Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hawks lies awake and stares up into the ceiling as he systematically lists out every terrible decision he’s made that’s ended up with him in this position. There are a lot of them, incidentally, but they’re not all entirely his fault. Sometimes life just deals you a shitty hand, like a homicidal thief for a father and an alcoholic for a mother, and all you can do is make the most of it. Other times you (enthusiastically) fall into bed with a villain you’re meant to be double-crossing, face plant your way into feelings for said villain, and then lie awake in an existential panic next to the man you’re more than likely going to need to kill in the upcoming months.

To wit: Hawks has a lot of problems, most of them are his fault, and instead of doing something about them he keeps sleeping with the worst of them instead. 

And he doesn’t really have a lot to say in his defense. He can just imagine the media circus the court case is going to end up being, with him at the center. The fallout will be apoplectic, because there’s no fucking way he’ll let the opportunity to drag the Commission down with him slide. Yes, your Honor, I fully and enthusiastically consented to sleep with the country’s most-wanted criminal. Yes, the Commission unanimously approved for me to infiltrate the upper echelon of the criminal underworld by any means necessary, up to and including fucking my way into it. What do I have to say in my defense? Well. He’s really fucking pretty. 

Hawks might be going down in flames here, but hell if he won’t be doing it with the incredible style and panache his fans deserve. 

As if on cue, the object of his late night hysteria flings an arm out across him with a sleepy murmur. He’s still entirely dead to the world, long silver-white lashes swooping against pale cheeks, that immoral mouth of his lax and plush with sleep. Not for the first time Hawks wonders what he, the golden-boy and poster-child of following the Commission’s orders to a tee, was thinking when he ended up falling for this irreverent human dumpster fire. Not for the first time, Hawks stares at him and realizes at the end of the day Dabi is just really stupid pretty, and very, very shiny, and there probably was zero thought involved in that decision at all. 

The arm across his chest is warm like a toasty furnace. Lean and pale and unspoiled as the rest of him. Flawless. Removed from the mere trials and tribulations of the mortal coil. Nothing ever touches Dabi— everything about him is perfect and untouchable. A decade of villainy, doused in fires that could melt diamonds, and he remains as unflinchingly immaculate as ever. It’s almost inhuman, really. There isn’t a single imperfection to mark a life well-lived (or lived at all); no little scars from childhood accidents, from scraped knees or playgrounds, from training with his lethal quirk, from a life of crime and murder. 

Hawks curls a hand over the thin wrist dangled over his collar, just contemplating.

His Infinity is down.

It always is when they’re in bed, for obvious reasons. But it usually makes its return when he’s actually asleep. Hawks wonders if it's subconscious at this point. Probably. Then he wonders what it means that it’s not active now. 

His sharp eyes narrow onto the face next to him. He looks peaceful, his breathing rhythmic and even. It’s possible he’s faking it— that this is a trap. That he’s testing Hawks right now, to see if he’ll take the bait and strike while his guard is down. 

The worst part is— it doesn’t even matter.

Whether it’s a test, a trick, a ploy, or just an accidental sign of trust. 

It’s true that he should use the opening to his advantage. It wouldn’t even be remotely difficult to just call up a feather, sharpen it into a deadly blade, and plunge it right into the unsuspecting man’s unguarded heart. There’s no telling if he’ll ever get another opportunity like this to take down one of the country’s (and the world’s) most dangerous criminals. It’s the sort of opportunity that takes months, years, even lifetimes to get; Dabi is infamously invulnerable. His forcefield isn’t without its weaknesses, but the real danger to the man isn’t his telekinetic powers or even his catastrophic flames, it’s his mind. And asleep like this, boneless and relaxed and unconscious with no forcefield— people have died for a chance like this.

It’s been minutes since Hawks has blinked. If Dabi was actually awake, there’s no way it wouldn’t unnerve the man into making some kind of involuntary movement. He really is completely defenseless right now. 

And instead of plunging a blade into his chest, Hawks just sighs and rolls over. 

Because for all that he should bury a blade through the other man’s heart, it’d be akin to burying one in his own at the same time. And there’s nothing to be done for that now. Whether consciously or not, Hawks has already unfortunately made his choice. 

As he settles in to attempt to get some restless sleep himself, he misses the striking aquamarine eyes peering out from beneath a guard of pearlescent lashes. The inhuman and disconcerting swirl of the Six Eyes as it focuses on his oblivious form, a low and contemplative gaze.

//

MAY DEATH NEVER STOP YOU

//

Todoroki Touya was born with his mother’s shock of white hair and his father’s blue eyes. 

That’s what everyone says, and Gojo never feels the need to correct them. His awareness comes into shocking focus at four years-old— probably the earliest his developing mind could handle the consciousness of an adult and a kind of power that could turn men into gods. Those big blue eyes of his turn striking and sharp, iridescent and fractal and unnerving for most people to look at directly. There’s some talk of a bewildering optic-quirk in the wake of his Six Eyes manifesting, but after he conjures up flames nearly immediately after the incident it’s all brushed off as just a weird circumstance. 

At first, his father seems intrigued by his flames. He becomes significantly less intrigued when a doctor informs them his body is actually better suited for an ice quirk, and therefore ill suited for a fire quirk. Frankly, Gojo could care less about his opinion. 

He’d be happy to be cast off as a useless spare like his other two siblings were when their ice quirks manifested, but as of now Gojo was still his father’s best bet. He might be physically weak and unsuited for the quirk he wields, but at least his flames were shaping up to be powerful. 

The training was brutal. Gojo’s adult mind registered it immediately as abusive, just barely swept under the pretense of ‘discipline’. As far as he could see— which meant a lot, as he could see everything— the extent of his father’s physical abuse was centered around him. To his siblings and mother, he was the sort of neglectful and absent patriarch Gojo remembered his own father to be in his past life. He was needlessly cruel and quick to anger, so fixated on his own goals and obsessions he couldn’t see past them. Personally, Gojo thought the world would be better off without him, but he was probably the only one who thought that. Apparently Endeavor was the number two hero in the country, a man who’d saved countless lives. Calling him a Hero was laughable in Gojo’s opinion, but then again that term was tossed around in this world far too much for his liking. It had entirely lost its meaning, more about a capitalist corporate industry than an aspirational quality. 

He spent every night using his reverse-curse technique to heal the worst of the burns and scrapes he’d receive over the course of the day, feeling entirely removed from his life and existence in a way he’d never allowed himself to be in his first life. 

He’d kill his father if he thought it would do any good, but currently he still had use for him. 

Quirks were still new to him, and entirely unlike the cursed energy he’d spent an entire lifetime perfecting. And fire quirks had so much potential for danger, it was easier to learn from an expert on the subject than try to muddle his way through it on his own. It was simple enough to ignore the verbal abuse, and when he could feel his young body reaching its limits he wasn’t afraid to put his foot down. 

The first time he stopped in the middle of training and proclaimed he was done for the day, he’d thought it would come down to a fight. He’d win, of course, but not without revealing his Limitless technique and possibly eviscerating the man in the process. 

But perhaps his father was more astute than he’d given him credit for, because he’d stared into Gojo’s unflinching gaze and conceded. Like two apex predators locking gazes and begrudgingly agreeing to stand down. 

(It was his eyes, in fact, that won him that battle. That inhuman and disquieting gaze of his, the insurmountable and unknowable wrath of the universe straining against the fissures of his human shell. Endeavor had stared into them, truly and entirely, for the very first time, and realized everyone was wrong. People said all the time that his eldest had his eyes. Those weren’t his eyes at all.)

//

Before Gojo was the most feared villain in the country, ruling across the underworld with an unflinching power not unlike a disinterred and disillusioned god walking amongst mere mortals, he was an insufferable punk living it up in his middle school glory days. 

He’d spent one youth as an egotistical brat with all the arrogance of a child born to be the best, and he didn’t necessarily need another. 

But there was being an arrogant jerk who thought himself the best and above everyone else— because he was— and then there was being the eccentric and irreverent class joker and resident delinquent. 

Well, let it be said there are worse ways to misspend a youth than petty arsonry and a biker gang. 

He gets his ears pierced because he’d never gotten the opportunity for it in his last life, terrorizes the local yakuza, couch surfs across the living rooms of multiple questionable individuals and spends as much time as possible screaming into a microphone at alt-rock show venues and avoids the cavernous palace he calls home. Surprisingly, it’s a rather cathartic experience all and all— just doing whatever the fuck he wants, uncaring of expectations or the needs of society. 

He’d be at the top of the class if he wasn’t constantly in danger of expulsion for truancy, and he’s consistently the highest ranked student in exams. His mother quietly frets over him but never manages to work up the courage to confront him about it. His father rages and eventually it does come to blows, and Gojo proves his superiority in that arena by shoulder-tossing a man three times his size through two walls and into the koi pond outside. He then curses him out to the delight of his brother and the shock of his sister. The littlest of them, a little chimera of a kid barely old enough to stand on two legs that Gojo hadn’t even realized existed before, is too young to understand what’s going on and instead opines for ice cream. Gojo laughs uproariously, lights up a cigarette in the house, and agrees to bring him and all their siblings to the local konbini, leaving his father floundering out in the pond. Teenage delinquency is an excellent look on him, if he does say so himself. 

He’d done what society wanted— and needed— of him, once.

It had worked out terribly. 

//

Fuyumi loves her older brother, but she doesn’t really understand him.

She loves him because he’s the best and he’s always been so nice to her. He plays with her when their mom can’t, and he helps her with her homework and he always gets it right, and he always is so patient and makes time for her. When she skins her knee or trips and bangs her toe he’s always the one to calm her down and put cute band-aids on her injuries. When she has trouble with something, Touya-nii is always the first person she comes to. It never occurs to her that this is a bit odd, when she theoretically has two able and living parents. 

But sometimes she just doesn’t really get him. He always seems so much older and more mature than the other kids, and he says weird things sometimes. But he’s still really nice, so Fuyumi doesn’t really mind. He doesn’t stare down at her coldly and silently like their father, and he doesn’t fret anxiously like their mother. 

He’s also really cool, too. The coolest. Everyone says so. All the kids at their elementary school and even the teachers. He’s the best at everything he tries, even if he’s only done it once. He’s so good with his quirk now that he can make entire theatrical shows with his flames, little dancing actors and props and curtains and everything. He’d be the best student in the school if he didn’t sleep through his classes and never do his homework. 

Touya-nii is always surrounded by ‘a gaggle of groupies’ as he calls them, even when they walk home together from school.

“— and the banana kick was sooo sick, Shiro didn’t even see it!” One boy is enthusing, as he dogs Touya-nii’s steps.

Touya-nii just cracks his neck with a bored expression, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Todoroki is the best player in the school,” another boy gushes. “We’d win the whole tournament if he was on the team!”

“Pass,” Touya-nii cuts in, starting to sound a little annoyed. “Anyway, didn’t you guys just miss your turn?”

“Awh, but we wanted to hang out with you, Todoroki!”

“Yeah, let’s go to the arcade!”

“I don’t really feel like it,” Touya-nii returns, blandly. “Anyway, I want to walk my sister home.”

Fuyumi blushes as all the boys suddenly turn to look at her. She cowers under the attention, hiding behind Touya-nii. The group of kids grumble, but eventually take off in the direction of the mall. Touya-nii gives a long, exasperated sigh once they’re gone, looking pretty tired.

They walk a couple more blocks in silence, Fuyumi fiddling anxiously with one of the charms clasped to her backpack straps. It’s a little Hello Kitty that Touya-nii won her at the arcade; Fuyumi probably should have scolded him because he’d up and left in the middle of school to go to the arcade when he got it, and that’s probably what Mom and Dad would have done, but she was too happy and excited to get a present that she didn’t say anything. Mom gets her something for her birthday every year, which is nice, and so does Dad, even if he’s missed the last three of her birthday celebrations. 

But there’s something different when Touya-nii gives her these little things— toys he wins at the arcade (because of course he’s good at every game, even the crane ones), little trinkets from accessory stores, candy and treats from bakeries— something so thoughtlessly kind it seems more meaningful than the perfunctory gifts her parents get her. Last year she got a new dress from her mom, and a scarf from her dad. Fuyumi liked the dress well enough, and the scarf was pretty, she guesses, even though she doesn’t need one because she never really gets cold because of her quirk. But she supposes it’s the thought that’s supposed to count.

“Sorry you have to walk me home,” Fuyumi says at last, looking down. 

“It’s no problem, Yumi-chan,” Touya-nii disagrees, clasping his hands behind his head. “I didn’t really want to go with them anyway.”

Fuyumi curls her hands into the straps of her backpack. “Do you… not like them?”

Touya-nii gives a noncommittal shrug. “They’re alright, I guess. Kind of annoying though.”

Fuyumi doesn’t say anything, a frown tugging at her lips. 

She doesn’t want to ask, but sometimes, she really does wonder… “Hey, Touya-nii,” she bites her lip.

“Hmm?” 

“Do you… not like it here?” She asks quietly. With me, she doesn’t add. With us. 

Touya doesn’t reply for a moment. “School, you mean?” 

It’s Fuyumi’s turn to give a noncommittal shrug. Sure, school. But really, she’d sort of meant… everything. Touya doesn’t really seem to like anything. Not school, not the kids that flock to him whenever he goes, not even their parents. 

He raises his hands up over his head in a stretch. “Ahhhh, well,” he says. “I don’t hate it. I just don’t like it at all and I think it’s terrible.” 

“Oh,” Fuyumi says, in a small voice. 

Touya-nii is constantly surrounded by people fawning all over him; people who think he looks cool, who like that he’s the best at everything, who want to be his friend and hang out with him and stuff. In comparison, Fuyumi is a bit shy and withdrawn, and doesn’t make friends as easily, but she still has a few people in her grade she’s really close with. She never feels lonely. But Touya-nii has a crowd of people wherever he goes, and always seems the loneliest of them all. Existing in his own bubble removed from everyone else, even as he walks side by side with them. 

She wonders if she’ll one day be able to take his hand and remind him that he’s not alone. That he has her and Natsuo and even baby Shouto. But the distance between nine year-old Touya-nii and eight year-old Fuyumi seems insurmountable, that intangible, intractable wall that separates them as impenetrable as it’s always been. 

Even when Fuyumi is close enough to reach out and grab his sleeve, it feels like he’s a million miles away. Like he’s something unobtainable, something to be observed and adored from a distance. 

Maybe one day she’ll be able to close the distance. 

//

Enji has never understood his eldest son. Even from the moment the child took his first breath and his unfocused infant eyes blinked out into the world, it felt like he was looking at something otherworldly. 

He chalked that up to the bewildering reality of babies. He knew they were necessary to surpass All Might, but the reality of them was a bit more than just an idealistic combination of quirks. 

Even as a baby, Touya was odd. He didn’t cry or fuss much, which always confused Rei. Apparently babies were meant to be much louder than Touya. He was born a bit premature, making him smaller than usual. Enji worried about this— the behavior, the developmental issues, the difficulties he had meeting the physical benchmarks for normal infants. It made it terribly unlikely this infant would be the one to carry on Enji’s will, let alone become a Hero at all. 

As Enji expected, Touya’s quirk came in and had him almost immediately shuttled off to the hospital. The fire was too hot for his body to handle— a body that was more suited towards an ice quirk. It frustrated Enji, as Fuyumi had shown an ice quirk and little Natsuo, judging purely by his coloring, was likely to manifest one as well. Touya was still his best chance at beating All Might, so he continued to train the boy. 

But training Touya was… difficult.

He was incredibly willful for a six year-old. He didn’t do anything he didn’t want to, up to and including following any of Enji or his mother’s orders. No amount of discipline would change his behavior. No matter what Enji said or did, Touya had passed judgment on him long ago and found him lacking as both a father and a mentor. He spent most of their training sessions ignoring his father in favor of his own methods, and only every once in a while deigning to listen to an explanation on fire quirks when it suited his purposes. Enji never had to teach him anything, from letters to mathematics to physical training techniques to hand-to-hand combat. Touya just seemed to know it all already; or perhaps just learned it when Enji wasn’t paying attention to him, which was indeed a great deal of time. He had a total disregard for authority of any kind, up to and including his parents, the local police, his teachers and any tutors unfortunate enough to cross his path. Enji was at wits end with the boy. 

In short, disregarding his genius intellect and mastery of martial arts, he was an awful successor. 

The year Touya turned nine was the year Shouto was born with chimerism splitting his little baby tuft of hair white and red, and Enji breathed a deep sigh of relief. Shouto would be the one. Shouto would be the perfect Hero. 

A small part of him felt disgust with how easily he had given up on training Touya. Enji had never been one to just give up on anything, no matter how difficult or dangerous the path. But the rest of him was, frankly, relieved. 

Ever since that day his six year-old son locked eyes with him and sent a shiver of fear down his spine that not even the most hardened of villains had ever managed to get out of him, Enji had known, deep down, that his relationship with his eldest son would likely be irreparable. Touya had stared up at him with so much disgust and detestation that day, more than Enji thinks he’s ever seen from anyone. He found himself caving to the boy’s indomitable will, letting him walk out of training early without a single protest. 

But it was alright. He’d do better with Shouto. Shouto would be perfect; obedient and hard-working without any of Touya’s willful stubbornness. He’d take a stronger stance in the boy’s life starting right at his birth, leaving no room for anything to go wrong as he had with Touya. Perhaps Rei had just been too lenient and doting on their eldest, resulting in the boy’s obstinate personality. 

Shouto would be the one to succeed him, and he’d never have to look Touya’s way again. 

//

Natsuo has always thought Touya-nii was the best person in the whole world, cooler than All Might and all the heroes on the billboard and definitely their father. 

Touya-nii is the only one in the house who stands up to their father when he’s being mean, and he’s the one who makes all their lunches when mom’s not feeling well, and helps Natsuo and Yumi-nee with their homework, and signs their permission slips when they’re too scared to ask their parents, and plays with them when they’re bored. 

The only thing Natsuo wishes Touya-nii would do more is just… be around. 

He’s always getting into arguments with Endeavor about his truancy, which never really go anywhere but sometimes shake the house in their intensity, and sometimes kaa-chan asks quietly if Touya would please make an effort at school and Touya-nii will brush her off. Since neither of their parents seem to be able to stop Touya from always leaving whenever he wants, Natsuo doubts he and Yumi-nee would be able to either. 

It’s okay, though. Touya-nii is still super nice and awesome when he is around, even though it’s not very often anymore, even if his parents quietly start to subtly pull him and his sister away from their older brother. They say he’s a bad influence. That he’s a delinquent who does whatever he wants and is going to be a lot of trouble when he grows up. Natsuo loves everything about him, even if it makes his mother quietly fret over her eldest and worry he’s on a dangerous path. He thinks all of Touya-nii’s ear piercings are neat, and that all his clothes are badass (not that he’s supposed to know what that word means, but maybe Touya-nii is a little bit of  a bad influence.) And sometimes, when their mother is locked away in her room and their father is away and Touya-nii is back for a shower or a change of clothes, he’ll crawl onto his bed and ask Touya-nii to play him something on his guitar.

But for as much as he loves Touya-nii, he knows there’s just… something different to him.

He talks funny, like adults do, and he’s crazy smart and never hangs out with people his own age. He doesn’t need their parents, not in the way kids need the authoritative adult figure in their lives to help them with the things they don’t know how to handle. Touya-nii knows how to handle everything, and he doesn’t need any adult to explain things to him. That’s probably why he never really comes home. 

Natsuo is walking home alone from his elementary school that day, Fuyumi staying behind to work on some group project with her friends. It’s not a very far walk, and he’s not a baby anymore, he doesn’t need his big sister to hold his hand. 

He says this, but he’s still frightened within an inch of his life when an adult all but barrels into him on the middle of the sidewalk. 

“Thief!” Someone cries from up the road. “That man stole my purse!”

Natsuo gasps from his spot on the ground, whipping his head back around to the man who knocked him over. When he turns the man is staggering to his feet and looking like he’s about to start running again. Natsuo looks around frantically, but all that greets him is a street lined with wide-eyed onlookers. Where are the heroes? Why isn’t anyone trying to stop him?

“Hey kid, get outta my way— urk!!” 

Natsuo scampers to his feet, whirling back just in time to see someone’s foot collide with the man’s face in a roundhouse kick.

Natsuo gapes in shock when he sees who the kicker is. It’s Touya-nii, his hands in the pockets of his baggy sweats, a konbini-store plastic bag around his wrist, an unimpressed expression on his face, unruly white hair flattened underneath a backwards baseball cap.

“Oh! Nacchan, is that you?” Touya-nii says with delight, utterly ignoring the protesting man beneath his foot. Actually, he just presses the heel of his shoe harder into the guys cheek. 

“Um,” Natsuo says.

The lady who lost her purse races up to them and profusely thanks Touya for his help, and Touya keeps the petty thief immobilized until the police come. In the chaos of the arrest Touya winks at him and drags him far away from the crowds before any of the policemen can protest.

“T— Touya-nii! Is this really okay?” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine, what are they gonna do, arrest me?” For some reason, Touya-nii laughs a lot at his own joke.

“I guess not…” Natsuo trails off, unconvinced. He looks up at his older brother; he’s gotten taller again. 

Taller and more filled out. It makes Natsuo wonder— where does he go when he’s not home? Their father never bothered much with any of his ‘failure’ children after Shouto was born anyway, but these days even their mother is a shadow of herself. Natsuo barely sees her since she’s almost always in her room, with only Fuyumi occasionally dropping by with food for her to confirm she’s still alive. Because of this, Touya-nii doesn’t seem to even bother with pretense of caring about what they think. Natsuo hasn’t seen him in weeks, he thinks. Not since New Years, when he snuck him and Yumi out to the shrine while their father was away. 

But Touya-nii looks good, Natsuo thinks. He’s got a hoodie on with his middle-school gakuran thrown atop it, and trendy sneakers Natuso thinks he’s seen in one of Yumi’s magazines. He thinks he’s got a new piercing too, or at least a new cuff, shiny on his left ear. He looks exactly like the kind of middle schooler who would stop a robbery with both hands in his pockets. 

“How are ya, Nacchan? You coming back from school? Hey, you hungry? There’s this new family restaurant with really good curry rice— that’s still your favorite, right?”

He asks all of these in rapid-fire sequence, causing Natsuo to flounder for an answer. “Um, yeah,” is all he ends up saying.

So Touya-nii leads them down a few suspect alleyways, where suspicious-looking grown men give them a suspiciously wide berth, and into a charmingly cluttered little restaurant where an old obaa-san fusses over Touya’s apparent lack of weight. This looks exactly like the part of town their father tells them to stay away from, but Touya seems perfectly at home in it. Natsuo cleans his entire plate; he can’t remember the last time he’d had curry rice. It’s the sort of meal that’s not healthy enough to pass their father’s stringent standards for Shouto’s diet, so it’s banned from the house. 

Afterwards Touya-nii drags him to a candy store ostensibly for Natsuo’s sake, but he exits with two giant bags more than Natsuo did.

“You seem like you’re okay,” Touya-nii says then, as if he’s coming to some kind of conclusion, lollipop hanging out of his mouth. “The old man isn’t giving you any trouble, is he?”

“No, I’m okay.” Natsuo shakes his head. Their old man would have to pay attention to him to ‘give him trouble’. 

Natsuo stares down at his own bag of candy— small enough to stay hidden in his backpack, not that he thinks his father’s going to care enough to snoop around his room or something— little eight year-old face scrunched up in concern. 

“What about you, Touya-nii?” He asks quietly. “Are you okay? You can come back home, you know. Dad’s never home anyway.”

Touya-nii tosses his head back and chuckles. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.” He grins. “Life has been immeasurably better since I’ve been forced to stop taking it so seriously.” 

Natsuo blinks. He doesn’t really get it, but Touya-nii seems happy enough. 

“Share some of that with Yumi-chan, okay? I don’t want her to think I forgot about her.” 

//

But good things never last, and his idyllic life as local delinquent and disruptor of sleepy suburbia and lead singer of a punk band called Band Aides end with a bang. Literally.

Having given up on his absent and unruly eldest, Endeavor had turned his energies to his last and youngest child, who manifested the perfect quirk he’d been aiming for at the tender age of four. 

