The Unlikely Bond

Chapter 1: The Mission Briefing

The air in the briefing room tasted like stale coffee and ozone. Cold, blue light from the holographic display washed over Shinsou Hitoshi’s face, emphasizing the shadows under his eyes. He leaned back in the uncomfortably ergonomic chair, the hum of the server stack in the wall the only sound besides the methodical tap of his own finger against the armrest.

Across the steel table, Aizawa looked as perpetually exhausted as ever, but his gaze was a hook.

“This is the group’s known base of operations,” Aizawa said, his voice flat. A 3D model of a sleek, modernist nightclub rotated above the table. “The ‘Gilded Cage.’ Ostensibly a high-end club for the quirk-wealthy. In reality, it’s a recruitment hub and a temple for their particular ideology.”

“Which is?” Shinsou asked, though the preliminary dossier had given him the broad strokes.

“They fetishize power. Raw, explosive, heroic power. They don’t want to destroy heroes; they want to possess them. To own their strength, to twist it into a symbol of their own control.” Aizawa’s eyes didn’t waver. “Members gain status by being seen with a powerful hero on their arm. The more dominant the public persona, the greater the prize.”

Shinsou let out a slow breath, the pieces clicking into a configuration he didn’t like. “So we give them a target. A powerful hero to covet.”

“We give them two,” Aizawa corrected. A new file bloomed on the display. A photo. Katsuki Bakugou, mid-roar during a recent televised fight, explosions cascading from his palms, his face a masterpiece of furious triumph. Even frozen, the image vibrated with violent potential. “Bakugou is their ideal. Pure, unadulterated offensive power. A natural conqueror. He’s been vetted, and he’s agreed.”

“Agreed to what, exactly?” Shinsou kept his voice even, a counterpoint to the screaming hologram.

Aizawa swiped the image away, pulling up a dense stream of communications intercepts and behavioral profiles. “Their culture is… intimate. They value public displays of possession. To sell your cover, you will need to be seen as Bakugou’s partner. His dominant partner. Your quirk, Brainwashing, reads as a form of ultimate psychological control, which makes you an object of fascination to them. The one who can seemingly tame the untamable.”

The hum of the servers seemed to grow louder. Shinsou’s mind, always working several steps ahead, already mapped the psychological contours of the assignment. The performance, the lies, the constant vigilance. “And Bakugou is okay with this? Playing the subdued one in public?”

A faint, almost invisible smirk touched Aizawa’s lips. “He understands the mission parameters. He’s a professional. But ‘subdued’ is the wrong word. Think… claimed. Your cover story is a six-month private relationship, now going public. You are the calm to his storm. The hand on the leash. They need to believe you have a real, physically intimate relationship. That you’re the only one he answers to without a fight.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the electric buzz of the lights. Shinsou studied the schematics of the club, the entrances, the exits, the private rooms reserved for VIPs. A gilded cage indeed.

“The logistics of the operation are in the file. Safe houses, codes, extraction points.” Aizawa leaned forward slightly. “The hardest part will be the performance. Every touch, every look, every coded argument needs to sell it. Your lives will depend on the authenticity of your connection.”

“We’re not exactly friends,” Shinsou stated plainly.

“That might help. Old rivals forced into proximity can generate a potent, believable tension. Use it.” Aizawa stood, the movement fluid. “You have forty-eight hours to internalize the legend. Then you move in. Bakugou will meet you at the primary safe house for initial… acclimation.”

He didn’t elaborate on what that meant. He didn’t need to.

Aizawa left without another word, the door sighing shut behind him. The hologram winked out, plunging the room into the dull glow of emergency exit signs. Shinsou remained seated, the weight of the mission settling into his bones. He wasn’t naïve; he’d done undercover work before. He’d woven lies, built personas, walked the edge of discovery.

But this was different. This was a violation mapped onto a dance. It required getting inside Bakugou’s space, and letting Bakugou inside his, in the most fundamental way possible. It was psychological warfare wrapped in a silk sheet.

A single file remained on the table surface, a plain manila envelope. He flipped it open. Inside was one photograph, a casual shot from a hero charity event months ago. Bakugou was looking away from the camera, profile sharp, a scowl softening into something merely severe. He was holding a glass of water, not a trophy. The absence of the usual performative fury was stark. It showed the man, not the icon.

Shinsou studied the line of his jaw, the intense focus of his eyes even in a moment of relative calm. This was the person he had to convincingly own, and be owned by, in front of monsters.

