Work Text:
Bakugou Katsuki wakes abruptly, sitting up and gasping from where it seems like he’d been in a deep sleep—a sleep he doesn’t remember falling into.
There’s an unbelievably excruciating pain in what seems to be his upper thigh, and his hands shake when they drift closer to where it feels like an ungodly mix of an incredibly intense muscle cramp and a third-degree burn. Something inside him tells him that this is normal—to let it burn.
It’s not really like he can do anything about it, especially not when he doesn’t even know where he is.
He sits there, sitting half-assed and cradling his thigh as best as he can without actually touching it, in what seems to be an unknown bed in an unknown room. He does this until the feeling finally subsides enough for him to sit up and slip off the sweatpants he knows he doesn’t own.
The sweatpants are an absolutely disgusting mix of mustard and cornflower blue, and he feels—well, let’s be completely fucking honest, he knows that he’s never owned such an ugly piece of clothing before.
The pain seems to finally subside maybe twenty minutes after he initially feels it, and then, as if there was nothing actually there in the first place, the burning pain is completely gone, like he didn’t just feel such an intense pain that it woke him up from a dead fucking sleep.
Curious, he goes to roll down his bottoms, wiggling out of the ugly hues, and finds himself confused by what he sees.
A thick band of what seems to be barbed wire wraps around his upper thigh, high up enough that it’s almost kissing his hip bone, and he’s completely befuddled, emotions twisting and turning at the sight of something he’s fully aware of not being there the night before (but, when was that?) on his thigh. The same spot where it felt like his skin had been sliced open and branded.
“What the fuck,” he says, quietly, softly, to hopefully avoid any prying ears from listening in. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”
He tries to get himself together after that, not sure if the room he’s in is entirely safe to stay in—especially if he’s got no clue on how or where he is to begin with. He meets someone, a nice brunette, on the way through the empty halls, and it only takes one look at the blond for her to brighten up.
“Bakugou Katsuki!” She says, cheerfully, like she’s eaten pure sunshine for breakfast, loud and happy and bright. He visibly recoils, but she doesn't seem to notice. If she does, she happily ignores it. “You’re finally awake!”
“Yeah?” He asks, confused. “Who the fuck are you, what is this place?”
The brunette’s smile softens, and her eyes seem somewhat understanding. “It can all be quite confusing at first, will you have a seat in my office?”
“...Sure,” he replies, eyeing her up and down, looking for any factors in who she is, before eyeing the hallway surrounding them. She’s wearing pink and yellow, unassuming and bright colors standing out from the pale beige walls, grey-brown carpet (carpet? carpet), and dark brown doors. Boring.
“You can call me Uraraka!” She chirps, gesturing for him to follow her before walking off, and he complies. It couldn’t hurt, he reasons.
As he sits in her office, a large room decorated in nothing but varying shades of pink and sunflower yellow, he listens to her explain.
Why the fuck is he here—and where the fuck is here, anyway?
“You died, Bakugou, I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” she says, answering Katsuki’s earlier question, eyes soft.
He ignores her pitying look as he taps his thigh impatiently, gesturing for her to continue.
“Usually, when the newly initiated are put here, only the ones who didn't have a good end don’t know that they’re dead,” she continues with a grimace. “I wasn’t aware you wouldn’t know where you were, I apologize!”
Okay, cool, thanks, Round Face. That explains a lot. He rolls his eyes and asks his next question. What the fuck is on his thigh, and why did it burn like hell?
“Oh, that’s your sin mark!” She tells him with a careful smile. “Whenever you feel like you’d be willing to, I’ll need to log down your sin assignment. Due to you telling me where its placement is, though, I have a good idea.”
“Okay, wait, what the fuck is a sin mark?”
“A sin mark is like your sin assignment,” she mentions, as if that makes any more sense than before. She ticks off her fingers as she goes through the different assignments. “There’s the lower demons, like Greed, where their sin mark is a white eye, both the sclera, the iris, and the pupil! Then you have Lust, who have the black tongues, Sloth, where their lower leg is exposed down to the bone, and Gluttony, where teeth wrap around the sinner’s lower abdomen—all these live in the outer circles here, with the exception of Greed. Those with Greed are unassigned,” she says, eyeing him critically. “That part’s explainable on its own, though.”
He bares his teeth at her, but she only laughs.
“Anyways,” she continues, “then you’ve got the higher level demons. You’ve got Pride, with the leaf laurel wrapped around their collarbones, Envy, with the ouroboros wrapped around their dominant wrist, and then, finally, you’ve got—”
Wrath.