Gojo had no idea, because he’d spent the entirety of Shouto’s fourth year trying his damndest to put the entire police precinct into an early grave by dismantling an entire criminal drug trafficking ring and causing public unrest street racing with the local biker gangs, and hadn't been back home once. He stops petty crimes when they happen in front of him just because he can, and never uses his quirk or leaves any incriminating evidence of his identity, which drives the local cops crazy. Leading them on goose chases is more entertaining than intimidating the yakuza for the fifth time, or relearning English phrases he’d learned a lifetime ago at school. He probably gets a bit too into it, honestly, and decides to cool it when an ace detective from another precinct starts getting involved. 

He hasn’t been home aside from periodic drop-by’s for clothes or a shower when no one’s home in at least a year. The thought is almost enough to give him pause. 

His mother, Rei, tends to remind him too much of his previous mother, in a way that’s vaguely upsetting enough to the point he’d rather avoid her than deal with his emotions. A tired woman resigned to her duty, accepting her lot in life with a quiet rationality that some might call graceful, but he just thinks is fatalistic. His thoughts on Endeavor don’t even bear mentioning.

But Natsuo and Fuyumi…. He doesn’t dislike them. But they’re just kids to him. It’s fun to roughhouse with Natsuo and kick a ball around with him and do all the other youthful activities he’d never been able to do before, trapped in a life as the sole heir of a family dynasty, weighed down by legacy and obligations. And Fuyumi is nice. She’s sweet and kind-hearted and it’s fun to mess with her, especially now that she’s getting to an age where needling her about boys gets a flustered response. He keeps an eye out for them, but he doesn’t worry about them much either, since Endeavor has never paid them anything more than a passing glance.

The youngest, Shouto, Gojo barely even remembers. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he came home that day, knowing full well his father was home.

His Six Eyes don’t sense anyone else; it’s the middle of the day, so that’s not unusual for Fuyumi or Natsuo, neither of whom have taken to truancy quite like he has. But it still registers to him as slightly unusual, since Rei is usually in the house. When he expands his senses further, he doesn't even feel her at the konbini she sometimes frequents, or even further in the small shopping center near their house. This seems very odd to him, as he has never, in his entire thirteen years in this life, known his mother to stray much farther than that.

Endeavor’s presence is bright like a glare in his vision, but it’s in the dojo clear across the house from his bedroom so he almost dismisses it until he realizes the man isn’t alone. There’s a smaller presence, somewhat familiar but still difficult to pinpoint.

It’s not until he gets close enough to use his actual vision that he realizes what’s going on.

It’s not Endeavor training with one of his lousy sidekicks like he does on occasion, but Endeavor mercilessly dragging a limp and rather unresponsive Shouto by one arm across the floor. By Shouto’s feet is a small pool of vomit, likely from the boy himself, and his limbs are covered in burns and bruises. 

A couple things become clear to him in that moment:

That Shouto’s quirk has finally manifested while he was away, and it seems to be some kind of hybrid of Rei’s ice and Endeavor’s fire. 

That the propensity for human cruelty doesn’t exist in a vacuum. 

And that the Hero Industry is not just hypocritical and perpetuating a dangerously misleading stereotype at best and criminally negligent at worst, but an actual system that actively encourages pervasive and systematic evil. 

This is about the point where he lights the entire dojo on fire.

//

“You’re a worthless, disgusting piece of trash that someone should have euthanized before letting you have children. You don’t even deserve the title of human, let alone father,” he says, amidst the smoldering ruins. 

Shouto is tucked underneath his arm, confined with him inside Infinity, the safest place to be when the surface temperature of the ground around them is nearing the temperature of lava. The only reason their father hasn’t been incinerated like the rest of the surrounding area is his own propensity for high temperatures. That’s not to say he won’t suffer from the second and third degree burns Gojo’s blue flames have inflicted on him. But Gojo’s not intending to kill him. That’d be giving the man an easy way out. 

“I find it almost as disgusting as the society that lets you get away with the behavior— even encourages it,” he continues, idly. 

The thing is, he doesn’t hate Endeavor. In a way, he pities him. He’s so trapped in a system that belittles the weak and glorifies the strong, a system where he can’t see a way forward that doesn’t involve greater strength, greater power. A system that would see Todoroki Touya and Todoroki Shouto and Todoroki Fuyumi and Todoroki Natsuo and Todoroki Rei as unfortunate but necessary collateral damage. That would turn a blind eye to a man that physically, emotionally, and verbally abuses his family and then turn around and call him a hero of the people.

“I don’t even know if you ever had any good intentions when you decided to become a Hero, or if this collective obsession with being the strongest has always driven you, but either way it’s disappointing, from the Number Two Hero. It really makes me wonder if even the Number One is drenched in this rot.” 

All Might doesn’t seem the sort, honestly. A symptom of the problem, rather than one of its roots. 

There’s a deafening crack as a nearby pine tree buckles under the pressure and snaps in two. It doesn’t catch fire, Gojo’s indomitable control over himself and his own flames too strong for the excruciating temperatures to reach beyond his set radius, but it is enough to alert the returning Fuyumi and Natsuo. The dojo had been utterly incinerated; standing one moment, turned to ash the next. It didn’t stand a chance.

As for Endeavor… well, he’s still alive. Gojo had waltzed up to him and socked him right in the mouth before he could even react, but other than that he hasn’t technically touched the man. But to be able to withstand these temperatures without burning alive is a questionable enterprise, even for someone as predisposed for them as Enji.

Gojo sighs, shaking his head. “You’re a real disgrace, you know that? I’m ashamed I have to share blood with someone so weak he has to push his ambitions onto his kids because he can’t find a way to do it on his own. How many lives are you going to ruin with your own personal failures, until you’re just better off dead?”

The crumpled form of his father doesn’t respond. 

There’s a shriek from the main house as Fuyumi wrenches the shoji screen wide open and collapses to her knees on the engawa from shock. Natsuo is at her heels, so pale he looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Don’t ever think about laying a hand on him again, or it won’t just be your dojo I burn down around your ears, but your life,” Gojo promises, as he disappears in a plume of scorching sapphire flames. 

//

He teleports to the hospital, startling a nearby nurse, and drops the still unresponsive Shouto at the front of the emergency room. Then he teleports to a nearby rooftop haunt of his and chain smokes until morning. 

He never goes back.

Chapter Text

His recollection of that night is hazy and unreliable, but it’s still something he thinks about often, in the dead of night when there’s nothing but his own doubts and dreams to keep him company.

It’s the only clear memory he has of Touya-nii-san. 

He was only five when his eldest brother ignited the dojo complex and permanently scarred their father. They tell him that he’s probably dead; that his brother had a sickly constitution ill-suited for the high temperatures from his own quirk. That his disposition was too weak to handle a regular fire, let alone the sort that could have caused the level of destruction seen on that night. He probably died in his own fire, they said, cremated to nothing but ash.

He’s not certain if anyone in his family actually believes it, but they have a Butsudan for him anyway, hidden away in a far unused tearoom at the end of the main house, gathering dust. Sometimes Shouto goes in there just to stare at the photo— a middle-school year-book portrait featuring an unsmiling boy around Shouto’s age. He’s dressed in a school gakuran, expression mild and unaffected underneath an unruly poof of white-hair, a little lighter than Natsuo’s. He has eyes that are almost the same shade as Shouto’s left, but there’s something crisper to them somehow. And the shape of his face is soft, like Fuyumi's, yet those features somehow seem so distant and unapproachable on him when they're so welcoming on his sister. In short, he looks as if he should be related to them, but didn’t quite succeed in the ruse. 

Shouto wonders about him, a lot. 

Up until that singular meeting, he’d spent almost his entire life in solitude and has no clear memory of his eldest brother. Cordoned off from his other siblings, existing as if in a separate dimension from them. He’d resigned himself to it, when it became clear he had the quirk his father was waiting for. He’d accepted the pain and suffering as his due, just as he’d accepted the burden of his father’s legacy as something inevitable. Then everything he’d thought as truth in his life had blown up in his face, just like the dojo.

Why did he do that? Save Shouto? Threaten their father to change his ways upon penalty of death?

People think he was unconscious for the whole event, and Shouto doesn’t disillusion them. He can barely wrap his head around what happened years later, let alone think about talking about the experience. 

He’d heard every word Touya said, and he never forgets them.

It makes him question the world around him almost as much as it does his father. Endeavor is different after that. Even more withdrawn and aloof. After he returns from the hospital with a scar dragging from his chin to his neck, he doesn’t approach Shouto again. He sees as little of his father as the rest of his (remaining) siblings. He still has trainers who work with him to master his quirks, but the goal is now to stop himself from accidentally harming himself or others, not to get stronger. 

It makes him wonder what he should do.

He’d been told he was going to be a Hero since he could talk. That he’d be the one to surpass All Might and be the strongest. The words felt like prophecy when his quirk came, and the training started. He didn’t have to think about what he wanted out of life, because it had already been decided for him. But Touya had wiped his fate clean, and now Shouto wasn’t so sure. Touya had dragged their father through the fires of retribution, leaving him a scarred, husk of a man in the aftermath. He changed the course of Shouto's life. Had he not intervened, perhaps it would have been Shouto who'd ended that day scarred and burned. But Shouto had gone through childhood unblemished by the hands of his parents and their expectations, his life unburdened of the wretched legacy his older brother had been forced to bear. It was his choice now. 

Did he still want to be a Hero?

The thing is, Shouto can’t find it in him to deny the words Touya had spit at their father that night. 

When he looked at the world around him, really looked, he could see the rot Touya spoke of. The discrimination built directly into their society, the culture that reveres strengths and powerful quirks, and dismisses the weak as worthless and the quirkless as worse than trash. He could see how much of the Hero Industry was the farthest thing from Heroic, how rankings and the lumbering beast of systemized industry could distort the essence of what heroism even really is. Because that’s what it was, at the end of the day. An industry. So commercialized and economized it was squeezed of all its aspirations. 

But that didn’t mean real heroes didn’t exist. People acted with kindness every day, even if they never received recognition for their actions. Heroes really did save people, help people, stop terrible things from happening. 

Maybe he could be the one to change things. Be the person to remind everyone what it really means to be a hero, beyond the costumes and the flashiness and the rankings and the media. 

Maybe Touya would even be proud of him, if he could manage it. 

//

Naomasa looks up, bleary eyed, to see he’s the only one remaining in the office and the hour has careened past late and extended well into early morning. At this point, there’s really no reason to even attempt to get home. He may as well splash some water on his face and fix another carafe of coffee and power through.

The very thought makes him want to slump into his paperwork and avoid the entire world. Being a reasonable and responsible adult who turns paperwork in promptly and never misses a compliance audit is the worst. How did he end up here? No one ever told him how much of being a police detective was administrative filing and document routing. 

In some respects, dealing with the permit and licensing office circus is a far sight better than the case he’s currently trying to slog through— which says a lot, because getting anything through that department usually involves tears and donut bribes. But even those stingy and untimely jerks are better than dealing with the unknown man that’s skyrocketing to the top of Japan’s Most Wanted.

The internal task team calls him ‘Dabi’, because the cremated (?) remains are all that’s ever left of his victims if he chooses to end their lives. 

He’s been at large for years and they’re still none the wiser as to how he does it. Some think it must be fire based, others gravity based, and others still some combination therein; some hellish and unholy marriage of the two. Naomasa doesn't know where he falls in that great debate, waged endlessly among the team. All he knows are the facts. That level of destructive entropy alone is enough to land him a spot in the S-rankings, and his ability to elude the police is a whole other kettle of fish. Either he has a secondary teleporting quirk, is working with someone who does, or somehow teleporting is an extension of his entropy. Naomasa’s puzzled over it for years and he still hasn’t figured out the answer.

He’s the sort of frightening elusive figure that harkens back to the golden age of villainy, when All for One was still at the height of his power and no one in the criminal underworld even dared to speak of him in anything but hushed rumors about an Emperor of Darkness. Naomasa would be half-pressed to consider this Dabi character to be All for One himself, if it wasn’t for the single eye-witness report they have of his physical characteristics. 

The report describes him as a kid, no older than a teenager. White hair and blackout sunglasses. 

A kid, Naomasa thinks, that ever-present sinking feeling in his gut that he gets whenever he ponders too hard on Dabi returning tenfold. 

The idea that a kid could be capable of murder and destruction on this scale…

It’s just as he’s debating whether it’s even worth it to go through the effort of filling out an overtime request that someone interrupts his witching hour musings— the sole eye-witness of his case, in fact.

“Eraserhead-san,” Naomasa greets, surprised. “Can I help you?”

Eraserhead is an underground hero with nocturnal hours, so his presence at the station at this hour isn’t entirely unheard of, but it’s still unusual to see him come in directly.

It never means anything good, when he comes in person.

“I met him again,” Eraserhead reveals, skipping the preamble entirely. That’s what Naomasa likes best about him though— always straight and to the point.

Naomasa doesn’t need to guess as to who he’s referring to.

“Dabi,” he says, grimly.

Eraserhead nods.

“What happened?”

//

At first glance, the character in question is so bizarre and yet unremarkable it's far too easy overlook him.

The strikingly youthful appearance of a handsome teen; the only really notable thing about him was how easily he could pass for the lead singer of some trendy boy band or a model on a magazine cover. He had the look of a popular teenage heart throb, the sort that got love letters all year round and played on the school baseball team; the smile, the windswept ice-white hair, even the stylish sunglasses he was wearing in the middle of the night. 

Aizawa watched in disbelief from his vantage point in the rafters of the warehouse as the kid strolled straight into a rapidly escalating situation. A drug handoff fraught with tension between two of the most ruthless gangs in the country that was quickly going to come to blows— or worse— if things kept up like this.

He was actually about to radio in for backup when the mysterious villain slammed open the heavily deadbolted doors with a kick.

“Oof, you smell that?” He whistled low. “Nothing like the stench of toxic masculinity in the middle of the night to really get your blood pumping, huh?”

Udagawa, the lieutenant of the gang from Mustafu and a man with a rap sheet longer than Aizawa’s arm, immediately rose to the bait. “What the fuck did ya just say, ya little punk?!”

His counterpart, the notorious second captain of the infamous Toman group of Tokyo, Mitsuya, only turns a considering look at the newcomer. “Dabi,” he says, lowering his gun slightly. “Why are you here?”

Udagawa doesn't react, but everyone else in the room grows several degrees paler. The gang members around them shift nervously in their positions; everyone else in the abandoned warehouse is evidently very well aware of Dabi. Not that this surprises Aizawa— even the petty street thugs know who Dabi is; just as they know not to fuck with him if they value their lives. 

“Micchan!” Dabi grins widely. “So it was Toman who got caught up in all this, huh? Gotta say, I was really hoping that wasn’t the case.”

The ruthless and cold-blooded Mitsuya doesn’t even twitch at the childish nickname. “We took the deal to transport these in good faith; even if it ended up this way, we don’t go back on our word.”

“Words to live by, I guess.” Dabi shrugs. 

“We’re not interested in getting caught up in the Trigger street wars,” Mitsuya says, stoic. “But a deal’s a deal.”

“You fucking liar!” Udagawa spits. “A quarter of the shipment is missing, ya lousy fucks. Where the fuck else did it go?”

The members of Toman take offense to this, voices of discontent rising in the crowd. Mitsuya silences them with a raised hand. Notably, his hand is still settled on the trigger of his gun, safety off, even if he isn’t actively aiming it at Udagawa. 

“I told you, we got attacked by members from Rokuhara,” Mitsuya shoots back. Then his eyes narrow. “Why they knew our transport route and schedule, is a totally different subject.”

“Just what are you implying, ya bastard?!” 

“Hey now, no need to start calling people names,” Dabi chides in a casual tone, but even that light warning is enough to have the entirety of Toman taking a step back. “We’re all adults— or well, you are all adults here, haha— we can settle this in a mature manner, right?”

“Of course,” Mitsuya agrees without missing a beat. He even lowers his gun entirely, a show of submission Aizawa would have never considered possible for the notorious gang member. “I’m assuming you’re not here for a couple cases of Trigger, though.”

“Definitely not!” Dabi agrees, smiling. “I had a couple questions for pinhead here, actually, and was, uh, helpfully pointed in this direction.”

Aizawa takes this to mean whatever lookouts the Braman gang had posted up were long dead, possibly along with everyone still back at their headquarters. 

This implication is utterly lost on Udagawa, who starts flushing the color of puce at Dabi’s offhand remark. The spikes protruding out of his scalp turn an alarming shade of purple— poisonous projectiles, Aizawa recalls, and adjusts his goggles just in case he needs to use his quirk. 

“What the fuck ya just call me?!”

“I heard you cut a deal just last week involving a shipment of kids out of Yokohama.” Dabi ignores his posturing entirely. 

Nothing overtly changes in his relaxed posture, nor in his expression, and yet the room seems to simultaneously cool and heat up at the same time. Aizawa feels like there’s ice in his lungs, yet sweat crawls up the back of his neck. The tension in the room stretches as taught as a wire.

“Quirk trafficking,” Dabi adds. “Ring a bell?”

“What the fuck’s it to ya, ya little shrimp?” Udagawa spits back, waving his gun in Dabi’s direction.

Even his own subordinates seem to read the room better than him. “Oi, oi, Kenta, come on—

“Tell me who financed you.” 

It’s not a question. 

Udagawa shrieks in laughter. “A little pipsqueak like you thinks you can talk to me that way? Brats like you need to be put in your place.”

Aizawa flinches at the sharp crack of a bullet leaving the chamber, followed by three more. He wrenches his head towards the young teen, expecting a macabre scene of blood and screaming.

Instead, the bullets seem to be hovering in mid-air a few centimeters away from the boy, caught in an invisible grip. The boy doesn’t look particularly bothered as he reaches a hand out of his pocket and idly pokes a hovering bullet. They all clatter to the floor. 

“I’m not going to say it again,” Dabi says, expression placid and yet entirely deadly. 

“Fuck you!” Udagawa shouts. 

He releases all the spikes in his head, a plume of toxic missiles shooting towards the boy. One moment, the projectiles are aimed directly at his head. In the next, Udagawa is nothing but a smear across the ground. 

The Braman crew shout in alarm and scramble away from the blackened mark that was once their lieutenant. Aizawa studies the scene in disbelief. He hadn’t even seen Dabi move. Not even a twitch. There was no sound, no ricochet of energy, no recoil. No blood splatter. Nothing to confirm a quirk was even used. Nothing but the aftermath of what was once a human being. And Udagawa… there was nothing left of him but a stain on the concrete. His clothes, his rings, even his gun— just gone. 

Dabi shoves his hand back into his pocket. “So. Financier. Let’s talk.”

The remaining members of Braman cave like a house of cards. They’re quick to disappear once it becomes clear Dabi isn’t interested in anything other than a couple answers. The Toman members do a better job of hiding their fear, but not by much. Only Mitsuya seems even remotely composed, and even then Aizawa notices he does an admirable job of avoiding even looking in the direction of where Udagawa once stood. Still, he treats Dabi with respect, and in return Dabi does the same. The Toman members part with their negotiated price and their pride and all their members still intact, which is far more than Braman can say. 

Dabi stands in the center of the now emptied warehouse, unmoving, even long after the roar of the motorcycles disappears into the night. Aizawa feels more sweat trickle down his back, breathing shallow and silent as he watches the boy warily. He’d been here hours before Dabi even showed up, there’s no way he could possibly— 

Dabi cracks his neck, then stretches his arms over his head. With his face tilted up towards the ceiling, he grins. 

“So, did you have any real plan to get out of here, or were you just gonna sit through the blood bath and hope you didn’t get hit with a stray bullet?”

Aizawa startles, shocked the kid could see him when everyone else didn’t. Then he curses his own arrogance; he’s been an Underground Hero long enough to hear all sorts of rumors about the mysterious and dangerous individual known only as Dabi, he should have known better than to underestimate him just because of his young appearance. 

He composes himself quickly after that, leaning over the support beam to make sure he has direct line of sight on Dabi before activating his quirk. Dabi doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I’m gonna be honest, I had plenty of plans and none of them involved running into you.”

Dabi laughs. 

“Is that so? I’ve been told I derail plans pretty often!” Like this, with that wide roguish grin and cheerful tone, he seems just like any other high schooler. 

“You definitely derailed theirs,” Aizawa agrees, cautiously. 

He has no idea how to play this. Frankly, his only goal out of this terrifying turn of events should be to make it out of here alive, but he can’t get over the reveal of Dabi’s actual appearance. He’d been so certain Dabi would be a man at least five years his senior— in fact, the current profile had him pinned at mid twenties to mid forties. 

“And I can’t say I’m mad about it,” Dabi agrees. He cracks his knuckles. “So, are you a rival gang, a vigilante trying to clean the streets of drugs, a narc, or a hero?”

Aizawa hesitates. 

Well, fuck.

“I feel like my best bet is to not answer that question, but I’m legally obligated to say underground hero.”

As always whenever he flies into a blind panic, Aizawa defaults to his standard mode of operation; blithely sarcastic. 

“Ehh, no way!” He can’t really tell behind the impenetrably dark glasses, but he thinks Dabi is blinking in surprise. “I didn’t even know that was a thing! What’s the difference between an underground hero and a regular hero?”

“... Well, we try to stay ‘underground’, so to speak,” Aizawa finds himself answering, deadpan. “Off the radar, if you will.”

“Oh!” Dabi laughs. “Fair enough.”

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Well, I guess that means you can do something about all these leftover drugs, huh?”

“I’m aware of the proper channels, yes.”

“Nice! Well, it’s your problem now, Mr. Underground Hero. See ya!”

And with a sloppy salute, he disappears on the spot. 

//

It’s been years since that incident, and while Aizawa hasn’t seen Dabi since then he sure as hell hears a lot about him.

His eccentric and outlandish nature are legendary in the underworld, as is his propensity for extreme violence at the drop of a hat. Aizawa wouldn’t ever call him nice, but he’s hardly one for bloodshed and homicide without reason. And he doesn’t follow any of the set rules of the criminal hierarchy. 

He seems to do what he wants, whenever he wants, with no particular agenda. He’s notorious for always working alone— he has no concerns waltzing up to a criminal gang hundreds strong and cowing them all into submission. And from the glimpse Aizawa saw of his powers, he think that’s rather unsurprising. Anyone else would just hold him back, and villain groups no matter their numbers are right to fear him. The entire underworld is scared of him. Aizawa’s seen yakuza bosses that are tough as nails clam up in fear when Naomasa tries to get them to talk about the white-haired villain. 

He garners a frightening reputation that has even spotlight heroes like All Might sitting up to attention. But by that same turn, he’s infamous but damningly elusive. Impossible to pin down. It’s been years and they still haven’t even found his paper trail; assuming he has one. The lack of a structured group makes things difficult. It’s much harder to track a single villain who works alone, than a group that needs financing, housing and support items.

His quirk leaves no trace of evidence on how it works or its limitations, and Aizawa is still the sole eye-witness (willing to cooperate with the police, at any rate) who’s ever seen him use it and live to tell the tale. From what few criminals are willing to talk, they’ve learned whatever it is is basically an instant death, and appears to be entirely telekinetic. If it has a cool down time, no one can confirm it, and if there’s a limit to how many times it can be used in a given period, that’s also entirely up to speculation. If it has a range limit, they haven’t found it yet, but from what they can piece together of crime scenes after the fact, it seems to need at least some kind of line of sight. But Dabi has also been reported to wear a blindfold, lending confusion as to what, exactly, constitutes as ‘sight’ for him. 

In short, just being in his presence is considered a signed death warrant. 

Which makes it all the more unfortunate that Aizawa just happens to accidentally stumble into it.

It’s the middle of his shift but he’s spent the entirety of it chasing a villain with a speed quirk across the rooftops, and he’s dead tired. His eyes are burning from dryness and a criminal lack of sleep, and he just ran out of eye drops. He also forgot to eat dinner and when he tried to grab a quick bite on his route he ended up having to stop a bike thief, so really, he was just a bundle of misfortune currently. 

This is of course when he stumbles into one of the most dangerous villains of the decade— literally.

How can this e-boy possibly be one of Mustafu’s most wanted? Aizawa cannot help but think, positively despairing, as he gets his first close-up look with the infamous villain.

He’s grown quite a bit since Aizawa last saw him. Shot up like a weed, actually, all gangly and awkward limbs and unruly hair. He doesn’t look like he’s ever been introduced to a comb in his life. He also looks like a pop punk store projectile vomited all over him. His ears are lined with so many shiny cuffs and studs he has to imagine without the metal accouterments they look like swiss cheese. He’s got at least three different chokers spaced down his long neck, and what looks like glitter on his cheeks and in the mess he calls hair. Also, Aizawa is fairly certain he’s wearing eyeliner. And seems to be suffering under a regrettable affliction for tight black clothing with superfluous studs and zippers. 