He slid the photo back into the envelope.

Forty-eight hours.

He stood, his body feeling both too light and too heavy. The mission was a cliff edge. He walked toward it, the neon from the city streets below painting streaks of garish color across the sterile floor as he passed the observation window. Somewhere out there, in the glitter and the shadow, a cage was waiting.

And he had the key, for now.

And he had the key, for now.

The safe house smelled like new paint and old dust. It was a minimalist box in a high-rise, all concrete accents and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a dizzying view of the city’s glittering river. Shinsou dropped his duffel by the sleek, uncomfortably modern sofa. The silence was absolute, sterile. He’d memorized the floor plan, the exits, the concealed panels holding gear. It felt less like a home and more like a stage set waiting for its second actor.

A key turned in the lock.

The door opened, and Katsuki Bakugou stepped inside. He moved with the same predatory grace he used on the battlefield, but here, confined by a doorway and civilian clothes—black jeans, a simple grey hoodie—it seemed coiled, contained. He shut the door, locked it with a definitive click, and didn’t look at Shinsou.

“This place is a fucking museum,” Bakugou said, his voice a low grating stone. He shrugged a larger bag off his shoulder, letting it thud to the floor.

“It’s supposed to be aspirational,” Shinsou replied, staying where he was, leaning against the back of the sofa. “Successful, stylish, anonymous.”

Bakugou finally looked at him, and Shinsou catalogued the details instantly. The usual blazing defiance in his crimson eyes was banked, replaced by a hard, focused assessment. But beneath that, in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his thumbs hooked into his pockets—not relaxed, but anchored—there was a tension that had nothing to do with rivalry.

“Yeah, whatever. You read the brief.”

“Cover to cover.”

A nod. Bakugou walked to the kitchen, a galley-style opening, and opened the stainless steel refrigerator. It was fully stocked, per protocol. He stared into its bright interior for a beat too long before pulling out a water bottle. He cracked the seal, took a swallow.

“So. We’re supposed to be a thing.”

“We’re supposed to have been a thing. For six months. Quietly. Now we’re going public at the Cage.”

Bakugou’s jaw worked. He looked out the window, his profile sharp against the city lights. “The dominant and submissive dynamic. My handler went over it. Public displays. They need to see you owning me.”

He said the words like he was reciting a chemical formula, dry and precise, but a faint heat crept up the back of his neck. Shinsou saw it. It was interesting.

“It’s a psychological play. They’re turned on by control. My quirk sells the narrative. You don’t have to like it.”

That got Bakugou to turn. “I don’t have to like it to be good at it. I’m the best at what I do.”

“I know.” Shinsou pushed off the sofa and moved toward the kitchen island, leaving a careful distance between them. The space hummed with a new kind of charge. “But this isn’t fighting villains. This is acting. Every touch has to be consistent. Your reactions to me have to be… believable. Which means we need a baseline.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“It means we need to get used to each other. Now. Before we’re in the field.” Shinsou kept his voice neutral, analytical. “If I go to put a hand on your lower back and you flinch, we’re dead. If I call you a pet name and you look like you’ve swallowed a grenade, we’re compromised.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“Everyone flinches when they’re touched by someone they’re not intimate with.” Shinsou paused, watching him. “So. We have two days to build a convincing lie. Where do you want to start?”

Bakugou set the water bottle down on the counter with a soft tap. He crossed his arms, a defensive barrier. His gaze was locked on a point somewhere over Shinsou’s shoulder. The silence stretched, thick and unfamiliar. This wasn’t the explosive, confrontational Bakugou from the training grounds. This was something else, a man standing on the edge of a cliff he’d never planned to scale.

“Just do it, then,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

“Do what?”

“Whatever. Touch me. Establish the fucking baseline.” The bravado was there, but it was thin, stretched over a raw nerve.

Shinsou moved then, not quickly, but deliberately. He closed the distance, stepping into Bakugou’s personal space. He could smell the faint, sharp scent of his soap, could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. He raised his hand slowly, giving him every chance to refuse, to step back.

Bakugou didn’t move. He held himself rigid, a statue braced for impact.

Shinsou settled his hand on the side of Bakugou’s neck, his thumb resting just under his jawline. The skin was warm, the muscle beneath corded tight. Bakugou’s breath hitched, a tiny, aborted sound. His eyes slammed shut.

“Look at me,” Shinsou said, his voice lower, a quiet command.

