Chapter Text
Bakugou Katsuki knew, deep in his bones, that nothing good ever came from early-morning summons. Especially not from the Hero Commission. Especially not when the summons came with a subject line bolded in red: MANDATORY POLICY UPDATE — TOP TEN PRO HEROES.
Even the damn email header felt smug.
He strode down the marble hallway of the Commission building like he owned it— because in his mind, he did. His boots echoed sharply against polished floors, and aides scattered out of his path as if anticipating an explosion at any second. Which, honestly, was fair and entirely possible. Bakugou had a reputation to maintain after all.
He pushed open the meeting room doors hard enough that one of them banged loudly against the stop. The sound reverberated all the way up to the high ceilings.
It was an accident but… good.
It let them know he wasn't in the mood for bullshit.
His PR team— three people he tolerated only because the alternative was doing the boring parts of hero work himself— were already seated at the long table, stiff-backed and tight-lipped. That alone was a warning sign. They looked like they were bracing for impact.
At the far end of the table sat Chairman Fuyukawa, a man made entirely of boring suits and cold smiles. To his left was a nervous young Commission attorney who looked like he'd already peed himself twice this morning.
Katsuki stopped in front of the chair designated for him but didn't sit. He didn't plan to stay long enough for that.
"All right," he snapped. "What's so damn important you had to drag me out of morning training?"
His PR manager, Tomo— sharp-eyed, chronically stressed, and the closest thing Katsuki had to a handler— folded her hands together and inhaled very slowly.
"Dynamight," she began, in that tone, that careful tone that made the muscles in his jaw tighten. "The Hero Commission has instituted a new regulation affecting all heroes ranked in the top ten."
He waited.
Nobody continued.
He shrugged in response. "And? What is it?"
Chairman Fuyukawa cleared his throat. "It is our new initiative to bolster public trust, stability, and the perceived reliability of high-ranking heroes. Think of it as a… restructuring of sorts."
Why did these bureaucrat types always talk like they were allergic to getting to the damn point?
"What. Is. It," Katsuki growled.
His PR team collectively winced. Tomo gave up on easing into it and slid a printed document across the table toward him.
He didn't touch it, just glanced at it like it was a piece of tissue with snot on it. It might as well have been.
She swallowed hard. "Effective immediately, heroes ranked within the top ten must present evidence of a stable domestic environment. Preferably through a legally recognized partnership."
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
Then Katsuki blinked once. Slowly.
"…The hell did you just say?"
Tomo's voice shrank. "You need… a spouse."
No reaction.
Not externally anyway.
Inside? A series of bombs exploded within the recesses of his mind.
A roaring, incandescent fury burst open behind his ribs like a contained explosion desperately trying to claw its way out. A spouse? A fucking spouse? Since when did hero rankings depend on— on— romantic bullshit? Marriage licenses? Domestic PR optics?
His hearing fuzzed out for half a second. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. Unfortunately he was.
When he finally spoke, it was a dangerously quiet, deceptively calm question:
"You're telling me I need to be married… to stay in the top ten?"
Chairman Fuyukawa nodded, thrilled in the way only a man who had never once stepped foot on a battlefield could be. "Correct. Japan values stability. A hero with a partner signifies grounded judgment, emotional resilience, and responsibility. Families inspire trust—"
BOOM.
It wasn't a big explosion. Barely a crackle of his quirk, just enough to scorch the air and make some smoke, but everyone j flinched like he'd hurled a grenade at the table.
Tomo slapped a hand to her forehead. "Dynamight—"
"That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard," he snarled. "and we've all heard Chargebolt speak."
The attorney— poor bastard— fumbled his binder, scattering paperwork everywhere. Katsuki ignored him.
Chairman Fuyukawa kept that polite, infuriating smile. "I assure you, it is a thoroughly researched decision. It is already generating positive projections for the industry's trust index. We understand that it may take some time to find a partner so you have until the end of the next quarter to submit documentation."
Katsuki stepped forward, heat rolling off him in prickling waves. "And if I don't? What? You gonna fine me? Give me extra PR seTomors? Make me kiss babies and hold hands with toddlers on camera?"
Tomo flinched at his tone. "Actually… it's worse."
A hollow feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Heavy. Cold. "Worse how? What could possibly be worse?"
She exhaled through her teeth. "If you refuse, your ranking eligibility is… stunted." She hesitated. "They'll drop you out of the top ten."
The temperature in the room spiked. Katsuki felt it— not his quirk, but his rage, the kind that made the air vibrate around him. His pulse beat thunderously in his ears.
Drop him?
Drop him from the ranking he bled for? Sweated for? Trained like hell for his entire damn life?
"I earned that spot," he said, low and lethal. "I earned it with real fuckin' work. Not fake PR bullshit."
Chairman Fuyukawa steepled his fingers. "Public trust is part of your work, Katsuki."
Katsuki's lip curled. Just who did this prick think he was? "Don't call me that."
"Then perhaps Bakugou—"
"Don't call me anything." He slammed his palms onto the table. The wood shuddered. "You can't force heroes to get married! That's insane. It's unethical and illegal and—"
"It's not," the attorney squeaked. "We, uh, triple-checked."
Katsuki rounded on him. The man went sheet-white.
"It is not," Katsuki repeated slowly, "logical."