It’s not really surprising, he thinks, remembering the barbed wire branded on him. Anger has always been an emotion he’s been intimately familiar with. Anger is what he’s always cradled to his heart, delicately, lovingly—almost as if he’s nurtured his rage.
And at the same time, he has nurtured his rage, his anger, his hurt—changed it and turned it into something he’s not ashamed of, something more powerful.
In the back of his mind, when Uraraka had started listing off the well-known seven deadly sins, he knew. It calms him down, to know that while he’s in a new and unknown environment, he still has the one thing that’s kept him sane.
(This, though, eventually proves to be a false truth all in of itself.)
Ignoring her rambling, he confirms her earlier query with, “it’s Wrath. Are we done here?”
She grins in reply.
Uraraka spends the next couple of hours initiating him, having him sign paperwork (there’s fucking paperwork in Hell? Figures), and telling him he’s been immediately signed up for a job he knows nothing about other than a cheerful “Don’t worry, you’ll like it, I’m sure. Most Wrath demons do!”
He can only roll his eyes at that.
Katsuki’s soon sent on his way to another office, this one being much larger. He eyes the name plaque labeled Endeavor before knocking, and, when called in, enters slowly.
He’s quickly made aware that this is his new employer, as per his sin assignment. Those who tend to have Wrath as their assignment are apparently pretty perfect for Endeavor’s line of work.
Enji, known as Endeavor to his workers, seems to be neither good nor bad. He’s gruff, rough around the edges, but—he’s not too bad, Katsuki finds. He’s punctual, practical, and takes no bullshit. Katsuki appreciates it.
He’s given a business card and a time to be back, and then promptly sent on his way with strict orders to call the number tomorrow morning.
On his way “home,” a place he’s been given to live (at least, that’s what he’d gathered from Uraraka’s excited ramblings and a key haphazardly thrown his way), Katsuki eyes his surroundings, vermillion orbs sweeping from cobblestone pathways and brick buildings. He notices the looks, the peering eyes, the people making their way through the streets, and can only roll his eyes.
He’s been given a crash course on Hell and all its circles—Uraraka had told him about the inner and outer circles, the middle realms being full of shops, worksites, and anything else you’d need.
There’s no real transportation, though—the only real form of it being a train, though Uraraka had said it only runs when it feels like it. Katsuki decides not to think about what that means. Instead, there’s cobblestone pathways and roads, uneven and harsh on his feet.
But this might not be too bad, Katsuki thinks, making his way to his apartment, rolling the thick red cardstock between smooth fingers. He looks it over curiously, but puts it back in his newly acquired pants, no longer an ugly mishmash of color but a rich black.
He won’t look at it just yet, he decides, not while he’s still out in public. Too many curious eyes, too many watchful gazes and leering looks. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone snatched it out of his hand, all things considered.
“You must be a new face,” he hears from his left. It’s a smooth yet slightly roughened cadence, and Katsuki feels his nerves somewhat soothed just by hearing it. “I haven’t seen your pretty lil’ face here before, I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.”
Katsuki raises an eyebrow, turning towards the voice but not curious enough to see the person it's connected to. He keeps his slow pace, not willing to stop in his haste to finally get some fucking rest.
“And?” He asks, uninterested. “I didn’t realize I had to check in with you—does that line work on anyone else, or is it just for me?”
A laugh, simultaneously eerie and cheerful and full of hidden motives, bursts from the annoyance beside him.
“Oh, you’re perfect,” they say, full of glee. It sounds slightly manic, unhinged.
Katsuki, irritated and confused by their words, finally relents, eyeing the first person who’s been stupid enough to speak to him since he’s left Endeavor’s office.
They’re a tragic mess of bright cerulean, white, and black leather. Yikes. Katsuki gives them a once over, looking from their leather jacket and pant ensemble to the white crop top almost fully hidden underneath with distaste. Boots with a platform, the heel reaching quite high and black in color, adorn their feet.
Trailing upwards, he notices they have bright blue eyes, bordering on a mix of turquoise, cerulean, and insanity. Black hair, similar in shape to Katsuki’s own, messily falls over their eyes.
Katsuki notices that if he looks close enough, he can see the faintest patches of white peeking through the messy dye job.
As they continue talking, going on a borderline tangent at this point, the blond chooses to admire the intricate fire bouquets littering the sides of the road, wondering if he’d spontaneously combust if he threw himself in one. If he did, though, where would he go? Would he respawn back at Uraraka’s work, dressed back in those ungodly colors of mustard and blue like a video game character?