Bakugou’s eyes opened. The fury was gone, completely. In its place was a wildfire of something else—vulnerability, panic, sheer overwhelming exposure. It was the most honest expression Shinsou had ever seen on his face.

“You’ve never done this,” Shinsou stated, not a question. The pieces snapped together. The aggressive reluctance, the theoretical understanding clashing with visceral inexperience. The mission parameters mentioned physical intimacy. Bakugou had agreed. But the reality of it, the mechanics of another man’s hands on him with intent…

Bakugou jerked his head, a denial trying to form, but Shinsou’s hand held him firm, gentle but unyielding. The truth was in the tense line of his body, in the way he was holding his breath.

“It’s not in your file,” Shinsou said.

“Why the hell would it be?” Bakugou snapped, but the heat was hollow, a last-ditch defense. A faint, shuddering breath finally escaped him. He looked away again, his ears burning crimson. “It wasn’t… relevant. Never had time. Never wanted to.” The admission was torn from him, gruff and filled with a shame it shouldn’t carry. “Doesn’t mean I can’t do the damn job.”

Shinsou’s mind raced, recalibrating. This changed the landscape entirely. It wasn’t just about building a believable performance. It was about navigating a minefield of firsts under the hostile gaze of an enemy. The risk of a misstep, of a reaction born of genuine shock and inexperience, just skyrocketed.

He softened his grip, his thumb moving in a barely-there, soothing stroke over the frantic pulse. Bakugou flinched again, but didn’t pull away.

“It’s relevant now,” Shinsou said, his tone losing its clinical edge, becoming something quieter, more real. “It means we do this slower. It means you set the pace. A performance is one thing. I won’t actually… we won’t go that far. Not for real. But they have to believe we have. So we need to learn each other. Where you can stand to be touched. What you can sell.”

Bakugou’s gaze flickered back to him, searching for condescension, for mockery. Finding none, some of the terrible rigidity left his shoulders. The vulnerability was still there, vast and terrifying, but it was no longer panicked. It was acknowledged.

“Okay,” he said, the word rough.

“Okay,” Shinsou echoed.

He didn’t move his hand. They stood there in the sterile, silent safe house, the city sprawling beneath them, the mission looming ahead. The key was in his hand, and the lock was far more complex than he’d ever imagined.

The key was in his hand, and the lock was far more complex than he’d ever imagined.

He finally let his hand drop from Bakugou’s neck. The air between them didn’t feel any cooler. Bakugou took a step back, reaching for his water again, his movements just a fraction too deliberate.

“So,” Bakugou said, his voice scraping back toward its usual territory. “A crash course in faking it.”

“Something like that.” Shinsou moved to his own bag, unzipping it with a sharp sound. He needed to do something with his hands. “We should establish rules. What’s off limits, no matter what.”

“Everything is off limits,” Bakugou shot back, but then grimaced, acknowledging the impossibility. He leaned against the kitchen counter. “Fine. No kissing on the mouth.”

“Agreed. Cheek, forehead, temple, hand—those are safe for the performance.”

Bakugou gave a sharp nod. “What else?”

“The hand on the neck worked. It reads as possessive, intimate without being overtly sexual. We should practice that until it doesn’t make you stop breathing.” Shinsou pulled out a plain black tee, folding it just to have a task. “Hands on the waist, from behind or the side. Arm around the shoulders. Those will be expected.”

“I can handle that.”

“Can you?” Shinsou looked up, pinning him with a flat gaze. “When I do this?” He crossed the space again, quicker this time, and turned Bakugou by the shoulder so he was facing the window. He stepped close behind him, his front not touching Bakugou’s back, but near enough that he could feel the heat radiating from him. He slowly placed both hands on Bakugou’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the dips just above his pelvis.

Bakugou went perfectly still. Not rigid like before, but statue-still. His breath fogged the glass a tiny bit.

“See?” Shinsou murmured, his voice close to Bakugou’s ear. “You’re thinking about it. You’re in your head. You have to be in the moment. You have to lean into it, or it looks like what it is—a violation.”

“It is a violation,” Bakugou muttered, but he didn’t shake the hands off.

“It’s a mission. The line is thin, but it’s there.” Shinsou applied a faint pressure, pulling Bakugou back a centimeter until their bodies aligned. Bakugou’s head tipped forward, a shudder running through him. It wasn’t revulsion. It was overwhelm. “You have to sell that you want this. That you choose this. With me.”

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped Bakugou. “Why the hell would I choose this?”