Tomo pushed her glasses up her nose, bracing herself. "Dynamight, the public thinks heroes are unstable. Reckless. Emotionally volatile. You're one of the top examples they cite when they say that."
He shot her a murderous look. Was she trying to get fired or what? She pressed on anyway.
"Your temper is legendary. Your confrontations with reporters go viral weekly. Your training accidents have their own fan compilations. People do love you, but they're also scared of you. This is…" she sighed as she waved her hands vaguely, struggling to find the words. "This is damage control."
"I don't need damage control. I need the Commission to get their heads out of their asses." He gave a pointed look at Chairman Fuyukawa.
"It's not optional."
He stared at her. "What?"
Tomo repeated softly, "It's not. Optional."
There it was. The final nail.
Non-negotiable.
Katsuki's breath came harsh and uneven. He hadn't felt cornered like this since his teenage years— since they'd shoved a hero internship contract under his nose and told him to sign, sign quickly, before he lost his chance.
He'd signed that one.
But marriage?
What the hell kind of twisted checklist was this?
Chairman Fuyukawa continued, totally unaffected by Katsuki's simmering aura. "The public responds better to heroes who represent aspirational stability. Couples. Families. Support systems. If you cannot demonstrate that, the Commission cannot, in good conscience, maintain your ranking placement."
"In good conscience?" Katsuki barked a humorless laugh. He pressed his hands against the table and leaned in with a dark look. "You don't have consciences."
"Dynamight," Tomo warned.
"No." He backed away from the table, pacing in front of the window where sunlight glinted off glass buildings below. "No. This is bullshit. I'm not parading someone around just so the public thinks I cuddle in bed at night like a goddamn wholesome mascot."
Tomo massaged her temples. "We're not asking you to parade anyone around. We're asking you to solidify your long-term career."
"That is the same thing!"
"Dynamight—"
"No!" He whirled around, pointing at the document they'd slid toward him earlier. "I am not signing that."
Chairman Fuyukawa nodded at the attorney. The man scrambled to his feet shakily.
"W-we expected resistance," he said nervously. "So we prepared a few sample profiles… if you prefer a private civilian spouse for image rehabilitation. Or if you're open to a hero pairing, we can—"
"Profiles?" Katsuki echoed, scandalized. "Did you make a damn dating catalog for me? Are you out of your damn minds?"
"They're vetted candidates," the attorney squeaked.
"Vetted for what? Compatibility? Media friendliness? Fertility rates?" His eye twitched dangerously. "Oh, if you bring up fertility I will blow this whole buildin—"
"Nobody is mentioning fertility," Tomo hissed. "Sit down."
He didn't.
Fuck that.
The walls were too close and the expectations too much and the entire situation too ridiculous to process without committing a felony.
Chairman Fuyukawa shuffled his papers with clinical precision. "There is precedent for hero partnerships improving public perception. The press adores hero couples. The public invests more emotionally in heroes who demonstrate vulnerability and relatability."
"I am not relatable," Katsuki snapped.
"Yes," Fuyukawa agreed pleasantly. "That is why we're doing this."
A series of pops crackled through the air in response. Some sparks leapt from his palm.
Tomo swore under her breath and huffed in agitation. She'd been dealing with Kastuki long enough to know he wouldn't hurt anyone but also long enough to know his temper would always flare in the worst possible ways.
"Dynamight," she said gently, carefully. "I know it feels invasive. And controlling. And yes, it is absolutely unfair. But you need to think strategically about this."
"No," he shot back. "You need to think strategically. That's what I pay you for! My strategy has always been 'win harder.'"
She gave him the look she reserved for when he'd said something particularly stubborn. "You can't punch paperwork, Dynamight."
He opened his mouth to argue that yes, actually, he could punch anything if he tried hard enough, but she pressed on:
"You are number three right now. Three, Katsuki. You are inches— inches— from surpassing Endeavor's old record dammit. If you lose your ranking over something like this, you will regret it for the rest of your life."
His chest tightened painfully.
Because damn it, she was right.
He would regret it.
He'd worked too hard, bled too many times, pushed too far to throw it all away.
But marriage? Someone in his home? Someone touching his things? Someone legally tethered to him like some kind of PR-approved leash?
No.
Absolutely not.
Fuck that shit.
Chairman Fuyukawa interrupted his spiraling horror with a single sheet of paper he pushed forward. "Here is the official deadline and compliance schedule. If you have not submitted partnership documentation by the date listed, you will be automatically removed from the top ten roster."
He spoke it casually, like he was discussing a weather forecast instead of detonating Katsuki's entire career path.
Katsuki stared at the paper.
Then at the Chairman.
Then back at the paper.
"I'm not agreeing to anything," he said coldly. "I'd rather swallow glass."
"You don't need to agree," Fuyukawa replied smoothly. "You only need to comply."
That did it.
Katsuki's palms exploded— not fully, but enough to send a bright flash cracking through the air.
Everyone recoiled.
He didn't apologize.
And he'd be on his death bed before they ever got one from him.
And right now? He couldn't breathe through the crushing weight of fury and humiliation and disbelief.
When he spoke again, his voice was a quiet, gravelly rasp.
"You really think," he said, "I'm the kind of man who needs a fucking spouse to prove I'm reliable?"
Chairman Fuyukawa smiled thinly. "We think you're the kind of man who will do what's necessary to stay on top."