He launches a rock to the other side of the street with his foot. Katsuki’s not sure it’s worth the risk. Maybe later. Or, actually, maybe in just a few, if the nuisance walking next to him keeps fucking talking.
The fire bouquets are deceptively beautiful though, a cross between a firepit and a lamppost and something wholly opposite. He watches the whorls of burgundy and copper mixed in with licks of black and a ruddy brown instead of listening, not even pretending at this point.
“Hey, are you even listening to me, Doll?” Katsuki hears, and he sighs.
“What do you want?” He asks, eyeing them. He watches as their eyes light up, and finds himself filled with dread.
“Your name, I want your name,” they say, stepping closer and leaning in. They seem unnaturally content with invading his space, almost as if they’ve done it many times before, all practiced ease and comfortability.
The blond pauses, ceasing all movement to fully turn their way. The way they say it, in a slightly crazed way (but also with a tinge of desperation, Katsuki notes), lets him know that this probably isn’t a usual request in Hell.
“Why,” he says, demanding an answer rather than asking a question. He watches, in morbid fascination, as their facade drops, just for a split second. Their eyes look more sad than anything, forlorn and weary, the tilt of their lips downturned. After that slip-up, though, they revert back to where they’d had their face carefully placed before.
They hum, pretending to think as they pull a lone cigarette from their jacket. Katsuki eyes them as they light it with their finger, blue fire licking the end of it. They take a drag, taking their time blowing out smoke, before speaking.
“Is it so wrong to want to know who I’m speaking with, to know their name?” They ask, false mirth coating their tongue. “Would you rather I stick with the pet names instead, Angel?”
The look on their face tells him that using that specific choice of name was absolutely on purpose, as they’re now laughing silently at the juxtaposition.
The blond chooses to stay silent, his displeasure obvious without him speaking it in words. After a moment, he starts to continue his way through the streets once more. This time, his unwelcome walking buddy stays behind, but not without a few cheery catcalls.
Katsuki feels their eyes on him long after he turns the corner.
It probably takes him much longer than it should to find his new place after that, and while he’s perusing the streets, he notices that the further and further he goes into the circles, the nicer it looks.
They say the streets of hell are paved with good intentions. Katsuki can hear someone weeping under his feet, accentuating each of his steps with pained groans and choked sobs.
He quietly wonders if they’re built with guilt and shame—in the deepest depths of his mind, he wonders why he subconsciously cries with them.
When he arrives, Katsuki eyes the house next to his, decorated from roof to yellowing grass with a nauseating combination of plastic pink flamingos and various window clings as he makes his way to the home next to it. He goes through the calming motion of inserting the key, of twisting it to the side and hearing the sharp click! of the door unlocking.
It’s nice, calming—easy, which is something that can be hard to come by in the Circles, the blond’s learned, all things considered. Katsuki likes to think the eerie feeling comes with the place, y’know, being in Hell and all, how every move you make seems to be the wrong one, how your every move feels like it’s being monitored despite there being no visible cameras.
In the handful of hours he’s been here, he’s noticed that everyone is either looking down at you, being ignored, or are throwing themselves at your feet for a chance of something—to be looked at, acknowledged, seen. It feels like every step you take is monitored, or, if you’re on the lower end, you’re treated like you’re nothing, lower than garbage itself.
He wonders what the familiar stranger’s assignment was. He wonders why he even fucking cares.
Katsuki doesn’t know whether to be thankful for his future assignment with Endeavor as a Wrath demon, or to be disgusted. Considering everything that’s happened, it’s probably a mix of both.
He casts one more look over to the house neighboring his, and immediately finds himself leaning more towards being disgusted. He eyes the tacky decor, the plastic flamingos and the gnomes scattered throughout the yard, not noticing the neighbor’s door creak open until it’s too late.
“Hey bro!” His neighbor calls out, “are you my new neighbor?”
Katsuki glares him down, already irritated to the max.
“What, was it not already obvious by the open door, or was it the key in my hand? What clued you in?” He bites out, grinding his teeth as he attempts to be somewhat cordial. It’s a pisspoor attempt, obviously—but, to his surprise, the neighbor laughs.
Are you fucking kidding right now?
“You seem great!” The guy says with a grin, waving it off. “You’ll fit right in.”
Katsuki chooses to ignore him—a smart choice, apparently, because the house he steps into (his house, he reminds himself) is soothing, quiet. The loud click of him sliding the lock into place rings through what seems to be the living room.
