . Okay, whatever, everyone gets it. We all totally believe you, but do you even believe the bullshit coming out of your own mouth?”

He didn’t know what to say. It was too close to home.

Shinso’s pacing continued, his voice scratchy, scent erratic. “You don’t have to force yourself to walk down that lonely road all the time. You’re the only one holding that gun to your head.”

“Oh, fuck off with that psychoanalysis crap! You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh? You don’t know shit!” Bakugo growled, worried the hesitation in his voice would betray him, cracking him at the edges. He grabbed Shinso’s shoulder, stopping him mid-pace to make his point clear. “Let’s not kid ourselves here. I don't need your pity, Shinso.” 

As far as Bakugo was concerned Shinso had made it very clear how he felt about him. All the lingering questions, the way Shinso left without a second glance–it was built up like a wall between them. There was no mistaking it.

“Pity? You really think this is pity?” Shinso’s voice sounded dumbfounded, his expression twisting in disbelief. “Why would I come all the way here, take two train lines, just because I pity you?”

“Guilt then.” There is was—just a flicker of something, Shinso’s mouth turned down, just a little. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You felt bad I got the hell beat out of me after you used that quirk of yours, and now you’re here to assuage those nasty little feelings of guilt.” 

He released Shinso’s shoulder, the tension snapping between them. Shinso slammed the bowl down on the coffee table, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Water splashed over the sides.

“So what if I feel guilty? Of course I feel fucking guilty! You really think I have nothing better to do than waste my time on some nobody I don’t give a fuck about, just because I have a guilty conscience or… because we’ve fucked a few times? I do this all day, everyday, and I deal with the guilt no problem. You’re so fucking blind. You’re my friend, asshole! We’ve always been friends.”

Bakugo’s chest tightened at the word and for a moment his anger faltered. Friends?

“I know things haven’t worked out in the past, and I’m sorry I didn’t want to fuck anymore. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye or tell you everything I was thinking back then, it was fucked up. But that doesn’t mean I dislike you. Somehow, despite everything you do annoying the hell out of me, I enjoy being around you, okay? I wouldn’t take care of anyone just because of pity or guilt– least of all the most stubborn alpha in Japan.”

Bakugo found himself speechless. The hot wind had been knocked out of him.

Friends?

How was he supposed to know they were friends?

“Well! Fine then!” He sputtered eventually, his rage struggling to stay lit with nowhere to go. “But you're a shitty fuckin’ friend.” 

The irony of the statement wasn’t lost on him. Shinso was still standing here, wasn’t he? Still here to help clean up his wounds, still arguing with him and calling him on his shit. 

“Yeah… that’s fair.”

“ And for the fuckin’ record,” Bakugo continued, though his voice was quickly losing it’s edge, “Not fucking anymore is a mutual thing. But we can be…” He waved his hands around vaguely, huffing. “We can be friends, if you wanna be so damn bad.”

Shinso raised an eyebrow, his expression softening. It felt like some bubble between them had popped. 

“Cool… okay, well then… sit down I need to fix that arm up. I can’t… can’t have my partner in bad shape.”

It was an olive branch and Bakugo took it. God help him, he grabbed onto it for dear life. He sat down and put the stupid ice pack on his eye. He held himself still, doing what he was told without arguing for the first time in a long time, for his friend.

Chapter Text

The morning sun warmed Shinso’s cheeks as he stepped out of the shadows of the alleyway, pulling his headphones off. Heat soaked through the fabric of his shirt, the faint sting of sunlight clinging to his skin. The neighborhood hummed quietly in the early hours, a lull before the rush, but the tension in his chest refused to be quiet. The scent of warming asphalt rose with the breeze, carrying traces of sweet bread from a nearby bakery and the metallic tang of yesterday’s rain steaming off the gutters. 

His footsteps carried him to the cafe he’d chosen, an unassuming corner spot with a weathered awning and lavender planters softening its edges. The planters were filled with happy, lush flowers—petunias and verbena in full bloom, their fragrance subtle but persistent in the heat. Bees hovered lazily among them, wings glinting like glass.

Cool air conditioning washed over him as he stepped inside, the chill prickling goosebumps over the sweat on his arms. The cafe smelled like coffee, citrus cleaner, and the faintest trace of garden soil.

The walls were painted a pale cream, dappled with sunlight through high windows. It was quiet, and he received his coffee quickly. It wasn’t the kind of place Bakugo would pick, but that was exactly the point.

Shinso let his gaze wander across the street; sliding into a seat by the window, tracking the movements of passersby. His fingers wrapped around the sturdy ceramic mug in front of him, heat seeping into his palms as he sipped the bitter coffee. He’d come early, as he always did. Waiting was easier when he controlled the space. 

He saw Bakugo before he heard him–the sharp line of his shoulders cutting through the crowd like a blade. His expression was a typical scowl. He walked with sure steps, like he was following a line right to the shop and coming inside, straight to Shinso.

“You pick the most boring places,” Bakugo muttered, dropping into the chair across from him without ceremony. His eyes flicked to Shinso’s cup. “What’s that, dirt water?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he replied evenly. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bakugo shot back, glaring as if Shinso had just accused him of something serious. “I’m not gonna skip out after... yesterday.”

He arched an eyebrow.

Bakugo glanced sideways like he was uncomfortable before muttering something that almost sounded like gratitude.

“Sorry, what was that?” Shinso asked, tone deliberately light.

Bakugo glared directly at him now. “I said- Thanks… for you know,” he eventually growled, as if each syllable was being dragged out of him. 

“Don't mention it.” He smiled, maybe Bakugo had grown a little.

“Yeah, I showed up today so we're even now.”

Or maybe not.

“I'd ask what's good here but I don't trust your taste.” He stood up to go order at the counter without another word. His shoulders were squared and brimming with intensity, even in the small confines of the cafe. 

While Bakugo studied the board as if it might offend him, Shinso let his focus drift back out the window. A bike courier whizzed by, threading through the sparse traffic. A cluster of teenagers strolled past next, jostling and laughing over something on a phone—their voices rang out in bright bursts that hung in the warm air before fading away. Across the street, a delivery truck groaned to a stop at the curb, its hot engine ticking as it idled.

It could have been an ordinary summer morning. Almost. Yet the knot in Shinso’s chest refused to loosen. The last time he’d been free of that tightness was a distant memory. Even the peaceful street scene couldn’t fully reach him. A dog barked at a passerby across the way, lunging against its leash until its collar clinked and its owner pulled it back. The sudden noise sent a few pigeons fluttering out from under the cafe awning, wings beating a ragged retreat.

He didn’t notice Bakugo returning until a heavy thump of ceramic on wood made him blink. Bakugo dropped back into the chair opposite, setting down a steaming mug and a plate bearing a giant croissant. The mug hit the table a little harder than necessary, dark liquid sloshing just shy of the rim. The buttery scent of fresh pastry curled up between them, colliding with the bitter aroma of Shinso’s coffee. The blend of sugar and char was heady and oddly familiar.

“Place smells like a damn apothecary,” Bakugo muttered, tearing off a piece of the pastry and popping it into his mouth. Flaky crumbs dusted the tabletop. He gave the cafe an exaggerated once-over, as if the potted lavender and lemon-cleaner tang personally offended him.

“So,” Bakugo tried again, tone gruff, “this how you spend your mornings? Huddled up in hipster coffee shops?”

Shinso shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes. When I’m up early.”

“S’nice, I guess,” Bakugo allowed gruffly, looking anywhere but at Shinso. “...Y’know, for a hipster coffee shop.” He punctuated the half-compliment with another shrug.

Shinso huffed a soft breath that might have been a laugh. Bakugo’s version of morning small talk, apparently. Painfully bad, but an effort nonetheless. He was at least trying to be kinda nice to Shinso–which was more than most people got. Especially after a fight. 

His gaze drifted to a white bandage peeking out from Bakugo’s rolled-up sleeve. A faint bruise still shadowed the edge of his jaw. At least the idiot hadn’t ripped the gauze off yet. Shinso could still picture the night before: Bakugo sitting relatively patiently on the edge of his couch while Shinso cleaned and dressed every wound. And the final scowl Bakugo gave when Shinso left a can of soup and a bottle of ginger ale on the counter—insisting that he wasn’t going to eat canned soup when he could make it better, himself. 

Shinso left it anyway. It felt better than leaving him with nothing at all.

The silence between them held a tentative shape, like an old wooden bridge that might creak or snap if either of them pushed too hard. For now, it held. 

Bakugo took a few sips of his coffee before trying again. “Is it me or is it hot as a witch’s tit out there?”

Shinso fought the smile tugging at his lips, only one per person per day was his motto. Trust Bakugo to put it so eloquently. He was honestly kind of… cute like this—crude and gruff and utterly incapable of subtlety. “Pretty hot for how early it is,” Shinso agreed lightly. He nodded at Bakugo’s bandaged shoulder. “How’s that shoulder holding up?”

He rolled it a little, testing the joint with a faint wince. “Fine, barely a scratch.”

Shinso wasn’t buying it. “That’s not what it looked like yesterday. You’re stubborn, but even you have your limits.”

Bakugo snorted. “You sound like a damn nurse.”

He narrowed his eyes in a mock glare. “Next time you’re hurt, I’ll just leave you to bleed out, then.”

Bakugo barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right. You’d miss me too much.”

Shinso clicked his tongue and leaned back in his chair. “I think I’d survive.”

They shared a brief chuckle, the tension between them easing by degrees. Each playful barb chipped away at the wall that had been standing between them. For the first time all morning, he let himself relax by inches in his seat.

All around them, the cafe was livening up. A burst of laughter rang out behind the counter, followed by the high-pitched hiss of the espresso machine steaming milk. Dishes clinked and cutlery chimed as more customers trickled in. Outside, sunrays dripped down the building fronts in sheets of gold. The window beside Shinso grew warm under his elbow despite the AC’s best efforts. 

He idly traced the rim of his mug with a finger, letting the lingering heat anchor him in the moment. Tendrils of steam curled up from his coffee and Bakugo’s, lazy and unhurried, as though time itself had decided to slow down between them. Across the table, Bakugo obliterated his croissant into a mess of crumbs and torn pastry. He popped another piece into his mouth and chased it with a gulp of coffee. His forearms sprawled on the table, tanned from the summer sun and still marked with a few stark white bandages. In the gentle lull, it struck Shinso how strangely comfortable this all was. 

Bakugo was the one to break the silence again. "You’ve got this whole… thing down, huh?" His voice cut through the air like a spark.

He glanced up. "Thing?"

Bakugo gestured vaguely with a hand, the other still occupied with the remains of the dismembered croissant. "The calm, know-it-all act. Like nothing gets under your skin."

He shrugged, the motion smooth and measured. "Comes with the territory. You can’t use my quirk and lose your cool."

The corner of Bakugo’s mouth twitched, almost too fast to catch. "Must be nice."

Shinso studied him for a moment. Bakugo’s fingers were drumming a restless pattern against his empty mug, and one knee bounced under the table. “It’s not always,” Shinso said quietly, leaning back. “Being the stoic one… it makes it harder to let people in when you’re used to keeping them out.”

His hand stilled. He glanced up, meeting Shinso’s eyes for a brief moment. "Yeah… guess I understand that."

Shinso exhaled, then offered, “Honestly? I’m jealous of you sometimes. You wear everything so openly. I don’t think I even know how to do that.”

Bakugo blinked at the confession. He didn’t immediately bark back a reply or scoff the way Shinso expected. Instead his gaze dropped to the table, fingers brushing away stray crumbs as if the movement gave him something to focus on. Something to do with his hands while the silence stretched.

“Tch.” Bakugo finally broke it with a soft scoff. The glare he shot Shinso was half-hearted at best. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, y’know. Everyone always has something to say when you’re like me. Either I’m too much, or I’m not enough. Nobody ever shuts up long enough to figure out which.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Bakugo let out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Better than keeping it all locked up. At least when I lose my shit, I don’t have to guess what people are thinking.” 