Tomo's face softened. She reached out but didn't touch him— she'd learned better. "Katsuki. Talk to us. Tell us what's going through your head."
What was going through his head?
Everything.
Nothing.
He couldn't even find the words.
All he could feel was how wrong this was. How invasive. How personal. How humiliating.
The Commission wanted to control his image? Fine. That was expected. But to control his home? His private life? To dictate who he spent his nights and mornings with?
Unacceptable.
Yet…
He saw his ranking in his mind like a shining beacon. Number three. He was constantly dancing between three and four thanks to one Midoriya Izuku who would occasionally pull ahead. But right now he was three and he had been for a while. A hair's breadth from number one. The childhood dream he'd clung to with every fiber of his being.
He'd come too far to lose it now.
But at what cost?
He clenched his fists until his gloves creaked. "I'll think about it."
Tomo sighed in relief. Fuyukawa nodded like he'd expected nothing less.
"We will schedule follow-ups," Fuyukawa said. "Your PR team will walk you through options."
Then he was Dismissed.
As if he were a child sent out of a parent-teacher meeting.
Katsuki turned without a word and stormed down the hall, boots pounding like war drums. His explosions popped and crackled faintly at his palms, leaking uncontrolled fury.
He barely registered aides ducking out of his way.
Barely registered the elevator doors parting.
All he registered was the crushing awareness that the Commission had trapped him. Caged him.
And he didn't know yet how he was going to break out.
But he would. He always did.
As the elevator descended, the glass walls giving him a view of the sprawling city below, Katsuki pressed his forehead to the cool metal and exhaled a harsh, trembling breath.
A spouse.
A marriage.
His ranking on the line.
What a goddamn nightmare. This was going to blow up his life. No— this was going to blow up everyone's life, he’d make sure of that. Because he wasn't going down without a fight.
And whatever happened next?
There was no way the Commission was going to be ready for it.
The city buzzed beneath Katsuki like a restless engine. Neon lights pulsed across the skyline, car horns echoed faintly from the streets below, and the winter air bit sharp at the edges of his exposed skin. Normally, he liked it this way— high above everything, wind in his face, movement under his feet. Patrol always cleared his head.
Tonight, it barely dented the pressure that had steadily been building behind his eyes.
The Hero Commission's decree throbbed like a migraine:
Get married. Or lose everything.
Katsuki wasn't blind. He knew what he looked like.
He wasn't some greasy, sleep-deprived intern who lived off vending-machine ramen and wishful thinking. He trained harder than any hero in the country, and it showed. Broad shoulders, defined muscle, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass— he knew the effect he had on people. He'd seen it in the way civilians stared when he walked past, in the way reporters angled for shots of him in hero gear, in the way potential partners— men and women both— lingered just a little too long when he made eye contact.
Hell, dating had always been easy for him.
If he wanted company, he found it.
Simple as that.
He wasn't lonely.
He wasn't desperate.
He wasn't incapable of building connections.
He just didn't want to.
Not on someone else's timeline. Not because a committee of bureaucrats in polished suits decided his future depended on the shape of his home life. Not because the Commission thought "romantic stability" played well on camera.
He could have a partner any time he damned well chose.
He just didn't want to be forced into choosing one.
And the more they pushed him, the more his jaw clenched with the stubborn certainty that he would rather set himself on fire than let anyone dictate something so personal.
What he shared, who he shared it with— that was his decision.
Or it was supposed to have been.
He propelled himself across a rooftop gap, landing in a crouch that cracked the worn tiles beneath him. His palms popped with small, impatient sparks— tiny explosions he wasn't even aware he was releasing.
He could feel the faint tremor in his fingers. Not exhaustion— frustration. Rage. Confusion.
He hated all of it.
He pushed to his feet and kept moving. He needed air. He needed space.
He spotted someone on the next rooftop and slowed.
There, sitting on the ledge with his back bowed and his legs dangling over thirty stories of open air, was Izuku.
His shoulders sagged heavily as he stared at his phone, like they were carrying too much weight.
Izuku didn't notice when Katsuki landed. That alone was alarming.
Katsuki took a few measured steps forward, boots crunching over gravel. "Oi."
Izuku jerked like he'd been shocked. He spun, eyes wide in surprise. "Kacchan?"
Katsuki looked over the edge and then back at Izuku.
"You plan on jumping? 'Cause if I gotta be the one that has to talk you down I don't think your odds of survival are great." Katsuki asked, because concern was easier when wrapped in insults.
Izuku blinked rapidly. "No! No, I was just—taking a break. A really, really long break."
Katsuki studied him more closely.
Izuku's eyes were rimmed red, not from crying but from exhaustion. His breathing was shallow. His hands— gloved and trembling— rested on his knees like he was anchoring himself to the building.
This was the worst Katsuki had ever seen him.
"Deku," Katsuki said slowly, "I mean this in the nicest way possible: you look like shit."
Izuku let out a sound that might've been a laugh, but it cracked halfway out. "It's been… a day."
"Looks like it's been a decade."
Izuku drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, staring out over the city like it held every answer he didn't know how to ask for. "My agency's falling apart, Kacchan."
Katsuki's chest tightened at the words. "Hah?"