But it almost seems too quiet after the day he’s had so far. He pushes that thought into the far corners of his mind. He’ll need to organize everything he’s shoved back there later, but he’s far more content with ignoring them for now.
He’s really only awake long enough to inspect the place. Once he’s ensured that he’s the only one in the house, he makes his way back to the bedroom down the hall, changes into something more comfortable to sleep in after digging through the dresser (which, in hindsight, is weird as fuck. A fully stocked dresser? Whatever, he’ll deal with that another day) and falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He does not dream.
Or, at least, it doesn’t feel like a dream, at least. It’s more of a memory—he’s wrapped in what almost feels like an unnatural warmth, another body intimately pressed against his own, before the feeling slowly drifts away.
He succumbs to the black once more, and does not experience the previous feeling again.
When he wakes up, the first thing he’s aware of is that he feels strange.
It’s a feeling that he can’t quite grasp, something that’s tangible and something he’s familiar with, but—it remains a feeling he just can’t seem to comprehend yet.
Whatever it is, it’s calming, soothing—it feels like home, even though Katsuki doesn’t remember what that’s like, what home feels like and what it means to him.
When he’d woken up in one of Uraraka’s rooms, he’d briefly wondered why his mind was mostly blank. He’s (well, was, technically) a grown ass man, how does he not have memories, bits and pieces and fragments of his life before?
He had asked Uraraka herself while she was shoving paperwork in his hands, trying to do the same with him as she was herding him out her door, but she’d said nothing more than a simple, yet no less uncomfortable, “they’ll come back when you’re ready.”
The person before, with the horrible dye job and the unreasonably high footwear, had made him weirdly comfortable—as if they were more than strangers meeting for the first time on unholy ground, as if they were more than unfortunate souls placed in Hell for their actions while alive. As if their desperation wasn’t for his name, but rather for him.
As if they were more than damned souls searching for a way to feel human again.
Katsuki’s not sure how long he can stay the same for, his whole being already dragging down in its haste to be angrier, to succumb to what are now known as his “instinct.”
As if his anger is the only thing keeping him together—as if that’s not how he imagined he’d lived when he was on green grass and blue skies, not only as an assumption, an almost requirement , where the only colors are muddied and fire-laced.
He sighs, the day ruined already.
He reaches for the card from Endeavor, crimson red cardstock with black lettering gleaming in the rays of the “sun” shining through his window, a false monstrosity of burnt yellow and orange.
It’s simple, if not intimidating, the way the letters are placed, the type of font used. It’s got his boss’s name in neat script, a number underneath it, along with the words all services and prices to be discussed face-to-face.
There’s a thrumming underneath his skin at the thought of what type of “work” they specialize in. Considering Uraraka’s previous words regarding the job, Wrath demons work well in the field. Against his will, he imagines violence, bloody weapons, he imagines sobs for mercy. But most of all, he imagines fire—he thinks of setting anything and everything aflame with someone pressed close to him, eyes alit with something akin to the warmth of the flame itself, something akin to love.
He blinks, and the image quickly fades away.
He rubs a hand over his eyes in distaste, mouth curling as he glares at nothing and everything.
He lays there for what feels like much too long, before he finally feels okay enough to crawl out of bed.
On his first day of work, Endeavor starts by introducing him to his new colleagues—Sero, Ashido, Kirishima, Kaminari, and Natsuo, a bunch of misfits that seem to be around the same age as him.
And it’s true, for their human lives. The truth is a bit more mind-boggling.
“I’ve been in Hell for about… hmmm, how long have you been here for, Sero?” Ashido asks, when they’ve all been acquainted. The acid wash jeans mixed with leopard print is an interesting choice, Katsuki supposes. Ugly, but interesting.
They’re standing by the coffee pot, waiting for it to brew, when they conduct their makeshift welcoming party. Katsuki wants to die (again).
Sero hums, “thirteen years, maybe?” His face twists together as he contemplates, absentmindedly ruffling his hair with a hand. “Yeah, thirteen or fourteen years, give or take.”
“Then I’ve been here for about, what, twenty-five, twenty-six?” She asks, more to herself than anyone else. She quickly gets over it, laughing. “It’s definitely been long enough!”
Katsuki stares ahead, not really listening to their peer bonding session. He could care less about who’s been dead for however fucking long. He eyes the other side of the office, making eye contact with Endeavor and taking the out as soon as the other man gestures for him to make his way over.
“I want you to meet my sons,” Endeavor says, walking into his office, Katsuki following after him. “One of them already seemed to know who you were when I described your prickly personality, Bakugou.”