“Fair point,” he tilted his mug toward Bakugo in a mock toast. “Still, I don’t think I could pull off your style.”

“Damn right,” Bakugo actually smiled at that, a real one that lit his eyes for a split second. “You’d just embarrass yourself.” 

Shinso downed his remaining coffee. “I don’t think you’re too much, or not enough. Just for the record.”

When he looked back up Bakugo’s face was uncharacteristically clouded, but only for a second. His scent gave nothing away.  Or if it had, Shinso couldn't decipher it. It drifted somewhere between scorched sugar and smoke, volatile and unreadable. 

He decided he wanted to know more about Bakugo. 

“You don't have to say that. It's fine.” Bakugo’s eyes sharpened once more and fixed themselves back on Shinso, changing the subject. “I'm surprised you're up so early. I thought you'd be sleeping off your late night. Two train lines, right?”

He wanted to go back to that moment and unravel it–but he didn't push. He knew Bakugo enough to know he was a caged animal when he felt cornered. No, that wasn't right. He was too calculated to be animalistic, even if he was rough around the edges. Bakugo was just…

Bakugo coughed to get his attention, more polite than he used to be. Old Bakugo would have told him to hurry up and not get lost. Even more reason to not linger and move on. 

“Sorry,” Shinso shook his head a little. He was tired. “I know I’ve been spacey. Got up early, just for you.” Not that he usually slept well anyway. Shinso went to take a drink but found his cup sadly empty. What a pity.

“Lucky me.” Bakugo said flatly but he smiled again as he sipped from his cup.

“Wanna smoke?” Shinso asked after a beat, not quite ready to end this just yet.

 (¬_¬)            (•̀o•́)ง

Bakugo knew he was as far from chill as anyone. He had no delusions about it; but when he smoked… the world mellowed. The edges that grated at him dulled ever so slightly. It used to be Shinso’s and his ritual but he'd taken to it more since they went their separate ways. 

These days he usually toked up alone, and if every drag still reminded him of those nights with Shinso... so fucking what? 

He blew out a lungful of pungent smoke, watching it curl in languid ribbons toward the ceiling of his living room. It was different now of course, he smoked whenever he wanted. Mitsuki wasn't there to scold him, even if Bakugo did get passive aggressive letters from his new leasing office. Just a reminder to residents: there's no smoking of any substances permitted in the building.

Not that he gave a shit. 

He also smoked better weed now that he was on his own after graduating. He’d done pretty well for himself as a rookie hero, if he said so himself. And he did, and so did the fuckin news. He wasn't cocky, he was just right.

Anyway, his good weed was the reason they were at his apartment. That–and they were slightly closer to his. It was Bakugo’s way of showing what other people might call gratitude. Not that he was gonna grovel just because Shinso showed up unannounced and patched him up. He was capable of taking care of himself… but he still wanted to do something ‘nice.’ Offering a smoke—on his turf, with his primo supply—was about as close to sentimental as he got.

So, Bakugo ended up hunched over his coffee table grinding up herb and meticulously crafting what could only be called a beautiful bowl. He sprinkled some kief on it like a cherry on top. Shinso hovered with open curiosity—Bakugo shot him a glare and jerked his chin at the couch. 

“Done. Now quit being fuckin nosey and c’mere.” Bakugo hit it, lighter sparking and burning a corner of the green before inhaling. He let the smoke curl in his chest before finally extending the bong to Shinso with a rough, “Here,” who took both it and a seat on the leather couch next to him.

He tried not to think about how easy it was, falling back into this routine–smoke drifting in lazy, translucent ribbons between them while Shinso eyed him like he was some goddamn puzzle. 

He hated that look, or at least he told himself he did. Hated the way Shinso’s gaze lingered on his face as he took the piece, slipping over the line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. It made him feel exposed, like Shinso was prying open a box Bakugo had nailed shut. 

Shinso inhaled deep, letting it fill his chest. Lilac hair bounced lazily along with his head, smoke trailing from tombstone shaped teeth, as he glanced around and released a slow plume. “Your place is nicer than I expected,” he remarked, voice lazily amused. “Not sure what I thought I’d find, to be honest.”

“It didn't look nice last night? It's literally the same.” 

“No, you just had me too busy bandaging your bruised ego to notice anything else,” he said, voice dropping low. He sounded downright smug about it. As he spoke, he raked a hand through his messy hair, letting his fingers catch a tangle before smoothing it out. Something in Bakugo’s chest tightened. “Anyway, it’s the same four walls, sure. But the daylight changes things. Less ‘gritty hero lair’ and more.. cozy.”

“Cozy .” Bakugo didn't think he’d ever been described as cozy. His apartment was the kind of place that didn’t invite clutter. The citrus cleaner he'd used earlier still clung to the air, faint under the newer scents of smoke and sweat and whatever detergent was left over from the last time he remembered to do laundry. Everything had a place, and most things stayed where they were supposed to. Except a backpack, slouched over the back of one chair.

His couch sat low to the ground and there was a soft, worn blanket draped over the back that he favored. A few mugs sat drying near the sink, the only real evidence anyone lived there. The kitchen blended into the living room, separated by a bar counter with two stools tucked in tight that blocked it from view where they were at. Cabinets were black matte, sleek, with brushed metal handles. Nothing extravagant, but everything coordinated. 

A framed photograph hung by the entry—one of those rare shots from their UA days, taken by Kirishima. The kind of thing Bakugo would claim was dumb if anyone asked him, but he hadn’t taken it down.

“Maybe just the smell of weed has you liking it more now in some pavlovian response.” Bakugo remarked before taking back the bong and taking another hit. He breathed out into Shinso’s face before continuing. “Or maybe you're just scared’a the dark, fuckin weirdo.”

“Weirdo? That’s pretty tame.” He flicked the flame, took a small hit, and let the smoke roll along his next words as he pulled his phone out, working to connect to the bluetooth of Bakugo’s speakers. “You used to call me worse.” A slow grin slid onto his face as he sank deeper into the couch cushions.

“Don’t tempt me, still got plenty of insults lined up.”

Shinso settled back, music filtering through the sound system. He stretched his long legs out, looking entirely at home. “Go on then, show me what you’ve got… golden boy. ”

Bakugo nearly choked on the lungful of smoke he’d just inhaled. “Golden boy?” he sputtered, coughing and setting the bong aside on the coffee table, ignoring the clatter of coasters. “You think I’m that shiny?”

His eyes gleamed, half-lidded and wicked. “More like radioactive.” he drawled. “Explosive temper, big mouth–still can’t shut up half the time.”

A snort burst from Bakugo, followed by another strangled cough. Fair enough; he’d walked right into that one.

“Don’t make me boot your ass out. You’re on thin ice.” He choked out, voice thin.

“Sure you will,” Shinso murmured, clearly unconcerned. His smile had a sleepy warmth to it now that made him look younger, a flash of the Hitoshi he once knew. His features caught the light nicely as he shook his head. “Seriously, though. Place looks good, and you look…” 

Bakugo frowned, “Spit it out.”

Shinso paused, gaze flicking over Bakugo’s face- his rough angles, the faint bruise on his jaw from the night before. “Stronger. Better. You handling the hero work okay?”

Something bristled under Bakugo’s skin. Whether it was pride or a lingering shard of shame from the previous night’s close call, the question rubbed him raw. “The fuck is that supposed to mean? Don't I look like I’m doing okay?” He couldn't help the defensive flair. Couldn't help feeling weak after being handled so much. “I always handle my shit.” 

As if to prove the point, he rolled his shoulders back. The sudden movement ignited a hot twinge through his bandaged side, and he had to clamp his jaw to hide the wince. He knew his scent flared to match the shift in his mood. He pulled the bong off the table and took another deep inhale, hoping somewhat that the smoke would quell both hurt and the rise in his temper. That the smell would mask the rest.

Shinso’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed infuriatingly calm. “Easy,” he said, voice low. His gaze never wavered, though the muscle at his jaw tightened. “Yeah, you always handle your shit. But I can still ask, can’t I?”

Bakugo scowled over the hazy rim of the bong, sharp eyes narrowed. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. You just make it sound like I’m not… good.” He tipped his head, tapping off ash that had blown back on his hand. 

“If I thought you weren’t good, I’d have dragged your ass to a hospital last night.” His voice edged warmer again. “I’m not blind. You’re pretty banged up. That’s all.”

“I’ve been worse. It’s fine, I’m fine.” he gritted out before he met his eyes again. “Really.” he added, trying to sound like he meant it this time. He had been worse. Not in a while but still, he didn't need to share how long. 

Shinso watched him a moment longer, then inclined his head slightly. He didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. “Alright.”

That simple, nonjudgmental acceptance made Bakugo falter. It dawned on Bakugo that Shinso was just pressing because he genuinely cared about the answer. That thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Bakugo’s glower softened as he looked away, busying himself by clearing the ash from the bowl. He wasn’t used to people worrying whether he was actually okay—especially not without some ulterior motive. It was… unnerving. And kind of infuriating. And maybe a little bit… nice.

He cleared his throat roughly and set the spent piece aside. His high had settled into a warm fog that made his eyelids heavy and his tongue a bit loose. Shinso was still watching him with that calm, patient expression that somehow left Bakugo feeling seen and challenged all at once. Bakugo clicked his tongue, embarrassed by the tension that had crept in. To clear the air, he decided to come clean. They spoke at the same time, but he pushed ahead.

“Katsuki–”

“It’s just... I’m not used to being so off my game. Took me a second longer than I thought to refocus.” Then more quietly. “It wasn't like this before.”

Understanding lit Shinso’s face and scent. He masked it with a slow blink, almost too careful not to spook Bakugo with sympathy. “Off your game happens. Recovery’s part of the process,” he said mildly.

Bakugo barked a low laugh. “Huh. You sound like my mom.” A half-hearted grin curled his lip at a memory. His mom wouldn’t be so kind. “Or more like Aizawa, anyway.”

“Your mom or Aizawa, that’s quite a range.” 

Shinso’s words painted a funny picture in the smoke that earned a genuine laugh from Bakugo.”Yeah, something like that.”

The weed played warmly in his mind along with the melody of the song that pounded softly in the speakers. The knot in his chest loosened a little more. He caught himself absently running his tongue across the soulmark on the roof of his mouth. 

The morning bled into the afternoon in clouds of smoke and coughs that came from laughter. Eventually one of them looked at the clock and then it was over. It was time for Shinso to go.

At the door, Shinso paused as if considering something. He offered Bakugo a lopsided little smile. “We should… do this again sometime.”

Bakugo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Breakfast or smoking?”

“Whichever.”

“Heh. Maybe I’ll let you.” He tried to sound flippant, but it came out more genuine than he intended.

Shinso’s smile inched a bit wider. Neither of them were great at goodbyes.

By the time the door closed and Shinso left to run errands or something, Bakugo was pretty high. He sank down onto the edge of his bed. Something nagged at the back of his mind—an idea he normally wouldn’t even allow himself to entertain. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed his mind before… he’d just never let it take root. 

Shinso couldn't be his soulmate... 

The only clue was that his mark was in his mouth, but he'd never gotten a good enough look to see what it is. And he sure as shit wasn’t gonna ask someone. So maybe there was a slim chance he was… 

Bakugo’s jaw tightened, and he immediately tried to shove that notion aside. It was stupid. He couldn't be... because Shinso had said he had a mate who didn't want him and that just wasn't Bakugo. There was an ache blooming in his chest just thinking about the other alpha. A gnawing hunger. He clenched his fists until the feeling ebbed.

Plus, if Shinso knew he would have told Bakugo, right?

So it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. And it never would be. 

He knew that back then and he knew it now.

A crueler thought slithered up before he could stop it: if by chance it was him—if Bakugo was the soulmate Shinso had given up on—then Shinso had walked away knowing exactly what he was leaving behind. Which meant he didn’t want Bakugo back.