Izuku dragged a hand down his face. "It's… hanging on by threads. I had a big sponsor pull out last week. We're behind on rent. My support staff is working overtime without pay, and I hate it. I hate all of it."
Katsuki approached slowly, looking out at the city beside him. "How the hell did it get that bad?"
Izuku gave a tired laugh. "Because I can't keep up. I'm covering every patrol shift I can. I'm doing every interview. Every PR request. Every emergency call. Every training session for the interns. And every time I say no, my approval rating dips, which means the media comes after me even harder."
He shook his head, curls bouncing weakly. "I swear every reporter in Japan is hunting me like I'm a wild animal. They don't care if I've been awake for thirty hours straight. They don't care if I just finished taking down a villain. They want footage of me looking bright-eyed, articulate, composed—"
Izuku made frustrated air quotes with his fingers.
"—'relatable and romantically appealing.' Can you believe that's what my PR team told me yesterday? Romantically. Appealing."
Katsuki snorted despite himself. "You? Please."
Katsuki found himself looking Izuku a little too long— face flushed from stress, hair sticking up in every direction, suit a mess with soot and snags. Objectively speaking, he looked like hell.
But even looking like hell, he wasn't… ugly.
Not by a long shot.
If anything, it was kind of irritating how good Izuku could still look when he was exhausted enough to rattle. The freckles, the stupid big green eyes, the jawline he'd actually grown into— Izuku wasn't the scrawny nerd from middle school anymore. Katsuki had eyes. He could see that. He just didn't usually think about it.
Except apparently tonight, when his brain had decided to focus on useless details.
Katsuki clicked his tongue and looked away.
Sure, Izuku was attractive. Fine. Whatever.
But his romantic reputation sure as hell didn't show it.
Katsuki couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Izuku mentioned in gossip columns for anything other than hero work.
He'd had that brief thing with Cheeks— shit, her name's Uraraka right?— a few years back, but even that fizzled out fast— amicably, even. They'd decided they were better as friends and had gone for ice cream afterward like two painfully wholesome dorks.
It was almost bizarre. Someone who looked like Izuku did now— someone earnest, strong, heroic, with the kind of smile people donated to charities over— should have had at least some dramatic love life circulating in the press.
But no. He was clean as a damn whistle.
Izuku groaned and buried his face in his hands. "It's impossible. All of it. They want everything from me. Everything. And I'm already giving everything. I don't know how much more I have left."
Katsuki felt a strange hollowness open up in his stomach.
Izuku looked like he was breaking.
And Katsuki— who hated weakness, hated vulnerability, hated watching people fall apart— felt something colder, heavier, settle in his chest.
He didn't want Izuku to break.
Not ever.
Izuku continued, words tumbling out faster:
"And now— now they're telling me to open up my home life more? They asked me if I had someone special they could interview. Like—like a partner. They said it would help fix my image. They said families want to support heroes who look stable. Who have support systems."
Katsuki stiffened and Izuku, who didn't seem to notice, kept talking.
Katsuki felt his mind ignite.
"They even suggested doing a photoshoot about me 'finding balance.' They want to paint me as this soft, domestic, wholesome figure, but I'm barely holding myself together long enough to shower. And every time I push back, they remind me my agency is losing everything and if I don't—"
"Deku."
"—and I'm trying, I'm trying so hard, but I can't do this alone, I can't juggle everything, I'm exhausted and the media won't leave me alone and everyone keeps saying I need to look more—"
"Oi."
"—emotionally available, but I don't even know what that means anymore because—"
"Izuku!"
Izuku froze mid-ramble, eyes wide and cheeks red.
Katsuki stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Has your PR team told you about the new regulation?"
Izuku blinked, confused. "What regulation?"
Of course.
Nobody had told him.
They were probably dancing around the issue because they were just as much at a loss as Katsuki and his team were and trying to save Izuku the headache.
Katsuki gave a humorless laugh. "Heroes in the top ten need a stable domestic partner now."
Izuku stared blankly. "A stable… what?"
"A spouse, nerd."
Izuku made a squeak that didn't sound human and scrambled to his feet. "S-Spouse?! They want us married?! But—?! That's—?!"
He choked on his own breath.
Katsuki didn't let him spiral again.
He grabbed Izuku's shoulders— not hard, but firmly enough to anchor him.
"Listen to me."
Izuku did, eyes wide and startled.
Katsuki inhaled. He had been prepared to offer comfort when he felt it. The spark. The idea.
The dangerous, wild, perfect idea that hit like a grenade going off behind his ribs.
Izuku needed stability.
Izuku needed help.
Izuku needed a miracle.
Katsuki needed someone the public already trusted beside him.
Katsuki needed someone the Commission couldn't argue with.
Katsuki needed—
He met Izuku's eyes and damn near almost laughed.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
Izuku flinched, glancing Katsuki over in confusion. "W-What? What holy shit? That didn't sound like a good holy shit."
Katsuki stepped back, running a hand through his hair as the idea roared to life. "Deku. Deku, shut up. I've got a plan."
Izuku blinked. "A… plan?"
Katsuki looked at him— really looked— and for the first time today, the world didn't feel like it was crushing him.
He felt alive.
He felt powerful.
He felt like everything finally made sense.
"Oh, this is perfect," Katsuki muttered, almost to himself. "This is so fucking perfect. Yes."