He bumps right into him, zippers and black leather and clinking jewelry and all, and even steadies him by the elbow when he almost flails back in his own shock. 

Aizawa is fairly certain his life flashes before his eyes, as he feels the pressure of a hand against his jacket. It's been years, and the last time they'd met he'd been clear across the room from him, but Aizawa only needs a single glance to remember him, remember the pressure of his very presence.

But he isn’t immediately splintered out of existence in that moment, so all he can do is stare in growing despair. 

“Are you looking for the back of the venue?” Dabi asks, not unkindly. 

Aizawa just stares blankly into his eyes, vaguely annoyed to see in the interim of years since he’s last seen the criminal they’ve somehow ended up at the same height. He’s not wearing a blindfold or his sunglasses, and he can see his eyes to be a kaleidoscope of every shade of blue in existence. If he wasn’t so certain his quirk was something with telekinetic psychic powers, he would have assumed it to be some kind of optic-hypnosis quirk just from how long he accidentally spends puzzling over the mesmerizing sight of them.

He gestures with the hand not currently lingering at Aizawa’s elbow, laden with an enormous takeout bag. “It’s the next street over, behind the tattoo parlor. But I’m not sure if any of the pizza is going to be left at this rate, there weren't many leftovers this time.”

He pauses. “I think there’s a soup kitchen not too far from here. By the metro station, I think?”

“Uh…” Aizawa just continues to stare, wondering if he’s been transported to some wicked dimension or if he’s really just so sleep deprived he hallucinated this whole thing.

Then Dabi looks at him— really looks at him.

“Oh,” Dabi says. “You’re not homeless.” 

“... No,” Aizawa says, because he has no idea what the fuck else to say to that. 

It’s true his friends— namely Hizashi and Kayama, who are the only two people in his life he can even count as friends— tell him he looks like a homeless person basically everyday, especially when he drags his sleeping bag out, but he hears it so often he just tunes it out. Well, it’s not like he’s not aware of how he looks… 

But no villain has ever point blank mistaken him for a hobo to his face. 

Dabi seems to take stock of him then— his support-item grade goggles, his capture scarf. 

“You’re an underground hero, right? We’ve met once before.”

Fuck, I should have updated my life insurance policy. Aizawa thinks. But how was he supposed to know tonight would be the night he comes face to face with the one villain who’s likely too dangerous for anyone but All Might to catch alive? 

Aizawa sighs heavily. “So, you going to kill me?”

Dabi blinks. “Why, did you do something?”

“Sure,” Aizawa shrugs. “I exist. That’s normally enough of an excuse for an attempt at manslaughter by most villains.”

“I have to imagine you’re also usually actively trying to apprehend said villains, though,” Dabi returns. 

“That’s true enough,” he says, because it is.

“So why aren’t you trying to apprehend me?”

“Because it would be a waste of effort,” Aizawa answers, frankly. “It’s entirely possible your quirk is faster than mine, in which case, even being in your line of sight right now is an instant death for me.”

Dabi blinks again. “You figured that out just by seeing it once?”

He shrugs again. “It’s not really a hard observation to make.”

Dabi makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn’t seem too interested in hearing what the police have got on him, to be honest. Actually, he’s rummaging through the bag looped around his arm. 

“Huh. Well, I gotta run. But here, take one of these. You look like you’re gonna fall over.” 

Aizawa stares at the plastic wrapped bun pressed into his hands. It’s shaped like a nyan cat. 

“Um,” Aizawa says, but when he looks up Dabi’s gone. 

//

“... And that’s it?” Naomasa asks, looking just as despairing as Aizawa. 

He tosses the nyan cat red bean pastry onto the desk between them. “Here, for evidence.”

Naomasa gives it a suffering look. Aizawa can relate. But he’s also still pretty hungry, so he’s a little peeved he can't just eat it. 

“And you’re sure it was the same guy?”

“He recognized me and everything,” Aizawa answers as he scratches the back of his head. “I don’t see how it could be anyone else.”

Naomasa looks down at his notes with an expression that says he's been seized by a nostalgic urge to fatalistically fling himself out the window. 

“The first time we’ve got a solid sighting of him in years… and it’s this.” Naomasa groans.

Aizawa just nods along in silent solidarity. It’s both monumental and yet absolutely useless. So what that Dabi looks like he enjoys spending his weekends drowning in a Hot Topic sales bin? That’s not really helpful at all in pinning down an identity or a regular location of residence. He’s suspected to now be in his late teenage years or early twenties; there are plenty of heavy black eye-liner lined youths out there living up their most edgy lives with gothic panache in a manner identical to his.

And yet, it wasn’t an entire loss.

From the single encounter alone Aizawa can confirm a great deal about him. He’s in relatively good health, a little on the skinnier side but that seems to be more from adolescent growing pains than a lack of a reliable food source; he has no scars or injuries to speak of, from what Aizawa could see— which considering he was only wearing a fitted sleeveless shirt, was quite a lot— and no identifiable tattoos on his arms or face. The piercings were certainly notable, and will be useful information going forward. And from his remarks he’s pretty familiar with that area of Mustafu, which could perhaps infer he frequents it with some regularity. 

And perhaps most importantly of all; Aizawa could likely recognize him on sight now.

Even if they still haven’t managed to get any notable CCTV footage of him— and likely weren’t from this encounter either, considering the part of town it was in— Aizawa could at least sit with a sketch artist and flesh out a better profile of his physical appearance. And he’d seen his full face, too. No black medical mask or sunglasses to obscure his features. He’s as obnoxiously good-looking a kid as Aizawa remembered him to be.

Because that’s still what he is. A kid. 

Hell, Aizawa has taught people around Dabi’s age. He can’t be all that much older than his third years. 

What is he doing out there? Is he seriously, truly, alone? It’s said he categorically refuses to work with anyone, preferring to handle everything on his own. Is that arrogance, or loneliness? Does he have a safe place to return to every night? Does he get enough to eat? Is he being manipulated by someone they haven’t managed to get on the radar yet— someone like Naomasa’s ‘Emperor of Darkness’ boogeyman? How did he end up in this situation? He had to have been no older than sixteen at their first encounter; Aizawa can’t imagine a kid at that age just up and deciding to commit to a life of crime and villainy. 

And for all that he's known as an infamous villain in the underworld, he's clearly not anything like the usual ruthlessly cruel criminals that regularly make the most wanted list. He seemed genuine in his kindness when he'd reached out to Aizawa, a kind of compassion for the homeless and the destitute even the most charitable of law abiding citizens didn't always have. More to the point, he should have killed Aizawa on the spot and tied up his loose ends. Instead he'd let Aizawa go and even tried to feed him like he was a stray cat or something. 

There’s more to him— so much more. 

It's not much to go off of yet, but it's something.

//

A white-haired young man somewhere in the throes of the best years of his youth drags a weary hand over his face and squints into the morning sunlight, irritated at being (alive) awake at this hour. He lies draped across a velvet sofa, the remains of last night’s room service scattering various desserts across every nearby service, groaning as his phone continues to ring somewhere out of his reach. He rolls over, stuffs a nearby macaron into his mouth as a consolation prize for existing, and slaps around for the phone vibrating against the floor. 

“Good morning, Dabi-san,” a far too composed voice greets as he swipes to answer, immediately setting his teeth on edge. Morning people are disgusting.

“Whatever you want, the answer is no.”

To his annoyance, Giran just laughs. “I know I’ve caught you at an inconvenient hour, but time is of the essence I’m afraid.”

“And I just told you, I don’t care,” Gojo replies, blandly. He drags himself upright, slumping down into the couch immediately and throwing his feet up on the coffee table. 

“I was hoping I could convince you otherwise.”

“No chance,” Gojo deadpans.

“I have tiramisu.”

He pauses. 

“Now?” 

“If you’ll open the door,” Giran returns.

Gojo debates it seriously. 

He doesn’t give a flying fuck about the underworld, in the same way he couldn’t care less about the heroes. But there are a lot of things he’d do for tiramisu from the city’s finest bakery, and agreeing to at least hear Giran out is hardly at the top of that list. 

“Fine, whatever.” He sighs, getting to his feet and walking to unlock the door, uncaring that he’s still only wearing the hotel’s luxuriously plush bathrobe.

Giran looks perfectly presentable for this ungodly hour of the morning, which only serves to annoy Gojo further. He makes no pretense of propriety, waving the older man in and flopping back onto the couch. 

Giran sprawls out on an armchair across from him, giving a cursory glance around the room. It looks a fucking mess, and Gojo doesn’t have it in him to care right now. Whatever, it’s a hotel room, they’ll bill him for the damages. It’s not as if he doesn’t have the money. He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when it comes back with a matte of sticky glitter. He hadn’t showered after the show last night, which was truly regrettable. Local underground indie punk rock band No Scrubs is a step up musicality wise from his middle-school goth ensemble Band Aides, but he sometimes misses airing out all his teenage angst in a screechy voice with no care for finesse or subtlety. 

Even if his questionable villainous activities mean he can never bask in the global adoration and superstardom he deserves, it’s pretty damn cathartic to have an entire crowd of jaded young adults smushed into a basement screeching their undying devotion to him for a couple hours a month. Even if their brat of a drummer constantly has him dressing in outfits that are less of a fashion statement and more of a death wish. 

Gojo helps himself to a generous serving of cake right out of the box, as he waits for Giran to get to whatever point he came for.

Giran observes him wordlessly for a long moment, before sighing deeply. 

“I have a client who wants to meet you.”

“Nope.” 

Giran leans his elbows over his knees, looking like he’s already resigned himself to losing this fight but giving it his best anyhow. 

“They’re— not the sort to cross.” 

“Still no.” 

“He doesn’t want anything. Just a chat. It’s not everyday a guy like this goes out of his way to meet someone.”

Gojo reaches for a half empty bottle of pocari sweat on the end table, downing it a couple of long gups. “Don’t care.” He gasps, as he comes up for air.

Giran closes his eyes. “Dabi,” he says.

“Gojo,” he counters, wrinkling his nose.

The broker sighs heavily. “It’s best practice to use your villain name, you know.”

“I know,” Gojo agrees. “My villain name is Gojo.”

“It’s better to use a villain name that isn’t your actual name.”

“Yeah. Gojo.” 

Gojo Satoru doesn’t exist in this world, after all. What are they gonna do, look him up in the public records? There’s nothing there. And the only paper trail they ever could have has him listed as legally dead, thanks dad. 

Giran looks like he’s finally realized discretion is the better part of valor, especially when dealing with Gojo, and just leans back in his seat with a defeated look. “I really wish you’d reconsider this. This is an opportunity most villains would know not to pass up.”

“I’m hardly most villains, now am I?” Gojo disregards, with a careless grin. 

“It’s not even a one-on-one,” Giran continues, ignoring that on principle, “there will be others there. A select group, real exclusive.” 

“Look, just tell ‘em no hard feelings, I’m just not interested. Not a team player, ya know?” Gojo flaps an uncaring hand. “Call it whatever you want. Teenage angst. Youthful arrogance. Daddy issues. A crippling fear of commitment. Whatever.”

Giran scrubs a hand across his brow, looking surprisingly weary for the usually wily broker. “This could be good for you, you know.”

“In what way?” Gojo snorts. 

“I just think— “ Giran gestures to the room around them. A lavishly appointed penthouse suite at one of the nicest hotels in the city. Empty of any and all personal affectations, any evidence of a man that exists outside of the planes of his own dynasty. “Look, kid, I say it all the time, but you’ve really got it all. There’s so— so much— you could do. The world is your fucking oyster. You could have it all. And you could have people to support you in that.”

Gojo’s lazy expression closes off. His hooded eyes narrow from a sleepy gaze into a strip of unapproachable turquoise, the long plush line of his grinning mouth smoothing out into an unyielding frown. 

“I’m not interested,” he says, and this time, his tone is closed off enough for Giran not to press his luck.

“I get it, I get it.” Giran holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll pass on the message, as gently as I can.”

He pauses at the doorway. “It’s tomorrow at twenty-two hundred, backroom at Sin and Gin— if you change your mind. Please think about it, Gojo. Not everyone gets a chance to meet the Emperor himself.” 

He leaves with the same expediency he arrived in, which Gojo can appreciate, even if he’s not really in the mood to feel charitable. He tosses the fork back into the cake box, annoyed he is no longer even in the mood to savor the taste of one of his favorite cakes from one of his favorite bakeries right now. 

Giran means well, he knows, in whatever way a sleazy backroom dealer can mean well. He sees a kid with the world at his fingertips drifting through life unattached and dispossessed of telluric aspirations and human connections. He sees a child who doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He sees potential. 

He sees someone ripe for molding. So much power and potential, with no visible ambitions or interests and no one to tie them down.

Unfortunately for Giran, Gojo is hardly some listless child in need of a guiding hand. He’s lived an entire lifetime chained by his own ambitions and responsibilities, shackled by the bonds he’d made. He's not interested in someone poking their nose into his life and trying to control it. In fact, just the mere thought makes him surlish and feeling like he wants  to fight someone. Except fighting people just because he's pissed off is a bit of an unreasonable form of anger management, even for Gojo.

He decides instead to compromise by causing problems for people he doesn't like on purpose.

//

Tsukauchi Makoto, stage name Mako-chan, their ever fashionable bassist, gives Gojo a sour look when he drags himself into the studio. About half an hour late from their intended start time. 

“You’re lucky you’re so good-looking, otherwise you’d really have nothing going for you,” she says, giving him a long once over.

Gojo pouts. “What about my personality?”

“You’re a garbage can masquerading as a human being and you know it.” She snorts. “And the only thing worse than your taste in clothes is your taste in men.”

Gojo is affronted.

“My taste in clothes is great.” 

He has nothing to say on the latter. It’s a little late to argue that point, especially to Makoto, who’s seen him go home after shows with a truly bewildering range of wildly-dressed hooligans. 

“You look like satan’s beekeeper.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I am—” Gojo pauses. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Now that Satoru-kun is here, can we please just get started?” Their guitarist, a tall and well built woman who goes by Ken-chan on stage, interrupts. 

Makoto and Gojo stare each other down. 

“I’m ready when you are,” Gojo challenges, swiping a water bottle off the counter where he tosses his bag.

“Bold words from someone who’s twenty minutes late.” 

“I got held up by a weasel in a hawaiian print shirt.”

“That’s not even an excuse, that’s just a description.” Makoto rolls her eyes. 

“Are we gonna get on with this or not? I’ve got things to do later,” Ken-chan, real name Kenji, cuts in irritably, from where she’s leaning across the low sofa with her guitar in hand. 

Makoto looks a bit chagrined as she tosses a glossy lock of dark hair over her shoulder, clearing her throat. “Right, right. Well, for the next setlist, I was thinking we should start with Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner, and then transition directly into In One Ear, and end with I’m Not Okay.” 

She looks around the room for approval. In the meanwhile, Gojo covers his involuntary snickering by pretending to choke on a gulp of water. He’ll never get over the fact that he can get away with outright plagiarizing the best of his own middle school angst playlist and having everyone think he’s some kind of musical genius, and not just a kid who spent way too much time staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with his headphones on daydreaming with an edgy, careless willingness to commit arsonry. He’s not sure if people have just forgotten about a bunch of alt emo bands from a hundred years ago, or if they never actually even existed in this world at all, and at this point he’s just learned to use the ignorance for his own gains. 

And if the iconic on-stage outfit that has started a goth-hooker revival amongst the edgy youths of Mustafu is in fact an elaborate Gerard Way cosplay, no one but him will ever know.

He drags a hand over his mouth to wipe his grin away, glancing up to see everyone else staring at him.

“What are you looking at me for?” He blinks. “Seems like you’ve got the whole setlist figured out already.”

Makoto clicks her tongue. “Yes but they’re your songs, what do you think?”

Gojo cracks his neck. “Hmm. Maybe save I’m Not Okay for the encore. Switch in Jesus of Suburbia?”

Makoto and Kenji exchange looks, before shrugging. “Sounds good.”

“Cool,” he replies, and hauls his guitar case over his shoulders and starts opening it up. “I think just one run through should be fine, right?”

When he looks up as he’s adjusting his guitar strap, the other three are staring at him. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Makoto says, too quickly. 

Kenji scratches the back of her neck. “Well it’s just— we play a pretty good gig, y’know.”

Gojo blinks. “Yeah. I know.”

They’ve got a pretty good thing going. Especially considering it all just more of less fell into his lap.

He met Makoto getting plastered at a disco lounge when the woman had just come back from a stint in America and ended up at the bar next to him, complaining loudly about the lack of creative agency in Japanese pop music. Gojo, who had already spent at least one youth headbanging his way into deafness and rejecting the trappings of mainstream music, had plenty to say. When he mentioned he’d been in a punk band in middle school, they’d decided to get wasted together and maybe form their own band. They’d met Kenji at a questionable dive bar’s open mic night when she’d shredded a solo and then turned around and tried to bash some lech across the face with her guitar. 

Their final member had slinked up to them silently after the three of them tried a (horrendous) open mic together, and didn’t say a single word but offered out her drumsticks. She speaks about once every blue moon, but at some point they’d managed to get out that her name was Yui, and she’s the actual musical genius of the band. Gojo can bungle his way through whatever he remembers from his favorite rock songs and she can have all the instrumentals down to perfection. They also collectively guess that she's somewhere around the ages of thirteen to sixteen, but have never managed to get a straight answer out of her.

Gojo is the frontman, of course, and he’d set the tone for anonymity that all the band members ended up embracing zealously. 

He doesn’t know their family names, and he doesn’t care either. He doesn’t know what they all do for a living beyond what he can infer, doesn’t know their ages or where they live, and never presses for answers. In return they don’t ask any questions of him either. They all get along pretty terribly, with clashing personalities and all, but they make damn good music together and have been for a few years now. Their gigs are sporadic, as everyone’s schedules are pretty all over the place, but they’ve made a name as one of the top underground bands in the city. Gojo usually likes to stick to the smaller and lesser known venues for anonymity’s sake, though. They use stage names and regularly dress up in full and outlandish cosplays for shows, but it’s still easier to just keep it as underground as possible. 

It’s fun, and he likes to pretend it’s enough of a creative outlet to forgo conventional therapy, and it’s not particularly difficult or time-consuming (for him, anyway, he’s aware most people just can’t up and decide to play an instrument professionally), and the commitment is pretty low. 

It’s not like he has any real aspirations for it as a profession or anything. He’s still out here living his best life, trying to do that whole ‘find himself thing’, like he's a post-divorcee in a midlife existential crisis moving out to Boulder Colorado to commune with his inner spirit animal. 

“Well, what do you think about potentially doing more with it?”

This draws him up short.

“What do you mean by, ‘more with it’?” Gojo squints at them, skeptical. 

“I’m not saying let’s all give up our day jobs or anything,” Makoto hastens to explain. “But it’s just— I’m basically our manager you know, everyone always calls me if they want us for a show— and we’ve gotten really popular. We have a cult following of fans, and a solid social media following, not that you ever check social media, and we can do a lot with this.”

Gojo’s first and immediate reaction is to reject the idea of it. 

But then he gives it some more thought. Does he have any real reason not to? Sure, he’s like a super villain and everything, but it’s not as if that was a conscious decision on his part. He was just doing whatever he wanted, making money and occasionally breaking crime rings with murderous intent, and got slapped with the label. 

“Did you have something in mind?” He decides its at least worth a thought.

Makoto shifts. “Well… how about an album?”

“Huh?”

“We’ve never actually released any music, we just play it live,” she points out. “We could actually record some of the songs, maybe list them on a streaming service?”

He considers it.

Sitting in a studio for hours on end trying to record the songs they’ve got sounds like a hassle, but it’s also a great opportunity to add in some of the Panic! at the Disco songs he wants to try out. 

If his singular achievement in this life is gifting this world the genius of Brendon Urie he’ll consider it a life well lived. 

He shrugs. “Sure, let’s do it.” 

//

They finish up their practice session with plenty of time to spare, despite Gojo slinking in almost half an hour late. In his defense, dealing with Giran always gives him a headache that requires at least two hours of lounging on a horizontal surface with a damp towel over his head like a fairweather victorian maiden. And anyway, the practice really isn’t for him. He’s the sort of person who can be automatically good at anything with very little effort involved, which usually results in him not being bothered to ever try out much of anything. He’d originally started the whole band schtick because it was the most rebellious teenage activity he could think of at the time, and the most likely to annoy his father, but now he’s actually grateful that he did. 

Honestly he doesn't know why he didn’t do it earlier, because he actually really enjoys it. Strutting across a stage in front of a crowd of adoring fans singing his name is actually pretty on brand for Gojo Satoru, in hindsight.

“Eh, Makoto-san?” He blinks up from his phone as he realizes he’s not alone as he walks out of the studio. “You don’t usually go this way, do you?” 

Usually they all go their separate ways afterwards; whether that’s because of logistics or paranoia is up to debate. Either way it’s a surprise to find Makoto walking in step with him as he heads for the nearest metro station.

“No, my place is in the opposite direction,” Makoto replies, which is more than he’d ever known before this conversation. “But I’m meeting up with my brother for dinner once his shift is over, and his work is this way.”

That too is news to him.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Makoto laughs. “Yeah, well, we don’t really talk much about ourselves, do we?” 

He looks away briefly, wondering if he should feel guilty about that. 

“I don’t really care either way,” Makoto adds, judging his reaction. “Privacy is hard to come by these days. But I don’t mind if you know. I do have a brother— just the one. He’s a detective with the Mustafu police department.”

And that’s, well… “I see. That’s pretty cool. He must have some crazy hours though.”

“He used to, for sure! He’d come home at all hours of the night back when we still roomed together. But recently he’s been switched over to a new case that’s giving him some predictable hours, at least.” 

He usually only takes this route to stop at one of his favorite bubble tea parlors, and then finds a secluded alleyway to teleport back to wherever he’s calling home for the night. But today he finds himself hopping the metro and pretending like he has somewhere to be, just chatting with Makoto. They often fight like unruly siblings, but that’s only because they both enjoy heckling other people. It’s been ages since they’ve just hung out and bantered like this, which is totally his fault. After Kenji and Yui joined, they’ve been less two young adults muddling through life with an inadvisable amount of partying and alcohol and more an actual music act with gigs and everything. He can’t even remember the last time they’d hung out outside of rehearsals.

He bids Makoto farewell as she hops off at her stop, promising that they’ll get drinks like regular functioning and social members of society one of these days. 

Then he looks up a one Detective Tsukauchi on his phone.

//

There’s no CCTV footage or eye-witnesses, but Naomasa is dead certain he knows who the culprit of this particular break in.

There’s a nyan cat bun on his desk with a sticky note attached: 

Villain meeting at Sin & Gin tomorrow night, 10pm. Invite only. Don’t get caught or it’s your funeral!

(＾▽＾)

Chapter Text

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

Hi yeah Mako-chan wants us all to be more active on social media BUT JOKES ON HER I’m a hot mess and now everyone on the internet is gonna know it

Comments 101 |  Likes 340 | Retweets 98

// 

Oddly enough, this has ended up being one of the best views of the city that he's ever seen.

Izuku would have never known about it either, had he not just pulled the totally idiotic move of holding his idol’s leg hostage and forcing him to land them on it. And then had him promptly crush Izuku’s dreams and ambitions in life in one fell swoop. Hearing it from All Might of all people was particularly crushing. 

He’d really just thought… that maybe it really was possible for him to be a hero. Even without a powerful quirk like Kacchan's— or a quirk at all, for that matter. But All Might said it himself; heroes had to put their lives on the line and often have to go up against brutally powerful individuals in order to do their jobs effectively, and truly he couldn’t say whether or not it would be possible for an individual without a quirk to be a hero. 

Izuku sighs, leaning his forehead against the railing. From this angle, he can see all of downtown Mustafu, and even the docks out in the faint distance, the abyssal darkness of the sea meeting the endless blanket of night. 

He doesn’t know how long he must be up here, but at this rate his mother is going to be worried. 

He props himself over the railing. Not to toss himself over or anything, really, just to see how far the drop really is. It’s a dizzying sight. Definitely the sort of drop that would kill on impact. Not that he’s thinking of that! Although Kacchan did tell him to just throw himself off a building and hope to be reborn in his next life with a quirk…

He’s shocked out of his idle musings by a startling slam of metal hitting concrete.

