Chapter Text
Katsuki Bakugo was quirkless. That was a fact. A brutal one — one he’d understood far earlier than any child should.
Not all men are created equal — he learned that far too young to truly understand it.
It hurt, being four years old and powerless. Watching every other kid awaken something brilliant while he tried — begged — for even a spark. Doctor after doctor, answer after answer that felt like it was scraping across his bones. His mind simply refused to accept it.
So Bakugo learned silence. Learned how to swallow humiliation whole and walk like it didn’t burn.
No one ever bullied him outright. Cowards, the lot of them. But thin walls carried whispers, and fake friends were terrible at pretending. The stares, the pity-disguised laughter — they stuck to him like smoke.
Just a boy. Ordinary. Forgettable.
Nothing special — unless intelligence counted. And to him, it didn’t. Praise about his grades felt like scraps tossed to a stray. “Maybe that’s your quirk!” they’d say. As if he was stupid enough to cling to that kind of delusion.
Eventually, he passed the entrance exam for Japan’s top hero school.
U.A.
Of course, he wasn’t accepted into the hero course. He was offered a place in General Studies, later transferring into the Management track, focusing on hero-agency administration.
And after years of grinding, of being the top student, of stacking diploma after diploma proving his talent, Katsuki Bakugo — now twenty-three — was working as the personal assistant and secretary to his best friend.
The number one hero in Japan.
Izuku Midoriya. Deku. The goddamn symbol of peace.
It should have been funny. Maybe it was. Some cosmic joke, told at his expense.
He could’ve said no. Could’ve run his own agency, built something from the ground up. But the moment Izuku asked, the “yes” fell out before his brain even processed the question. And suddenly he was living in a penthouse too expensive to look at directly, sitting at the second most important desk in his hero agency.
The first few months weren’t bad. Familiar, even. But then everything shifted.
The shy, earnest nerd he’d once known? Gone. In his place stood someone glossy and hollow — a hero too in love with fame to notice the way it was rotting him from the inside. Partying, women, tabloid headlines. A rotation of warm bodies and colder mornings.
Bakugo was surprised, sure — but he brushed it off. As long as Midoriya didn't interfere with his space at home or with work, he didn’t care who he dragged into his sheets.
—
“You're late,” he muttered one morning, eyes never leaving the paperwork.
Midoriya stumbled past, tie loose, shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it. He collapsed into his chair with a groan, head pounding like sirens in his skull.
Bakugo followed, calm voice stretched thin with suppressed fury. “Sign this. And in case you're wondering, it's noon. The agency opened five hours ago. Two traffic accidents and a jewelry robbery while you were—”
“Relax,” Izuku mumbled, signing without reading. “Heroes handled it. I’m not the only one on duty.”
“You barely count as one lately,” Bakugo shot back. “Sero had to cross half the prefecture because someone couldn't get out of bed.”
Izuku laughed — soft, tired, infuriating. “Kacchan, you sound like an old man.”
“And you sound like someone about to lose everything he worked for.” Bakugo snatched the signed papers back. “You wanted this. You bled for it. And now you're throwing it away because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”
Izuku laughed louder.
“And you can’t even show up presentable. I ironed that shirt this morning before taking out the trash.”
Izuku frowned. “It was my turn yesterday.”
“I found some redheaded girl in our kitchen. Control your trash — I won’t clean up after you forever.”
Izuku snorted. “I’m just having a little fun.”
“And your ‘fun’ is about to cost you your No.1 tittle.”
Izuku's smile dropped. His hand ran through his messy curls.
“Kacchan, you say that every year.”
“And every time, I’m right.” Bakugo folded his arms. “People aren’t buying your bullshit anymore. The agency stocks are dropping. Fans are pissed. I don’t care who you fuck — but at least care about your damn job.”
Izuku sighed. “Fine. I’ll focus more. But you should relax. We’re still young.”
“Yeah — with the weight of the world on our shoulders.” he stoped, silence for a moment and then:
“Did you forget the war?”
Silence. Izuku lowered his gaze, voice steady. “No. Never.”
Without another word, Katsuki stepped up to the desk, gathered the papers, and pivoted on his heel. He let out a quiet sigh as he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose before heading out.
Back at his own desk, he dropped into his chair, spinning slightly as he exhaled. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Kirishima
>>we're going out tonight
>>you coming?
10:00 p.m.
“It’s been a long week,” Kirishima muttered, taking a swig from his beer before setting the mug down with too much care, like he’d break it otherwise.
Katsuki raised a brow at the redhead slumped beside him — he’d practically melted into his seat the second they got to the bar.
“Seriously? Felt pretty chill to me. I’m training a few interns now.” He flexed obnoxiously, biceps bulging under the bar lights, then shot a look at Bakugou — that annoying little smirk already forming. “So, how’s things with Midoriya? Heard his numbers are dropping.”
“Yeah, man. What’s going on with him?” Sero cut in, elbows braced on the wooden table, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. “Had to sprint across half the city today just to stop a robbery two blocks from his agency.”
Kirishima slowed his hand on his glass, eyes flicking to Katsuki — worried, hesitant. But the blond just took a long drink instead of answering.
“He’s my friend and all but… I dunno. Feels like the fame finally got to him. Guy’s acting real full of himself lately,” Eijirou added, scratching the back of his neck. He spoke like he expected Bakugou to snap — because everyone knew the history there. Best friends. Childhood. Shared battles. Everything.
“I don’t care,” Bakugo lied, bland and sharp at the same time. Anyone who truly knew him would hear everything he wasn’t saying. Izuku’s success had always been one of his goals — one he fought for even when it wasn’t his to carry.
“I’m tired of babysitting him — in the agency and at home — while he’s out screwing whoever gives him attention.”
“Oh? So what really pisses you off is who he’s sleeping with?” Kaminari teased—Sero smacked the back of his head, but it was already too late.
Bakugo slammed his mug onto the table, the sound cutting the air like a blade. The glare he leveled at Kaminari could’ve lit him on fire.
“What pisses me off is him acting like a damn idiot.” He stared at his beer, watching condensation trail down the glass, pooling on the wood. He let out a breath he didn’t want to admit was frustrated — or tired.
Or hurt.
Izuku used to have a purpose. A dream. A fire.
Now he just… drifted. No direction, no hunger — no spark to chase.
And Katsuki hated it.
Hated that he’d chased Izuku even without a quirk. Hated that he’d pushed himself beyond reason to always keep up — or stay ahead.
And now, for the first time, it felt like he could surpass him.
It felt wrong. Like swallowing metal. Like bitterness stuck in his throat.
“Ever think about playing his game?” Sero asked suddenly, cigarette still at his lips, smirking like he knew exactly where that thought would land.
Katsuki’s eyes snapped up behind his glasses, sharp and cold.
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared, like he was weighing it. As if there was a universe where he’d stoop that low.
Finally, he lifted the mug again, emptied the last sip, set it down with a click. Tongue against his teeth, jaw tight.
“I’m not that stupid,” he muttered. “Not a damn chance.”
Silence fell over the group. Kaminari bit back a grin, Sero shrugged, and Kirishima tried (badly) not to laugh.
Like they all knew.
Like they could already hear the fuse burning.
Like they were just waiting for the explosion that was inevitably, undeniably coming.