(He’s now somewhat aware of the truth regarding names and the intricate details of giving someone your full name, but hasn’t gotten the courage to ask for the details of it all—and in turn, risking himself looking dumb as fuck.
So, for now, he’ll resolve to give them one name and one name only. Hopefully, this way, there’s a smaller chance of it ending up messy.)
Katsuki makes a noise of acknowledgment, which seems to be enough of a green light for Endeavor to call his children in. He eyes the decor, ranging from tacky knick-knacks to the boring beige couch in the far corner. It looks impersonal, like Endeavor’s never had children to be proud of, despite the circumstances.
Katsuki’s not quite sure of the intricacies of being in Hell yet, after all.
When he’d seen Uraraka’s office though, it at least had some semblance of personalization. The obnoxious array of pinks and yellows were more welcome than the boring office he’s sitting in now.
At least Uraraka had enough of a personality to keep his attention, he thinks.
Katsuki decides to throw the thought away, deciding to pay attention to the three new faces in the room, two closer by the desk with one leaning against the doorframe.
“I have a daughter as well,” his boss says. “She’s not in this particular line of work, so there’s no need for you to meet her.”
Katsuki hides his grimace poorly, if the chuckle from one of his boss’s children is any indicator. As his eyes trail from one child to the other, he absentmindedly notices the resemblance between Endeavor and his sons.
“One of them will be assigned to you as your partner,” Endeavor says, gesturing to the three. “Partners are required in this line of work, this is non-negotiable.”
Natsuo seems to have more of his mother’s shades, white hair and gray eyes—he looks nothing like his father. Shouto, on the other hand, is a whole messy mix of his parents. Half red and half white, neatly split down the middle, with his eyes being half gray and half turquoise.
He’s looking at the two closest to him, Natsuo and Shouto, when his eyes catch on the familiar figure by the door.
“Hey there, cutie,” they say with a wave, stepping closer. Katsuki almost chokes on his breath at their voice, a subtle purr lilting their words. “I’d say it’s lovely to see you again, but I would’ve liked for it to be somewhere different and not my shitstain father’s office.”
The aforementioned “shitstain father” sighs, but it’s barely heard over the thrumming in Katsuki’s ears. The dye suddenly makes sense, a lightbulb glowing in the corners of his mind. The eyes are very similar, but not quite the same. While the shade of their eyes is almost identical, the emotions within them are on opposite spectrums altogether. Endeavor's are hardened, seemingly lacking any and all emotions that could make him seem weak—his son's, on the other hand, seem to almost welcome them, and then some.
“Fucking hell, not you again,” he groans, frustrated. He looks over at Endeavor with a sigh. “Do they also work here?”
“All of my male children work here,” is his reply. “Shouto, Natsuo, and —”
“I only work here when my services are especially needed,” the familiar stranger says with a smirk. “I find that I can be incredibly persuasive.” Then, as if unveiling a well-kept secret, slowly drops his tongue from his mouth.
The first thing Katsuki notices is that it’s black. The next thing he notices is that there’s an icy blue tongue ring sitting daintily in the middle of said black tongue. The blond feels something in him burning hot at the sight, curling with possession.
The white-haired son, Natsuo, laughs loudly. Katsuki feels his ears burn in response, knowing the son was laughing at him.
“He does this to everyone he meets for the first time,” the older (?) brother says, wiping away stray tears that had already started making their way down his cheeks. “He loves the shock factor of having a piercing in that god-awful tongue.”
The third son shrugs, unbothered. “Why not? I always like to see people’s faces when they see it. It’s like a personality test of sorts, y’know?” He points a grin Katsuki’s way, “Usually, the ones who’re most flustered tend to be the ones I enjoy the most.”
“Are you done?” Endeavor asks from where he sits, perched in his chair. On one hand, Katsuki almost feels bad for him. On the other, though, he’s got absolutely no sympathy for him.
“I could be,” he replies, crossing his arms with a pout. He makes a vulgar gesture with his hand, stating, “take it away, father.”
The aforementioned sighs.
“Let’s get this over with then.”
And with that, the meeting commences.
“I can’t believe I got stuck with you,” Katsuki mutters angrily, stomping from the building. “Out of all of his fucking children, it had to be you.”
He notices the heathen next to him sucking on a lollipop, repeatedly dragging it in and out his mouth, the sharp pop!ing sounds ruining Katsuki’s pisspoor attempt to think.
“I think you should treat this as the blessing it is, Doll,” his partner says cheerfully, rolling his tongue around the sucker, the piercing making a sharp clicking sound. It’s driving Katsuki batshit crazy, but he knows that if he says anything it’ll just be on purpose. “I’m a delight to be around, my dear, and I personally think you’ll come to enjoy my company more than you think.”