Izuku leaps back as if struck, sprawling back on the roof with a gasp.

Feeling like he’d just gotten the life scared out of him, he turns around to see he’s no longer alone up here.

A lanky boy in that ambiguous age of not-really-a-teenager but not-really-an-adult stands at the mouth of the open doorway, a bag of takeout in his hands. He’s wearing impenetrably dark sunglasses in the middle of the night, dressed casually in a hoodie with a flashy windbreaker tossed over it, ripped dark jeans and trendy sneakers. He pushes his sunglasses up into his riot of shockingly white hair when he realizes he has company, and smiles.

“Oh-ho! So someone else has found the best view of the city, huh?” He saunters forward, swinging the bag around in his hands. 

“Um… I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude…”

“Nonsense! It’s not like it’s my roof or anything.” The guy laughs. “But isn’t it a little late for a kid your age to be out like this?”

“Uh…” Izuku scrambles for his phone to see the time, before realizing it had died ages ago during the villain attack.

“Hey, hey, don’t sweat it. I won’t tell if you don’t!” He winks, then sprawls out on the floor next to Izuku, leaning back against the railing. “Want any?”

He pries open the bag, revealing… a truly insane amount of takeout.

Izuku boggles at it. How can someone so skinny possibly intend to eat this much food in one sitting? Izuku hopes he’d meant to leave some for leftovers. He doesn’t recognize the name of the restaurant, but from what he can see of the containers it looks to be Korean. 

“Help yourself, there’s no way I can eat all this!” He says, and then promptly ignores all of the perfectly reasonable dinner food and reaches for a red bean bun instead.

"Is… is that really okay?" He asks, hesitantly, because no one has ever just… sat down next to him of their own volition and offered to share a meal with him. It feels like the sort of thing someone like him isn't allowed to experience.

But the guy just waves a hand. "Have at it!"

“Oh! Um, well, if you're sure…" He trails off anxiously. "T— Thanks…” Come to think on it, Izuku doesn’t think he’s eaten anything since lunch. 

His companion just makes a dismissive noise around his bun, waving off his thanks and gesturing at the takeout. He seems content to look out into the dazzling sea of city lights in silence as he eats his dessert, and Izuku honestly has no idea what to say. He has no idea what to do in this kind of situation; it’s not like he really has any friends he hangs out with, let alone eats dinner with. What do people usually talk about like this? The only person he ever eats dinner with is his mom.

But his companion doesn’t seem all that interested in small talk, so Izuku just lets it be, even if he does tend to find silences unnerving. 

“So, what are you doing out here anyway, kid?” The other asks finally, after he’s finished his bun. “I come to this spot fairly often, but I’ve never seen you around.”

Izuku freezes, feeling put on the spot, a mouthful of bulgogi hovering in front of him. “I…” 

How exactly is he supposed to explain he sort of got stranded here after he idiotically accosted the Number One Hero just to ask him an assortment of inane questions? And then he just didn’t leave at a rational hour because he was too busy trying to come to terms with the idea that he was forever going to be the useless and worthless Deku? 

“What do you think of heroes?”

This gives his companion pause. The older boy stares at him blankly, and Izuku makes the ill-advised decision of meeting his gaze. Up close, those eyes are not just a startling shade of blue, but a prism as variegated as a galaxy. 

“Hm, what do you mean by that?”

Izuku blinks rapidly, tearing his gaze away from the stupefying sight. He takes a deep breath, then stutters out: 

“Well… do you think you need a quirk in order to be a hero?”

 The other boy doesn’t even miss a beat. “No, not at all.”

Izuku gapes at him, shocked. “R— Really?”

“Of course,” he says, totally nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just said something world-changing. Life-changing. He reaches back into the bag and unearths another sweet bun. 

“A hero, in essence, is someone of exemplary character and courage who embodies the human capability for kindness and compassion. The stalwart guardian and defender of those who can’t do it themselves. Quirks have nothing to do with it. You feel me?”

Izuku’s brows crease. Not really. “Um…”

The white-haired stranger stuffs half the bun in his mouth.“What’s your name, kid?”

Taken aback by the sudden change in subject, Izuku replies haltingly: “M—Midoriya. Midoriya Izuku.”

“Right, okay then, Midoriya, listen.” He leans closer. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children.”

Izuku stares blankly at him.

The other boy stares back. “Ezekiel 25:17, Jules Santana? Tarantino? Really? Nothing?” 

At Izuku’s non-reaction, he sighs grandly and flops back against the railing. 

“Ahh, nevermind. Should have known that would be too good for this world. Look, my point is that a true hero is someone who helps others in their time of need, out of the goodness of their heart, without expecting anything in return. It’s more than just punching some bad guy in the face on live TV. And you don’t need a quirk to be that person.” The white-haired boy snorts. “Actually, you need something a hell of a lot more rare than a quirk.”

“Really?” Izuku asks, stunned. “What’s that?” 

“A good heart,” he says, simply.

Izuku leans back, feeling overwhelmed. His hands shake so badly he has to set his takeout container down. He stares down at them in his lap, trembling. They look so normal and unremarkable, small and unworthy. Quirkless. Could he really… could it be that All Might, the Number One Hero, his personal idol, was wrong? Could that really be true?

“So I can really…” He murmurs to himself. 

He looks up. “Do you think I can be a hero? Even if… even if I’m quirkless?”

The boy blinks, looking surprised. But he doesn’t immediately dismiss the question. He digs into the bag again, hand returning with a bottle of peach ramune. He offers one to Izuku, but Izuku declines. He doesn’t think he could possibly stomach all that sugar right now, but evidently his new companion doesn’t share the same reservations. 

“Well, honestly I don’t know you well enough to say,” he admits, truthfully. “But I also don’t think you can be discounted purely on account of not having a quirk. So what if you don’t have one? That doesn’t make you any less capable of helping or protecting others. Frankly, I think people— and heroes especially— rely way too much on quirks, to the point it becomes a crippling weakness.”

“You— you really think so?” Izuku asks, eyes wide.

“Oh, definitely.” He snaps the ramune open with a satisfying pop. “Listen, I don’t even need my quirk or techniques to take out most of the people I fight with. Their hand to hand almost always ends up being terrible, and I’m just faster and quicker on my feet than most people.”

(Gojo neglects to mention he rarely uses his ‘quirks’— both his blue flames and his limitless techniques— because they both cause untold levels of death and destruction and are usually overkill for any situation.)  

Izuku’s eyes grow even wider. “You fight people without a quirk?” He asks, shocked. “But what do you do when they use their quirk to fight you? Is that really possible?”

His companion laughs. “I find your lack of faith disturbing, young padawan.”

“Padawan…?” 

“Listen, a fight is a fight. A quirk is just another tool in someone’s arsenal, but there’s plenty of other weapons to use, first and foremost your own brain. And there are plenty of heroes who don’t have a physical quirk that gives them an advantage in battle. It’s really not the be all end all.”

Izuku thinks over his words quietly. 

They’re incredibly relieving to hear, like a balm for his soul. And what he said is true; Izuku knows plenty of heroes that don’t have some flashy and powerful quirk that can still go toe to toe with highly dangerous criminals. Hearing it from someone else makes him feel like there really might just be hope for him. And the other boy is right, anyway— being a hero isn’t actually about fighting at all. It’s true that’s what makes heroes popular, that it’s the daring rescues and the epic fights that get televised, but at the end of the day being a hero is a mindset. It’s the dedication to go out there every day and help others even at the risk of your own life.

And while Izuku has always wanted to be the best hero, maybe being the Number One in rankings isn't the same thing as being 'the best'. Maybe being the best means being the person who saves people regardless of rankings. 

A small smile spreads over his face. 

Maybe he can really be a hero after all.

//

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

Haven't fucked anything up yet today but that's never stopped me before!!!

Comments 95 |  Likes 620 | Retweets 312

//

Gojo eyes the boy across from him idly over the rim of his drink.

He didn’t know what to expect when he first teleported onto the roof, only to find it occupied. This was one of his favorite haunts in the city, a frequent roost for his terrible chain smoking habit and just a generally good secluded spot to see some of the best views of the city. It’s also something of a special landmark for him; it’s the same roof he’d teleported to when he dropped Shouto off at the hospital all those years ago, watching silently as EMTs fretted over his little brother’s injured form, and making the executive decision to get the hell out of Enji’s house and leave them all behind.

It’s not that he hates them, or anything, or even as if he doesn’t think on them every once in a while. He kept one of his Six Eyes on the house almost constantly during the first few years after he left, and Endeavor never laid a hand on Shouto again. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid Shouto as he did the rest of Gojo’s remaining siblings, and that was good enough for Gojo. As for Rei... well, she was better off where she was now.

These days he still stops by every once in a while, watching from a vantage high up in one of the backyard pines, just observing them with his Six Eyes. They’re all in good health, physically anyway, and while the odd layer of energy Gojo has come to know as the quirk factor grows steadily in Shouto, it’s at a normal clip. 

He’d popped over earlier in the evening, a quick stop over before he teleported to one of his favorite Korean restaurants for takeout. They had the best soy garlic pork in the city, and they also had a bakery. Gojo would have happily married the owner just for continuous access to this mortal heaven, but she was a happily married grandmother of ten and clearly had better standards.

After that he’d teleported straight onto the roof, shocked to see a boy directly in front of him. He was standing on the rungs of the railing, peering over the side. Even with the power of his Six Eyes it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but he hysterically hoped he wasn't intending to jump. 

Gojo decided the easiest way to approach this situation was probably not to just teleport straight behind him, but instead announce his presence like a regular human being, with a door or something.

That might have backfired a bit, as he’d underestimated the wind and ended up slamming the roof door into the concrete loud enough to shock someone back from death. 

In the end, he’s happy he didn’t just decide to forego the rooftop entirely and take his takeout back to his hotel. Midoriya seems like a good kid, somewhat timid and skittish but with an earnest heart of gold.

He tries very hard not to make any comparisons to any other young people he’d known like that, the thought too painful to stomach. 

Midoriya seems to be yet another poor soul suffering under society’s prolific obsession with the hero industry complex, completely swept away with ideals of the standard industry hero. Gojo, having an up close and personal experience with just how rotten the industry really is already, would know just how toxic that standard really is. Privately, he thinks Midoriya shouldn’t become a hero because he’s really too good for the profession. Gojo has met plenty of heroes in his tenure as one of the city’s most wanted villains, and most of them leave way too much to be desired. The worst of them are ones like Endeavor, too focused on their own ambitions of grandeur, on rankings and pure power, to remember what the actual goal of heroism is. But the majority of them are just cogs in the wheel, swept up in the deceptive delusion without ever realizing they’re only proliferating the problem.

That isn’t to say there aren’t real heroes out there too, earnestly trying to help keep the peace. But they’re certainly the exception, not the rule.

He asks Midoriya about his life, peppering him with questions as they finish up the takeout. 

The younger boy skirts around the subject of his school and his friends, but is plenty eager to talk about his love for heroes and especially quirks. The kid is probably a wellspring of valuable information, even if he doesn’t realize it. That sort of in-depth analysis on the strengths and weaknesses of quirks could be deadly in the wrong hands. He asks him a bit more about his dreams of becoming a hero, and what he’s done so far to achieve that. 

Midoriya looks surprised and a bit sheepish when Gojo asks him if he’s considered joining a dojo or self-defense class, acknowledging that he should probably focus a lot more on his physical strength if he truly intends to become a hero.

“Thanks so much for this,” Midoriya says, as they’re finishing up. “I… I really kinda needed this.”

Gojo displays tact for once in both of his lives, and doesn’t pry. “No problem kid. Thanks for the company.” 

“I’m definitely going to take your advice about the training,” the green-haired boy adds. “And your advice about heroes and quirks and stuff… I’ll definitely be thinking a lot about that too.”

Gojo grins. “Happy to be of service!” 

Midoriya neatly stacks up their empty boxes and packages it back up in the takeout bag. “Yeah, you know, you really seem to know your stuff…”

He looks up then, eyes big. “Hold on, are you a hero?”

Gojo can’t help it. 

He tosses his head back and laughs. Like he hasn’t in years. He laughs so hard he’s in tears.

Then he gets up and pats the dust off his pants, swiping the bag full of their trash and swinging it around his finger. He wipes tears from his eyes. Midoriya watches him with a bemused expression.

“Hero?” Gojo repeats, shaking his head with a wide grin. “Kid, I’m the fucking villain of this story.” 

Midoriya’s mouth drops open.

“Anyway, good talk! Follow your dreams, kid!”

He throws him a peace sign, then teleports out. 

//

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

Hi, thanks for checking in, I’m still a piece of garbage✨

Comments 78 |  Likes 5220 | Retweets 235

//

Evidently someone at the police precinct actually knows what they’re doing, because no one tries to assassinate him in the middle of the night for being the narc on a secret villain meeting. 

Gojo snorts. 

A secret villain meeting. Seriously. Every once in a while, the absurdity of this world just hits him smack in the face. The fact that’s even a thing just blows his mind. He gets they’re all, like, legitimately dangerous people that do bad things and all, but he still can’t help but hear 'villains' and think of them all as a bunch of different colored Skeletors cackling in a circle. 

Anyway, he happens to actually really like Makoto, so he swings by the precinct just to make sure that brother of hers is still alive and kicking. And he might have felt a little bad about maybe leading some poor cattle for slaughter straight to their demise via gatecrashing a murderous meetup party, especially when Gojo could have gotten the same information without putting anyone  in mortal peril.

It’s funny. He spends so much time ridiculing heroes in this world, and yet he still has quite a few obnoxiously heroic tendencies himself that he hasn’t quite managed to shake. 

Is it really heroism though, he wonders? Like he’d told that Midoriya kid, being a real hero is when you put your life on the line so others don’t have to— Gojo very rarely, if ever, encounters situations where his life is actually on the line. Mainly because there are so few— and in this world, none thus far— capable of threatening his life to begin with. 

Detective Tsukauchi seems to be whole and in relatively good health, from what his Six Eyes can tell. His bodily functions are working as they should, his quirk factor is strong, and he seems to be pacing up and down his office in a pique of irritation, if his blood pressure is anything to go by. 

He pushes off the railing of the corner balcony facing the precinct, satisfied with the information he gleans. He stretches his arms out, mentally browsing through his to-do list for the night. There are plenty of things he should do, and none of them currently hold any appeal.

He’s debating the merits of ignoring all of his responsibilities and instead checking out that new owl cafe, when a familiar presence enters his awareness.

Gojo finds himself interested enough in the individual to stay where he is and let them come to him.

The figure lingers just in what should technically be his blindspot, if he actually needed to use his visual sight to be aware of the world around him, and Gojo props his elbows on the railing and just waits for them to speak first. In the interim, he takes a moment to let the information on the individual he receives from his Six Eyes wash over him. 

Pro hero: Eraserhead. 

In moderately good health, probably should do something about his egregious sleep schedule though, those eyebags are intense. Adult male likely in his young thirties. Quirk energy pools around his eyes, his quirk not currently active, but ready to be called on at a moment's notice. Visually, he still looks as homeless as he did the last time Gojo saw him. 

He takes his time to observe Gojo in a similar manner. Gojo’s happy to let him.

Finally, he speaks. 

“You know, we have a tip line for a reason.”

“I thought I’d be nice and bring a treat along with the tip.”

“And just casually dismantle all the CCTV cameras while you were at it? Thanks.” The pro hero returns, dryly.

Gojo throws up a peace sign. "But now you know where all the weaknesses are, right? And some of those needed to be replaced anyway. Win-win for everyone!"

Eraserhead just sighs, looking incredibly put upon. 

It's just his lot in life that he ends up being the one who keeps making contact with the elusive Dabi, isn't it? Eraserhead is an underground hero, which means he usually ends up running the gamut of all miscellaneous and odd jobs that spotlight heroes never have to bother with. One of those is toeing the fine line between mercurial underworld diplomacy and the unyielding word of the law. The fact of the matter is, Dabi can either be classified as a murderous vigilante at best or a ruthless villain at worst, but the distinction is meaningless in the eyes of the law. He goes to Tartarus if he's caught either way.

But that sort of black and white mentality never survived actual contact with the streets: Eraserhead has met plenty of villains who operate in a morally ambiguous grey area that's hard to consider either purely good or purely evil. Just as he's met plenty of heroes who only eschew criminal charges by virtue of their licenses. Part of his job is finding the difference between the two, and exploiting it. Society these days rarely likes to acknowledge it, but there really is such a thing as a 'lesser evil'. 

He's not entirely certain where Dabi lands on this scale. Frankly, they just don't know enough about him to decide.

It's a risk to meet him like this, but Aizawa thinks the ends justify the means in this instance.

"We have a couple more questions about the case, if you'd be willing to answer them."

"I mean, you can ask, but I can't guarantee I'll answer!" Dabi replies, cheerfully.

Aizawa hadn't expected it to be that easy. He squints at the young man; is this a trap? 

"Would you be willing to talk to a detective about it?"

Dabi grins. "Sure, but not at the station. The lighting is terrible!"

Aizawa probably should have expected that. Criminal informants are paranoid and sketchy by nature— not a single one of them in their right mind would willingly walk into a precinct full of officers with the means and the will to arrest them. Not that he thinks an entire building full of officers would be enough to deter a character like Dabi.

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Aizawa sighs.

Dabi taps his chin. “Wellll, I was thinking of going to that new owl cafe— the one off of Ryloth station…”

He shakes his head. “There’s no way that’s open at this hour.”

Dabi pouts. It’s a ridiculous sight.

He can’t believe he’s suggesting this, but… 

“... How about a cat cafe?”

//

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

Did you know taco cat backwards is still taco cat

Comments 187 |  Likes 299 | Retweets 171

//

Naomasa looks hilariously uncomfortable with the fluffy tabby rubbing against the legs of his slacks beneath the table. He keeps giving it a wary look, as if expecting it to leap directly for his face. Instead the furry creature just continues to purr and leave fur all over his calves. He’s never been overly fond of cats, because they’re the sort of creature that’s impossible to predict. They do what they want, when they want to, and they just expect the entirety of the human race to accept this as their due.

… A lot like the individual in front of him, come to think of it. 

“It’s delicious!” Dabi enthuses, as he takes a sip out of his latte. Naomasa fights not to cringe at the sight; he’d just watched the villain put at least five packets of sugar into the already overly sweet machine coffee. 

Both Naomasa and Eraserhead observe the criminal with increasing concern and bewilderment as he makes himself right at home in front of two people who should by rights be attempting to incarcerate him right now, trying and failing to make friends with all the furry felines roaming about. They all give him a wide berth; predators recognizing the greater threat and keeping a cautious distance. If only he and Eraserhead had the luxury of a tactical retreat like that.

The information Dabi had given them had been the first and only lead they’d gotten on ‘The Emperor of Darkness’, All for One himself, since Toshinori’s fight. Underground Hero Echo had managed to hear most of the backdoor conversation between the villains in their secret meeting, thanks to Dabi providing the time and location of it. There was talk of starting something only referred to as ‘The League’, with backing by a powerful benefactor. His name wasn’t used directly, but heavily implied. If they could get further information, they could possibly get confirmation on whether All for One was truly still alive. 

Dabi was their key to infiltrating the upper echelons of the underworld. Provided they were willing to gamble with such a dangerous character.

“What’s with the long faces, you two? Don’t like cats?” He says this with the perfect amount of perfunctory concern, but his utterly shit eating grin means he knows exactly why they’re so uncomfortable. 

“I’m not… overly fond of them,” Naomasa admits. “But thank you for agreeing to meet nonetheless.”

“I got free coffee out of it, so it’s all good to me.” Dabi shrugs extravagantly, sprawling out on the bench across from them. His long fingers just barely brush against a cushion housing a fat seal-point. Surprisingly, this particular cat doesn't fling itself out of the line of fire, just cracks open one yellow eye and stares him down. 

Naomasa clears his throat. “Yes, well, if it’s all the same to you then, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask away!” 

He decides to cut to the chase. “Have you ever encountered a man referred to as ‘The Emperor of Darkness’?”

“Nope, can’t say I have.” 

“Have you ever heard the term, All for One?” Naomasa continues. Eraserhead shoots him a sharp look; Naomasa silently begs forgiveness from Toshinori for revealing some of his secrets in front of the underground hero. The opportunity is just too good to waste.

“Hmmm,” Dabi drawls, rolling his neck. “Hmmm… no.” 

He curses internally. Truth.

“Do you know anything about any recruiting initiatives going on in the underworld?”

Dabi tilts his head. “Hey, you know, that’s a really cool quirk you have. Does it only work on yes or no questions? What do you do if someone believes they’re telling the truth when they’re actually just deluding themselves?”

Naomasa stiffens. How does Dabi know anything about his quirk? Does he have access to the national databases? 

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine,” he replies steadily, remaining outwardly unmoved.

Dabi doesn’t look terribly put out by this. “Fair enough! Yes, there's been a lot of recruitment activity going on. I was recruited myself— that’s how I knew about that little backdoor shindig. I was invited personally, isn’t that so sweet of them?”

A villainous organization trying to recruit villains of Dabi’s caliber… that was concerning. Either they had delusions of grandeur, or they really had the power to entice someone like Dabi to their side. 

Naomasa always believes in honoring the spirit of a deal, so he answers truthfully; “My quirk works on any question asked, whether by myself or others in my presence. It works on more than yes or no questions, but the reading is clearest on those. It cannot pick up on whether or not someone is telling the truth or simply believes it’s the truth.”

“That’s pretty wild.” Dabi actually sounds genuinely impressed, brows high over the rim of his shades. “Headaches must be brutal though.”

Naomasa wants to know how the hell Dabi could know something like that, but he isn’t entirely sure he’s ready for the answer.

He decides not to indulge his own curiosities and stay the course. “Why did you tip us off?” 

“Why not?” Dabi returns, grinning. 

“You’re not worried about retaliation?”

“From them, or from you?” Dabi counters, sounding teasing.

Naomasa refuses to let that tone fluster him, especially from someone who looks like he’s half his age. “What sort of retaliation do you think we would have for you? You assisted our investigation.”

“And not from the goodness of my stone cold black heart, make no mistake,” Dabi adds. “Look, I don’t like being told what I can and can’t do. I don’t like having to play nice with others. I definitely don’t take orders, from anyone. And I’ve made that pretty damn clear for everyone who’s ever worked with me.” 

He points at them over his latte. “I helped you out because all this recruiting bullshit is annoying me, and if the cops take the whole thing down that’s one less annoyance I have to deal with.”

“So, you helped us because they annoyed you, not for a plea deal,” Aizawa summarizes, the first thing he’s said since they walked in.

“More or less,” Dabi agrees, gamely.

“And I imagine that means you feel no sense of loyalty towards your fellow criminals,” Naomasa remarks.

“None at all.”

“And you’re not worried that your… disagreements might have them turning on you?”

Dabi barks out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I’d love to see them try.” 

He has the sort of confidence that should, rightly, border on arrogance. As it stands, Naomasa only finds it unnerving and somewhat intimidating. He’s too confident. A kid his age should be cocky in that way all untried youths are, thinking they’re at the top of the world until reality knocks them down. Dabi seems like reality has tried plenty of times, and he’s still remained indisputably superior. 

He and Aizawa share a glance. That’s all Naomasa really wanted to get from this meeting. Frankly, it went better than he’d suspected. Most informants would never be this forthcoming. 

Aizawa leans forward. “Would you be willing to answer questions regarding your quirk?” He asks, surprising Naomasa.

It’s not that he’s not curious himself, but he’d just expected that line of questioning to be a lost cause.

Dabi grins. “Bold of you to assume I have a quirk.”

Aizawa stares at him flatly. “I watched you put a man into a state of nonexistence in the blink of an eye. What would you call that, then?”

He laughs. “The sort of power no human should have.”

That’s… a unique answer.

“Does your quirk have a name?” 

“I believe you already named it, didn’t you? Cremation.”

“How does it work?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Does it need visual confirmation to work?”

“No.” Naomasa feels an icy shiver lance down his spine. He’s telling the truth, holy shit. “But I do like to double check that the person I’m ‘putting into a state of nonexistence’ is the right person, so I do like to have line of sight.”

“Is there a cool down time?”

Naomasa jerks his head towards Aizawa in disbelief. Is he trying to get them killed? That’s not the sort of thing you just flatout ask a villain, at least not without courting homicide.

Fortunately the villain in question doesn't seem too murderous. For now.