His chest constricted at that thought, heat prickling behind his eyes. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the sharp sting cleared his vision. That was okay. Shinso could do whatever he pleased, fate's plans be damned. Bakugo wasn’t gonna beg or stand in his way either. It wasn’t a good idea to let himself start hoping for things to start back up with them. It was just…

Bakugo had never liked the quiet. It meant someone was holding back. Watching. Waiting. It made his skin itch, like a fuse burning too close.

But Shinso’s quiet wasn’t empty. It was a coiled thing, deliberate. Heavy with promise.

He leaned back onto the mattress. The crowd’s roar stayed with him. It was dulled to a background hum, but Shinso’s voice echoed fresh in his skull—low, calm, inescapable, layered with his quirk.

“You’d like that?”

Bakugo hadn’t missed the flicker in Shinso’s eyes as he said it, or the subtle drawl in his tone—just a shade too intimate.

And now? Now he couldn’t stop replaying that moment. The command in Shinso’s voice. The way his breath caught at the edge of control. The electric thrill of not being in charge for once.

His fingers clenched into fists, then relaxed. He let his head fall back against his pillow, a low growl vibrating in his throat. Damn that bastard.

The fight was over. The crowd was gone.

But his pulse kept climbing.

He should’ve been pissed to be controlled like that. He was pissed. But not at Shinso. At himself—for the way his cock throbbed the second he remembered that low command, the way his body had obeyed without a fight. Like it had been waiting , betraying him with a surge of want.

“Shit,” he spat under his breath.

His hand was already moving without conscious thought, shoving down the front of his shorts. Rough, no buildup. He didn’t need it. He was painfully hard, and the slightest brush of his calloused palm drew a shuddering gasp from his throat. His brain was spinning that memory on an endless loop; replaying the sound of Shinso’s voice, deep and direct, cutting through the noise like a knife, “Good boy.”

Bakugo groaned, loud, half an exhale, half a curse. Chasing pleasure like it owed him something.

“Fuck—”

He couldn’t stop picturing Shinso stepping towards him with that lazy confidence, quirk humming through the air like static. Imagining him not even touching—just speaking, just telling Bakugo what to do, when to move, how to cum.

He let his free hand push up his shirt, twisting pleasantly at his nipples, the other hand stroking faster, messier. The shame made it hotter. The fact that if Shinso knew—if he saw him like this—

“Don’t stop,” he imagined Shinso saying. “Look at you. You like this.”

And Bakugo did. God, he did. A white-hot coil of heat was tightening in his core, pressure building with every stroke of his fist. 

He let out a guttural noise that was half snarl, half desperate moan. His hips bucked up from the bed, embracing the friction of his rough grip as if it could somehow match the smoky caress of that voice in his head. He pumped himself faster, reckless and raw.

It didn’t take long after that. His whole body jerked as he came, panting, stomach tight, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Silence followed. Just his heartbeat in his ears. The cool air of the room prickled against the sweat on his skin and the sticky mess cooling on his stomach. His thoughts were hazy, obliterated by sensation and fantasy. He could still see Shinso in front of him: the lazy prowl of his steps, the way those violet eyes would darken as he watched Bakugo come undone. 

He sat up, wiping his clean hand over his flushed face.

Fucking Hitoshi. If they kept hanging out he was going to kill him. Or blow him. Maybe both.

Groaning, Bakugo pushed himself to his feet on unsteady legs. He yanked off his soiled shirt, using a clean corner of it to wipe his abdomen before tossing it towards the laundry basket. 

His imagination was starting to run away with him if he thought that anything would change... It was time for a distraction. Texting Kirishima to meet him at their usual spot, he decided to go for a run, and then possibly to the gym to clear his head. 

Bakugo yanked on a fresh shirt and a pair of running shoes, slamming the door behind him on the way out. He hoped a few miles of pavement and a couple hundred pounds of iron would do the trick—because right now, all he could think about was Shinso’s damned voice and how badly he wanted to hear it again.

Chapter Text

The chair was too small for Shinso to sit on but he took a seat anyway. Knees brushing the floor as he awkwardly crossed his legs to better fit on the tiny, yellow plastic seat. A tea table made for small hands was laid out before him. Complete with plastic dishes, miniature cucumber sandwiches, and seaweed cookies that dropped crumbs as they disappeared into three small mouths. 

“I’m not going to be staying here anymore.” He said, fingers absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread hanging from a tear in his jeans. 

“How come?” Daiki, the oldest of the children at eight, and closest to Shinso's eleven, asked with a look of surprise, setting down his pink cup of cold tea. 

“Cause you got in trouble.” Chiyo piqued, more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah, because I got in trouble.” Shinso echoed softly. The youngest, oblivious to most things, climbed down from her chair and came over to put a cookie on his plate. He gave her a gentle pat on the head in thanks as she scampered back to her seat. 

“Bye then.” Daiki murmured, returning to his tea and little sandwiches. 

He got up, taking the cookie with him and leaving not a small part of himself behind. “Bye.”            

(¬_¬)      

He’d never been afraid of death, and he wouldn’t say he was afraid of it now. Just more aware. He thought about it now. Not in the existential way he’d thought of it in the past, to give life meaning because living is ephemeral, but in a way that sat heavy with him while he smoked a cigarette. 

‘Time is short–and suddenly you’re not there anymore.’

Shinso stamped out what was left of it and pulled on his headphones, settling them over his fluffy purple hair and surrounding his ears with a soft, noiseless cushion. The humidity only made his locks more unruly and they were hardly tamed, but the headphones were more of a ruse anyway. A wall he hoped told people that he did not under any circumstances want to be stopped for small-talk. 

The building swallowed him back up readily. Hallways upon hallways without windows leading him this way and that until he stood at the base of a tall staircase. The first time he’d come here he’d wondered how he’d ever be able to remember where he was going. It was second nature now. “I spend too much time here,” he muttered to himself.

At the top of the staircase was a beige door he hadn’t yet been allowed through. He settled on the stairs like they were bleachers, stretching his long legs and cracking his neck from side to side. How many hours had it been since he’d seen his bed? Shinso had lost count. He tended to work overnight. This job was running him ragged, but he didn’t want to pull out. Far from it, with Bakugo here he felt more driven than ever before. 

There was one part of it that sat heavy with him–the manipulation. It felt like a betrayal of everything he’d sworn he’d never be. 

Earlier that night he’d whispered to a bruised beta that he was calm. Safe. Ready. He’d watched his body ease under the lie, as if his fear could be overridden by just the right tone in Shinso’s voice.

And it could.

They all could.

He should have felt something—revulsion, power, guilt. But all he felt was tired.

The numbness threatened to swallow everything else, like static building in his chest. Each command left a smear on his conscience, but the smears had become so layered he couldn’t tell where the first one started.

Sometimes he wondered if the only reason he was good at this job was because he was already broken in the right ways.

He didn’t know what scared him more: the way people obeyed, or how little it affected him now when they did.

A few familiar faces walked past and maybe he should have been taking any chance to talk to whoever he could–gather intel for the agency–but that seemed like a bother, and besides, there was no way Daiki would believe it was natural from him. 

As if summoned, a hand from behind pulled his headphones down around his neck as the beta collapsed on the stair above him. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Food?”

“Food.” He stood and Daiki put an arm around his shoulder. He returned the gesture and they weaved back and forth, keeping balance as best they could with not a little bit of pushing, through hallway after hallway–back into the daylight. 

His brother and him. 

(¬_¬)   

Shinso dreamed in crooked flashes. 

A flame behind his eyelids– the hiss of it meeting the tip of a half finished joint. He remembered the day so clearly he could scrape the memory off his tongue and taste it all over again. After the dinner with his grandparents, before the end–

They’d been hanging around outside the back of the dorms, for no particular reason. Bakugo sprawled on the concrete bench like he owned the place, Shinso perched on the edge, fiddling with his lighter. Winter clung to them then, carried on the damp bite of the wind and the leftover stink of sparring mats. 

They had a bottle of something alcoholic, he couldn’t recall what. Something they’d swiped off Kirishima when the redhead wasn’t looking. 

He’d been in a good mood that day, Bakugo. Well, his version of good. 

“Your face is stuck like that, huh?” Bakugo said, grin sharp at the corners. He’d taken a pull straight from the bottle, adams-apple bobbing, eyes on Shinso like he was daring him to look away.

Shinso snorted, flicked his lighter open and shut, the flame sputtering. “Your face is stuck like this ,” he shot back, stretching his mouth in a wide scowl that made Bakugo bark out a laugh.

It had struck Shinso dumb, how bright Bakugo got when he let the edges soften, when the fire burned through the defense mechanisms and left only heat, warmth. For one stupid second, Shinso wanted to lean in and catch the alcohol on Bakugo’s tongue. 

Instead he leaned back, tapping ash off the edge of the joint he’d lit. They sat there talking for a long while. Passing the bottle back and forth until they were dizzy with it. Smoking through half of his weed. It was one of the few times they’d spent back then doing the things friends might do. He didn’t say it out loud but he was thinking, maybe this is it–maybe this is as good as it gets. 

Shinso could still feel the heat of Bakugo’s knee pressed against his own, the rough scrape of laughter. Something in him twitched awake as he thought about it. 

He woke out of his half-asleep half-awake state, tangled in his sheets, cat curled into his ribs. Letting the memory settle like dust in his lungs. It was easier than admitting he wanted it back

He curled in on himself and around his little ball of fluff. Kuro purred and Shinso didn’t know what to do with the longing in his guts, in the empty cavity of his chest where his heart should be.

He didn’t miss his soulmate, he missed Bakugo . Not for what he was–but who he was. It never really went away, he just learned to live with it. Shinso hadn’t even thought he liked the fucker, much less cared for him for most of their initial ‘relationship.’

He’d left before he could really figure it out and once he did it was too late. He’d been resolute in his absence, so unwilling to be vulnerable to someone as abrasive as steel wool.

But here he was, missing the idiot like the starving miss food, how the drowned miss air.

Shinso wasn’t even sure if he missed what they had before necessarily. He just knew, now that Bakugo had made his reappearance, it was impossible to get him out of his head. He found himself wishing the mission would end faster so he could go back to burying the ache, but that felt dishonest too. Somewhere deeper, quieter and secret, he wished Katsuki would stay. That felt like a fool’s dream.

And a fool he was. 

He didn’t know what Bakugo wanted and that made it harder. He felt as if he was sitting in limbo, a strange in between where everything was within reach but completely off limits. They were friends now at least. Bakugo had even said it, so it must be true.

They were friends. Nothing more. Maybe forever... but that alone was an improvement wasn’t it?

‘Time is short–and suddenly you’re not there anymore.’

Aizawa's voice drew him from his depths, echoing a long ago conversation.

Things were different now than they used to be, but also better now. He wasn’t the same person he’d been. Neither was Bakugo. They had both matured, and they hadn’t killed each other yet. In fact they had hardly even fought except for those first couple times.

They’d even hung out, getting coffee, breaking the tension. 

Maybe Shinso would never have a chance with him again, he wasn’t so much of a fool to hope.

He wasn’t sure he believed in fate but he was grateful for whatever had pulled them together. He might never have everything but he had something. 

Shinso didn’t even have to miss Bakugo, not really. He could just text the idiot. He was a grown up. This was his second chance… he didn’t have to let it go to waste.

He had a sudden compulsion to talk to him. To check in or to just hear his voice, silly as that was. He sat up, sending Kuro skittering away. He felt around in his sheets for his phone; he knew it was somewhere around here…

Once he found it he opened Bakugo’s chat and stared.

What to text… he tugged on his hair, an anxious habit. He needed something that seemed normal but would invite conversation… Maybe he should call instead. 

Was he ready to be on the phone with Katsuki? Does Kats even like being on the phone? He looked at his cat… Kuro would talk to him if he called, surely… and he was just as temperamental.

Only one way to find out. 