Izuku waved his hands nervously. "Kacchan, what? What is perfect? You're scaring me— I mean you seem excited but that is scaring me—"
Katsuki grinned. Wide. Sharp. Triumphant. "My team's gonna call your team."
Izuku stared. "For… what?"
"You'll see," Katsuki said, practically vibrating. "I just need time to put it together."
"Kacchan—"
"It's gonna fix your shit. And mine."
"Kacchan wait—!"
Katsuki grabbed Izuku by the upper arm, eyes blazing with the intensity of a man who had just discovered the answer to life.
"I told you," he said, voice low with conviction, "I've got a plan."
Izuku swallowed. He looked lost. Exhausted. Desperate. "Yeah, you said that but… I dunno, Kacchan, I just could really use a miracle right now."
Katsuki didn't miss a beat.
He jerked a thumb at himself.
"You've got one," he said. "Because… I am here."
Izuku stared at him.
And then— despite the exhaustion, despite the stress layered into his bones— Izuku laughed.
A breathy, real laugh and the sound was music to Katsuki's damn ears. It was so much better than his frantic rambling.
"Kacchan," he said, pushing at Katsuki's shoulder, "don't use All Might lines on me."
Katsuki shrugged, still grinning like an idiot. "Worked, didn't it?"
Izuku rolled his eyes— but he was smiling now, genuinely smiling, and Katsuki felt something warm unfurl under his ribs.
"Just get back to your patrol," Izuku said, snorting. "Before you start quoting his speeches."
"Maybe I'll start shouting them from rooftops," Katsuki smirked, backing up toward the ledge.
Izuku waved him away. "Just go!"
Katsuki stepped back off the ledge and took off with a burst of explosions, rising into the night sky.
He looked back once.
Izuku was still smiling.
Still tired, frayed, and overwhelmed.
But at least he was smiling.
There were years Katsuki tried to forget and years he clung to without knowing why.
And threaded through every single one of them— like a wire running hot beneath his skin— was Izuku.
They'd grown up twisted around each other, orbiting the same sun with different trajectories. Katsuki used to be sure the world bent for him, that he was going to explode through every obstacle standing between him and the top. Izuku was the annoying constant, the background noise he could tune out.
Except he never could.
Not really.
Even back then, there was something in Izuku that infuriated Katsuki because it refused to break. He pushed the nerd, insulted him, told himself it was because Izuku was weak— when the truth was so much simpler, uglier, and harder to swallow:
Izuku kept standing back up.
And Katsuki didn't know how to deal with someone who wouldn't get out of his way.
Then UA happened, and suddenly Izuku wasn't behind him anymore— he was beside him. Hell, he was ahead of him most of the time. Fighting, striving, bleeding, growing. Katsuki watched him vault over every expectation people tried to cage him with, and it lit something in Katsuki's chest that felt like competition, fear, admiration, and fury all tangled together.
They chased each other through battles and victories, through losses that carved scars too deep for cameras to see. Scars that sat right underneath the ones that were left on their bodies to make sure they would never forget, even if they wanted to. They yelled, they clashed, they saved each other more times than they— well, Katsuki mostly— admitted. They learned each other's strengths, each other's limits, each other's breaking points.
And somewhere in the quiet between disasters, something shifted.
Katsuki started looking for Izuku automatically.
Started relaxing when he saw green lightning on the horizon.
Started trusting Izuku with the parts of himself he couldn't show anyone else.
Izuku had always looked at him like he was something bright, even when Katsuki felt burnt-out and hollow. Even when Katsuki didn't deserve it. Especially then.
By the time they became pro heroes, the world had changed them both— but somehow, they'd changed together. Rivalry had become respect. Respect had become something steadier, warmer, stupidly gentle in ways Katsuki didn't know how to name but recognized all the same.
Katsuki still wanted to be Number One though. Wanted it since he'd been old enough to say the damn words.
He wanted it with a fire that hadn't dimmed since he was four years old.
But if he was being honest— brutally, privately honest— he'd learned something over all those years:
Being the person Izuku trusted to catch him when he fell, to fight beside him, to believe in him when the world was too loud and too cruel?
Being Izuku's hero?
That felt just as good.
Sometimes better.
In the deep, unguarded corner of himself Katsuki never let anyone see, he knew this:
If the world never called him Number One…
If he spent his whole life exploding forward, only to come in second or third or tenth…
If Izuku still chose him, still trusted him, still looked at him with that stupid bright faith—
If Izuku was right there next to him.
Katsuki could live with that.
Hell.
Katsuki could thrive with that.
Because being the number one hero was the dream of his childhood.
But being Izuku's hero?
That was a dream he didn't realize he'd been chasing for just as long.
And Katsuki knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the plan forming in his mind was the right one.
Insane, maybe.
Risky, definitely.
But right.
For both of them.
The Commission wanted a spouse?
Fine.
They were going to get one.
And it was going to change everything.
Katsuki hit the ground outside Dynamight Agency with more force than necessary— enough to rattle the lobby windows and make a passing intern yelp and drop his tablet. Sparks trailed behind him like a comet tail as he strode inside, ignoring the startled looks, the hurried bows, the muttered, "Sir, you're a bit early—"
People scattered before him. Good. He needed the space. He needed momentum. He needed to keep the wildfire in his chest burning before doubt had the chance to put a boot on its neck.