Dabi’s grin is positively predatory. “No.”

Fuck.

“What’s its range?”

“Depends on how much property I’m willing to damage.” His lips curl up to show his canines. 

“Is there a limit to how many times it can be used in a day?”

“Not for me!” He says, cheekily.

He’s enjoying this, Naomasa thinks, with growing dread. 

The only reason why Dabi hasn’t been pegged right to the top of Japan's— and perhaps even the world’s— list of most dangerous villains is merely a matter of time and incidence. Dabi is rarely sighted, and tends to use intimidation before flat out annihilating his opponents. And because his technique barely leaves any trace, it's difficult to calculate just how active of a villain he is. Everyone unanimously agrees he’s a dangerous criminal that needs to be watched closely, but for now he’s still hovering around A-rank no matter how much Naomasa pushes otherwise. 

In reality, Dabi should likely be S-rank, purely on his potential for destruction alone.

And clearly, he damn well knows it. 

“So what you’re saying is… it has no limits,” Aizawa sums up.

Dabi looks rather triumphant as he sprawls back on the bench. “Yep. Really, you should have called it… limitless.”

Chapter Text

He hates to recommend alcohol, cigarettes, sleeping around and general insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked out well for him. Drowning his thoughts and chain smoking his way out of his own emotions were the sort of escapist vices he’d refused himself in his last life, when responsibility was a heavy, suffocating demon on his shoulders. Seeing as though he’s dedicated his second life to ignoring all the world’s problems and chilling the fuck out, he makes liberal use of them now. 

Gojo had sworn to himself he’d live his life for himself this time, doing whatever he felt like, and damn everyone else.

But that still doesn’t explain how he ended up like this. 

With a kid all round-cheeked and young, all wide smiles and beaming, innocent eyes, a determined and earnest expression across his youthful face. It hurts to look at— reminds him of a past he keeps locked in a steel trap at the bottom of his heart. It has him wishing he actually had it in him to be a real villain. A person cruel enough to turn that face away.

“I mean— I know you’re probably very busy doing, um, villainous… stuff…  but if you have any time, even just for pointers or something, that would be really great, Dabi-san!” Midoriya gushes earnestly. 

Gojo is left to stare blankly into his sparkling eyes and try to figure out where he went wrong.

It probably started when he’d carted a giant box of cream puffs to his favorite roof to watch the sunset uninterrupted. He hasn’t been back since he met Midoriya there; not because he was avoiding it or anything, just life getting in the way of things. One of his favorite local bakeries was having a sale on their limited edition sesame cream puffs and he’d resolutely decided he’d wait in the god forsaken line for one or die trying. After being squished into an endless row of fellow confectionary enthusiasts, he wanted a spot to relax without having to deal with crowds, but wasn’t quite up to returning to his hotel room yet. He’d chosen one with a grand view of the ocean from one of the tallest high rises in the city, a luxury suite with a balcony and a swanky living area and all the amenities he could ever want, but for some reason he just wasn’t feeling it. 

So he teleports onto the roof, and is nearly mauled by an over-excited teenager. 

Apparently Midoriya has come to the roof everyday— every single day, what the hell— in hopes of seeing him again. 

He’d figured out who Gojo was after scouring internet forums for villain sightings, eventually finding a very suspicious thread where people like to report ‘Dabi’ sightings. From there, Midoriya had compared what he knew of Gojo’s appearance and what people reported Dabi to look like, and made an educated guess. 

For a teenager meeting one of the most dangerous criminals in the city alone on a secluded roof, he’s really not all that concerned about it.

Actually, he’s all but begging Gojo to teach him.

Midoriya bows low. “I followed your advice and joined a martial arts gym— a few of them, actually, because I originally wanted to try Taekwondo but the dojo master said Judo might be a good addition considering my height— and I’ve been training every day and working out and I just—

“Kid, breathe,” Gojo interrupts, as the green-haired boy’s face starts turning an alarming red.

Midoriya cuts himself off abruptly, taking a large, wheezing gulp of air.

Gojo stares at him, then sighs. He shoves his shades into his hair. Midoriya watches him with big eyes.

“You realize I’m a villain, right?” He clarifies, just to cover his bases.

Midoriya at least has the sense to look a little bit cautious at that. “Well… yes.”

“And you still went out of your way to try to find me again?”

“... Yes.”

Gojo wonders what he’s done to deserve this.

Then he realizes: literally everything. He’s categorically and emphatically the worst, no wonder his karma is so bad. 

He palms his face. “And that, at the time, didn’t strike you even slightly as an ill-advised idea?”

Midoriya doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His gaze is deeply focused on his bright red shoes, causing Gojo to stare at them as well. His heart seizes up and he has to look away abruptly, breathing out sharply through his nose. He closes his eyes. They’re just shoes. Red sneakers in a sea of trendy red colored footwear. It’s stupid to get nostalgic about something like that. 

Fortunately for Gojo’s internal neurosis, Midoriya chooses that moment to reply. “You’re the only one who ever…” He mumbles, to the ground. “I mean, no one else has ever looked at me and— and thought… that I had a chance. That I could be a hero just like anyone else. That I could have dreams for my future like anyone else...And you didn’t even have to think about it.” 

The boy’s face twists up painfully. “Look, I know you’re a villain. But— you’re still the first person who’s ever acknowledged me.” 

I did not mean to be that person, Gojo thinks, hysterically.

“I know I’m asking a lot…” Midoriya says, crestfallen. “Sorry. I know it’s not really fair to you, you were just being nice, not, like, trying to be my mentor or something…”

Mentor?!

He nudges the gravel beneath them with a bright red sneaker. “... Nevermind. I’m really sorry I wasted your time, I— 

Gojo breathes in sharply. God damnit. Those puppy eyes are fucking lethal.

“I never said I wouldn’t,” he interrupts, begrudgingly.

Midoriya’s head snaps up, shining eyes wide with disbelief. “R— Really?” 

Gojo sighs. “Really, kid. Why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?” 

//

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

Thanks for all the love everyone!! My personality is brought to you by trauma… and the Simple Life (:

Comments 201 |  Likes 764 | Retweets 320

//

So it’s not as if he went into this thinking he’d be some kind of sensei again. He’s not ready to face something like that, and frankly doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with his own baggage on that subject. And considering he has the emotional availability of a pet rock on the best of days, probably isn’t going to be dealing with it any time soon either. 

Nonetheless, it’s all too easy to fall into the rhythm of it again. 

Midoriya is the sort of eager and earnest kid that soaks up everything he says like a sponge. If Gojo gives him an inch, he comes back with a mile. Just an offhand remark about his footwork in one week will have the green-haired boy coming back with an entirely new style. It’s not hard to lose track of time as he sprawls out in his seat (he has since nabbed a bench to put up there) and watch Midoriya work through his forms, occasionally calling out critiques or just nonsense to fuck with him. 

He tries to keep it as casual as possible, both for Midoriya’s sake and his own.

Midoriya is just a kid— he doesn’t need to be caught up in all the danger of Gojo’s criminal lifestyle, not when he’s got a whole future ahead of him. (Gojo’s ruined enough futures of innocent, bright-eyed youths to last him a dozen lifetimes, he doesn’t need to add Midoriya’s to his list of sins.) And Gojo needs to stop accidentally mentally adopting brats he has no business getting attached to. He has plenty of enemies as well; people he personally doesn’t bat an eyelash at, but could ruin Midoriya’s life if they ever found out about him. 

So he tells Midoriya to stop by the roof at his own leisure, and Gojo will do the same. If their schedules happen to align and they’re both there at the same time, then that’s just a happy coincidence. 

He’s not a mentor.

He’s not even a frequent or predictable presence in the boy’s life.

He has no responsibility to ensure that this child has a safe and happy future.  

If anything happens to him, it’s not Gojo’s fault and it’s not his problem.

This is what he tells himself, anyway.

And no, he’s not running away to Tokyo to run from his own feelings, okay. He’s an adult and he can do perfectly normal adult things, like spontaneously decide now would be a good time to check on his friends, all of whom are adults better at handling their responsibilities than him and also happen to be in organized crime, and would never personally consider themselves his friends. But whatever.

It’s nice to get out of Mustafu every once in a while. Not that he doesn’t positively adore living in a city that is— whether knowingly or not— named after the Planet of The High Ground™, but Tokyo has it’s charms too.

It’s also the hot bed for criminal activity in Japan, so it’s basically Gojo’s playground.

“Ah, Mos Eisley, a most wretched hive of scum and villainy,” he sings as he slams open the door to the Cantina. “How I’ve missed you so!”

“Who you callin’ wretched, huh?” Draken, Toman's vice captain, mutters without looking up, squinting down at his row of mahjong tiles.

Gojo has never played a game of mahjong in his life, so he has no idea if it's a good hand or not. Nonetheless he makes appreciative noises as he peers over the tall gang member’s shoulder, just to fuck with him. Draken swats him away as his opponents trade suspicious looks with each other. 

“Notice how you don’t deny the scum or villainy,” Gojo laughs, as he dodges out of what would have been a vicious strike from the dragon-quirk man. “Where’s the boss man, mister vice captain?”

“Busy,” Draken says shortly, as he pulls a tile from the wall and examines it with a squint. 

“For how long?”

“Dunno.”

Gojo sighs, then saunters over to the bar before he annoys Draken too much and gets himself kicked out of Toman’s base. In point of fact it is not actually a cantina, but rather a pretty quintessential gambling den full of gang members and wastrels alike. It definitely had a name, at some point, but Gojo has long since corrupted everyone in Toman and beyond into calling it the Cantina just because the opportunity was too good to pass up. Toman owns just about every gambling den, pachinko parlor, and laundromat in Tokyo's Mos Eisley ward, but this is the only one that the leader ever frequents on a regular basis. Fortunately Draken confirmed that Mikey was here, so Gojo doesn’t have to blindly teleport himself around Tokyo in search of him.

He grabs a drink at the bar and casts an idle glance around the room, annoyed that he finds his eyes drawn to what must be the youngest members of the gang and immediately starts wondering what Midoriya is up to. It’s a little ridiculous. He specifically came all the way to Tokyo to stop doing that. 

He gets bored of people watching eventually, and decides to wander around the upper floors to see who else is around that he knows.

He ends up on the balcony watching the bustling nightlife below. A neon glow casts striking colors among the laughing crowds, voices loud in the cold night air and every warmly lit window crowded with people. 

Gojo’s just about to light up when a shadow falls over him, and he artfully dodges out of the way as a blur stomps right into the spot he’d just vacated. Toman’s Fourth Division Captain grins up at him wildly as he rises, living up to his nickname.

“Dabiii~” The blonde whines, petulantly. “How do you always know?! No one else can tell when I’m about to get the drop on them!”

“It’s a sixth sense,” Gojo replies blithely, reaching for his lighter. 

“I thought your quirk was cremation, not foresight?”

He just shrugs grandly. “Why not have both?”

Smiley just sighs. “That’s not how quirks work, ya know.” Yeah, Gojo’s well aware. But the truth won’t make any sense to anyone, so it’s just better to turn it into an elaborate joke. Fits better with his reputation too. 

Gojo waggles his eyebrows, and rasps in his best Sheev Palpatine voice; “Or is it?? The Dark Side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be… unnatural.” 

Smiley just scoffs, regularly immune to Gojo’s particular brand of insanity (read: prequel references no one else will understand). 

Gojo grins, leaning back as he inhales. “But anyway, do you happen to know why Mikey’s too busy for his favorite consultant?”

Because Gojo is never and will never be part of the gang, which is a bold line to draw in a world where allegiances and loyalty are worth their weight in gold. But he’s worked with Toman for years now, first introduced by Giran years ago while he was still going through his ‘the hero we deserve, but not the one we need’ Dark Knight vigilante phase, tearing through the quirk trafficking scene with all the subtlety of a naked Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball. And he’s proven himself ever since then to be one of the most powerful assets on the streets, and one that’s always good on his word. The mercurial and eccentric Toman leader respects him because of it. 

So it’s a bit odd to be kept waiting this long to meet with him. He’d worry he did something to mortally offend them, but Draken hadn’t tried to take his head off the moment he walked in the door so he thinks he’s alright on that front.

Smiley’s characteristic smile falls away at Gojo’s query. His expression completely deflates.

“Yeah, I guess you haven’t heard, huh?”

“Heard what?”

“Mitsuya’s little sister got caught up in an altercation with the Hero Killer,” Smiley says, grimly.

Gojo sucks in a breath. “Is she—?”

He shakes his head sadly. “She’s in critical condition, it’s still up in the air whether she’ll make it through the week or not.”

Gojo frowns deeply, knuckles white against the railing. “But she’s not a hero?”

He thinks he remembers someone saying she was in college. Or maybe high school. Either way, she was just a regular civilian not involved at all in heroes or villains, or even the criminal underworld, familial relations to one of Toman's scariest division captains not withstanding.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Smiley says. His expression darkens. “Not that it fucking matters. The fucking bastard knifed her clean through either way.”

Well, fuck. He hasn’t heard much about the Hero Killer, mainly because he just didn’t care enough about heroes to learn more. But this was more than enough to have him sitting up and taking notice. 

“Toman’s out for blood, then,” Gojo surmises. 

Smiley runs a ragged hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah. But it’s tough since he hops all over the country, and he probably knows better than to get anywhere near our territory now.” 

“And there’s still all those disputes over Trigger to worry about.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Smiley agrees, sounding uncharacteristically glum. “They say there’s a big time international buyer eager to buy up all the inventory, and it’s causing a huge mess with all the warring gangs.” 

So Toman’s probably got too much on their plate right now to launch a full assault on the Hero Killer. 

“If I get any word of where he is, I’ll let you know,” Gojo swears, lowly. “And if I get the opportunity— I’ll end him myself.”

Smiley finally breaks his somber expression for a wild, predatory grin. “Good. Try to bring him back, though. You know Mitsuya will want first dibs.” 

Then he shakes his head. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here just to talk about the Hero Killer. What’s up?”

“Wanted to ask Mikey what he knows about all these recruitment initiatives.”

Smiley taps his chin. “Yeah I know what you mean. None of the Tokyo gangs are claiming its their’s. Might even be someone new in town.”

Gojo leans against the railing. “Heard anything about an ‘Emperor’?”

Smiley tilts his head. “Ya mean the Emperor of Darkness?”

Gojo flicks the end of his cigarette. “The very same.”

“You think he’s behind this?”

Gojo idly watches the embers as they flicker and die in the wind. Detective Naomasa and Eraserhead seemed to think so. The detective had specifically asked Gojo about that very moniker, ‘Emperor of Darkness’. Gojo could honestly say he hadn’t heard anything about it— Giran had only mentioned an ‘Emperor’. By pure technicality that wasn’t a lie. Still he assumed the man Giran wanted him to meet so badly and the man the detective thought was behind this recruiting drive were the same. 

“He’s been kind of quiet these last few years,” Smiley remarks, when Gojo doesn’t say anything in response. “But it might be. Haven’t heard anything either way. There’s only just talk of this ‘League of Villains’ thing.”

Gojo’s head snaps up. He can’t help it; he starts to laugh uncontrollably. He’s almost in tears by the time he’s calmed down, having to shove down his blindfold to wipe at his eyes. 

“That’s what they’re going with?” He opines, laughing. “A little originality would have been nice.”

Still, a name is a name, and that’s plenty useful. 

A new face in town, huh? 

“Thanks for the info Smiley, that’s useful.” Gojo stubs out his cigarette, fixing his blindfold. “Tell Mikey I stopped by, won’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Smiley agrees amicably. “He actually might have a job for you, so try to answer your phone for once.”

Gojo grins. “I make no promises on that front.” He throws up a peace sign as Smiley snorts. “But I’ll be in touch.” 

//

@Ru-kun | Ru-Kun るーくん

I would like to formally reclaim my title as thug queen

Comments 155 |  Likes 669 | Retweets 423

//

“How do you feel about kids,” he asks Makoto, apropos nothing.

She’s halfway into a sip of her gin and tonic which she promptly almost hacks back out. “Shit, dude— warn a girl before you drop a bomb like that,” she wheezes, thumping her chest. “What the hell brought this on?”

Gojo peers down into the frosty glaze of his martini— shaken, not stirred, because he’s actually a tool and he has no shame in admitting that— with a moue of distaste he refuses to call a pout. His head hurts from the pounding baselines and dizzying array of disco lights, even with his blackout shades on, and he’s had two drinks too many and he’s feeling disgustingly, painfully honest. Hence the question.

Makoto squints at him with something akin to horror. “You’re not planning on procreating, are you?”

Gojo rears back, jolted out of his maudlin musings by the question. The thought is so bewildering he has no idea how to respond. He’s never even thought about it. In either lifetime.

“No,” he says, because that’s the honest truth of it.

“Oh. Thank god.” Makoto relaxes. “One of you is bad enough, I feel like the universe would implode if there were more of you.”

Gojo chuckles. “Nah, I’m pretty one of a kind.” He winks at her over his shades, drawing a groan of disgust from her.

She leans back in her chair, swirling her drink. “Still, why the question then? Are you planning on adopting or something?”

“Nothing like that,” he insists. 

Makoto just gives him a look of confusion at that, clearly not understanding what he’s trying to achieve with this line of conversation. In her defense, he doesn’t know what he’s doing either. He’s just… thinking a lot about it. About things like legacy, posterity, destiny… things too existential to be thinking about when the house music is so loud he can barely make out his own thoughts over the cascading melodies. 

This is what he gets for trying to be an adult doing adult things, he digresses.

He’d made good on his word and asked Makoto out for drinks and was unsurprised to hear the woman was ready to toss her entire life and career into a kerosene fire after the week she’d had, but was instead going to be a reasonable person and drown her capitalist misery in inadvisable amounts of gin and vodka. The place she’d picked out reminds him a lot of the hotel bar they’d met at; in musical taste more than ambiance, he’ll admit. Despite being an excellent bassist for an alt-rock band with a tendency towards grunge and emocore, her actual musical inclinations gravitated towards the groovy beats of funky house. Gojo wouldn’t have guessed it, but then again he was in the same boat. Being the lead singer of an alt band was a dream of his angsty rebellious teenage soul, but adult-Gojo drifted towards the same kind of music as Makoto.

It also occurred to him, during their course of bar-hopping between Mutsafu’s best electrohouse clubs, that Makoto was the closest thing he had to a friend and peer in this world, and that was actually kind of sad.

Gojo had never gone out of his way to make friends in his first life, and by the end of it the majority of them ended up dead anyway, but he’d always had at least one confidant to complain at when he needed it. 

On the one hand, having a collection of individuals he could forge supportive emotional bonds with sounded like a reasonable idea. On the other hand, that would mean opening up about decades of trauma he’s systematically shoved into the corners of his subconscious and addressing his myriad issues that stem from it, which is just way too much effort for him right now. Handling his feelings in a responsible and adult manner just sounded like way too much work. Especially when he had dozens of vices on hand to occupy himself with instead.

At any rate, if he was ever going to address this subject with anyone, it was going to be Makoto, and if it was really bothering him that much he may as well get her opinion on it.

“I’d be a terrible teacher, right?” He segues abruptly, leaning towards her and nearly spilling his drink in the process. He frowns at it. Why is it so full? He’ll need to rectify that immediately.

“Um,” Makoto says, as he downs half of his dirty martini without so much as a flinch. 

“I’ve been told pretty reliably that I am, but I just want confirmation,” he adds, blithely.

Makoto blinks rapidly. “I mean, if you say so?” Her delicate brow furrows. “You’re pretty good at directing Yui-chan when she needs guidance.”

He waves that off. “That’s totally different. She’s basically just asking for input. She’s not asking me, to like, guide her into adulthood or something.” He sighs gustily. “It’s just so much responsibility, y’know? Teaching, I mean. You don’t think so, ‘cause it’s like, they’ve got parents and shit right? But then half the time their parents are awful anyway, and suddenly they’re looking to you for life advice and career guidance and before you know it their futures and their safety and their health and happiness have all somehow ended up your problem.”

Makoto looks a bit bemused. “I guess so,” she replies, genially.

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Gojo continues, really on a roll now. “Why put yourself through all that pain and suffering? Kids are awful, y’know, real shit stains. So self-centered and so ignorant of all the dangers they’re surrounded by. How are you supposed to keep them safe? How are you supposed to live with yourself if a mistake you make gets them hurt, or worse?”

How do you live with yourself knowing you dragged them directly into the line of fire?

He shakes he thought vehemently from his head. Fuck. Maybe the alcohol is no longer blinding him from his own pain, but actively exacerbating it. 

This doesn’t stop him from hailing the bartender and ordering another. 

“Jeez, you’ve really been thinking about this pretty hard, huh?” Makoto remarks. “It’s kind of unlike you.”

“Isn’t it?” Gojo agrees, sighing again. “All this introspection is giving me hives.”

Makoto smiles widely. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” She takes a sip of her drink. “But if you honestly want my advice… it sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought. More thought than most teachers would, I think. You see the difficulties and already recognize the level of unforeseen accountability that goes with it.”

Gojo doesn’t know what to say in response to that. Fortunately Makoto’s not looking for an answer, continuing on: 

“Isn’t that part of what makes a good teacher?” She muses. “That kind of self awareness?”

Fuck it all though, she’s right, isn’t she?

Maybe this life will be different, an insidious voice whispers in his head.

Maybe. Maybe. He can acknowledge that history can be repetitive but life has a propensity for change, if nothing else. 

But right now he can’t think anymore on it. And as if heralded by his own abysmal lack of self-control and aggressive willingness to make ill-advised life choices, a guy across the room catches his eye.

Gojo won’t lie— it’s the wings that catch his eye first. Enormous and crimson red, almost luminous under the lights. Gojo’s spent more than two decades in this world now, and he still does a double take at some of the anthropomorphic traits quirks give humans sometimes. Wings are hardly the most notable he’s ever seen, but they’re rare enough to draw his eye. It doesn’t help that the person they’re attached to happens to be equally attractive. Somewhere around Gojo’s (current) age, with untamed blonde hair and sharp eyes. 

Makoto follows his gaze, then gives an amused snort. “Of course you get distracted from our very serious conversation that you initiated when something new and shiny walks in.”

She’s got a point, but Gojo doesn’t feel remotely guilty for it. He’s in the mood to make bad decisions tonight, and fucking his way out of his own feelings sounds like a great place to start.

“Well, what do you want me to say? He’s hot.”

“Sure, yeah,” Makoto drawls. “But not really your usual type.”

Gojo tilts his head consideringly. “How so?”

Because when he’s in the mood for a one night stand his picks tend to be all over the place. 

Makoto snorts. “I mean, hello, he’s a— “ Then she does a spit take. Gojo drags his eyes away from the sight, peering over at her curiously.

“What?” 

Her expression breaks from disbelief into one of pure amusement. “You know what? It’s nothing. Nevermind. You do you man. Go shoot your shot if you want."

Gojo squints at her, knowing full well there’s a catch in here somewhere but a little too inebriated to care. Anyway, he’s in the mood for a night of debauchery and he’s found a perfect candidate for it and he’s hardly about to let the opportunity slip him by. So with a shrug he finishes off the rest of his martini and raises a brow at her. 

“You don’t mind?”

Makoto is still smirking. “No, no, by all means, if you really think you can pull him, who am I to get in the way?”

Gojo tosses his head back and laughs. “I don’t think that was ever going to be in question.” He’s Gojo Satoru, after all.

Makoto just rolls her eyes fondly and continues smirking as he wanders off in the direction of his prey. She keeps smirking, up until the point she sees Gojo totally succeed in pulling the Number Three Hero of Japan , without being any the wiser as to who the hell he is. Then she breaks down into uncontrollable laughter; that’s going to be a real fun realization to have the morning after.

Chapter Text

Hawks is still a little in awe of his life.

For the record, none of this was his idea. He’d intended to just have a quiet night off for his birthday, bundled up under an electric blanket in his apartment binge watching daytime dramas Miruko keeps recommending to him . But apparently that’s not how the newly twenty-one Number Three Hero is allowed to spend his birthday. 

He was still a bit pissy and annoyed at the Commission interrupting his life again. You’d think after becoming a legal adult with his own agency they’d have less of a stranglehold on his life, but evidently Takami Tomie didn’t care to read the fine print of the contract she signed when she sold him off. He was never going to be truly rid of them. 