Shinsou’s mind flashed, involuntary, to the easy physicality he’d always seen between Bakugou and Kirishima. The roughhousing that blurred into something softer, the casual touches, the unshakable loyalty. Shinsou had always thought that Kirishima had been fucking Bakugou. The assumption was based on nothing but observation and the easy, tactile bond they shared—a bond that seemed to transcend Bakugou’s usual bristling defenses. It had seemed like the only logical explanation for how close they were.

Seeing this now—the tremor at a simple touch, the raw, unguarded inexperience—shattered that assumption completely. He’d been wrong. Spectacularly, fundamentally wrong. The realization was a pivot in his understanding of the man in front of him.

“Because,” Shinsou said quietly, the words forming as he understood them himself, “maybe you’re tired of being seen as just a weapon. Maybe being with someone who supposedly controls you is the only way you think you can finally… stop. Let someone else steer. Even if it’s an act.”

Bakugou was silent for a long moment. The city lights twinkled, indifferent. “That’s… annoyingly perceptive.”

“It’s my job.” Shinsou loosened his hold, but didn’t remove his hands. “Try it. Relax into it. Imagine we’ve just come home. You’re tired. I’m here.”

Another pause. Then, slowly, a fraction of the tension bled from Bakugou’s frame. His shoulders dropped. He let his weight settle back, just slightly, against Shinsou’s chest. It was a minute surrender, but it was real.

“There,” Shinsou said. His voice was low, approving. It felt strangely intimate in the quiet room.

Bakugou’s hand came up, his fingers closing loosely around Shinsou’s wrist where it rested on his hip. Not to push it away. To hold it there. His skin was calloused, warm.

“This is so fucked up,” Bakugou whispered, but it lacked heat.

“Yeah.” Shinsou agreed. He rested his chin on Bakugou’s shoulder, watching their ghostly reflection in the dark glass. Two shapes merging into one unfamiliar silhouette. “But we’re going to be good at it.”

They stood like that for a full minute, practicing the silence of a shared life. The hum of the refrigerator cycled on. A siren wailed somewhere in the grid of streets below, fading into nothing.

The first lesson was over. The lock had turned, just once.

The lock had turned, just once.

Shinsou stepped back, his hands leaving Bakugou’s hips. The space between them immediately filled with a different kind of charge, less electric, more uncertain. Bakugou didn’t turn around right away. He stayed facing the window, his palms now flat on the cool glass as if steadying himself.

“Right,” Bakugou said, clearing his throat. “So that’s… a thing.”

“It’s a start,” Shinsou corrected, moving to the sofa. He sat, stretching his arms along the back. “We need a backstory. The little details that sell a long-term relationship. How we met. Our first fight. Your annoying habit. My annoying habit.”

Bakugou finally turned, leaning against the window frame. The city’s neon glow sketched his outline in pinks and blues. “We met at a post-mission debrief. Six months ago. The Takoba Street clean-up.”

“Good. Specific.” Shinsou nodded. “And?”

“And you were annoying. Asked too many questions. Psychologist bullshit.”

“And you were a nightmare. Refused to comply with the trauma assessment.”

A ghost of Bakugou’s real smirk touched his lips. “Sounds about right.”

“So why’d we go for drinks after?” Shinsou pressed.

Bakugou shrugged, looking at the ceiling. “You said I was fascinating. A case study in repressed emotional intelligence. I told you to go to hell. You bought me a drink anyway.”

“I like a challenge,” Shinsou said, and for a second, it wasn’t a lie.

“My annoying habit is leaving my gear everywhere. Your annoying habit is that fucking cat. The one you feed on the balcony.”

Shinsou raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have a cat.”

“You do for this story. A one-eyed grey thing. You named it something stupid.”

“Mochi,” Shinsou supplied, playing along.

“Yeah. Stupid.” Bakugou pushed off the window and walked to the other side of the sofa, sinking down with a sigh. He kept a cushion’s width between them. “Our first fight was about work-life balance. Two weeks in. I said you were a workaholic. You said I didn’t have a ‘life’ to balance with.”

“That’s… abrasively accurate.”

“It worked, didn’t it? We didn’t talk for three days. Then you showed up at my agency with shitty takeout and that cat story about Mochi getting stuck in a tree.”

Shinsou watched him. Bakugou was building the narrative quickly, the details concrete and lived-in. He was better at this than Shinsou had anticipated. He wasn’t just reciting; he was inhabiting. “What did you get for takeout?”