Before he could overthink it any more, Shinso hit the dial on Bakugo’s number. He only realized after he’d hit the button that it was 7am and Bakugo might still be asleep. He had blackout curtains through most of his apartment, and for him, it was basically late night. 

Shinso’s thumb hovered over the disconnect button while it rang. He almost bailed. The fourth ring cut off–

“ Oi. You die or something? Who the fuck calls anymore?” Bakugo’s voice was rough with surprise, but not sleep and not angry. 

Shinso let out a half-laugh that felt like a lungful of relief. “Yeah, well. Texting’s boring. Wanted to check if you still sounded like a gremlin.”

Bakugo’s scoff fuzzed the speaker. “You’re the one who sounds like you chain-smoked a chimney. This a work thing?”

“Nah.” He rolled onto his back, free arm draped over his forehead. He could already hear the gears turning in Bakugo’s head–the suspicion, the readiness to pounce on any opening. “No mission shit. Just figured you’d answer. I didn’t have anything better to do.”

“Some of us do. I was just getting ready to hit the gym-”

“You love the fucking gym don’t you?"

"Muscles don't manifest from wishful thinking."

"You do have a lot of them." Shinso felt apprehension bubble up inside him. He wanted to talk but maybe he was being a bother. "Gotta go?”

“Nah, I got time.”

Relief flooded him. He rarely felt nervous but for some reason it was like he’d just called his crush or something. “That's cool.”

Bakugo was quiet for a beat. He must’ve been pacing. Shinso could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the scuff of socks on the floorboards. “So? Whatcha wanna talk about, genius?”

“Dunno… Something not work for once. Umm.." He hadn't thought this far ahead. He scrambled for a topic. "You ever think about your family much?”

There was a snort from the other end of the line. “I try my damned hardest not too. It’s been a while since the old lady hit my line. S’better that way. I remain the son they brag about at stupid parties and they stay outta my way. Why?”

“No reason. Just… we’ve never really talked about them.” Smooth cover, this was going great. 

“That’s by design.”

Maybe not so great.

 “I was just curious. Feels like… I dunno. We’ve changed a lot. I was wondering where that started for you.”

There was a pause. Shinso was just starting to think he overstepped but then there was a sigh and the sound of Bakugo collapsing on some piece of furniture. 

“Yeah, we have changed a lot.” Bakugo was a little muffled at first but the sound cleared up after a moment. “I dunno. Sometimes I feel like I’m still changing. Don’t really know when it started but it sure as shit had nothing to do with the ‘rents. You heard from your bitch ass grandparents recently?”

“Nah… I’ve changed in ways they only see as bad. Not that I had very far to fall in their esteem. I feel like I’m still changing too. I don’t know who I was last month but I’m a different me today. Maybe we can’t press against the world without it shaping us.”

“Do you think it matters what part of the world we press against?” Bakugo seemed to have eased into the conversation. It was more philosophical than Shinso was used to him being. He remembered Aizawa telling him back in the day that Bakugo was smart–top of the class.

“It’s gotta, right?”

“Maybe. I guess UA changed me a lot. I was so on top of the world before, y’know?” There was another pause like Bakugo didn’t really know what to say. “Wha- what about you? How’ve you changed in ways your grandparents only see as bad?”

Shinso huffed out a breath through his nose, scratching at Kuro’s ear when the cat nosed his hand. “Mm… I think I’ve become more outspoken, less likely to sit still and let things just happen to me. Broke their damn hearts when I told them to fuck off at a big party they were throwing.”

Bakugo gave a low grunt that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Dramatic.”

“And you're not? Aren’t you the one that told them off over dinner once?”

“I stand by that night, your grandparents suck. No offence.”

“None taken. Never did me too many favors, except getting me out of the system and even then… It’s alright though, I don’t think either of us miss the other too much.”

“Their loss dude.”

“Eh, they always had a chip on their shoulder about me. Used to think everything about me was a problem to fix. The quirk, the way people looked at me.” He took a deep breath, feeling his chest rise and fall. “Seemed like everything just confirmed for me over and over that I needed to prove my worth. I tried to just slip under the radar outside of school, then I met Aizawa… After that I thought if I got stronger, better, maybe I’d be… I dunno. More palatable in a way that no one could rightly deny . ” 

The bed was comfortable and something about laying there with his phone, and Bakugo not being there physically made it easier to talk about things he usually kept to himself. After a moment he added, “You said you changed a lot at UA, I did too. I had a lot to prove back then.”

“Yeah you did.” Bakugo teased. “I get it though. For me it was like I showed up and thought I was hot shit. Don’t get me wrong, I was right, but damn was there competition. Suddenly I could see all the things I lacked. I was trying so hard to prove myself, especially after all the shit that school put us through. I became greedy for growth I think.”

“It was cool to watch in real time, not gonna lie.”

“Of course it was, I’m the best.” Shinso could hear the smile in his voice. “And for the record, fuck trying to be palatable. Anyone who doesn’t see what a badass you are isn’t worth a damn. You worked your ass off. You even took my ass out a coupla times.”

He let out a low laugh because he couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up his throat if he tried. “Yeah, well…” Shinso scratched behind Kuro’s ear again, letting the cat’s rumbling purr fill the moment. “You did too. All that ‘hot shit’ talk–you’re not wrong. But you worked harder than anybody I’ve ever met. Still do.”

“Damn right I do. I know I make this shit look easy but it does in fact take effort. I go to the gym a lot because muscles help make that effort invisible.” Bakugo laughed, his voice light. His guard seemed to have dropped. “Besides, if I don’t kick villain ass, who will? Can’t let ‘em hog all the fun.”

“Midoryia probably.”

“Yeah, yeah, but he’ll probably cry about it or something, he’s always been a crybaby. That ain’t scary. Gotta put the fear in these assholes.”

Shinso laughed, “Yeah maybe. You used to fight a lot, if I recall, but now you get along?”

“Hm, well the thing about that is… my mom’s an alpha who thinks the world’s fucking rules matter more than anything. I was never enough for her. Never ‘alpha’ enough. Can you believe that shit? Couldn’t cry, couldn’t cook, couldn’t do a fuckin’ thing she called ‘omega shit.’ Always had to be harder, louder. Every mistake was like I spat on the family name or something.”

“Sounds exhausting… What’s that to do with Deku?”

“Deku was everything I wasn’t supposed to be, even while having the same goal. I think I hated him in a way because he was everything I was told not to become. Soft, emotional, weak. I felt better than him. I believed it too, for a while… for a long while. Eventually I figured out I resented him because I couldn’t resent myself enough to make my mom satisfied. It took me a while to unlearn some shit. We’re good now though. Came a long way with that dork, I think he’s forgiven me for the hell I put him through.”

“Fuck, man.” The weight of it sunk in. For once he didn’t try to deflect with a joke. Didn’t feel right. He shifted, pulling Kuro closer until the cat settled, warm and grounding against his chest. 

“Yeah…”

“Y’know,” Shinso continued, voice low but steady, “That’s the thing about all that noise they put in our heads growing up. The rules. The shame. The ‘shoulds.’ It sticks to your ribs even when you think you’ve outgrown it.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully, wanting them to land the way Bakugo deserved. “You’ve turned out stubborn as hell and loud and reckless– but you’re good too. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the way they taught us to hate parts of ourselves doesn’t mean those parts were ever wrong.”

He swallowed, throat tight, but pushed through it because Bakugo was still quiet. Maybe he shouldn’t have.  “So… yeah. Maybe you used to fight Deku for all the ways you hated what you saw in the mirror. But now you’ve got room to fight for yourself instead. That’s worth something, right?”

“Yeah… I- Yeah.” Bakugo sounded distant, like his mind was somewhere far away. “I uhm, I gotta go… before the gym gets packed. I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh, yeah okay. Talk to ya later.” Shinso replied, a little confused at the abruptness.

“Bye Shin.”

“Bye Kats-” Shinso hesitated. “And thanks for answering. It was good talking to you.” He meant it.

“... Yeah, you too, Shin. No problem.” Then silence and a call ended screen.

Fuck.

He really fucked that up, huh? Why had he talked so much? Trying to make Bakugo feel… what? Better? For something that was hardly his business.

Shinso let out a breath, dragging a hand over his face, then resting it on the cat’s back like maybe the steady rise and fall would slow his own heartbeat. Kuro squirmed out and away.

“Real smooth, Hitoshi,” he muttered to the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Most of the fighters sat around on the floor, some stretching, some chatting, others nervously pacing. All of them- of us, Bakugo mentally corrected, waiting to go out there. Bakugo himself leaned against the wall away from all of them, watching. A few watched him back, covertly or not. Shinso had said there were whispers about Bakugo, but he didn't need to hear it from him. He could hear it when he passed, practically see it with every furtive glance his way. 

He nodded at one of the fighters as he caught their eyes, sidling up to the man and sliding his back down the wall right next to him. He was slight, not half as bulky as Bakugo. His body looked more reptilian than human. Beta by the scent, although Bakugo couldn’t pick out the notes in the mesh of the room.

“I don't want any trouble, didn't mean to stare.” He said, now avoiding Bakugo’s eyes like he was afraid he’d wail on him.

“Nah, it ain't like that. Just taking a seat.” He sniffed and looked around. The air was thick with fear and anticipation, anxiety and a trace of excitement. This beta had particularly spiked with fear when Bakugo made it over, strong enough that it rose above everything else, an acrid cover of sour apples and salt, bitter but somehow sickly saccharine. “They gotta upgrade the back of the house, this place sucks.”

Nervous laughter. “They say if you win a few times you make it to another, better room.”

“Think they have couches? Floors hard as dicks.”

He laughed again, more relaxed this time. The sour in his scent was lifting a little at a time, mellowing into something crisp and slightly sweet. Underlying notes of wood and sea swelled slowly as his tone lightened in tandem.  “Like I’d know. I’ve won like three fights and not by much… Not like you. I saw your first fight, you know? You'll make it there in no time.”

Bakugo tried to keep his face neutral but nice, well nice for him anyway. He remembered he had to befriend these poor suckers, to gain their trust. “Hmm we’ll see, if I'm lucky.”

“You gotta be after… Did you really stand up to Shinso?” His voice had gotten very small, like he was afraid to be overheard.”Not too many people do that and walk these halls much longer. You gotta be lucky.” The awe in his voice rang clear, even at a whisper.

“No one’s ever said anything? He don't seem too tough-”

The beta shook his head furiously. “No one stands up to him. Sometimes people disappear after they go under, they don’t want to risk it happening again. He’ll put you under and-” he shivered, “-make you do awful shit. Make you lose your whole life.”

Bakugo knew better than that. It wasn't so bad. He knew some of Shin’s limitations from fighting him back in the day, and sure his quirk mastery had probably grown exponentially since then,  but it also made sense his legend grew in these halls. “Yeah… I'm familiar.”

“What did it feel like?” 

“Felt kind of fuzzy, like I didn’t have control but I couldn’t figure out why. I was locked inside my mind, looking out.” Might as well help him out…. “It was terrible, suffocating. 10/10 would not recommend.”

His eyes grew wide, scent turning over again as he faced forward, staring into the far wall.

“You’re lucky. I heard he made someone rip out their own earring once. Guy woke up as soon as it happened, screaming.” 

No fucking way Shin would do that. He internally rolled his eyes.

“Damn… that’s crazy. I’m Bakugo, by the way.”

His eyes shifted back before twitching forward again. “Yato. I'd say nice to meet you but nothing's too nice down here.”

“What's keeping you here then?”

“Debt. About 10k. They take two thirds of my winnings to pay it back. Maybe in a few years I'll be free.” He said wistfully. “Till then I fight a couple times a month if I can handle it. I get my ass kicked a lot though. It would go faster if I could just win a few.”

He shook his head. “That’s rough, buddy.”

He shrugged. “It's better than the alternative. What about you? In it for the money? You seem strong enough to do alright here.”

“Yeah something like that. What's more common?”