Anyway, their ‘advice’ for the night wasn’t entirely unreasonable in the grand scheme of things. He’s had interpersonal training for years. It’s why he’s so good on camera, why he never misses a beat in interviews no matter how bizarre the curveball of a question they throw at him is. He doesn’t lose his cool, even in rapidly escalating situations that would have most pros starting to sweat. 

He’d been expected to be able to hold his own under the influence of alcohol, so that wasn’t the issue here. He wouldn’t say he could drink a guy like Fatgum under the table or anything, but he can keep his composure under a few shots and a mixed drink or two— the sort of drinking behavior people would expect of a young twenty-something with a charismatic reputation. The problem is, he’s so recognizable the Commission could never dare to toss him into an actual social drinking scenario under a fake ID, so he’s still a bit lacking in this area of expertise. 

Now that he’s of age, infiltration and information gathering missions involving bars and nightclubs are going to start being a part of his regular repertoire. But he’ll need to get some firsthand experience before they start sending him out for real. 

All this has just led to his current situation: unwillingly dragging himself through the miserable winter cold to down a couple drinks and see if he’s still capable of picking people up after it. 

It wasn’t even his idea to pick this place in particular. His former espionage teacher had suggested it as a place to find easy marks. It also helps that it’s not as high-profile as some of the more popular spots in downtown Mustafu, as while he cultivates a reputation as being the young, fun, relatable and relaxed hero, they also don’t want him courting scandals. His first impression is… it’s a bit of a dive, honestly. But the patrons seem to gravitate towards it specifically because of that. 

He catalogs everything the moment he walks in: how many exits (three actually marked ones, and four more if he needs to break out in an emergency), how many employees versus patrons (two bartenders at each bar, plus barbacks, and security lightly dispersed around the walls), the loudness of the music (loud) and the average level of inebriation of the populace (very). It’s definitely the kind of place made for dancing rather than lounging on nice couches with a group of friends. Hawks isn’t entirely sure if he dislikes that or not— one the one hand, the music is loud enough that he’d have a problem with it after a few drinks with his sensitive hearing. On the other hand, the pounding bass discourages the painfully awkward small talk he generally dislikes and spurs everyone onto the dance floor instead. 

This is good for Hawks, because he’s not really in the mood to plaster on a fake smile and turn on his charming and flirty persona. 

This is also terrible for Hawks, because he absolutely cannot dance. 

This is why no amount of theoretical training can ever make up for actually experiencing the real thing, he thinks, terribly annoyed. Sure he's had plenty of lectures on how to behave in this situation, and read body language and manipulate drunk people, but no one ever told him he might have to dance while doing it. He hates when the Commission has a point. He hates it even more when he remembers he could have had these experiences for real had he never been signed over to them.

But by that same turn, he also wouldn’t be the Number Three Hero currently, so. 

It is what it is, I guess.

He shakes his head and tears his brooding gaze away from the crowds. Alright, that’s enough maudlin thoughts for the night. He needs to get his head in the game here, if he’s going to succeed at all in this particular task. 

“What did the dancefloor ever do to you, huh?”

He’s embarrassed to say he nearly jumps at the sudden voice. It’s just not normal, for someone to be able to sneak up on him like that, even if he was lost in thought.

He turns his head to see who managed such a feat and—

Oh. 

Oh no.

Hawks panics.

He figured he’d get a drink or two and flirt a bit just to get some practice before calling it a night and returning to his heated blanket and trash TV. He hadn’t actually thought he’d find someone here he actually wanted to take home. 

“You’re staring at it like you want to set it on fire with your eyes,” the man adds, sounding sort of impressed. 

“It’s not that,” he protests, then realizes if he wants to continue that sentence he’s going to have to admit he doesn’t dislike the dancefloor so much as he’s actively terrified of it.

A slow grin grows on the man’s face. Hawks is both annoyed and turned on in equal parts by how easily the other man looms over him. He’s long and lean everywhere, and that smile is dangerous at point blank range like this. The multi-colored lights turn his bright white hair positively iridescent, and Hawks’s stupid raptor hindbrain fixates on the way the cuffs in his ears sparkle tantalizingly. 

He leans down, and the impenetrable dark glasses slide down on his nose until Hawks is up close and personal with the breathtaking galaxy he knows is usually referred to on humans as eyes. A prism of color sparkles across their cerulean surface like stardust. There’s no way those are normal; an optic-quirk then, of some kind. Hawks wouldn’t be surprised to hear it’s hypnotizing, from his embarrassing reaction. 

“Is it the song, then? If you tell me you don’t like Daft Punk, I don’t think we can be friends.”

He doesn’t even know what Daft Punk is.

Hawks recovers himself enough to smirk back. “So you want to be friends?”

He winks. “Or something like that, yeah.”

Okay. That’s… Yeah. He can do that. He chuckles. “Buy me a drink first, then we’ll see.”

His companion doesn’t bat an eyelash at that, tugging him through the crowds towards the nearest bar, and then just conveniently doesn’t remove his hand from his waist as they sidle up to it. Hawks watches with what he hopes looks like sultry amusement but is actually unabashed keen observation, as he catalogs how smoothly the man cuts through the crowd, how he catches the bartender’s eye despite the throngs of people lingering around for a drink. The way he smiles and bends closer to her as if he’s trying to speak over the music, when he could have easily mouthed his order over the bar. The way this action makes her far more amiable, and even gets a smile. He slips her way more bills than Hawks thinks is necessary for two drinks, and she skips the queue to make his first. 

He watches all of this with his sharp gaze, analyzing the technique and committing it to memory. 

When the white haired man looks back at him, Hawks isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to do in this situation. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face as he leans in a bit closer, feeling the heat of the other man all along his side. There’s a flicker in those atmospheric eyes, something hot and cloying that Hawks just recognizes, instinctually, as desire. The open palm sliding up above his jacket to toy with the hem of his shirt is confirmation enough.

There’s something entirely too magnetic about him, something that has him pressing closer, in and up, until their faces are nearly touching and his superior sight can count each ice-white eyelash and the nearly indiscernible splash of freckles across his nose. The hand at his hip curls against his shirt, and searing hot fingers press against his bare skin send a shiver up his spine. 

Hawks has no idea how the other man has enough presence of mind to tear his eyes away just as the bartender returns with their drinks. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when the other man’s attention is briefly diverted, only for it to seize up in his throat when he turns back around and is once again the center of that intense gaze. 

“I hope you don’t mind vodka,” he says, passing one over to him.

Hawks takes it and glances down at it briefly. “It’s all the same to me,” he answers honestly, taking a sip. He blinks rapidly. 

“Sweet,” he remarks, a little surprised. He’s never had a mixed drink before. He’s only ever drank alcohol to build up his tolerance, and drinking it straight is the most efficient way to go about that. 

His companion grins widely. “What’s the point of alcohol without a little sugar?”

Hawks blinks again. Honestly, he has no idea. “Fair enough,” he says, easily. “Thanks…—?”

“Satoru,” the man— Satoru— fills in. 

He nods, smiling hesitatingly. “Thanks, Satoru-san.” Is that alright? It seems a little silly to be so formal when he’s fairly certain they’re going to end the night naked together, but he’s not sure how else he’s supposed to respond.

“Yeah, of course—” he pauses briefly, as if he’s waiting for something. 

It takes Hawks an offbeat second to reply, as a couple realizations slam into him all at once.

One, Satoru has no idea who he is. And he actually kind of… really likes that. Two, Satoru is a first name, and it would be weird to give anything less than his own given name in response. Three, he can either give his hero name instead, or try a name he hasn’t heard aloud in years. 

He has a feeling he’ll regret this, but he answers anyway; “It’s Keigo.”

Satoru grins brightly. “You’re welcome, Kei-kun~”

He only just manages not to spit out his drink. The tips of his ears are probably turning a little red, much to his annoyance. He’s not usually flustered this easily, but now he’s second guessing himself. Was his own response too formal? Fuck, he really has no idea how these things go. 

If he’s totally messing it up, Satoru either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His head snaps towards the DJ booth as the tempo of the music changes. He turns back towards Hawks, eyes bright behind his sunglasses. 

He reaches down for Hawks’ hand and unceremoniously starts to drag him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s dance.” He winks at him. “The music sounds better with you~”

“Um,” Hawks says, because he knows enough about flirting to toss a few clever quips at the media and his fans, but he’s never had to do it in practice with someone he’s actually attracted to and has no idea what to say to that. 

Fortunately his tongue-tied silence works in his favor, as Satoru tugs him towards the throngs of dancers and the song transitions into the chorus and he recognizes it as an echo of Satoru’s words. Oh. That must be the name of the song or something. A clever pun, then, as he probably meant it as both a compliment and a remark on the music.

“Is this your song, then?” Hawks asks over the beat. 

“It’s a classic,” Satoru retorts, which doesn’t really answer the question. “Doesn’t it just make you want to dance?”

Probably, if I had any idea how to dance, Hawks thinks, with increasing panic.

That was probably a rhetorical question, as Satoru doesn’t wait for his answer, singing along to the lyrics with half the club shouting along with him. Of course he’s also got a great voice. And he can dance, evidently, as he very easily finds a rhythm to the beat. Why the hell is this guy so perfect? He’s suddenly intensely thankful to have a drink in hand, so he’s not just standing here looking totally out of place. 

If he didn’t feel so out of his element currently he’d probably be perfectly content to just sit here for hours and watch the lights glint across this man in dazzling colors, bright hues sliding through his hair as he moves. In total contrast to Hawks, he gets the feeling Satoru must be the type who goes to places like this often, given how easily he fits in. 

Before he can give it much more thought, a hand tugs him by his elbow and suddenly Satoru is no longer just an enchanting tableau to admire, but a presence taking up all the space in his brain. 

“Dance with me?” He asks, all hopeful tone and killer smile and fuck, guess the gig’s up on this one.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits. 

He waits for the laugh, or look of incredulity. Maybe even a mocking smile. Satoru just blinks, head tilted, expression impossibly unreadable from behind those damn sunglasses. Then he downs the rest of his drink, puts it on a nearby table and pulls Hawks closer with both hands. Hawks does the same with his own drink and lets Satoru pull him further into the crowds. 

Then the beat changes yet again, into something clearly everyone else in the club besides him recognizes by the cheers going up, even Satoru grinning widely as the rhythm changes. The taller man wraps both hands around his hips and pulls him closer.  

“Don’t worry about it,” Satoru says, smile absolutely wicked as he drags their hips together. “Just follow my lead.” 

//

@Ru-kun | Disco Queen

I AM A MAN OF MANY TALENTS, NO RESPONSIBILITIES, & REALLY GREAT DISCO https://youtube.com/ru-kuns-disco-mix

Comments 201 |  Likes 589 | Retweets 332

//

(Follow his lead, indeed.)

If the Commission driver is wondering why the hell Hawks of all people is taking a cab from his hotel to the Commission HQ, he’s the sort of squirrely Commission operative who understands the value of tact and wisely doesn’t comment. 

Hawks appreciates it, honestly. His head is killing him, and after last night he doesn’t really think he has the energy to fly this early in the morning. By noon he should be fine to fly back to Kyushu, but for now he’d just rather doze off in the back of a car and try to make up for all the sleep he emphatically did not get last night. Not that he’s complaining. The alternative was… far more pleasurable, and the sort of experience he doubts he’ll ever forget for the rest of his life.

Is steam coming out of his ears right now? Probably. 

He gets it together— barely— by the time he has to meet with his handler, who promptly informs him he’s unlikely to make it back to Kyushu today since he’s been tapped for a mission. Apparently they have a developing situation involving an entire factory of hostages, and of course Hawks is an ideal candidate for those kinds of rescues. So he puts his game face on and goes to meet with the coordinator in charge of this mission, privately admitting the mission is a good way to get his mind off of last night. 

It was incredible, but probably not the sort of thing he can get away with doing again anytime soon. He just doesn’t have the time, and it’s probably not worth the risk of a possible scandal that could result because of it. And frankly, he doubts he’s going to get a better lay than Satoru, and he has no idea how to get in contact with him since they didn’t exchange numbers. Best to just leave it as a fond memory and move on. 

He meets with the key players for this operation, intrigued to see all of them are underground heroes who have been gathering intel for the police. In fact, he’s the only spotlight hero here. It actually makes him feel a little out of place. He’s used to being either the object of ecstatic joy or unrepentant jealousy, but these folks just seem curious and bemused at his appearance. 

He doesn’t let the atmosphere of the room get to him, grinning widely. “Hiya! I’m Hawks, nice to meet’cha!” He claps his hands. “So, what’s the situation?”

By his side, an underground hero with a scarf around the bottom half of his face and his hair in disarray gives a laborious sigh, as if the mere thought of dealing with someone of Hawks’ upbeat energy for an entire mission is enough to drain him of his will to live. 

Hawks smiles even wider, and vows to be especially annoying to this one in particular.

//

@Ru-kun | Disco Queen

My life is a sprite vodka chased by what I think is water, but is actually just another sprite vodka.

Comments 321 |  Likes 887 | Retweets 341

//

Gojo throws an arm over his eyes, which still pound in his head despite both his arm and his blindfold blacking out the sun. This is what he gets for trying to fuck his way out of his own existential angst. He feels like he got hit by a bus, or alternatively, enthusiastically fucked into next Sunday. After drinking half his body weight in vodka.

My life is a sprite vodka chased by what I think is water, but is actually just another sprite vodka, he types out for his Twitter, which has quickly become his rather convenient replacement for conventional therapy. And it is entirely my own damn fault.

Not that he regrets it, really. Keigo had been funny, clever, and much sharper than his laidback and amicable persona let on. Also: an incredible lay. And super hot. No complaints on that front. Gojo sort of wishes they’d exchanged numbers just so he could hit him up for a booty call, but Gojo’s never actually joking when he says he’s got a crippling fear of commitment. Even friends with benefits would be pushing it right now, so it’s probably for the best to go their separate ways.

Still, for how great he felt last night he’s equally as miserable now.

He groans aloud as he flings his phone away from him, even the light of the screen too much for him.

“Dabi-san?” A tentative voice calls. “Are you okay?”

Gojo shoves his arm up and cracks open one red-rimmed eye to see Midoriya staring at him in obvious worry. 

He wonders what it says that it’s winter break and this kid is still showing up to this roof everyday without fail. Then he wonders what it says about him, a grown adult, more or less doing the same. Well, it’s not that he doesn’t have things he could be doing, but rather that he has no desire to do any of it. And he’s spent so long making this bench of his into a place worthy of lounging around, so he may as well make the most of it. 

“Just fine,” Gojo croaks out. “I’m running away from all of my responsibilities, and it feels great.” 

“Ah… okay.” For a kid who talks so much, Midoriya is pretty easy to stump. He’s such a sweet and innocent bean; he’s definitely never had to put up with someone who trolls quite as much as Gojo before, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with him.

There’s quiet for a while, a reprieve Gojo is keen on taking for as long as its available to him. Midoriya is a chatterbox on the best of days; even endless laps up and down the rooftop or circuit training aren't enough to fully get him quiet. But after a few more minutes of the unerring silence, its unusualness starts to grate on Gojo, instincts telling him something’s wrong here. Midoriya is never this quiet, and there’s also a distinct lack of the noise that accompanies physical exercise.

“Izu-kun?” He asks, without removing his arm from his eyes. 

He hears it when Midoriay flails and straightens up in surprise. “Err— yes! Yes?”

“What’s got you all up in knots, kid?”

Midoriya wrings his hands. “You’re… did you get in a fight?”

“Huh?”

“I mean— are you injured? You don’t look injured, but you also seem like you’re in pain, so I guess it might just not be a visible injury. Is it an internal one? Those are really dangerous you know, have you gotten it checked out? Wait… can you get it checked out? I guess you can’t really go to a hospital, but surely there are underground clinics or something, or maybe you have a healer you go to for these things…”

Ah, and there’s the rambling. “I’m fine, kid,” Gojo assures him, amused. “I’m just disastrously hungover.”

“... Oh,” says Midoriya. 

“Anyway, what’s up?”

There’s another long moment of flustered, indecisive silence. It's awkward and heavy and full of some kind of anticipatory tension Gojo hadn’t expected. 

“Have you ever wondered what you could have been, if you’d been a hero?” Midoriya finally asks.

Gojo tries to process the question, and fails. “...Uh. What?”

“I— I’m so sorry!” Midoriya stutters, panicking. “I didn’t mean to offend you! I’m not implying, I mean, I don’t think—

Gojo sighs. “I’m not offended, Izu-kun, I just genuinely have no idea what you’re trying to ask me.”

“Oh,” Midoriya says. “Um, well, I guess I just don’t really understand why you decided to be a villain. Your quirk is incredible. And you’re so cool and so strong! You could be a top hero easily.”

It’s cute he thinks there were any decisions involved there. “Nah, I don’t like being told what to do.” 

“Oh,” Midoriya says again. 

He sounds utterly confused. Like a sad whining puppy left tied to a fire hydrant while their owner argues with the barista inside over how many espresso shots count as an ‘extra’. Abandoned and bereft and a little bit betrayed. Which is ridiculous, because he knew upfront that Gojo was a villain. And Gojo has never seen the need to explain to him just why that is when Midoriya has never asked him about his motivations before. It’s not like he’s got some manifesto or something, or that whatever his reasons may be justify the lives he’s taken. 

Gojo sighs. It’s downright unreasonable, how difficult it is to deny this kid anything. 

“Look— heroes are a profession. Worse, an outsourced and questionably regulated one. The whole industry is just one big cycle of outlandishly costumed aggression, where the person who goes to jail versus the person who gets slapped on the wrist with a fine is entirely based on who’s holding the bigger stick. Right now that’s the HPSC, who’s got half the Diet bankrolled and enough clout in the World Heroes Association to have them look the other way.”

“Am I saying that the HPSC is terrible and doesn’t do any good for society? Not exactly, although honestly I think it’s debatable. I’m saying they’ve got no accountability for their actions and no transparency and no oversight from the government, and the last place I’d want to be is under their thumb.”

Midoriya stares up at him with wide eyes, for once shocked into complete silence.

“So… it’s a political thing for you?” Midoriya asks, brow furrowed.

“Not really. I’m just also allergic to responsibility,” Gojo admits.

Sure, he thinks the HPSC is probably rotten inside and out and if he cared enough to snoop through their dirty laundry he could probably find enough evidence to burn the whole thing to the ground (literally and figuratively). But he also has zero interest in doing any of that, because that would require him to actively care about the state of this world. Which is something he has emphatically decided never to do again, ever. So.

“Oh.” Midoriya looks down.

His expression is twisted up into something not unlike a grimace, hands nervously clinging to his arms. Honestly. This kid is an open book sometimes.

He swings himself upright with a groan full of regret for each and every one of his drunken decisions, wincing as the movement makes his head spin. 

“Right. Okay. What’s actually going on kid?” 

“I just… if I want to be a hero… does that make us enemies?”

Oof. Okay he’s a little too hungover for this conversation. He sighs deeply, flinging his head back as he squeezes his eyes shut and uses his reverse-curse technique to cure his own hangover. It feels like a sledgehammer bludgeoning against his temples for a few excruciating seconds, and then the pain and the hangover completely evaporate. 

He tosses his blindfold off, blinking furiously into the light. As he expected, Midoriya is clutching his arms like a fretful old lady clutching her pearls, worried and nervous and watching him with wide eyes. 

Gojo cracks his neck with a grunt. He hates curing his hangovers that way. It's better to just ride it out normally than deal with the intensity of the pain of reversing it. 

“You’ve always said you wanted to be a hero, what brought this on now?” He asks, instead of directly answering the question.

There’s clearly something weighing on this kid, and he seems to be having issues just outright asking about it.

“Well yeah, but that was kind of just in the abstract, right?” Midoriya explains, apprehensively. “Now I’m… I’m really going to be applying for the U.A. entrance exams. And if I get in… then I’ll be a real hero in training!”

Gojo just blinks at him, nonplussed. “Well I would hope so. Otherwise all this training would be going to waste, right?”

Midoriya’s mouth opens, eyes getting bigger. Evidently he hadn’t thought about that. “Oh. Right.” 

The fact Gojo was here at all was his implicit approval of Midoriya’s career goals. 

“Look, you should do what makes you happy. If that’s being a hero, so be it. Will that make us enemies? Probably.” 

All the color drains out of Midoriya’s face. 

Gojo waves him off. “At least in the eyes of the law. I’m a villain, and it’ll be your job to arrest me. Whether or not you can arrest me... haha, that's a totally different question.”

He looks down, fluffy green hair hiding his expression from Gojo. “So… we can’t be friends anymore?” He asks, in a tremulous voice.

Gojo smiles tightly. “That’s going to have to be your call to make, Izu-kun. I don’t have any issues consorting with heroes— at least the good ones— but I’m aware that standard doesn’t really go both ways.”

The green-haired teen nods wordlessly. 

Gojo watches him work through this at his own pace, feeling rather maudlin. It’s funny, just last night he was considering half-formed ideas about properly training Midoriya for real, and all of those are turning to dust right in front of him. Of course he can’t train Midoriya, or even interact with him in any greater capacity than he already has. Gojo is a villain, and Midoriya is trying to be a hero. And heroes and villains… are enemies. Certainly not mentor and apprentice, or teacher and student. 

“I— Dabi-san, you’re my very first friend,” Midoriya admits, after a long moment of silence. “Or well, my first in, in a really long time. And you’ve done so much for me, and been so patient and helpful, and I just…”

He struggles for words. 

“I don’t want to lie to people. I want to stay friends with you, and right now there’s really no one to ask me questions about where I go and stuff so it’s not like I’ve had to lie about you or anything, I just say I’m going out somewhere and try not to be very specific. But, you see, a hero asked me to train with him, and I…”

“You want to train with him, because he’s a hero, and that’s what you’re trying to be,” Gojo finishes for him, voice gentle.

Midoriya looks up, stricken. “But I don’t— I don’t want you to think, I mean, I’m not trying to, I’m just worried—” He puts his face in his hands as his attempts at explaining himself become increasingly garbled. 

Gojo is a little sympathetic. “I’m not offended,” he says honestly. Maybe a little disappointed, but that’s his own damn fault. “You can break up with me if you want to,” he adds jokingly, just to lighten the mood.

“That’s not what I want at all!” Midoriya wails. Then his own words catch up to him and he flushes to the roots of his hair. “Wait— wait! That’s not— I didn’t mean it like that!”

Gojo grins roguishly. “That’s how it is, huh? Izu-kun, you heartbreaker!”

Midoriya glowers at him miserably. “Dabi-san,” he whines, helplessly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Gojo spreads his hands. “You just make it so easy, Izu-kun!”

Midoriya sighs heavily in response, clearly having no real retort to something so obviously true. 

“I’m not explaining myself very well at all,” the boy admits, lips pursing. That determined look of his crosses his face, and this time when he tries again Gojo knows he’ll get it right; “I really value you a lot, Dabi-san, even if you are a villain and as an aspiring hero one day we might have to stand on opposite sides. I appreciate everything you’ve done and I don’t want to stop, but now that I’m training with a hero mentor my schedule is going to be all over the place and I don’t want to have to lie to him… so I’m not really sure how to solve this situation.”

Gojo hums thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“Hmm, so let me get this straight— you might not agree with my villainous ways but you also don’t care that I am one; you’re worried about having to lie to a hero you look up to, and you do in fact want to continue training with both of us but don’t want to have to lie to do it.”

Midoriya rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Uh… yeah. I guess that’s about it.”

He claps his hands. “So! Basically what you’re asking me to do is lie for you!”

Midoriya’s anxiety is quickly heading into neurotic meltdown territory. “N—N—No! I could never just ask you to do that! I know I already take up so much of your time… and you already do so much for me…”

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Gojo waves him off. “I’m a villain, Izu-kun! Lying is hardly my worst offense. And I’m pretty good at it!”

Midoriya slowly perks up, hopeful expression dawning like sunlight over the horizon. Like he can’t believe there’s actually someone in his life that would want to stick with him, despite unfavorable circumstances. “Okay… if it’s really alright.”

“Sure!” Gojo throws him a peace sign. “I can play nice with heroes!” 

And by play nice, he really just means annoy the shit out of them in a capacity in which they can’t retaliate, but Midoriya doesn’t need to know that. 