Katsuki doesn’t grace his comment with a response, choosing to subtly glance around as they walk through boring halls. It’s almost quiet on their way out of the office. The blond eyes the clock high up on the wall, watches it blink 6:66 in neon red numbers, before shaking his head.
“Well that’s fucking useful,” he says, irritated. “How the fuck are you supposed to know the time if it’s just one big fucking prank?”
His answer comes in the physical form of his partner stopping in place. Before Katsuki can ask him why the fuck he was stopping, he can only watch in horror as the asshole starts wheezing.
“God fucking damnit, what the fuck is wrong with you now?”
The blond moves to stomp away, frustrated to hell, before a hand latches onto his jacket. When Katsuki shifts to look at him, he’s folded over on himself, catching his breath.
“That’s a good one!” His partner says, face almost unnaturally red when he looks up at him. His sucker’s dangling haphazardly from his mouth. Katsuki hopes it falls. “ How the fuck are you supposed to know the time if it’s just one big fucking prank? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years, Angel!”
Katsuki huffs out a sigh.
“Are you done,” he says, too exhausted to phrase it as a question. “Can we just get this shit done so I can go home?”
After a few more minutes of practiced breathing, Katsuki standing awkwardly to the side, they’re finally headed on their way.
Soon enough, Katsuki’s partner says, “what’s your poison, blondie?” He hears them hum from beside him, gesticulating wildly with a hand, before continuing with, “fire, electricity, knives, guns, so on and so forth. Usually, you still have some sort of idea what you dallied in when you were alive.” The man beside him laughs, bitter and sour, before shrugging in an attempt to be nonchalant. “It’s probably an indicator on your placement here, but y’know, semantics.”
“Fire,” is Katsuki’s immediate response, and he notices them skip a step or two from his answer. He tilts his head in thought. “... I like explosions, too though—grenades and dynamite and such. Blowing shit up’s pretty nice, but setting things on fire is different. Calmer.”
His partner hums, and the conversation’s over. He doesn’t notice the sucker dropped on the ground and crushed with the heel of a boot.
They’ve been walking for what feels like thirty minutes when Katsuki finally remembers to ask.
“What’s the job?” The blond asks, eyeing his partner.
“Nothing too tricky,” he says, his own eyes alit with mischief. “Just a little intimidation game tonight.”
Katsuki nods, accepting that that’s his only answer for the time being.
They stop in front of what seems to be a nightclub. The building is all neon lights and dark crimson, an interesting mix. The name of the club, Demon’s Den, is illuminated in neon purple. It’s hard to miss, now that Katsuki thinks about it. Unoriginal, but hard to miss.
“Here,” his partner says. He leans closer to Katsuki, similar to when they’d first met. “Now, I want you to pretend you love me,” he says quietly, eyes overflowing with a curious mix of mirth and grief. “It’s incredibly important for you to do so.” Then, as if his mind had been wiped, he laughs and says “I imagine it won’t be that hard—I am a catch, after all.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah, whatever, sure.”
“Listen,” he says, seeming to sober up. He taps his shoe against the concrete thoughtfully, watching Katsuki like a hawk.
The blond wants to know what he’s thinking when he looks at him like that.
“The person we’ve been assigned to take care of usually preys on couples in every way possible. We need this to look realistic if we’re going to clean this up.”
Katsuki hums in reply, “let’s just get this over with, then.”
They wink in reply, bringing a new unwrapped sucker to their lips, before making their way through the heavy doors. Katsuki follows, catching up and hesitating for one short moment before deciding to entwine his free hand with his own.
He misses the smile his colleague hides behind the candy, the darkened lights masking the faint blush along pale cheeks. The music is loud, obnoxiously so, clubgoers littering the dancefloor with their drunk singing and laughter.
“Alright, Doll,” he murmurs, leaning down to whisper in the blond’s ear, soft and sweet. “See that guy over there, blonde hair, blueish eyes?”
Katsuki fights the urge to wheel around and glare him in the eye. Instead, because they’re supposed to be playing a part, he tightens his grip on their intertwined hands, feeling a childish feeling of pride when he physically feels his partner flinch.
“Do you think I have superhuman sight?” Katsuki replies sharply, irritated. “Yes, I can see the blond fuck—is that the guy we’re here for?”