Another shrug. “Depends. Heard some people get picked off the street, some it’s debt, and there's more than a few in it for a buck. Like you. Some…” His already low voice dropped further, his eyes darting around for eavesdroppers. “Aren't here of their own free will. Especially with Shinso-” 

The door swung open, slamming against the wall with a hollow thud. Silence swallowed the room.  

“Speak of the devil.” Bakugo said under his breath. 

Shinso didn’t spare anyone a glance as he walked in, clipboard in hand, his steps measured and unhurried. His head was tilted down, eyes on the papers in front of him, as if he didn’t notice the way the room froze, the air charged with unease. All eyes followed him. Bakugo’s too, his mind in a different place than the other fighters.

He wondered how Shinso could stand to do a job like this. It must be hard to put this face on when Bakugo knew Shin just wanted to do good. 

Then again… Shinso had never been one to care about fitting in or being liked. Bakugo remembered Shinso telling class 1A that he wasn’t there to make friends, just to take their spots out from under them. Bakugo smirked a little thinking about it. He’d kinda admired that about Shinso, back then. He admired it now. 

Shinso was ambitious but good, at his core. He wondered if that’s why he said what he did. He didn’t know what to think after their last phone conversation. He didn’t regret talking, but Shinso had said something he didn’t know he wanted to hear, something he needed to hear that struck him to his core. So much so, he ended the call.

It sat warm in his chest, even now as he remembered it. Emotion stirred at the memory of his words. He didn’t let his mind wander though, keeping his scent locked on something more grounded.

Shin stopped at the head of the room and turned idly to face everyone. When he looked up it was as if he’d just realized they were all looking at him. As if he really was just lost in his thoughts or something. It was a believable performance. “Eager for assignments today?” There wasn’t an answer but a bristle ran along the scent in the room. 

“Alright, if you won your last fight you’re on the blue list. Red list is going into a tournament tonight– short fights, five minutes each. Land as many blows as you can for points. The top fighters might make it to the real matches later in the night. You’ll have to work hard to climb back up to where blue is starting today. Bottom ten are cut for the month. If you owe money and you’re cut you’re on call next week, no questions asked.”

Yato let out a hissed curse through his teeth, his body folding in on itself like he’d just been gut punched. “That’s me fucked.” His scent soured deeply and Bakugo crinkled his nose at it.

Shinso moved to the cork board and pinned the list with sharp deliberate motions. Without another word he turned on his heel and walked out. There was such a difference between the still surface he held himself in and the Shin he knew well; that he had passed hours with.The authority the alpha’s stillness was louder.

As soon as the door clicked shut the room came alive again. Fighters pushed and jostled toward the board, some craning their necks from a distance, others crowding in close to see their fate. 

Yato stayed where he was. There was no need to check. 

“What’s the on call thing about?” 

Yato glanced around, making sure no one was too close before answering. His voice dropped to a whisper, “The folks that run this place? They deal in more than just entertainment, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Bakugo responded flatly. He didn't have time to talk around shit.

“Tch,” He clicked his tongue. “I mean, they have their greedy little fingers in all sorts of business. If you owe them money they can make you do all sorts of things. They'll make you work as hired muscle, do deliveries, or pick ups. All kinds of stuff. At least that's the word. I haven't been here long enough to know for sure.” Yato glanced at the boards nervously. “But it looks like I'm gonna find out soon.”

Could it be extortion, racketeering? What were they using these people for? It could be anything from money laundering to drug deliveries. Maybe weapons, maybe people. The list could go on.

The air between them stank of fear and nerves, the kind of fear that burrowed into a person and never left. His hand fidgeted with the seam of his pants, knuckles pale. “They don’t exactly advertise it, you know? But you hear things. There’s other ways to square what you owe.”

Bakugo crouched, his elbows on his knees, staring at Yato with an alpha intensity that pinned the beta in place. “What kind of things?”

Yato shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the door Shinso had walked through. “You really want to know?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be asking. Got to know what I might be in for one day.” 

The beta leaned in, his voice dropping so low that Bakugo had to strain to hear him. “Some guys don’t come back. The ones that do? They’re not always the same. Hollow, like they’ve been chewed up and spat out.”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. With villains like this that could mean anything. The edge of his teeth ground together, the sound barely audible over the hum of the room. His imagination supplied enough horrible things. “You said deliveries, muscle, what else?”

Yato hesitated, glancing at the other fighters still jostling the board. His voice trembled, barely more than a breath. “Rumors about fights outside the ring. The kind where the odds are stacked even worse than here. The kind where you don’t get to leave if you lose.”

To think that these people, guys like the dad begging to fight so he could pay for his sick kid, would be pushed into death by capitalism was tragic. It pissed him off. Bakugo stood abruptly, the motion jerking Yato back. His hands dropped to his sides, fist clenching and unclenching. The metallic tang of adrenalin flooded his veins. Why hadn’t Shinso told him?

He turned towards the locker room, voice sharp as a flint. “Stay off those jobs, Yato. Whatever it takes.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not sitting on ten grand of debt.”

“You’re still in it. You’ve got tonight to prove yourself.” Bakugo cracked his neck. 

“What if I lose?” 

“Don’t lose.” He met Yato’s eyes. “Don’t fucking lose.”

He left Yato where he sat; time to go see where he was placed on the list.

(•̀o•́)ง          (¬_¬)  

Shinso hadn’t made it far. The hallway outside the locker room smelled faintly of bleach, the kind that couldn’t quite mask the years of sweat and desperation soaked into the walls. He leaned against the cold concrete wall at the end of it, clipboard in hand, trying to make sense of his copy of the fight schedules. The names swam in front of him, his focus dissolving under the weight of exhaustion. No sleep, again. 

“Oi. Eyebags.”

His head snapped up. Bakugo stalked towards him, shoulders squared, steps heavy. His scent hit first, crackling with barely restrained fury. Shinso straightened, steeling himself as the blond closed the distance. Maybe he was pissed about their phone call. Maybe he’d really been presumptuous. 

“What do you want?” He asked, voice calm. Always calm. 

Bakugo stopped inches away, too close for comfort. The heat radiating off him could’ve burnt a hole in the wall. His red eyes were unrelenting, catching Shinso like a net. “You’re gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with these side jobs.”

He blinked, once, twice, keeping his face blank. “What? What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He jabbed a finger at Shinso’s chest, not hard, but enough to make a point. “If there’s more money that can be made, I want in. Why are you always holding out on me?”

Even with the cover the hallway felt too exposed. Every sound–distant footsteps, muffled voices, the faint hum of fluorescent lights–seemed amplified. Why was Bakugo so reckless? This wasn’t the place for a conversation like this so soon after Shinso had ‘put him in his place.’ 

“You want to fight, let's fight. Not here.” He nodded toward the end of the hallway, toward a door marked with a simple brass plate. “Follow me.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw but nodded tersely.

He whirled and set off in search of privacy, something pretty scarce down here. Bakugo seemed awfully pissed even if it was for a cover, at least if the acrid stench of rage was anything to go by. He was too tired to deal with the fallout of the phone call, but what else was new?

He followed his memory down countless halls until they were in an auxiliary storage room.

“Out with it. We should be safe ish here.” But not safe enough. He hoped Bakugo read that in his tone.

Bakugo didn’t speak at first. He stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The space was tight–metal shelves lined the walls, stacked high with cleaning supplies and boxes of outdated event flyers. The buzzing light overhead flickered every so often, casting brief shadows across his face. It made his eyes look darker than usual. 

He expected to feel suffocated in this small room with how strong Bakugo’s scent had been, but to his surprise it was immediately under control as soon as the door closed behind them. Was he going so far as manipulating his scent to help sell the lie…it was impressive. 

“We should–” Shinso started. He rubbed a hand over his face. “There’s more you need to know. About what I’ve been doing.”

He cocked his head slightly, “You should have told me everything from the beginning.”

Shinso didn’t smile. “Yeah, I should have, but I wasn’t sure what everything entailed exactly, until very recently. I wanted to make sure. The fights are kind of a cover. That’s not where the real money is from what I can tell. Not for the top dogs.”

His partner’s expression flattened, caution rising behind his eyes. “Spit it out then.” He growled

“Katsuki look…The reach they have is extensive, a hand in every facet of the seedy underdark you can imagine. I've spent months here trying to reach the end of the line, trying to see if there was something they didn't do. I still haven't found it.” Shinso sounded stressed even to his own ears. “They just care about money and power at any cost. They'll use anyone to get it, do anything.”

“I figured that much already, that's why we have to stop them, but you have to tell me how far this rabbit hole goes. One of the fighters said people have been disappearing?”

“It goes all the way down to hell. They start ‘em off small, just picking up money, or roughing someone up or making deliveries of whatever, drugs and stuff, y’know?” He took a deep breath, staring off into the distance to avoid Bakugo’s eyes. “Then…They ask for more. Sometimes it’s hurting people, sometimes it's driving vans full of people… somewhere, haven't figured out where. Farther down it's getting assigned to hits. And they do it, desperate bastards. Some of ‘em are in so much debt their whole life is owned. Others want their own taste of power and will crawl up the ranks any way they can,” Shinso spoke in a hushed tone before he shuddered. “And that's just what I know , right now.”

“What would it take for us to learn more?”

He didn’t want to say it, but it was the most logical course of action. It was why they were here, after all. “A man on the inside might help.” He added the next part even quieter, tugging absently at his sleeve. “To be honest, I’ve been afraid if I get too close that they might make me help them…ensure compliance. I don’t want to make anyone walk into something as bad as what I’ve heard…I don’t think I could do it and be…okay after.”

He felt a warm hand on his arm, brief, but a comfort. His eyes met Bakugo’s and held.

“So…the question is how do I get in? How do I let 'em know I'm queued up?” Bakugo asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between their whispers.

“If you want in–really in–you’re gonna have to take something on. Keep your head down. I’ll put your name around. Play the bruiser until they come sniffing around. Then you say yes. You always say yes. That’s how you live long enough to do what we came here to do.”

His lip curled. “And what exactly did we come here to do, Shin?”

“Burn it down.”

Bakugo’s curled lip turned to a feral smile. The words lingered in the space between them like gasoline. Before Bakugo could reply, heavy footsteps clattered down the corridor. Close. 

Too close. 

Shinso stiffened. “Shit.”

There was no time to move, no time to fake distance. Steps slowed on the other side of the storage room door. There was only one person who knew he liked to hide out in here when he needed a second. The person who’d shown him this out of the way room in the first place. 

“Shinso?” Daiki’s voice, casual and edged all at once. “You in there?”

Shinso didn’t think. He acted. 

He grabbed a fistful of Bakugo’s shirt and hauled him forward, slamming their mouths together.

Bakugo went rigid, stunned, the hand on his arm tightening momentarily. Shinso kissed him like it was muscle memory, like he’d done it a hundred times and hated every one of them. Hot, angry, performative. Desperate. 

Bakugo caught on just fast enough to sell it. The hand on his arm slipped down and joined the other at Shinso’s hips. He tugged Shinso closer, so they were pressed against one another. Heat ran across Shinso’s back and spiked his scent with want.

Bakugo kissed back like he wanted to regret it.

The door opened and closed quickly.

They maintained the ruse, just in case it was opened again or Daiki was listening. At least, that’s what he told himself was the motivation. It was probably more fair to say that once he’d started kissing Bakugo it was hard to stop. It felt like a sentence on autocomplete.

Their kisses became a little softer, but still hungry and full of heat. His chest ached, skin buzzing as his fingers wrapped around the back of Bakugo’s neck, his thumb at the alpha’s jaw. Bakugo licked into his mouth and Shinso groaned in response.

Daiki rapped his knuckles against the doorframe on the other side and they broke apart. A pause. 

Shinso pitched his voice low, rough and loud enough to carry, “You’ll do what you’re told like a good boy now, won’t you?”

Bakugo’s eyes snapped wide.

Outside, a laugh. “Jesus,” Daiki muttered. “Didn’t know you were into roughing up the new ones, Shin.”