//

@Ru-kun | Disco Queen

My entire existence is causing chaos just to do it interspersed with gentle panic attacks and neurotic shoe purchasing

Comments 445 |  Likes 1001 | Retweets 375

//

Later that night, after drinking a sufficient amount of electrolytes and stuffing his face with more pastries than the average human should ever reasonably consume, Gojo meanders his way over to a rooftop where he knows Eraserhead’s nightly patrol passes through. He feels much more awake than he had earlier in the day, and in the damning light of sobriety he finds doubts creeping up into his head once again.

He hadn’t quite agreed to meeting Midoriya’s hero contact, nor continuing their training in light of his new acquaintanceship, but he knows in his heart what he wants to do. And he’s not really in the habit of lying to himself about his own feelings, even if he is in the habit of drinking and/or fucking his way out of having to acknowledge them. 

That little green-haired brat has grown on him a bit, is the problem. And he doesn’t trust most heroes as far as he can throw them. And Midoriya, bless him, is demonstrably too naive for his own good, what with befriending a known villain. He doesn’t trust any heroes with the pure-hearted kid, unless he’s properly vetted them. Even the ones that seem squeaky clean on paper— actually, especially those kind.

Because they’re the worst, and he has no interest in consorting with them. 

See, he says this. 

(And then he apparently went and fucking clowned himself last night by sleeping with quite possibly the worst of the lot.)

“Help me Eraser-kun!” Gojo shouts cheerfully, as the white blur of a familiar capture weapon wraps against a telephone pole below his perch. “You’re my only hope!”

The man it belongs to enters his line of vision, looking visibly exhausted at the thought of Gojo. This, of course, just utterly delights Gojo and encourages him to randomly drop by some more.

“Help you with what?” He says, tiredly. “You don’t look like you’re in need of any saving.”

He waves his bag of goodies at the man. “I bought too many nyan cat buns, and I can’t eat them all! You have to help me— and these ones are taro flavored!”

Eraserhead gives a monumental sigh, clearly working up the mental fortitude to deal with Gojo. Then he uses his capture weapon to leap up onto the roof next to him; he looks as if he has once again eschewed sleep in favor of prowling the city streets like a lost extra out of a dystopian zombie apocalypse film. 

“Not you too,” Eraserhead begs, blandly, as he collapses next to Gojo. “There’s only so many irreverent and inconvenient upstarts I can deal with in a twenty-four hour period, and my allotment is all used up.”

He offers out a bun to Eraserhead, who politely declines it. Which is amusing, as he’s all but feral as he lunges for the boss coffee Gojo offers him next. 

Gojo pouts as he uneaths his own drink— an extra sweet milk tea. “Someone beat me to the punch? I’m offended! Who’s dethroned me?”

“Hawks,” Eraserhead says, and looks as if just saying the name exhausts him. 

“Hawks?” Gojo repeats. “Who’s that?”

Eraserhead turns to squint at him with a dumbfounded look. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Why would I?”

“... He’s the Number Three Hero.” Eraserhead says, slowly. 

“Why would I know anything about heroes?” Gojo returns.

“You really don’t care at all about heroes, huh?” Eraserhead remarks drily, smiling around his coffee. 

“No, why would I?” Gojo blinks. 

Eraserhead looks as if he’s just given up on ever understanding Gojo or his logic. “Villains tend to care about heroes… because they’re in direct opposition of them,” he explains, patiently. “But then again, you don’t seem to go after heroes much.” … or have much in the way of opposition.

He shrugs. “Let’s just say if I’m gunning for them, then they don’t deserve to be heroes.”

Eraserhead sighs. “If that’s the case, the law exists for a reason.”

“The law is hardly infallible,” Gojo returns. 

Eraserhead opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by a vibration in his pocket. Which quickly turns into multiple vibrations. Eraserhead looks taken aback at first, but then a look of realization dawns on his face and his expression quickly falls into resigned exasperation.

He takes the phone out, grimaces, and then turns the screen in Gojo’s direction.

“That’s Hawks.”

Gojo leans closer. It’s a message conversation between Eraserhead and someone listed just as ‘Hizashi’.

You should have told me you were bringing me a present Shou!! 

You know how I hate surprises!

But seriously I’m so hyped thank you!!

My listeners are gonna love this!

Below the message spam is a photo of a man with outrageously styled blonde hair, bulky headphones and yellow sunglasses. He’s grinning widely and mugging the camera in what looks like a recording studio of some kind, one arm thrown around…

A very familiar blonde with bright red wings.

Gojo turns away and promptly spits out his drink.

Somewhere in this city, he’s fairly certain Makoto is laughing at him. 

Chapter Text

Not his usual type, indeed. Gojo thinks, annoyed, as he unwillingly watches the entire broadcast of Hawks’s special guest appearance on Put Your Hands Up radio. 

A hero. 

Of all people.

Gojo isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or fling himself out the window. As it is, he just continues causing himself needless acoustic pain by watching this godforsaken radio show, with the sort of morbid fascination he usually reserves for trashy reality tv shows. The guy on camera is definitely Keigo— or Hawks, as Gojo supposes he should get used to calling him— all charming dimples and razor sharp gold eyes. He jokes pleasantly with Present Mic, a fellow spotlight hero and the host of the radio show, and talks a little about a mission he’d just completed while in town. That’s about the extent of any shop talk; the rest of it are increasingly intrusive questions on his personal life, none of which Gojo needed to know the answers for but ends up invested in nonetheless. 

He really doesn’t know how to process this. 

Gojo’s interest in heroes starts and ends with whether or not they're good people. Heroes like Eraserhead are just fine in his books— better than fine, really. He might never say it to the man’s face but he respects how earnestly Eraserhead approaches heroism and how he expertly threads the needle between doing the right thing and doing what the law considers ‘the right thing’. But his disinterest had been authentic when Eraserhead had asked on the topic. He could care less about the publicity of it all, the rankings and the media and the toxic competitiveness the whole mess proliferates. 

He wouldn’t say he finds the idea of a hero having a media persona distasteful, at least theoretically, but it does seem like a conflict of interest at the very least. 

It also always seems so misleading to him, since it's so easy to only show the public what you want them to see. And heroes who tend to have that flawless reputation also tend to be the ones who have a lot to hide.

So he wonders what it says about Keigo that his own hero reputation is so polished and prolific. And what it really means, if he’d found the man to be so charming and genuine in person anyhow. 

He sends a bunch of hysteric texts Makoto’s way in the interim of his own existential meltdown.

How dare you let me make terrible life choices.

I blame you for all of it.

Makoto just sends him a bunch of laughing emojis in response. Gojo flings his phone away in disgust, burying his face in his pillow. 

//

@ru-kun | Disco Queen

So did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise

Comments 437 |  Likes 769 | Retweets 298

//

“I don’t like sand,” Dabi announces, put upon as he arrives at the mouth of what once could have constituted as a boardwalk, but now better resembles a recycled tarmac. “It’s coarse and rough and gets everywhere.”

Izuku laughs nervously. “It’s, uh, an acquired taste, I suppose…”

Dabi just sighs laboriously, looking like a superstar who just walked off a magazine cover and was unwillingly dragged off to this bonafide dump against his will. Frankly, the comparison isn’t that far off. But Dabi always looks like he just walked off a photoshoot, there’s just something about him, no matter how evident it is he spent the entirety of the night prior partying and sleeping in someone else’s bed, that always looks so effortlessly cool. Izuku wishes he had half that charismatic panache. Even a quarter. An eighth. He’s not picky.

He’s over the moon that Dabi actually came. He’d never actually outright agreed, after all, but Midoriya allowed himself a kernel of hope that he’d show up. 

Dabi might be a criminal and the city’s most elusive (and eccentric) villain, but he was also the first person to ever recognize Izuku as worth something. Worthy of attention, of acknowledgment, of encouragement. 

He was a lot of Izuku’s firsts, incidentally.

The first villain he’s ever met (he doesn’t really count the villain All Might saved him from, since they didn’t exactly talk). The first adult aside from his mother who’s ever acknowledged him. The first friend he’s made since Kacchan. 

And… his first big gay crush.

In his defense— he’d like to see anyone be the center of the man’s attention for more than half an hour and not be just a little bit in love with him. Everything about Dabi was effortlessly magnetic, and that artlessness was part of his appeal. He demonstrably did not care what anyone thought of him, and the blatant disregard for both personal and societal expectations was nothing short of awe-inspiring. To someone like Izuku, who had put so much stock into the opinions of others that he had started to base his own self-worth on what other people thought of him, the idea was both monumental yet anathema to everything he knows.

Of course, that effortlessly cool, devil-may-care vibe of his was only half his personality. The other half was a dumpster fire.

“So this is Dagobah beach, huh? I wonder if I could levitate an X-Wing out of one of these piles,” Dabi muses, staring up into the towers of trash.

“A what?” Izuku asks, blankly.

Dabi shakes his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his joggers. “Ah, it’s nothing. Why exactly did you pick this place?”

“My mentor has tasked me with cleaning up the beach until you can see the ocean again.” Izuku explains. 

“As a community service?” 

“And a training exercise.”

Dabi taps his chin. “Hey, that’s— not half bad, actually.” 

Better than he would have thought, from a hero. Then again, not every hero is a self-absorbed slag. Plenty of underground heroes are a lot like Eraserhead, who does a lot of good and is rarely every thanked or acknowledged for it.

(He wonders: where does Keigo fall on that scale?)

Gojo eyes the dump from behind his sunglasses, looking for a good place to sit. He doesn’t sense anyone around them, and for good reason. The trash combined with the smell of the ocean is quite rancid. 

“Where’s that mentor of yours, anyway?”

“Oh! He’s, uh, not here.” Midoriya stutters out, suddenly nervous. 

Immediately suspicious, Gojo turns towards him. “Really? That’s a shame. I was kinda hoping to meet him.”

Midoriya looks appropriately alarmed at that. “Dabi-san?”

Gojo’s look turns sly. “I mean, I am the other woman, aren’t I? It’s only fair you introduce me.”

“That’s not what’s going on here and you know it!” Midoriya whines in protest. “And also that’s super gross!”

“Izu-kunnnn, are you saying you think I’m gross? I’m so hurt!”

(Sometimes Izuku wonders if Dabi actually has no idea how he feels and is just oblivious to his crush, or if he’s fully aware and actually goes out of his way to tease him about it because his personality is really just that bad.)

“A— Anyway!” Midoriya stutters out, before Gojo can continue to tease him. “He’s not coming today, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Awh, that’s a shame! I dressed up and did my hair and everything!”

Midoriya eyes him blandly, clearly well aware that Gojo did not, in fact, do anything special and probably just rolled right out of bed looking like this. But then his skeptical expression clears into something more thoughtful, perhaps even worried.

“Are you really okay with this? Meeting a hero and stuff? I just, I know it’s kind of weird and all considering, um, who you are…”

“It’s fine!” Gojo waves off. It’s true he doesn’t meet heroes all that often, and if he does it's usually on opposite sides of a battlefield, but he’s not overly concerned about it.

He does, after all, meet Eraserhead every once in a while purely just to mess with the poor man when he's in the middle of his work shift. And he also might have unintentionally bagged Japan's most eligible hero bachelor just the other night…

“If you’re sure,” Midoriya sighs. “I just feel kind of bad, dragging you into this, asking you to continue training me even though I’m working with a hero now. You’ve done so much for me already, and I really can’t ask any more of you, and especially ask you to get along with some hero when I know how you feel about them…”

Do you? Because clearly even I don’t know how I feel about them, considering I enthusiastically slept with the Number Three Hero in Japan and still kind of have no regrets about it.

A thought occurs to him, then. And a panicked sweat breaks down his back. 

“Hey, Izu-kun,” he says slowly. “Who exactly is this hero who’s mentoring you? I don’t think you ever said.”

Midoriya grimaces sheepishly. “W— Well! That’s! Um! I can’t really, ah, comment on that… It’s sort of a secret?”

Gojo stares blankly. Wow. This kid really is bad at lying, huh. He doesn’t even try. 

“Not that I don’t think you’re trustworthy or don’t want to tell you or anything!” Midoriya adds hastily. “It’s just not really my secret to tell.”

“Fair enough,” he says, slowly. “Just tell me this up front— is this hero of yours in the top ten?”

Midoriya stares, wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights. “Um,” he says, which is answer enough.

Oh.

“And can he fly?”

“Um!” 

Oh no.

“...And is he blonde?”

“UM,” the panicked expression explodes into full blown hysteria. “D— Dabi-san?! You?! How could you possibly— ? I thought your quirk was telekinesis???”

Gojo just sighs, laboriously. How can one conveniently bad decision come to bite him in the ass so impressively? Man, maybe it’s for the best he’s helping Midoriya out like this. He’s really got to do something with his terrible karma stat. 

“Are you a mind reader too?!” Midoriya gasps.

He chuckles weakly. “No, no. I’m just an idiot.” 

//

@ru-kun | Disco Queen

Sometimes I take a look around me and realize my life is full of problems and all of them are entirely my fault

Comments 398 |  Likes 698 | Retweets 303

//

In light of Gojo’s first and immediate concern— namely, the horrifying assumption that he’s co-mentoring his favorite bean sprout with the hot blonde guy he had a one night stand with who inconveniently ended up being the Number Three Hero— finding out that Midoriya’s actual hero mentor was All Might was a relief in comparison.

He’s blonde, he flies, and he’s in the top ten. And Gojo didn’t take his gay virginity, which is really the important thing here. 

At first it’s rather unexpected, even perhaps bewildering, but after examining him fully with his Six Eyes— both as All Might and Yagi Toshinori— it begins to make sense. 

All Might is in desperate need of a successor, and apparently has better taste than Gojo would expect for someone who regularly wears red and blue spandex on live television, because he has chosen Midoriya to be that person. Midoriya is an excellent pick, although Gojo might be a bit biased in saying so. 

But he’s still not entirely certain how All Might intends to do it. His Six Eyes make two things about All Might glaringly obvious: one, he’s got some kind of stockpiling quirk. Two, he was born quirkless. He has that same void in the area where the Plus Alpha energy pools in the human body as Midoriya does. But he also has a quirk that only grows stronger, even as his body weakens. Taking these two observations into consideration, All Might’s mysterious strengthening quirk comes to light as something not inherent, but acquired. How exactly it's passed from person to person is something not obvious at first glance, even to his omniscient sight. 

It’s also absolutely and unequivocally not his problem, so he plays nice with the Number One Hero (and his equally tall, equally blonde ‘assistant’ Yagi whenever he shows up) and doesn’t remark on it. 

So he shows up and politely introduces himself as Gojo Satoru, a man who doesn’t exist but seems benign enough to fly under the hero’s radar, and if he goes out of his way to be friendly with the man just because he knows how infuriated Endeavor would be if he ever found out— well. He’s evil and problematic and loves to be petty, and he’s never made that much of a secret.

It doesn’t help that All Might is way too much fun to fuck with. 

His first meeting with the Number One Hero— and not his assistant alter ego— goes as follows:

“Hiya, All Might!” He says in english, sticking out his hand. “I’m Satoru! But you can also call me Oscar the Grouch.”

All Might blinks at him like he doesn’t know what to make of him. “... Oscar?” He repeats. 

“Yeah. Not because I’m a grouch but because I'm the anthropomorphic equivalent of a trashcan.”

He would’ve expected someone who spent at least a few years in America to understand most of his references, but either the man didn’t spend his time over there knee deep in internet memes (likely), or all of them just flew right over his head (also likely) because he only smiled in a distantly confused manner and nodded along to all of Gojo’s eccentricities. Which is exactly how Gojo liked it. They could’ve been an epic two man comedy show, with Midoriya’s strangled whinging noises of despair acting as the laugh track.

Anyway, as it turns out All Might isn’t the only hero he’s been spending unexpected amounts of time with. 

Gojo is delighted by the turn of events.

Eraserhead is… not nearly as delighted.

“I would really have preferred not to have to ask this of you,” the perpetually sleep-deprived underground hero intones, “but we’re running out of options here.”

Gojo would be a little offended that Eraserhead looked so upset to see him when the underground hero had specifically asked to meet with him, but the hero's poor mood seems to be less a reflection on his current company and more a remark on how severely he's taking the situation. 

He's curious, more than anything. Eraserhead has never sought him out like this before.

Gojo grins coyly. “Oh, so I’m your only option then?” 

Eraserhead just sighs heavily, and drops his head onto the table. He has an even greater propensity for fickly felines than Detective Tsukauchi did, as at least three furry cats leap to fight over who gets to claim the top of his head as their perch. Gojo has a sneaking suspicion Eraserhead is actually very fond of cats, even if he hasn't said as much aloud, which was only confirmed when he asked to meet Gojo at a cat cafe of all places. Gojo wonders if the creatures like him so much because they recognize him as one of them. Gojo himself still wonders if Eraserhead is not in fact just three cats stuffed in a trenchcoat.

With a disgruntled noise he flings his head back up before any of them get the chance to get tangled in his hair, and they all disperse to rub against his legs. Gojo watches this with a bit of amusement and no small amount of jealousy. Animals always greatly dislike him, on account of recognizing an apex predator when they see one, so they all avoid him like the plague. All accept for one, who appears just as demonic as he is and probably knows a fellow agent of anarchy on sight. The great fluff of black fur is currently sprawled possessively over his lap, and Gojo has no interest in moving it. 

Eraserhead looks so defeated Gojo has to laugh. “I’m not saying no, you know.”

“Yes, because you don’t seem the sort to make my life easy.” Eraserhead sighs. “Statistically, you’re the worst problem child I’ve ever had.”

Gojo blinks. “I… think I’m flattered?”

He honestly cannot remember the last time he’d ever considered himself a child. Certainly not in this life— probably not even in his last, either. Too much power at too young an age, too many responsibilities and obligations. 

“It’s not a compliment.”

“Then I’m definitely flattered.”

Eraserhead just sighs again. His eyes are red-rimmed and dry but determined as he stares Gojo down. Gojo wonders what he sees. A kid too young to hold the kind of power he has? Some lost little lamb languishing for some kind of guidance? A punk with a chip on his shoulder and an egregious distaste for authority figures?

There’s something about the way Eraserhead looks at him, though. He’s not sure if it intrigues or intimidates him, but it’s not the way everyone else looks at Gojo. 

People tend to see what they want to see, and Gojo’s happy to weave the illusions that spellbound them. He’s the roguishly charming writer and lead singer that everyone wants a piece of; the mysterious and eccentric super villain with the entire underworld in the palm of his hand; the powerful youth alone in his solemn dynasty. No matter what they see, everyone wants something from him. They always have, in this life and the last, and Gojo’s long since learned the art of looking after his own self-interest at the behest of everyone else’s. 

But Eraserhead— Gojo doesn’t know what the underground hero wants from him.

Okay, well, he wants him to be an informant on criminal activity. That's what this whole meeting is about. There’s more to it than that, though. He doesn’t have to indulge Gojo the way he does. Or buy him coffees at cute cat cafes that are totally Gojo’s style (and also probably Eraserhead’s). Or indulge him, however begrudgingly, whenever Gojo swings by his patrol route like a friendly neighborhood spidervillain just to bother him. Or be honest with him, about what he wants and what he expects from Gojo.

It’s a little weird, to be honest. 

“I know you can take care of yourself and all, but this is…” Eraserhead pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is putting you in the line of sight of some pretty threatening people. So don’t just agree without even hearing me out.” 

Gojo just raises a brow as he takes a sip of his latest sugary abomination. If Eraserhead really knew just how dangerous he was, then he’d realize just how unwarranted his concern was.

“I have plenty of experience handling threatening people.” Gojo points out, amused. “And I’m hardly defenseless.”

But Eraserhead just shakes his head. “I don’t doubt it.” He agrees, although he doesn’t look happy about it. “But I wish I didn’t have to put you in this position, nonetheless.”

Gojo blinks. “Technically, I put myself in it.” He says. “No one told me to be a villain, you know.”

This doesn’t do much to reassure him. If anything, Eraserhead just looks more defeated, probably because he knows society manufacturers villains just like they do heroes and thinks someone Gojo's age likely never had a choice in the matter. Which is very sweet but totally off the mark.

"I know.” He says. 

“And how do you know I’m not just gonna betray you, anyway?” Gojo drawls, propping his chin in his hand. “For all you know, I could turn right around and tell them the police are onto them and underground pro hero Eraserhead is the one running the show.” 

“You won’t.” Eraserhead replies, without missing a beat.

Gojo pouts. “You can’t know that for sure.”

The underground hero shrugs. “Call it intuition, then.”

He pouts further, annoyed Eraserhead isn’t rising at all to the bait. “You’re lucky I’m not petty enough to do it anyway just to prove a point.”

Messing with Eraserhead is no fun when he’s being so unflappable. And why’s he so dead certain on Gojo’s trustworthiness, anyway? Gojo’s made a lifestyle out of being unreliable and unpredictable, and then this sleep-deprived panda shuffles into his life and sees right through it. Eraserhead really is lucky that Gojo likes him so much— also, that Gojo adores his number one best bae Makoto, and endangering Eraserhead would endanger Detective Tsukauchi. 

Gojo continues to pout, blowing a raspberry as he looks down to see if he can coax the demonic cat into some belly rubs.

Meanwhile, Shouta wonders what Tsukauchi is going to do to him when he hears of this. Probably string him up by his capture scarf upside down and fob the entire precincts backlogs on him while he does it.

There’s really nothing for it, though. He hadn’t been kidding when he said Dabi was their only real avenue to pursue this burgeoning League of Villains. 

He’d been the one to tip them off on it in the first place, after all.

First with the information on the back door meeting, and after that with a report on the recruiting patterns going on in the greater Tokyo Metropolitan area. He’d even gotten them a name for the initiative— the League of Villains. As of now their motives were undisclosed, but if the police were ever going to figure it out their best bet was Dabi himself continuing to feed them information.

Something Shouta disagreed with entirely on principle, even if he could see the value in the strategy. He hadn’t outright asked Dabi his age, but from their history he could infer he wasn’t any older than a college student. Asking someone that young to get involved in this kind of dangerous work just didn’t sit well with him; even underground heroes at that age were kept away from undertakings like this. A mission of this caliber was usually reserved for veteran underground heroes with highly specialized quirks. Someone like Shouta, honestly. 

He’d been honest with Dabi when he said he didn’t doubt him. He truly didn’t. Dabi had a well-earned reputation as a dangerous villain.

But he was still a kid, at the end of the day. A kid who’s entire history was a mystery to Shouta. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better to watch him now, as he smiles down at the behemoth in his lap, running his long fingers through the cat’s soft fur. It sends a pang of something like regret down his chest. Anyone watching him now could mistake him as just another innocent and carefree kid, whose most pressing worries centered around their upcoming university exams. Had Dabi ever had an innocent and carefree moment in his entire life? What terrible circumstances could have led to a kid— with what Shouta knew was a good heart buried in there underneath that awful sense of humor— to a life of crime and villainy like this? 

Despite his occupation as a highly dangerous criminal and his egregiously eccentric personality, Dabi doesn’t seem to be a bad kid. You could argue the necessity of the severity of his methods, but at the end of the day the people who ended up on the wrong end of his quirk were all more or less deserving of it. And Shouta… wants to do right by the kid, because he has a feeling not many in his life have. 

Except— they don’t live in that kind of idyllic world. 

In the world they live in, Shouta can’t save this boy no matter how deserving of it he might be, because he needs him. He needs to use him for his own gains, for some nebulous ‘greater good’; using him probably in the same way everyone else in his life has. 

It’s an awful feeling. 

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Dabi says, suddenly, looking up from his companion. The cat looks severely displeased with the lack of attention, meowing loudly until he drops a hand back onto the soft fur of its belly. The action has his obscuring sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, revealing those alarming eyes. “I have my own reasons for wanting to do this.”

Shouta had expected as much. He nods. “I figured as much.” He pauses. “Do you have a conflict in objectives?”

“Not particularly.” Dabi shrugs. “I just want you to know up front, that I’ve got my own agenda here.”

Shouta observes him carefully. The young man who looked so boyishly charmed as he batted away his feline companion’s paws has completely disappeared, revealing someone stoic and unyielding. “Can I know what it is?”

Dabi scrutinizes him back just as closely. “As long as you don’t get in my way.” He says, at length.

Shouta downs the last of his bitter, lukewarm black coffee. “I can’t really make any promises on that front,” he admits, honestly. “But I can tell you I’ll do my best to avoid a situation that would cause me to intervene, for my self-preservation if nothing else.” 

“Fair enough,” Dabi smiles slightly. Those arresting, celestial colored eyes look inhuman in the glaring light, giving nothing away.