“Yep,” he replies, popping the p, “that’s Monoma.” Gliding around and in front of him, he purrs out a flirty, “it’s showtime,” wrapping his arms around Katsuki’s neck and almost bashing their noses together as he makes a show of peeking his black tongue out from even blacker lacquered lips.
His eyes are beautiful, Katsuki thinks. Turquoise, cerulean, and lust, lust, lust. He fills his sin assignment well. He grins back, and he’s sure his eyes are reflecting similar desires, unbridled anger simmering within.
“Perfect,” his partner says, almost too quiet to hear under the noise of the club. Before Katsuki can think about how he’d said it when he was looking Katsuki’s way, he’s gone, stalking his way towards Monoma.
Katsuki rolls his shoulders back, and follows.
Once he’s made his way to the booth, his partner already having slid in on the other side of their target, Katsuki’s playfully pulled in to sit beside him. In no time, his knee is pulled to rest on the other’s, an arm is wrapped around his waist, and a kiss is quickly pressed to his cheek.
“It’s an honor to see you here, Monoma,” his partner says, a tinge of mania seeping through his words. His grip on Katsuki’s waist tightens. “I’ve heard so many things about you! Imagine my surprise, seeing you sitting here by yourself.”
The target, Monoma, curls his nose in obvious disgust. Draped in a tacky white suit, blue loafers, and obnoxious amounts of jewelry, Katsuki thinks he looks like the epitome of trash. Katsuki watches, with hidden fascination, as the other blond seems to relax.
“Lovely to see you,” he replies, cordial. His eyes zero in on Katsuki, “I see you have your hands full—did you get a new lover?”
Katsuki stiffens, just slightly, but his partner’s already laughing it off.
“I did, I did!” He says cheerfully. “I’ve been keeping him from the scene, y’know? Wanted all the attention I could get before we did so.”
Monoma’s eyes never stray from the hand on his waist. He hums, interested.
“You do make a pretty pair,” he says, thoughtful. He picks up his almost empty glass from in front of him, smoothly chugging the rest. He makes an obnoxious noise, slamming it back down on the table and signaling one of the servers waiting on standby to refill his drink. “Have you two ever thought of adding a third for a night or two?”
The grip on Katsuki’s waist is starting to hurt, a seemingly failing attempt in trying to carve his possession in the blond’s side. His black nails are digging so harshly into his skin that Katsuki knows it’s going to bruise. Part of him thrums with energy at that, satisfied glee seeping through his bones at the thought.
“I’m afraid not,” his partner grits out, losing his grasp on his irritation. He plays the possessive boyfriend well, Katsuki thinks. “We’ve found that we’re all we need, but thank you, Monoma.”
Katsuki stays quiet throughout this interaction for many reasons, one of them being that he’s completely and utterly out of his element with this—and yes, he can acknowledge his faults every now and then, shut the fuck up. But he also stays quiet because his partner seems content in showing their “relationship” off, seems to thrive on it.
Monoma hums again, a sound Katsuki’s quickly becoming acquainted with, irritatingly enough. He watches him shift in his seat, nonchalantly pulling what seems to be a gun from inside his white blazer. Katsuki doesn’t move, doesn’t shift to show his shock, albeit mild. He’s not surprised—in fact, he’s actually more surprised that his partner’s been able to annoy him for this long without any repercussions.
But then Katsuki’s eyes zero in on the sliver of what seems to be an ouroboros curled around his wrist.
Envy, he thinks, curiously.
“Not even a little interested?” Monoma asks, as if he’s not threatening violence at the least, murder at the most. He doesn’t notice the blond’s attention rapt on his wrist.
Monoma grins, crooked and unhinged, before he laughs. “I do tend to fancy my romantic trysts to be a bit more bloody than most, though. I’ve always had a thing for pretty blonds with even prettier eyes.”
The man leans ever so closer, leaning over the table separating himself from the pair.
“Your eyes are beautiful ,” he says to Katsuki, and, before either of the pair realize, he’s pulling his hand up and deliberately digging his nails in his cheek, hard enough to gouge his skin. “They’re like rubies. Ah, I knew having a little blood spilt would look lovely."
The hand on Katsuki’s waist retracts, both slowly and quickly. Katsuki’s partner lurches forward, slamming Monoma’s head on the table and pinning it there. The gun is sweetly ripped from his hand, and Katsuki observes his colleague delicately feeding it in the other blond’s mouth, like one would do to a small child, encouraging them to eat.
“I wonder,” his colleague says with a purr, “what you’d look like with your brains blown out.” He smiles, sour coating his lips. “I do not like it when others try to take my things.”