Shinso’s hand slid down Bakugo’s neck so that his thumb rested on the hollow of his throat. His eyes found Bakugo’s again, whose lips were still parted, shiny and red from being kissed. Shinso let out a lazy, guttural sound, answering louder still.  “They like it. Just gotta teach ‘em how to beg properly.”

Another laugh, fading as Daiki walked off, boots retreating into the hum of the main hallway.

Bakugo shoved him back–not hard, but enough. “The fuck was that?” His voice in a loud whisper.

“I panicked!”

”You panicked?! And decided lets make out?”

“It was either kiss you or explain why we’re hiding in a closet talking treason.”

“Well you better hope you think quicker next time, or I won't behave as nice as I’m being this time.” He shoved his finger into Shinso’s chest.

He bit back a taunt about how that must mean Bakugo was going to behave this time… like a good little… enough of that. “Mm.” 

“Now you run out of shit to talk. ‘Bout fucking time.”

Shinso straightened his shirt, refusing to rise to the bait. He knew Bakugo must be trying to get back to more familiar territory, but he was distracted, opening the door and glancing down the hallway to make sure they were truly alone once more, before closing it again softly. “Daiki’s been sniffing around me lately. That’ll throw him off for a while.”

“So what now? I get back out there and play dumb muscle until they decide I’m useful?”

“More or less,” Shinso said. “You keep doing what you’re doing. Stand out but don’t act like you’re trying too hard. I’ll slip your name to the right people. If they bite–you’ll know.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we start a fight that’s loud enough to make them watch.”

Bakugo scoffed but it sounded more like approval. When it came, his voice was softer around the edges than Shinso was expecting. “You’ve really been doing this alone so far?”

“I’m not alone now, am I?” He hoped he kept his tone unreadable. 

Bakugo’s gaze lingered. “No. You’re not.”

“Hey, Kats-I’m sorry if I overstepped on our phone call–”

“What?” His face pinched, scent flushed with confusion. “No, that was totally fine. I actually… really liked talking, it was okay.” He raised a hand to rub at his neck, eyes drifting towards the floor.

Something unclenched inside of Shinso, like a breath of fresh air cool and light in his lungs. The light buzzed again overhead and Shinso glanced toward the door. “We should get back before Daiki starts spinning stories.” 

“Let him. He talks, people listen.” Bakugo raised a blond brow. “Better they think we’re fucking than conspiring.”

“They’ll buy it. They already know I’ve got an eye for pretty things.”

The other alpha scented surprise for a second before it was swiftly covered up by eau de Bakugo–warm notes of tobacco and amber mixing into a caramel. But mostly anger, generic and common with him. Nothing special on the surface, but just below there was something too small to be felt. Something almost pleased lingered under the cover.

“Keep talking and I’ll put you through the wall,” he snapped, pushing his way through Shinso’s space to get at the door. Shinso swore he saw pink dusting Bakugo’s cheeks.

Chapter Text

The sun clung stubbornly to the sky, heat bleeding through the windshield of a borrowed car in slow, steady waves, baking the black dash until the air inside tasted faintly of vinyl and dust. Shinso's phone screen glowed in the shade of the steering wheel.

SH: You free to go somewhere with me?

BK: Yeah

SH: I’ll be outside in 15, talk to you about it then

BK: K

SH: Okay, I’m here

Porcupine… ?
I’m here

BK: Just a sec

Cicadas rattled somewhere above the street, the sound cutting through the soft thrum of traffic outside of Bakugo's apartment. Shinso turned the volume up while he waited, music rolling just enough to blur the noise outside, and let himself murmur along with the chorus. He took a few moments to queue songs he wanted to listen to. The sunlight off the building across the street kept flashing in his eyes through the rearview, turning the whole dash into a glare. A delivery bike zipped past, engine whining, and he sank a little deeper into the seat. Sweat had begun to gather at the back of his neck despite the air blasting full force.

He checked the clock. Eight minutes. Longest eight minutes of his week.

SH:   —_—

Its been like… 10 fucken min

BK: It's been 8

I said just a sec
Damn impatient dick

SH: I could have gotten a coffee or sum
I could be eating a cannoli rn :’(

What are you even doing? 

BK:  Don't worry about it, eggplant

You gave me like 15 minutes to get ready 
I have shit to do bitch

SH:  (¬_¬)   (•̀o•́)ง  Rude

BK:  Get the hell over it

Before he could type back a snarky enough reply about it all together being closer to 30 minutes at this point Bakugo’s fingers rapped on the black sedan’s window.

“Let me in!” His voice came muffled through the glass. Shinso flipped him off, thumb hitting the unlock before turning the music down a bit. The door swung open, warm air slipping in with him. Bakugo laughed as he got in the car. “Shoulda stopped to get a cannoli. Then you coulda brought me one.”

“Next time I’ll just factor in that you have ‘shit to do’ and show up 20 minutes late with snacks.” Shinso waited for him to click his seatbelt before pulling out.

“Yeah whatever. What do you want anyway? I did kinda have plans y’know.”

He’d asked if Bakugo was free, it wasn’t lost on him that if he had plans then he’d chosen to cancel to make himself free. 

After how their phone call had ended, not to mention their impromptu kiss… He was relieved. Something inside him loosened, warmed- pleased that Bakugo was giving him the time of day, much less coming down at a moment's notice.  “Oh, thanks for coming, then. I was going to stake out this building downtown. Figured I’d entrap you into helping.” 

“Entrap huh?” His mouth pulled into a slow, satisfied curve, barely there. The air filled with something mellow and sweet, unmistakably his scent. “Well can we still get that snack then? As a bribe?”

“You think I can survive daylight without coffee? Come on now.” 

They stopped outside a small shop and Shinso let Bakugo out while he circled the block. No sense in paying for parking twice. He’d made three loops before Bakugo reappeared, coffee and pastries in tow. “Alright, let's get to it then.”

The drive to the shipping drop wasn't too far from them, Shinso’s bass heavy tunes accompanied them all the way. The low rumble of music vibrated through the seats, Shinso hummed along lazily, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time. Bakugo just stared out the window, arms folded and slouched in his seat, occasionally reaching for his coffee in the center console. 

They passed a shop with its front rolled open, the smell of frying dough curling into the cold air. Bakugo’s head tilted just slightly, catching it, and Shinso caught himself watching the angle of his jaw before dragging his gaze back to the street. The morning light cut hard between the buildings, spilling in narrow stripes that flashed over Bakugo’s cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his knee, bouncing to the music and occasionally shaking the car when they were at a red light. 

“Alright, this spot looks good.” He pulled into a corner far enough from the supposedly deserted shipping bay. “There,” he pointed across at the scattered buildings and warehouses. Dingy brown walls and grey letters that nearly blended in with the docks behind them. 

“Ain’t much, huh?” Bakugo leaned forward.

“Intel says there’s a shipment that lands today, routed through this old place. Wouldn’t be that strange, except the company that owns this place went bankrupt five years ago and someone’s been pumping money into it recently. Installing security devices and alarms. We’re supposed to watch them unload and count the crates. See what kind of shipment it is… what manpower they have and all that.”

Shinso drummed his fingers on the wheel, eyes tracking the horizon. “There’s been these quirk-boosters showing up in the ring. Same stamp every time, little labyrinth logo. We think this might be the supply feed, or one of them maybe.”

“You think it’s all linked? It’s gotta be right? Has the stuff been showing up anywhere else? Quirk enhancers in the wrong hands… If this makes it to the streets it could be trouble in a bad way.” 

“Someone at HQ does. Enough that I’m supposed to spend my day off in a little box.” He smiled sidelong. “At least the company will be good.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bakugo gently shoved his shoulder. “We’ll see how long it takes you to be sick’a me.”

“Oh, I’m sick of you already.” He hoped the fondness he felt was concealed in his teasing. He settled into his seat, pushing it back a bit in a way that wouldn’t fuck him over if they had to drive away fast. 

Shinso reached past Bakugo to the glove compartment and popped it open, pulling out a couple of binoculars. He dropped one into Bakugo’s lap. “These windows are tinted pretty heavily, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to be discreet with these anyway.”

“So you mean I shouldn't honk the horn to the music? Damn there goes my plans for entertainment.”

“Sarcastic ass.”

“I think you mean fantastic ass.”

“I-” Shinso’s mouth opened and closed. “Well yeah I guess you’ve got me there–I do have a fantastic ass.”

He barked a laugh, the sound sudden and bright, breaking against the music. Shinso’s gaze flicked from the row of weathered buildings ahead to throw a glance in his direction before settling back on the street. He caught pink dusting Bakugo’s cheeks from his peripheral before the blond responded. 

“Guess I’d know,” Bakugo said, the words wearing that familiar edge, like he could smirk without actually moving his mouth.

Shinso lifted his cup, taking a swallow too quickly. The coffee burned all the way down, a cough shaking out of him before he could smother it. He shifted in his seat, the heat crawling higher into his ears. He needed to change the subject before he started giving away how flustered he was. 

Because the truth–heavy and inconvenient– was that he was glad that Bakugo had come. More than glad. The same old fondness had reared its head again. He pushed it down his throat, swallowing it. He had been feeling a little lonely and could use the time with a friend, the fact that the friend was Bakugo was actually just a plus in his book. A relief almost, to be with someone with no pretense, no niceties. Someone who filled the space without crowding it.

He’d never tell Katsuki about the gnawing isolation he felt at times, never tell anyone if he could help it; but this… felt better.

“Besides thinking about my ass,” he shifted in his seat a little so he could pay more attention to his partner. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on the rest of this. It’s been what, a few weeks now? How are you feeling about the mission?”

Bakugo’s smile faltered but recovered smoothly. If Shinso’s eyes hadn’t been fixed on him he may not have caught it. 

“The mission is good. I think we can reach our target. The fights are good practice. Some of them fucks actually stand a chance against me. Guess I should expect some competition.” He laughed dryly,the sound rasping low like it had rubbed itself raw on the way out. His thumb worried the edge of a bandage stuck along his cheek, the pale strip catching light as his nail skimmed it. The faintest tug wrinkled the skin beneath, making a bruise at his jaw shadow deeper.

The cup sat loose in his other hand, steam curling over his knuckles before being sucked away by the cool draft from the air conditioning. Shinso’s gaze followed the twist of Bakugo’s wrist, the flex of his fingers, before it dragged back to the street.

Bakugo leaned his shoulder against the seatback, gaze shifting to the far distance where the shipping yard lay quiet. His jaw worked once, the muscle tight under the skin. The space between his breaths lengthened, and for a few beats, the car’s only sound was the hum of the low bass rattling in the door panels. He was quiet, contemplative in a way people didn’t always see. 

Shinso let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he’d continue. 

“Honestly though… It’s been harder than I thought it’d be. You see some shit on the scene in general but undercover work is with some real filth. Some people are in real hard spots.” His head tilted, eyes narrowing at some point past the windshield. “I don’t know how you do it all the time.”

He shrugged the words off, despite them itching. “Eh, we all have our talents. I have the unfortunate benefit of life experience dealing with many, many shitty people.” His hand drummed twice on the steering wheel, the hollow sound quick and light. “Some days I don’t think I do it well at all.”

“Still, I respect it.” Bakugo lifted the coffee, tilting it back until the steam brushed his nose. He sipped slow, eyes fixed ahead. “It takes a toll.”  The last word was weighted, or maybe it just sat with Shinso heavy. “And you handle it well, whether you think so or not.” He finished gruffly.

The praise landed without ceremony, as if Bakugo had pushed it across the space between them like a file to be read later.

He didn’t know what to say. The occasional buzz of passing traffic seeped through the glass, distant and muffled by the closed windows. After a few moments he made his mouth move. “Thanks.” The words came out scratchier than he liked. The tightness in his throat had a texture–thick, almost metallic. “You’re handling it well, too. At least from what I can tell. I heard one of the top betters compliment you yesterday to the bookies. People buy it—buy your performance.”