“The terrible spicy ramen from that place by your old apartment. The one that gives you heartburn.”

“And I pretended to like it.”

“You cried. It was pathetic. I laughed. You got mad. Then we…” Bakugou trailed off, the script hitting a wall.

“Then we?” Shinsou prompted, his voice quiet.

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to him, then away. “Then we figured it out.” The implication hung in the sterile air. Figured it out. A euphemism for the physical intimacy their cover required, the very thing they were dancing around in this room.

Silence settled again, less sharp now, but more dense. Shinsou’s mind, usually a quiet chamber of strategies and observations, drifted unexpectedly. He thought of the easy way Kirishima would sling an arm around Bakugou’s shoulders after a win, laughing and shaking him. The way Bakugou would shove him off, but never with real heat, always allowing the contact to linger a second too long. He recalled Kirishima’s hand on the small of Bakugou’s back, guiding him through a crowd, and the way Bakugou had never flinched—had, in fact, leaned into it. Those touches were casual, constant, a language between them that Shinsou had observed from a distance and misinterpreted completely.

A hot, sharp pang twisted in his gut. It was clean and shocking, like a knife between the ribs.

Jealousy.

The realization was absurd. He had no claim. He’d never wanted one. But seeing Bakugou now, tense and vulnerable under his hands, thinking of how effortlessly Kirishima had navigated that same space… It wasn’t about Kirishima. It was about the ease. The unthinking trust. Shinsou was here building a lie, painstakingly constructing permission where for someone else, it had been a given. The jealousy was for the naturalness he’d never have, for the history he was fabricating on the spot. It was a professional’s resentment at a complication, and something else, something disturbingly personal that he shoved down immediately.

He blinked, refocusing on the man beside him. Bakugou was studying his own hands, oblivious to the quiet turmoil he’d just inadvertently caused.

“We should practice the entrance,” Shinsou said, his voice coming out slightly rougher than he intended. He stood, needing to move. “To the club. How we arrive. How we move through a crowd together.”

Bakugou looked up, nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Shinsou walked to the open space of the living area, turning to face him. “Come here.”

Bakugou rose and crossed the room. When he was within arm’s reach, Shinsou didn’t hesitate. He looped one arm around Bakugou’s waist, pulling him close side-to-side. Bakugou stiffened for a heartbeat, then forced his body to relax, his own arm coming up around Shinsou’s back, his hand gripping the fabric of his shirt just above his hip.

“Too tight,” Shinsou murmured. “It’s not a headlock. It’s possessive. Like you’re mine.”

“You’re pushing it,” Bakugou muttered, but his grip softened, his hand settling into a loose, firm hold.

“I have to push it. They will.” Shinsou began to walk them in a slow circle, as if navigating an invisible, crowded floor. “You look straight ahead. You nod at someone you recognize—a arrogant, barely-there nod. But you keep your body turned into mine. You’re following my lead.”

“I don’t follow,” Bakugou grumbled, but his steps matched Shinsou’s.

“Tonight, you do.” Shinsou’s hand splayed against his side, his thumb rubbing a slow, deliberate arc. He felt the muscle twitch. “Get used to that. Small, absent-minded touches. They’re more telling than a grand gesture.”

They moved in silence for a few more steps. Bakugou’s breathing evened out. His head dipped, his forehead almost touching Shinsou’s temple. It was a practiced move, but it felt disorientingly real.

“What if they test us?” Bakugou asked, his voice low next to Shinsou’s ear. “Ask something specific?”

“Then we have the same answer. If we’re ever separated, the rule is: if you don’t know, say it’s private. If you’re unsure, defer to me. ‘You’d have to ask Hitoshi.’ It feeds the narrative.”

Bakugou pulled back just enough to look at him. “Hitoshi?”

“We’re dating. You don’t call me Shinsou in private. And I don’t call you Bakugou.” He let that hang. “What’s my name for you?”

Bakugou’s eyes searched his. The vulnerability was back, but it was meeting a challenge now. “Katsuki,” he said, the name a quiet concession in the empty room.

“Katsuki,” Shinsou repeated. It felt different in his mouth. Heavy. Real. “Good.”

The practice continued, the clock on the wall ticking them closer to the mission, the fragile understanding between them deepening with each forced, necessary touch. And underneath Shinsou’s focused calm, the unwanted, jealous ache for a simpler truth he’d never witnessed pulsed, a secret complication to an already impossible game.