He jabbed the elevator button hard enough to crack the plastic casing. When it dinged open, he stepped inside, cracked his knuckles, and let the silence press against his ears.
Marriage.
The word had been chewing on the inside of his skull since he left the rooftop. He could practically feel the syllables sparking on his tongue.
Marriage… To Deku.
He didn't know if he wanted to scream, laugh, or set something on fire.
Maybe all three? He could decide later.
The elevator doors opened to the executive floor with a soft chime that didn't match the storm in his veins. Katsuki marched down the hall, boots thudding like warning shots, until he reached the frosted glass conference room.
Through the glass, he saw his team— an image consultant, a brand strategist, and his manager— all mid-conversation. His entrance cut through the room when he shoved the door open hard enough for it to bang against the wall.
All heads snapped toward him.
Good.
They damn well needed to pay attention to what he was about to say.
"Welcome back, Dynamight," said Tomo, smoothing the sleeve of her blazer like she was preparing for impact. Which, honestly, she was. "You're early. Should we reschedule this for—"
"We're doin' it now," Katsuki said, dropping into the chair at the head of the table.
Tomo exchanged a look with the others. Not fear—God, they were too used to him for that now—but wariness. The kind you have when you realize the grenade pin is already on the floor.
Katsuki braced his elbows on the table, leaning forward. "I've got a solution for that bullshit regulation the Commission dropped on us."
The air became tense.
Ryo, the brand strategist, adjusted his glasses. "Please tell me your solution does not involve insulting a government official."
Katsuki smirked. "Not this time."
Tomo folded her hands atop her tablet. "All right. We're listening."
He took a breath. The good kind. The kind that tasted like victory.
"I'm getting married."
If a villain had burst through the wall with a rocket launcher in hand, the reaction might've been less dramatic.
One choked on nothing.
Another slapped both hands over her mouth.
Someone else went disturbingly pale. He suspected they were holding their breath.
Tomo, to her credit, didn't flinch—just exhaled, slowly, as if she'd spent years preparing for the day Bakugou Katsuki would declare a sudden marriage like it was a new workout regimen.
"Okay," Tomo said evenly. "Let's walk through this carefully. Are you saying you want us to begin a search? Vet potential candidates? The Commission requires legally recognized—"
"No search," Katsuki interrupted.
Everyone blinked at him.
"I already know who I'm marrying."
Silence.
Not the stunned kind of silence but the collectively horrified kind of silence that said they thought he’d finally lost it.
Tomo looked like she aged five years in five seconds. "Dynamight… who. Who exactly are you talking about?"
Katsuki folded his arms and leaned back like a king about to drop divine decree.
"Izuku."
Dead silence.
No one reacted immediately and that was concerning but what was even more so was the fact that an intern he hadn't noticed in the corner made something that sounded like a goddamn squeal but hadn't moved an inch. It was like she was deflating.
Katsuki stared. "…Seriously?"
Ryo whispered, "Oh my God," like he was watching a slow-motion train crash.
Tomo closed her eyes, took a long breath, and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like: "I knew this day would come, but not like this."
She looked back at him. "You're serious?"
"Like a goddamn heart attack."
"Midoriya Izuku," she clarified, like maybe he'd meant some other Midoriya. "Deku? Number four ranked hero?"
"Yeah," Katsuki said, shrugging. "Why, you know another one?"
"This is—this is—" Ryo sputtered. "Strategically unprecedented!"
"Insane," the image consultant, Jin, muttered.
"Miraculous," the intern murmured distantly.
"Fuck Yes!" Katsuki shouted, slamming a hand against the table that startled everyone before pointing at the intern. "That's the goddamn energy I need, right there. Hire her."
The girl's face lit up like a Christmas tree and Tomo pinched the bridge of her nose, putting up a hand. "May I ask how this came about?"
Katsuki rested his forearms on the table again. "Ran into him on patrol and we talked. He's drowning. Agency's falling apart. Sponsors dropping him. Media on his ass. He's got no support system."
The room processed the information.
"He needs stability," Katsuki continued. "And I need to get married. This fixes both our problems."
Tomo tapped the table rapidly, thinking. "You understand," she said slowly, "that a fake marriage— and assuming that's what this is— requires coordination between two the agencies, legally binding paperwork, and convincing chemistry. The public has to buy this. The Commission will examine every detail. They'll question the legitimacy of this arrangement from the moment you announce it."
Katsuki shrugged. "So we make it real."
Jin lifted a hand hesitantly. "So… are you… romantically…?"
"No," Katsuki snapped.
Everyone flinched.
"Not like that," he added, voice lower. "But Deku's the one person I trust to not screw me over."
Ryo muttered, "That might be the most romantic thing you have ever said."
Katsuki ignored him. "We make this real enough. We have time to submit the documentation so we can just build and wrap it up just before the deadline."
Tomo steepled her fingers. "Does Midoriya know about this plan?"
"Yes." Katsuki replied immediately. He paused and the sucked his teeth, making a so-so motion with his hand. "I mean not really."
The collective groaned.
"But he will," Katsuki added, "and I'm telling you—he'll agree."
"That is a bold assumption," Tomo said.
"He said he needed a miracle," Katsuki countered. "I'm offering one."
Tomo took a deep breath and straightened her spine. "All right. Let's discuss logistical risk."