“Hmm.” Bakugo nodded. His face and scent clouded in the tiny car.

“You’re convincing,” Shinso continued. “Even when you look like you’re about to tear someone apart, they still want to bet on you. Not against.” His eyes flicked back to the bandage again, then to the restless way Bakugo’s fingers tapped on the coffee lid. “That’s not easy. Selling strength without tipping the truth.”

Shinso leaned back, tipping his head toward the ceiling as if looking past it. “I think… the toll just hits different, depending on who you are. For me, it’s not the filth. It's pretending I’m part of it.”

The bassline from the speakers filled the pause, vibrating through the floorboards with a hum.The music was still low enough to not be heard.

“When they laugh with me, when they trust me—” Shinso’s mouth pressed into a flat line, the shadow of his jaw cutting hard in the light spilling through the window. “I hate that more than the rest because it’s exactly what everyone always said I’d be good at. It… burns that they were all right. I do make a good villain.”

“They weren’t though, Shin.” His reply came fast, as if he’d been holding it ready. “You're not a villain. A true villain wouldn’t be as good as you. You actually care.” His thumb ran along the coffee lid’s rim, circling the edge. “You could have been a villain if you wanted to sure, but you don’t. You still want to do good.” 

Bakugo gulped once, a small click of sound in his throat. “Me? It doesn't feel like a performance, I’m not pretending to be anything really. It’s just me, aggro and over the top.” He sighed, releasing all his air in a long breath.

“You would never do the things they make you do. I would, hell I have done so many things I regret. I’ve earned my fame as a hardass and a... delinquent already.” Bakugo continued, his scent faintly sharp and bitter.

He felt still. “You think I wouldn’t if I had to? You think I’m clean just because my dirt’s buried deeper? Don’t put me on that high of a shelf, Kats. When it breaks it’ll just be me up here, falling all the way down.”

Bakugo’s head turned just enough to catch him in profile, eyes narrowing, the muscle in his jaw shifting once. “Yeah, but you’d hate yourself for it. That’s the difference. You’d crawl out of your own skin before you let it stick. “Me–” he tapped his chest with two fingers, slow, deliberate “–I know how to live with it. I think it’s worse that… I get a thrill from it. The cheers, the applause. I’ve always been a champion, doesn’t matter the arena, doesn’t matter who’s clapping.”

He went to speak but when he glanced over Bakugo's face was scrunched, hesitant. It wasn't often Bakugo picked his words so carefully. 

“ That in itself feels like I am a monster, and I’m enjoying it. I think that’s worse. At least you don't revel in the cheers of doing this job when so many people are getting hurt.”

Shinso cracked a half-smile, not mocking, just there to take the edge off. “You’re acting like enjoying the part you’re good at is some kind of crime. It’s not. The thrill you feel? I don’t think that makes you a bad person.” Shinso finally turned his head to look at Bakugo fully. Bakugo was being serious, and very open with him. 

He didn’t look back. Shinso wasn’t sure if what he had to say was the right thing; but it was what he felt, so he said it anyway, looking back to the street. “It’s not wrong to be in your element. You’re not out there picking fights for fun–you’re doing the job. You just happen to be good at it. People cheering just means they’ve noticed. Hell, I’ve noticed.”

The occasional buzz of passing traffic filtered through a cracked window, distant and dampened since they were on a side street. “You said you’ve always been a champion,” he continued. “Yeah, that must feel good, normal even. You’re not a monster, you're just worth something.”

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to convince people I wasn’t the thing they expected. You? You’re showing them what you are—and they’re finally getting it. That’s not monstrous. That’s... winning. If it felt bad, people wouldn’t work for it. You still think about what it means to feel that way, a real monster wouldn’t do that. A real monster wouldn’t care.”

He paused, then gave Bakugo an almost begrudging smile. “And let’s be real, Bakugo. You were born for the spotlight. Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it. Maybe you’re enjoying the fight, but you’re holding onto the part of yourself that wants to do good, too–and that part is loud enough to scare you.”

He didn’t truly believe that he was redeemable, but he believed Bakugo was. “If intentions are good enough to save my soul, they’re good enough for your dumbass.”

The scent permeating the air had shifted to something warm. Affection , Shinso recognised after a moment. Unfamiliar but welcome. They met eyes for the first time. Bakugo was looking right at him, the hard edges of his face softened. His brows relaxed, his mouth parted.

“Thanks.” Bakugo responded, his voice rougher than usual. “Thank you, Hitoshi. Really.”

Shinso smiled and Bakugo smiled back, radiant as the dawn after the longest night. 

You’ve got to watch smiling at me like that, I might have to kiss you for real. He coughed, taking a drink of his coffee. “Anytime.” 

They settled into a comfortable silence after that, actually doing their jobs. Shinso’s playlist emanated from the shitty speakers at a volume that wouldn’t attract attention. 

Bakugo’s words played in his head, You're not a villain. A true villain wouldn’t be as good as you. You actually care.

Did he, though? Did he care? 

A numbness chewed on the edges of his mind, waiting to drag him back into its fold. 

He usually tried not to count the hours on stakeouts, time passed slowly that way. This time he kept his eyes off the clock for a different reason, in hopes it would slow down a beat, that he could linger in the moment longer. In a place where someone thought he wasn’t a villain, where he was worth something to someone. 

Time still passed, as it does. They spoke occasionally, cracking jokes and waiting for any sign of life. Taking notes and passing each other stupid doodles from time to time. 

Sometime later, there was movement in the shipping yard. “Kats, look!” His voice was low but alert as he leaned in and pointed through the windshield. As if whispering really would keep them hidden better. He paused the music and cracked the window, just enough to let sound travel in. A distant clatter of metal confirmed the activity. 

Bakugo followed his gaze instantly, posture shifting–his warmth pulled back beneath the armor. Focused now. Controlled. 

Through the glass figures began to emerge from the building. Three, no four men. One smoking. Another moving toward a covered truck that was coming around the corner. 

Bakugo’s eyes were hidden behind the binoculars as Shinso notated what he relayed. “They’ve got spotters. Guy near the fence hasn’t moved once. Looks like he’s waiting for a signal.”

Shinso nodded, jotting down a few notes as Bakugo continued, “Five crates out so far. Small enough to carry with two hands, but heavy by the looks of it.”

“Second guy just changed gloves,” he said under his breath. “That means shit’s dangerous.”

“Or expensive.” Shinso added, bringing his own binoculars up. “One of them’s limping. Probably not just muscle–they’re bringing in whoever they can? Maybe understaffed or rushing?”

“Or he’s important.”

They slipped into a rhythm like they’d done this a hundred times. Shinso scribbled notes while Bakugo tracked movement with the kind of intensity that made you forget he’d ever been unsure of anything. 

Shinso glanced over, catching the sharp gleam of focus in Bakugo’s eyes. “When we wrap this,” he said casually, “I’m picking the ramen place.”

Bakugo didn’t look away from the yard but his smile was generous. Shinso could swear he’d seen Bakugo smile more in the last few weeks than in the history of knowing him. “Fine. But if they put corn in mine, I’m burning the place down.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Minutes ticked by sleepy and languid. Shinso’s leg never stopped bouncing. Just a small shake as if he could will time awake, anything to make it feel like it was flowing faster. The chair rattled with each bounce, metal feet tapping against concrete like a clock too impatient to keep rhythm.

He’d gotten the news that Bakugo was pulled for a job without fanfare, just a casual aside from one of the Mazinger brothers. An FYI, if you will.

 “Your golden goose got himself a job.”

“Mm… when’s it happening?” He put an X next to Bakugo’s name on his fighter list–a sign that Bakugo was out for the follow up fights that night. The optional ones the victors could participate in if they wanted extra cash.

A shrug, “They already left.”

Cigarette ash, balanced on the brother’s lip, flicked down in time with that shrug, dropping to the floor like punctuation.

He nodded and continued on as if unbothered. It was nothing for Shinso to care about in their eyes and he needed to uphold that illusion. The Boss’s business. His pen hovered too long above the list before dragging another line through a name that didn’t matter. Ink blotched where his hand shook.

Bakugo had fought through the night, winning as per usual, before disappearing a little over halfway into the schedule. At least he knew why now. He didn’t seem too banged up but Shinso knew he’d be more tired than if he’d come into it clean. Tiredness bred mistakes… but this was Bakugo. 

He can handle himself.

Shinso waited for a text, a call, anything from Bakugo that would let him know that he was okay, or how things had gone. He waited through the rest of the main circuit, the crowd’s roar rising and fading until it all blurred to static. He waited through the follow ups, his notes devolving into scribbles just to make his hands look busy. 

He didn’t want to ping Bakugo himself and distract him from whatever was going on, but the more time that passed the tighter his shirt collar stuck to his neck. In the end, the success of the mission reached him before Bakugo did.

Word from another coordinator, Sickle Claw, casual as a yawn during closing. “Your boy made an impression today.”

Shinso didn’t answer right away. He kept his head bent over the ledger he wasn’t reading, pen balanced between his fingers. “My boy? Who are you talking about?”

“Sorry, the new guy, flash something… oh, Blast Edge. The one you brought in.”

“Oh, that guy. Good to know. Once they're in the system though it’s really on them what they do or don’t do." Shinso rolled his eyes, letting irritation leak into his scent. "Don’t tie me to people just because I recruited them. If he handles it well, great; but I don’t give a fuck if he wins his fights or not. Just that he brings in money.”

Sickle raised his hands towards Shinso in deference, “Sorry man, message received. I meant on a job, not his fight. Just thought you ought to know.” 

“Focus on what you’re doing instead.” He pointed towards the inventory Sickle was unloading. “What job? Since you’re feeling so chatty today.”

“Handled a shipment. Got jumped halfway there. Heard he put two guys in the gutter and didn’t break a sweat.” Sickle’s eyes were long things that stuck out of the top of his head like antennae. One was turned toward Shinso while the other focused on the box he was going through. 

Shinso let it roll off his shoulder with a half hearted shrug, tucking the clipboard under his arm and his hands in his pockets. “Later.”

It was all he could do to leave the venue looking unbothered after that, angling towards home but pivoting somewhere along the way, shoes scraping along sidewalks still damp from the street washers.

No text yet. 

In the back of a taxi, every bump in the road jolted new possibilities loose. Shipment runs meant cash, meant eyes watching from alleys. Getting jumped halfway there—sure, maybe he’d put two guys in the gutter without breaking a sweat, but what about the third? What if one of them had a knife, or worse, a gun? 

Maybe Sickle left out the part where Bakugo took one in the ribs, bleeding somewhere while Shinso sat useless, waiting. Maybe he’d been hauled in by cops, or worse, taken by someone with no badge at all. The cab smelled of gasoline and cheap pine freshener, and Shinso’s knee rattled against the door as the driver’s radio whispered static. Faster than the train, but not fast enough. 

When Shinso got to the apartment he knocked. Silence pressed back. No answer, no light through the window. So he sat down, waiting.

His fingers worried at his hair, twisting it into tufts. The hard concrete of the landing outside Bakugo’s apartment left a dusty imprint on his slacks. He didn’t put his headphones in, didn’t put on any music just in case he needed his ears.

Instead, Shinso waited in an anxious silence, back to the wall, his shadow shrinking and stretching each time a car slid past with its headlights. 

Why hadn’t Bakugo checked in with him yet? It was irresponsible. His jaw ached from being held shut too long.

Maybe he really was in trouble. Any number of things could have happened to him. Sirens screamed far off and Shinso’s head snapped toward them, pulse leaping, then cooling again as they faded into the distance. The silence that followed dug in sharp as broken glass. 

He could ask Mustard… he could reach out to the agency. 

He had to do something.  

He took out his phone over and over, before tucking it back into his pocket each time. He shouldn’t be rash. Bakugo can handle himself.