Monoma’s eyes blow wide, but he’s quiet. It’s nice.
Katsuki chooses now to press forward, kissing his cheek and turning towards his ear.
“Get it over with,” he murmurs, digging his hand into the other’s hair and pulling—and everything seems to build.
His partner hums, pretending to think while Katsuki glides his hand through the coarse strands, before he chuckles.
“Y’know, I think we have something better for you, dear—something much more appealing than rape and murder disguised as something as boring and unassuming as a threesome.”
He feeds the gun in further, pulls the trigger—and nothing happens other than a sharp click. Monoma jolts in place, a strangled noise escaping his throat.
“Pity,” he says, doing it again. Another click. He makes a considering noise, before pulling it again. “C’mon, Monoma, you had to have at least one bullet in this thing, right?”
Monoma makes another noise, nearly unintelligible but panicked all the same. He tries to struggle before he’s pinned back to the table once more.
“I want you to stay fucking still, ” Katsuki says slowly, irritated. He’s been watching from the sidelines, but he’s honestly just really fucking ready to go home.
This routine they’ve got down, of his colleague and him working together, has him feeling soothed despite the circumstances.
It feels comfortable—easy. Katsuki’s been comfortable this whole time, soothed by nothing more than the person beside him. The possessiveness, the pleasure of watching him pin Monoma down and shove a gun in his mouth to force his submission, is everything.
For the first time since he’s been reborn in Hell, regardless of how soon it’s been, it almost feels like home. When Katsuki zones back into reality, his partner’s already pulled the trigger five times, Monoma jolting in fear each and every time.
He hears a soft laugh, a short, “It’s time to stop playing with things that aren’t yours,” and then the trigger’s pulled a final time. Monoma’s suit is immediately stained with his own filth.
Katsuki looks around the club. Life (or is it the afterlife?) goes on, and so do the drunks and dancers in the club. It seems like they’re secluded in their own world over here. Others are dancing and singing careless lyrics, while they’re over here dealing with a murder.
His partner nonchalantly pulls the gun from the deceased’s mouth, dropping it carelessly on the table, wiping the hand he’d shoved in the other’s mouth on the white blazer.
“It’s out of bullets now,” he reasons with a shrug when he sees Katsuki’s glare. “Basically useless, now.”
“Was that necessary?” Katsuki asks sharply, eyeing the way his colleague simply pulls another sucker from his pocket. “Or was this the objective this whole time?”
“Usually,” he says, popping the sucker out before slowly wrapping his tongue around it. He stares down at it for a moment, before looking back up at the blond. “Usually this is how it’s expected to go.” He shrugs again, “he was trash—we take the trash out, that’s our job.”
He laughs loudly.
“Seems we did our job then, right?”
Katsuki sighs, shoulder slumping, completely drained. He looks from the smile on his face to the body slumped over the table, adrenaline long gone and his anger slowly receding. Soon enough, he doesn’t feel as agitated.
They don’t talk about what had happened before. It becomes an unspoken assumption to keep quiet about it—how easily they’d molded together, a true partnership, something wholly comfortable and at ease, shifting into those roles as lovers.
Katsuki eventually sits down in another booth while his colleague calls his father for their clean-up crew. They sit in silence while the club continues on.
When it’s all said and done, Katsuki glances at his partner in the quiet of the Endeavor Corp’s designated med room while the blond’s getting patched up by Shouto. His black hair seems messier, which makes sense, considering the night they’ve had. Katsuki’s hands had felt like they’d belonged gliding through his unevenly dyed strands, and he almost wished they were back in that club.
They make eye contact, Katsuki giving him a sharp look in acknowledgment, unable to move while Shouto cleans the deep cuts on his cheek. His partner, flirty as ever, winks back at him.
Katsuki’s attention is soon accosted by Endeavor, having arrived for a breakdown of the events that had occurred while they were on the job. When Shouto’s done bandaging his face, Katsuki’s eyes having been screwed shut while he’d gritted his teeth, the blond opens his eyes to both Endeavor and his older son gone.
“Fucking hell,” he says with a sigh. Shouto looks at him, seemingly thinking, eyes lined and shaded with something he’s always known as pity. “Save it.”
Shouto decides to remain quiet. Next time, Katsuki decides, he’ll make sure to get that fucker’s name.
(But then Katsuki’s assigned to someone else—Natsuo. When he asked (demanded) to know the reason why, Endeavor had given him a half-assed answer, hiding the plain truth—his partner had asked.
Katsuki loses his chance, his partner slipping through his fingers, just like the past memories he dreams of each and every night.)