Katsuki's eyes narrowed. "This isn't risky."
"This is extremely risky," Tomo corrected, sliding a digital document his way. "Let's start with the backlash alone. Public perception of a sudden marriage between two top-ranking heroes—especially childhood rivals—could be volatile. Media will dissect every interaction. They will analyze body language, timing, history."
"We can handle that," Katsuki said.
"Legality," she continued. "A marriage can't be purely transactional. It will be legally binding. Financially intertwined. You will be sharing assets, property rights, emergency contact status—"
"I said we can handle it."
Tomo studied him carefully— like she was examining an explosive device ticking down.
"Why Midoriya?" she asked softly.
The question hit harder than it should've.
Why him?
Because it made sense.
Because it was strategic.
Because it solved everything.
Because he trusted Izuku.
Because the idea of anyone else standing beside him made Katsuki's skin crawl.
But Katsuki wasn't going to unpack that in front of these people.
He shrugged. "Because we work well together."
"That's an understatement," Ryo muttered.
"Because," Katsuki snapped, "I trust him more than I trust anyone else."
There was no bravado or arrogance in his tone.
Tomo nodded slowly, absorbing each word. Then she sat back, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table.
"All right," she said finally. "If you are fully committed to pursuing this, we can draft a preliminary proposal. We'll reach out to Midoriya's PR team discreetly. And then—"
Katsuki cut her off. "No. No, 'discreet.'" He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "Call them. Tonight. Tell them I said I've got a plan and to sit their asses down because it's about to save both our careers and their damn jobs."
The room froze.
Tomo inhaled. "Tonight?"
"Yeah."
"This early in the process?"
"I move fast."
Ryo whispered, "You certainly do."
Tomo stared at him for a long moment— calculating, measuring, bracing.
Then she reached for her phone.
"All right, Dynamight," she said. "We'll contact Midoriya's agency."
Katsuki's chest tightened with something fierce and bright.
"And," Tomo added, "we'll schedule a joint meeting as soon as possible."
Katsuki grinned.
It wasn't a polite grin. Or a PR-friendly grin.
It was sharp. Wild. Dangerous.
The grin of a man who had decided the future and would not be told otherwise.
"Good," he said, pushing to his feet. "I'm telling you. This is gonna work."
Katsuki left the room with a sense of forward momentum he hadn't felt in years.
Yes—he was chasing number one. He always would.
But helping Izuku… standing beside him, stabilizing him, helping him—
That felt just as right as any victory.
And maybe—just maybe—he could be both.
The number one hero and Izuku's hero.
Maybe he didn't have to choose.
Katsuki stood outside the glass doors of his agency building with his phone in his hand, pretending like he was scrolling through something important. He wasn't. His thumb hadn't moved in damn near three minutes. The screen had gone dark twice. He'd tapped it back awake without seeing a single thing on it.
He wasn't checking messages, he wasn't refreshing feeds, he wasn't reading updates from his team. He was holding the phone because he needed something— anything— to occupy his hands before they started giving away the shitstorm in his chest.
Because while he'd sounded like a goddamn visionary in front of his PR team— tight grin, sharp confidence, fire in his eyes— now that he was alone and waiting and had time to think about it all…
It hit him that he had no fucking idea if Izuku actually would agree to this.
A fake marriage?
Legal. Public. Messy as hell.
Even a perfect strategic union could sound insane when said out loud. Which was ironic, because Katsuki had said a lot of insane things to Izuku over the years, and Izuku usually took them fairly well.
Usually.
But this was different.
This wasn't a training idea or a battlefield tactic or a split-second plan shouted mid-combat where Izuku would just say, "Right!" and immediately sync with him.
This was their lives.
Their careers.
Their futures.
Their everything.
Katsuki stared down at his phone again. He didn't even realize he opened the calculator app somehow. He stared at the glowing numbers like they were supposed to offer divine guidance.
"What the fuck am I doing," he muttered under his breath.
A fake marriage with Midoriya Izuku.
It was brilliant. He knew it was brilliant. Logically it made sense. Politically it made sense. Professionally it was the smartest possible solution to both of their problems. Izuku would get protection from the media, an ironclad PR narrative to stabilize his agency, and the credibility boost that came with aligning with a top-ten hero.
And Katsuki—Well, Katsuki would get a spouse.
A spouse who wouldn't screw him over.
A spouse who already knew him better than most people did.
A spouse who could handle him, argue with him, match him, push him, and not break under pressure.
And it's not like he was trying to fuck Izuku or anything.
Fuck, no.
This wasn't about feelings or romance or any of that bullshit. This was a union of necessity. It was a tactical partnership. A contract that would save them both.
So why the hell was his stomach tying itself in knots?
Oh, that was easy. He knew exactly why.
It was because he wanted Izuku to see it the way he saw it.
To understand it instinctually.
Just like they always did when fighting together— when their movements synced without words, when they could anticipate each other with terrifying precision.
He wanted that same clarity now.
The same trust.
He wanted Izuku to just say yes.
A black car turned the corner. Katsuki straightened so fast he felt his joints pop.
The agency's guest car coasted to a gentle stop in front of the building, glossy and polished— cleaner than anything Katsuki ever owned. The tinted back window reflected the sky for a moment before the door opened.
Izuku stepped out.