He debated breaking in to wait but that seemed ill conceived. Sleeping seemed impossible. He couldn’t go home either, not until he heard something. He knew these jobs didn’t always go well. Hell he wasn’t even sure Bakugo wasn’t set up. They said they got jumped but there would be no mention if the club was the one who set him up. It might have even been a test. The possible ways it could have gone south seemed endless, uncounted and all too real with how many fighters wouldn’t come back after these missions, treated like errand boys and entirely disposable.

His mind spared him no possibility, turning over and over and over like the engine of a stalled car. His own personal hell.

  (¬_¬)             (•̀o•́)ง 

~Earlier~

The time eventually came that Bakugo was approached for a side job with the club. He wasn’t on the loser list, and he hadn’t made anyone angry as far as he knew; but he’d won every fight he’d been a part of and he’d made it clear in the most natural way possible that he wanted money. 

Shinso put his name around to whoever was in charge of whatever it was they were doing and that was that. It was with little surprise and ample anticipation that he waited for the invitation. 

It came in the form of a scrap of paper. No preamble. No name. Just shoved into his palm as he passed through the fighters’ hall after his last match of the night. The guy who slipped it to him never broke stride, just kept walking toward the pit like he’d done nothing.

The paper felt soft from handling, edges curling. He palmed it without looking down, tucking it into the cuff of his taped wrist. Bakugo made a point to slip into a bathroom stall before checking it. An address and time in smudged ink, folded once. 

He glanced at his phone, 30 minutes, not much warning. After searching up the location he was relieved to see it was only a five minute walk from where they were. Shinso said to always say yes, so he would stick to that advice. 

The hallway out back stank of bleach and rust. Air heavy enough to coat the back of his tongue. Two guards at the exit didn’t bother to check him, just stepped aside with the kind of wordless acknowledgment you give someone who’s already been cleared.

The address led him to a narrow service street behind the club. Concrete walls sweating with moisture. A single black van idled in the half-dark, muffler puffing an occasional ghost of exhaust into the yellow light from an overhead bulb. One guy in the driver’s seat, another leaning against the open side door. Both built like they lived on protein powder and bad decisions.

“You Bakugo?” The one by the door had a voice like gravel dragged in a tin bucket. He looked like it was past his bedtime, eyes drooping with sleep. 

“That’s him,” the driver said. Engine still rumbling. 

Bakugo stepped up into the van, the smell of oil and stale cigarettes hitting him like a wall. Inside: no seats, just metal flooring scuffed with years of cargo. A single crate sat strapped down in the center, wood scarred and splintered. No markings except a labyrinth logo burnt into one corner, faint and sharp-edged.

“Move it from point A to point B,” gravel-voice said, swinging the door shut with a hollow slam. “Don’t open it. Don’t stop unless you’re dying.”

They asked him to turn off his phone and he complied without fuss, it was nearly dead anyway.

Bakugo crouched in the back, running a hand over the crate’s surface. Splinters caught at the pads of his fingers. The thing was heavy; he could feel the shift in the van’s suspension when he leaned on it. “What’s in it?” His voice was flat, testing.

The driver’s eyes in the rearview were dull. “Not your job to ask.”

Fine.

The van rattled out of the alley, tires spitting grit. Bakugo kept one hand braced against it, the other resting easy on his thigh. His mind ticked over what Shinso had said about deliveries—start small, then the real shit. This was still small. Which meant they were watching him, weighing if he’d flinch. 

City blocks slid past through the tinted window. Neon signs smeared in the glass. Alleys swallowed light. The driver didn’t speak, didn’t play music. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional clunk from something loose under the chassis.

They drove for what had to be close to a half hour. He had a feeling that they were going in circles, maybe to throw off a tail, or keep him from knowing exactly where they were headed. The route seemed set ahead of time because the driver checked a paper in his lap occasionally. Every turn jostled the crate, straps creaking. The mood shifted when they were close to halfway to wherever they were going, from his estimations later. Bakugo caught it in the way the driver’s shoulders stiffened, the way his foot eased off the gas just slightly. The van rolled slower. 

There were no windows, but he could see through the windshield well enough. Up ahead: another vehicle blocking half the street in a narrow alley they were driving down. Dark van, no lights, doors shut. It was parked in the wrong direction, facing them. No movement outside.

Bakugo’s pulse kicked up, not from fear—anticipation. “Here already?”

“Not even close.”

“Might be trouble.” Came from gravel-voice.

The driver’s hand dipped toward the side pocket of his seat. “Stay put.”

Bakugo didn’t stay put. Gravel slid the side door open fast, streetlight pouring in. 

His boots hit the pavement, body already moving toward the other van. As he got closer and some of the darkness dissolved he clocked movement behind the windshield—two shapes, heads turning toward him. A window lowered. The glint of a barrel.

Bakugo didn’t think. He launched forward, palm sparking with heat. Light flared off the wet street as he blasted the edge of the hood, metal crumpling under the force. The driver inside flinched, gun hand jerking. Too late. Bakugo’s other hand hooked the door, yanking it wide, foot snapping up in a clean, vicious arc that cracked against the gunman’s wrist. The weapon clattered to the asphalt.

The second guy lunged across the seat, something small and glinting in his fist. Bakugo caught his arm, slammed it against the frame until fingers spasmed open. A switchblade spun out and landed in the gutter.

One breath later and both were out of the car, faces toward the pavement, his boot between the driver’s shoulders.

The van driver was out now, swearing under his breath as he grabbed one of the guys by the collar. “We gotta go.”

Bakugo let him drag the would-be thieves toward the curb. They weren’t dead. Not his problem what happened next.

Back in the van, the crate was exactly where it had been, straps tight. He settled opposite it again, hands braced as the driver floored it. No one spoke until 30 minutes later when they pulled into another narrow alley on the far side of the docks.

“End of the line,” gravel-voice said, swinging the door open.

Two more men stepped out from a recessed doorway, taking the crate between them without a word. Bakugo watched them vanish into the building. They drove back towards the club without further incident, but they stopped to let Bakugo out long before getting there.

He handed Bakugo a folded envelope on his way out the back. Cash inside. Heavy. “You work fast. You’ll hear from us.”

No handshake. No thanks. No ride back. Just the door sliding shut, the van pulling away, and Bakugo left standing in the stink of low tide and diesel. 

He pulled out his phone to mark the location and get himself a ride home but it glowed only briefly before sputtering dark again. He must be miles from his side of the city. At least he had cash for the bus. Fuck the agency if they gave him shit for the funds missing that he’d needed to get home. He had a long journey there either way.

 (•̀o•́)ง              (¬_¬)

SH:

2 am- Hey… everything alright?

3 am- Even a ‘k’ would be welcome 

4 am- Just starting to get a little worried

5 am- You better be dead in a ditch somewhere

5:30 am- I didn’t mean that I hope you’re alive 

Eventually–after what felt like an eternity stewing–there were footsteps, trudging and heavy on the stairs. As Shinso turned his body to look he saw blonde spikes cresting the stairs against the early morning sky.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Stalker.”

Shinso could feel the relief in the sting behind his eyes as he got up. “I was just-” He started, his eyes searching over Bakugo’s form for injury or blood or any knives protruding. He was fine. He wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. 

So why hadn’t he texted?

“Where were you?” His voice sounded tired, so tired, even to his own ears. 

Bakugo looked exhausted too, but he straightened at the top of the stairs. “They sent me out, looks like I might have an in.” He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

That was it?

“Yeah, I heard.” He dusted off the back of his pants. “Thanks for the heads up by the way.” Anger had risen up before he could stop it and his tone turned harsher than he meant. 

It was just… Now that he knew Bakugo was okay he felt betrayed somehow. All of his useless worrying having worn down his will for niceties. How hard would it have been to send a reply, or to let him know before leaving, anything . 

Bakugo’s face soured. “What’s the fucking problem anyway? Thought you’d be glad our work is paying off. I’m just doing the job, aren’t I? Doing it damn well too.” Bakugo huffed, crossing his arms over his puffed out chest. “Shoulda seen the way I put that scum down-”

“The problem, dumbass-” Shinso interrupted, fuming by now.”-is that you have to communicate with me. Why am I finding out from a damn coordinator ? You should be the one telling me what the hell is happening.”

“Sounds like you want me to ask permission, aubergine.” He tilted his chin up in defiance, his scent not angry but on guard. “Am I supposed to ask you anytime I have an in?”

“It’s not about permission, it’s about communication. You should check in before jumping in a van and disappearing all night. A text, a smoke signal, I don’t care how. How can I back you up if I don’t know where you are?”

“You’re my partner, not my supervisor. I don’t answer to you.” Bakugo rolled his eyes.”Besides, my phone died.” He shrugged, going to unlock his door.                                                                   

It was the blase way he replied that got under Shinso’s skin. His jaw locked. “You say it so casually, like you’re a one man show, but that doesn’t cut it when I’m the one sitting outside your door wondering if I’ll have to ID your body in the morning.” His voice cracked sharp, each word edged with the exhaustion beneath it.

The door opened slowly but Bakugo didn’t walk in, instead his shoulders stiffened and his scent sharpened into a mix of emotions Shinso couldn’t hope to decipher before Bakugo spoke. “How was I supposed to know you’d be waiting here?” He shook his head. “You could blow the mission with shit like that.” 

He didn’t turn to look at Shinso before he walked in.There was a rectangle of orange light as he flicked on the light, leaving the door wide open.

Shinso laughed, low and humorless. “Blow the mission? You think me giving a shit about whether you come back in one piece is going to tank things?” He stepped into the doorway, words snapping like static. “What’s more dangerous, Bakugo– me sitting here, or you acting like you don’t owe anyone a damn thing?”

The other alpha was kicking off his shoes when a sharp spike of anger flared through his scent. “The fuck is that supposed to mean? Because I mean that you are a danger doing that shit, dickhead. You can’t act like you give a shit, even if you give one. Did you hang around just to tell me off?” Bakugo rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes pinching shut. “I had a long ass night already, I don’t need this shit. Fuck off.” 

Something in Shinso chafed at the response. Bakugo was acting like he was an inconvenience. He wasn’t even hearing him out. Like his concern was stupid and unjustified. Rather than going inside he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice flat but cutting. “Yeah, well, long night or not—you running solo and playing hotshot is what puts shit at risk, not me sitting at your damn door. I hung around because you went in blind and didn’t think about anyone else. You couldn’t even reach out because your phone was dead? That’s a mistake we can’t afford to make.”

“Mistake? Bitch, they told me less than 30 minutes before I had to act. I had no idea what I was in for or if I was being watched.”  Bakugo took a step back towards him. “I wasn’t playing ‘ hotshot.’ I was doing the job, like I fucking said. You have to trust me to make decisions on my own, fucking aye.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Besides, what if I am being watched and they see you sitting at my damn door like some kind of stray? We would be made so fucking fast.”

The insult landed, biting deep. Maybe he had a point, but to Shinso it mostly seemed like he was dodging accountability. His jaw flexed but he forced his tone even, razor-thin. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Trust goes both ways. You want me to trust you, then don’t leave me in the dark like I’m some liability. You think me sitting out here is a risk? Fine. I won’t sit out here. I won’t come anywhere near here. We can just pretend to be strangers since you have everything sorted.”

Bakugo had begun to walk away but he turned then, eyes wide.”What-” His nostrils flared. “Fine! We don’t even have to pretend, clearly I don’t know who the fuck you are already. Get the hell out of my place you fucking hypnofreak. Who needs enemies with friends like you, huh?” 

For a second Shinso couldn’t breath. The fury cracked through him like a fault line. Any control over his scent long exhausted. He wanted to hit him, wanted to scream, wanted to do anything but stand there and take it. Instead, he gave a sharp shake of his head, hands clenched so hard his long nails bit into his palms. 

“Fine,” he spat back. “You want to be alone so bad? Be alone.” 

His footsteps were heavy and fast, echoing down the stairwell before Bakugo could fire back. The apartment door slammed shut behind him, rattling the frame and leaving only silence in its wake.