For a moment— just a moment— the tightness in Katsuki's chest vanished.
Izuku looked… alive again.
Still tired, sure. Still stressed, definitely. But there was a brightness back in his eyes, a bounce in his steps as he hopped out of the car with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His curls were tamed just enough to suggest he'd fought with them before giving up. His costume had been swapped for casual clothes— a green hoodie and black joggers— comfortable but clean.
He looked good.
Katsuki shoved that thought deep, deep down where it would never bother him again.
Izuku's PR team spilled out behind him— two agents and one manager— but Izuku didn't look at them. His gaze met Katsuki's.
His whole face lit up and Katsuki couldn't help the smirk that settled on his own.
"Kacchan!" he called, beaming like he hadn't been crumbling apart last night on a rooftop. "You're here early!"
"I'm always on time," Katsuki grunted.
Izuku jogged the few steps toward him, practically radiating energy. "I'm just glad you called my team so quickly. They said you had a plan? A really big plan? A miracle-level plan?"
Katsuki's heart kicked.
"Maybe," he said, trying for cool and landing somewhere in the vicinity of stiff and awkward.
Izuku tilted his head, smiling with that annoying earnestness that Katsuki had never been able to look at directly for too long without feeling something crawl up the back of his throat.
"Thanks for inviting us over," Izuku added, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "My team said your team sounded very… determined."
"They're dramatic," Katsuki said. "And stupid."
Izuku laughed.
Fuck.
That sound always hit him like a warm punch.
Before Katsuki could second-guess himself, he reached out and ruffled Izuku's hair— hard, like punishment for smiling too brightly at him.
Izuku squawked. "Ugh, Kacchan!"
"You ready to get your miracle?" Katsuki asked.
Izuku batted his hand away, face red. "Stop that! And if you say miracle and then tell me you're donating money to stabilize my agency, I swear, Kacchan—"
Katsuki scoffed loud enough to turn heads. "Please. I'd rather burn all my money than give any to you."
Izuku blinked. "Oh."
"Come on," Katsuki said before Izuku could get offended or confused or heartbreakingly earnest again. He stepped forward and pulled open the glass door to the building's lobby. "This is way better than money. It's gonna fix all our problems."
Izuku stared at him, suspicion etched across his face, like Katsuki was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"Uh-huh," Izuku said slowly, eyebrows arching with skepticism. "Sure, Kacchan. If you say so."
"I do say so," Katsuki said, forcing a grin that felt like it was glued to his face. "Now move. You're blocking the damn door."
Izuku huffed, brushing past him into the lobby. "You don't have to hold the door, you know."
"Shut up," Katsuki muttered, not admitting that he needed his hand on the door because he didn't trust it not to shake.
Izuku's PR team murmured quick greetings as they entered behind him. Katsuki nodded stiffly at them, resisting the urge to blow something up purely to release tension.
As he followed them inside, his pulse thundered.
This was it. The moment before the moment. The moment before he dropped the crazy, brilliant, perfectly logical, and totally insane plan on Izuku's head. The moment before everything changed.
He stared at Izuku's back as they walked toward the elevators— Izuku chatting softly with his PR manager, gesturing with familiar animated movements, curls bouncing, shoulders relaxed.
Katsuki swallowed hard.
"Please," he begged silently, "see it the way I do."
See the angles.
See the strategy.
See the necessity.
See the partnership.
See him.
There didn’t have to be romance or emotions.
Just see him instinctually, the way he always did.
The elevator doors slid open, the group stepping inside. Izuku pressed the button for the top floor and stood beside Katsuki— close, too close, warm shoulder brushing Katsuki's arm as the doors closed around them.
Izuku glanced up at him with trust in his eyes.
"Kacchan," he said quietly, "thanks again. I… really appreciate you doing this."
Katsuki's throat tightened.
"Don't thank me yet," he muttered.
Izuku blinked. "Huh?"
"Nothing."
The elevator rose. Floor by floor. Second by agonizing second.
Katsuki glanced at his reflection in the stainless steel walls— broad shoulders, sharp eyes, tension carved into every line of his face.
He didn't look nervous. He looked like he was going to war. And maybe he was, because how the hell did someone reveal "Hey, Izuku, let's get legally married for politics" without sounding like an absolute lunatic?
He swallowed again.
Fuck.
The elevator chimed and the doors opened. The glass-walled executive meeting room was revealed and there stood Katsuki's entire three man PR team—waiting like a firing squad.
Izuku's PR team filed out first, voices low and professional, moving toward the conference table.
Izuku paused in the doorway. Katsuki didn't notice and almost walked straight into him.
Izuku looked back at him, wide green eyes hopeful but wary. "So… what exactly is this miracle?"
Katsuki inhaled. The breath felt like it might catch fire on the way in.
He forced his voice steady, forced his shoulders back, forced every flicker of doubt into a cage at the base of his spine.
"It's better if I show you," he said.
Izuku searched his face.
And Katsuki prayed— actually fucking prayed— that Izuku would understand him the way he always did. That he'd see the plan the same way Katsuki saw it. That he'd trust him long enough to hear the whole pitch.
"Kacchan…" Izuku murmured softly. "Okay. Let's do it."
Katsuki stepped forward, every nerve sparking like live wire.
"Let's go save our careers," he said, voice low.
And with that they entered the room.