Shouta stands by his assessment of Dabi’s genuinely good personality, but that doesn’t make him any less aware of how dangerous this kid really is. Especially in moments like this, where it’s impossible to ignore. 

“I’m after the Hero Killer.”

Shouta blinks. Then blinks again. “... Stain?” He clarifies, incredulously, even if its a bit of a moot point.

Dabi leans back in his seat, one hand still lost in fur, the other tapping an idle rhythm on his empty cup. “Yep.”

Shouta’s shoulders collapse in relief. He’d been genuinely worried they might be having a real, intractable, conflict of interest here. As it is, Dabi wanting Stain personally is… odd, but not inimical. Not even unfavorable, really. He’s called the Hero Killer for a reason, after all. But by that same turn, he’s the Hero Killer. What issue does Dabi have with him? Dabi has never killed any heroes himself— seems to go out of his way not to, in fact— even if he does seem to take issue with them as a collective.

“Do I even want to know why?” He asks, seriously.

“You could say it’s personal,” Dabi hedges, vaguely. 

Well, that’s alarming. But clearly not any of Shouta’s business, and appears to be something Dabi’s not keen on him prying into. 

Either way, Shouta has no intention of getting involved in this vendetta of his. As a hero, he should probably be advocating for legal and judicial avenues of justice for Stain, and not supporting— however obliquely— a personal revenge saga. But as a man with years of experience operating in the criminal underworld who knows just how difficult pulling an infiltration mission like this off is, he’ll consider it the lesser of all evils here. After all there are plenty of heroes who would wholeheartedly support Dabi in this endeavor, when it comes to this particular criminal. 

Shouta rubs his temples, closing his eyes as he leans back in his chair. 

“Just… be careful, okay?” He sighs, defeated. And then, with a candid honesty he blames on exhaustion and too much caffeine: “Stain is dangerous and— I don’t want to see you getting hurt. Frankly, if this whole thing goes sideways and something happens to you, I already don’t know how I’m going to live with myself. So… don’t do dumb shit, okay? For my sake.”

When Dabi doesn’t respond, Shouta rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and blearily looks up. 

The white-haired boy’s peculiar eyes look a bit wider than usual. And— Shouta squints at him. Are his ears a little red? Or is that just the lighting? 

Dabi ducks his head, clearing his throat as he shoves his glasses up back onto his nose. “Uh— right. Yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

//

@ru-kun | Disco Queen

Why are you asking if I’m fine? Have you seen me??? I’m fine as HELL

Comments 425 |  Likes 745 | Retweets 319 

//

“I will be unavailable that weekend,” Yui says, and Gojo is fairly certain it’s the first actual sentence out of her mouth he’s heard in months. 

Kenji and Makoto pause their bickering at the surprise interruption. They’d been arguing on a venue as Gojo watched on in a delighted fashion as it nearly came to blows. He was always enthusiastic for chaos of all kinds, and a throw down between the two would have been hilarious. At any rate, they had been no closer to finagling a solution and Gojo had been about to toss his hat into the ring before Yui spoke up.

He laughs uproariously. “Well, I guess that solves that then, hm?”

Makoto and Kenji both look rather chagrined. Makoto looks back down at her calendar app. “Well, there’s a show next month that might be a good one then…”

Yui bites her lip, dark hair sliding across her face as she looks down. Neither Makoto or Kenji are paying her any attention, so Gojo prompts; “Yui-chan?”

The other two look up at Gojo’s voice.

“I… will be starting high school by then, and will likely be unable to continue playing weeknight shows.” 

After a beat of hesitation, she stands up, then bows abruptly. “If you would like to find a drummer with more availability, I understand. Thank you for— 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down! No one’s kicking you out here!” Makoto insists, panicked. She has good reason to be. Their odds of finding a drummer as good as Yui who will willingly put up with their terrible personalities and awful scheduling are slim indeed. 

Even if their current drummer happens to be bonafide jailbait.

Who wins the bet then? Gojo wonders. He thinks it's Makoto, damn her, who bet five thousand yen that Yui was younger than fifteen. She might have the face for it, but her unflappable personality in the face of Gojo Satoru’s iconic brand of chaos had him thinking she was actually a great deal older than that. 

“I mean, I feel a little bad knowing we’ve been making you stay up like this on school nights this whole time…” Makoto rubs the back of her head sheepishly. “But if the scheduling is your only issue here then we can easily just start doing weekend gigs.”

“Maybe just transition to doing less live shows in general?” Gojo tosses out with a shrug. “Our digital album did really well, right?”

Makoto nods. “Yeah, it did. And we could probably swing doing less shows but in bigger venues.”

“That would probably be best for me too,” Kenji agrees, gruffly. “My schedule is going to be difficult as well.”

“Me too,” Makoto admits. “I got a promotion at work, which is great, but means I’m twice as busy these days.”

Gojo nods along. “I’m just here to make music!” He cheers, as he has zero responsibilities, no actual job,  and no real time commitments. 

Makoto rolls her eyes. “Right. Well, I’ll look over some new venues and scheduling options. In the meantime, why don’t we nail down our studio hours…”

They whittle away the rest of their allotted time with boring logistics, and Yui doesn’t say anything else. Gojo watches her surreptitiously as she fiddles with her drumsticks, curtain of dark hair obscuring her face once again. She seems as placid and calm as always, but there’s something nervous about her posture, he thinks. 

Because he can occasionally be known to show tact when it benefits him, he waits until they’re all parting ways at the front of the studio before confronting her. Yui is as unobtrusive as usual as she slings a baseball cap low over her face, her short dark hair loose around her ears and effectively obscuring her features entirely. Gojo watches her curiously, intrigued to realize he hadn’t noticed before how she seems to make a concerted effort to be as overlooked as possible. He wonders if she has something to hide. Then he snorts. What is he saying? All of them have something to hide. Even Makoto, although he already knows she’s a manager for a pretty famous hero. And Kenji’s secret is only unknown to him because he hasn’t bothered to pry, and he’s fairly certain she’d prefer he remain ignorant to whatever’s on her criminal record. 

But little Yui…

Hmmm. Strict parents, perhaps? An overbearingly posh family? Societal expectations? Nosey boyfriend? 

“Yui-chan~” He sings, as he catches up to her. 

She peers up at him from beneath the fringe of her cap, looking rather put upon. “Satoru-san,” she returns, after a beat.

“Are you heading this way? Me too! There’s a cafe I’ve been dying to try this way.” That’s a total lie. But he’s sure he can find one along the way.

Yui chews anxiously on her bottom lip. Gojo feels a little bad— he didn’t mean to make her nervous. She’s usually so immune to his outrageous personality though, so he’s not really sure what the problem is. Then he sees how pedestrians turn their heads towards him, drawn by his good looks. Ah. She’s probably annoyed he’s ruining her inconspicuous profile. 

“Do you wanna come with? What’s your favorite drink? Strawberry milk tea?”

Yui purses her lips. “Do you need something, Satoru-san?”

“Hmmm, not really!” He replies brightly. “You just seemed a little worried back there. You know we don’t mind, right? About your high school, or whatever. Although if you ever try to sneak a drink after a show, I’m gonna be keeping my eye on you now, you little rascal!”

This works to draw an unwilling smile on her face. She might show outward expression only rarely, but Gojo had always secretly thought she found his antics privately entertaining, and it looks like his hunch was spot on. He grins back widely in response. 

“The only one we need to be keeping an eye on is you, Satoru-san,” she says promptly, to his utter delight. 

“What a roast from the world’s sweetest drummer!” Gojo gasps, and swipes her baseball cap off to mess up her hair. Yui bears it with the stoic grace of a person who knows damn well they are both the youngest but also the most mature out of their cohort. 

He fishes out a face mask from his back pocket and fixes it over his mouth; combined with the hat and sunglasses it entirely obscures his features. Yui seems to relax incrementally when they turn a corner and no one on the street stares in their direction. 

She ignores his posturing with dexterous aplomb as she replies; “I’m fine, Satoru-san. Just anxious for my entrance exams.”

“Yeah, I guess those are pretty nerve-wracking, huh?” Gojo scratches his chin. He’s one of those obnoxious people who thrive under pressure though, so he wouldn't really know. “Where are you applying?”

“Shiketsu and U.A.” Yui answers. 

Gojo blinks, and observes her with new eyes. “Shiketsu and U.A.? So you want to be a hero, Yui-chan?”

She nods.

That was rather unexpected. Nothing about Yui’s personality really vibed with Gojo’s whole impression on the hero industry. But then again, he really didn’t know much about her. For all he knew this has been her life long dream.

“Good for you, Yui-chan! That’s great!” Whatever his opinion on heroes as a consumer enterprise might be, he was always thrilled to see young people chasing their dreams. “I’m sure you’ll do really well.”

Yui looks down, nothing to denote her anxiousness in her placid features but for a slight furrow in her brow. “... I hope so.” She murmurs, quietly, fiddling with her backpack straps.

He ruffles her hair again, just to wipe that maudlin look off her face. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Yui-chan! You work well in a group, and you can corral people as outlandish as us into behaving and getting back on task whenever you need to.”

Yui doesn’t look entirely convinced, nodding along absently. “But my quirk…” she trails off.

Gojo tilts his head, consideringly. Yui’s quirk factor is focused in her hands, and seems to be related to spatial manipulation… but only of non-living objects. Interesting, and also pretty useful. It’s the sort of multi-faceted quirk that has endless applications, but that versatility is both its greatest strength and weakness. With so many ways to approach any given situation, it becomes a problem of crafting solutions expeditiously and efficiently. Great for people like Gojo, who rarely second guess themselves; terrible for any teenager that suffers under indecisive self-doubt, which is basically all of them. 

“Your quirk is incredible,” he tells her, and she looks up sharply. “But it really has nothing to do with being a good hero or not. A quirk like yours has great potential, but it’s as useless as any other tool in the wrong hands. You’re a quick thinker and you’re great at improvising on the fly— I’ve seen you follow along with my random guitar solos without even missing a beat.”

Yui blushes at the praise, ears going red. 

“—that’s the sort of thinking you need to use that quirk of yours to its fullest potential. Your mind is your greatest asset, ya know?” He grins. “But some physical conditioning wouldn’t be remiss either.”

She bites her lip. “I’ve been going on runs now…” She says, grimacing. “But I don’t really know what else to do. I’ve just been studying for the written exam.”

“The written exam is all well and good, but all these schools have physical examinations too, right?”

Yui nods sheepishly. 

Gojo gives her a thumbs up. “Lucky for you, I have an excellent sparring partner for you in mind!”

Chapter Text

Between Yui and Midoriya and Eraserhead, and oddly enough, All Might, his days pass quickly.

As Gojo predicted, his two little socially awkward introverts are thrilled to hear of another U.A. hopeful and get along surprisingly well for such drastically dissimilar personalities. Midoriya channels his pervasive nervousness into mutterstorms that grow increasingly incoherent as his anxiety spikes. Yui is the exact opposite, shutting down and hiding behind a facade of stoic indifference at the first sign of an awkward situation. But underneath that they’re both very sweet and determined and highly analytic kids, who take to their new routine with an eagerness that reminds Gojo of little puppies. 

They’re both blessed with a propensity for strategy, which Gojo religiously reminds them is fifty times more important than their quirks. He relishes in tricking them with compoundingly bizarre mazes and puzzles he makes out of the miscellaneous trash on the beach, forcing them to use that inherent cleverness to get their way out of difficult situations without relying on brute force. It’s great for Yui, who gets experience using her quirk in ways she would have never thought of on her own, and just as great for Midoriya, who grows confident in his own abilities regardless of his quirk status the more he’s put in situations where all he needs is his mind and a practical application of the environment to get out of them. Gojo spends most of his time at the beach training them in using the environment to their advantage and dirty— but cleverly effective— tricks to disarm their opponents without weapons or quirks at all. 

He’s not a particularly good teacher, and he never has been— he tends to delight in throwing his students into a trial by fire and watching closely for when he needs to fish them out, rather than giving any direct instruction. But he’s well-versed enough in physical combat to teach it in his sleep, and fortunately Midoriya and Yui are quick enough studies he doesn’t have to sweat the minor technical details. 

Midoriya still continues his strength and physical training with All Might, with Yui joining him them to an extent. She’s never going to need to get to the point where she can pick up refrigerators and grown men simultaneously, so she’s relegated to more practical exercises. At first, Yagi starts showing up instead of All Might, but once it becomes clear Yui’s not about to run off and tell anyone he starts showing up in costume again. 

All Might needn’t have worried; both Yui and Gojo were clearly capable of keeping secrets.

He does eventually learn that her full name is Kodai Yui, and she comes from a fairly normal family that lives in the suburbs of Mustafu. No tragic or bizarre backstory, to Gojo’s relief, although he still has no idea why she wants to be a hero. No one else in her family has ever gone into the profession, so it doesn’t seem like she’s being forced or pressured into it. It’s still a mystery to Gojo, but he’ll let her keep her secrets, seeing as though she’s doing such a good job keeping his.

Yui might be adept at the lost art of subtlety, but Midoriya is a bit of a lost cause. 

After so long calling him Dabi, switching to Satoru seems to be a bit beyond him, so he ends up having him just call him ‘sensei’. A word Gojo had never thought he’d hear directed to him ever again— not after his last disastrous life and all the baggage he associates with the word. But it’s better than Midoriya accidentally revealing his status as an infamous villain. Fortunately All Might is pretty dense himself, so Gojo’s probably clear on that front so long as Midoriya doesn’t just blatantly call him out. Yui is far more likely to figure it out purely based on context clues, but also significantly less likely to care. Gojo’s fairly sure she’s already aware that Kenji is some kind of criminal herself, and hasn’t commented on it yet. Actually, if Yui hasn't figured it out yet, he'll give up cream puffs for a month.

So training his little ducklings is going well, even if he hadn’t meant to end up in this situation again, and finds himself drifting further into Eraserhead and Detective Tsukauchi’s orbit as their reconnaissance plans flesh out. 

And by extension, clocking consecutive years off both their lives in the process.

“This is Station Nine bringing you live updates off the coast of Yokohama, where the coast guard still struggles to put out flames from last night's attack—”

Naomasa watches on in long-suffering dismay as the newscast trundles on, all gobsmacked anchors and bewildered on-the-scene newscasters watching as an entire ocean freighter filled to the brim with illicit Trigger goes up in fireworks. Literally. The sky above the ocean is colored candy pink and neon green as assorted flower formations of all kinds shower across the dark night. Naomasa is, frankly, impressed Dabi hadn’t gone and written his name in the sky just to declare himself king of the underworld. 

It’s true enough that he and Eraserhead begrudgingly agreed Dabi was their best bet at infiltrating the League of Villains and finding more information on All for One, and to that end acknowledged his need to keep up his villainous reputation. But of course Dabi had to achieve this in the most outrageous way possible. 

Destroying an entire freighter of Trigger probably cost the underworld collectively hundreds of millions of yen, and precincts across the country probably sighed in unanimous relief at the prospect of not having to clean that up from the streets. And true to Dabi’s word, he managed it without any (more) casualties to his name, having shucked off the skeleton crew onto lifeboats before sinking the whole thing into Yokohama bay. The criminal himself was seen lounging on the top of the gantry crane, throwing up a peace sign for the drone cameras circling the sinking ship. The media managed a few blurry shots of the man, silver hair in disarray from the sea breeze, all black outfit somewhat difficult to discern in the poor lighting, blindfold affixed artlessly over his eyes. 

But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch the coast guard struggle to put out the flames on live television, knowing that the criminal deed was, ultimately, Naomasa’s. 

Naomasa knew better than most, that good and evil so rarely separated themselves as starkly as oil and water. That the line was not as clear cut as modern rhetoric liked to have everyone believe. Eraserhead was better at it, at finding that winding path between what he could live with and what he could never condone, and finding a way to sleep at night with the decisions he made. Probably went with the territory of being an underground hero. 

Naomasa trusted the underground hero’s judgment implicitly; in some respects, even more than he trusted All Might’s. All Might had an enduring moral compass that struck true north immutably, something Naomasa appreciated about the Number One Hero. He had the sort of integrity necessary for the Symbol of Peace. But those uncompromising principles didn’t work outside of the duties of a spotlight hero, a morally gray area Naomasa was spending an increasing amount of time in. 

“—unclear what the motivations for this act might be, Takahashi-san, but organized crime has seen an uptick in the area in recent months…”

“The era of criminal overlords was said to be over after All Might’s debut, where exactly has the hero been during all of this?”

“—perhaps but it’s far away enough from his agency that it should have gone to someone else—”

“—unsuited to All Might’s characteristic fighting style… too many possible casualties—”

“—but really, what hasn’t been solved yet with a good old Detroit Smash?”

Naomasa flicks the television off before he can really drown himself in his own self-doubt. His phone is ringing anyway, likely Makoto nagging him for being late to their weekly dinners once again. He vows to set work aside as much as possible, for his own peace of mind as well as for his sister’s sake; she’s been making a real effort to connect with him since she got back from America, and he really wants her to know how much he appreciates it. She talks a lot about a band she’s in… as an adult long past his embarrassing teenage emo edge lord phase, nothing about the pop punk genre appeals to him much anymore, but maybe he should go just for solidarity’s sake. 

//

@rslacks87 | Phantom Menace

@station9news out here trying to catch Dabi sightings when I’m pretty sure the entire Dabi fanclub would be happy to assist 🤣

Comments 128 |  Likes 74 | Retweets 97

//

Izuku plucks half-heartedly at the ends of his tracksuit, wondering why he feels so out of sorts. He needs to get his head in the game, he doesn’t have time for this idleness! He was already so out of it earlier that he’d nearly faceplanted right in front of the gates, and nevermind the fact this allowed him to meet the super nice and friendly Uraraka-chan, he can’t be spacing out like this today of all days!

It’s the day he’s been waiting months, years— possibly even his whole life for. The U.A. entrance exams!

He knows there’s nothing else he can do now but just trust in himself and his training, but it doesn’t make the anxiety of it all any easier to handle. The whole thing was awful, all his blood sweat and tears training with All Might and Dabi and Yui-chan, all his fears and dreams and ambitions curling into an awful feeling in his gut not entirely like indigestion. He’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life. This is his one shot at U.A., he has to make this count!

Entirely opposite to his internal panic, Yui seems as calm and composed as usual. She ignores his endless fidgeting and muttering with graceful aplomb, either sitting still with her eyes closed or tapping away at her phone. Izuku is falling to pieces over here, and Yui is as posed as ever. 

Not that Yui-chan has much to worry over, Izuku thinks, glumly. She has one of the coolest quirks Izuku has ever seen (and yes, that includes both All Might and Dabi!) and can beat Dabi’s outrageous logic puzzles almost as fast as Izuku can. Not to mention, she’s had her whole life to figure out the ins and outs of her quirk, while Izuku hasn’t even used One for All yet. He has no idea if it’ll even work for him. What if it’s a fluke? What if he’s, like, allergic to All Might’s hair or something and it doesn’t take?

I can win this without a quirk, even with giant robots rampaging through a city, Izuku tries to tell himself, determinably. He tries to conjure up even a small flicker of the faith Dabi seems to have in him, but fails utterly. 

Frankly, he still, to this day, has no idea why either Dabi or All Might would take any interest in him at all. What exactly did he do to impress either of them, aside from stubbornly insert himself into their lives? Maybe that’s it. Maybe he just nagged them into begrudgingly allowing him to stay in their presence. Maybe they just felt pity for him. Maybe it was all—

“Midoriya-kun,” Yui tugs on his sleeve. “You’re speaking aloud again.”

He jolts upright. “I— I’m so sorry, Yui-chan— I, I mean, Kodai-chan! Wait no, I mean Kodai-san, ah, I’m so, so sorry—”

That’s so incredibly rude of him, isn’t it? To just call her by her given name like that? Just because Dabi does it doesn’t mean he’s allowed to! 

“Yui is fine,” Yui tells him, and he’ll just have to take her word for it because nothing in her expression assures him at all. “And I don’t mind your muttering, but you told Satoru-san you were trying to break the habit the other day, so I thought I should remind you.”

“R— Right. Thanks.” Izuku breathes out shakily. 

That’s another thing that’s just plain weird to him. He’s known Dabi as… Dabi, since he met the man almost a year ago now. He knows, at least theoretically, that Dabi must have a name and a past and a life that exists outside of the small slices of time in which they spend together, but the reality of it all is so bewildering he tries not to think on it so hard. He hasn’t asked Yui much about it, in fear of blurting out something he shouldn’t, but he’s fairly certain Yui is at least nominally aware that Dabi— or Satoru, as she calls him— is not just her bandmate but an active criminal at large. Like most things with Yui, this doesn’t seem to phase her in the least. Izuku wishes he could have at least a fraction of that impenetrable calm. Even if it’s just a facade. It’d be nice not to look like the neurotic mess he is on the inside. 

She stands then, glances at her phone and then takes a brief look around the hallway. People are still changing out of their school uniforms, lingering around the area outside the locker rooms as they wait to descend towards the buses together. 

“Would you mind stepping out with me for a few moments?”

Izuku looks up, curiously. He could never tell from her expression, but is she perhaps… just as nervous as he is? Does she want a bit of fresh air to calm herself?

“Sure, yes of course!”

She looks down at her phone periodically as she leads them around a winding path towards a side exit. Yui peers up and around, then types something into her phone again as she makes herself comfortable against a couple crates propped against the wall.

Izuku takes a cursory glance around as well, but it looks like a regular smoker’s haunt. When he turns back to Yui, she doesn’t look any less calm or more bereaved than she had earlier, her composure as impenetrable as ever.

“Um, Yui-chan…” He trails off, awkwardly. “Are you— feeling okay?”

“Yes, I feel fine.” Yui replies, which isn’t entirely helpful.

Izuku is about to open his mouth to ask if she’s feeling nervous at all, and if there’s anything he can do to help, when his ears pop and suddenly there’s… something on his head.

Izuku squawks, backpedaling frantically as a familiar laugh resounds in his ears. He looks up in disbelief to see the memorable silhouette of one of Japan’s most wanted super villains. 

“S— Sa— D— “ Izuku splutters, tongue-tied as he tries to remember what on earth he’s supposed to call this man, here of all places.

“Satoru-san,” Yui evidently does not share his awkwardness at the man’s sudden appearance. She tucks her phone back into her pocket. “You wanted to see us?”

Oh. Yeah. Of course she’s not surprised. She was probably texting him this whole time. She… obviously has his number, if they’re in a band together. Izuku feels a bit silly. 

“Sure did!” He throws up a peace sign, flicking his sunglasses off and tucking them into the neck of his sweater. 

He looks… as outlandishly good-looking as always. Somehow, despite having such an iconic look, something about it makes him seem so unerringly unassuming. Not even All Might noticed something off about Izuku's older friend and Yui-chan’s eccentric bandmate. With a knit beanie loose over his unruly white hair, and infamous blindfold nowhere in sight, he looks like any college kid sneaking in to say good luck to some of his favorite kouhai. 

He reaches into a plastic bag sliding down his wrist, unearthing two nyan cat buns for them. “I wanted to say good luck to you both! Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier, got held up.” 

With that heist in Kessel? Izuku wants to ask, but remembers where they are. 

It had been all over the news two nights ago. A consulting firm was fronting money for an international human trafficking deal, and Dabi strolls into the lobby of their ritzy headquarters during the middle of the work day and says, ‘Everyone stay cool, this is a robbery’. Predictably, it’s been all anyone’s talked about since. It goes from daytime heist to exposed human trafficking reveal appallingly quickly, and everything descended into chaos from there. 

He hasn’t seen Dabi in person in… a really long time, come to think of it. His presence in Izuku’s life has always been pretty sporadic, but in these last few months it nearly disappeared entirely. He’d swing by Dagobah beach every blue moon to shout totally unencouraging supportive nonsense as he and Yui labored through yet another of his death-trap mazes, but otherwise was totally off the map. He has to imagine his appearances as Yui’s bandmate were equally as infrequent, as Yui had mentioned their band was on a bit of hiatus as Yui prepared for the entrance exams. 

At first, Izuku had worried the villain was being standoffish due to All Might. But as it turns out, All Might and Dabi got along far too well for two people standing at total opposite ends of the law, constantly tossing out terrible quotes from super old American films and tv shows. Dabi’s bizarre and borderline unreasonable personality was apparently somehow charming to All Might, who was regularly surrounded by star-struck fans or bitterly jealous rivals and appreciated the man’s candor. Izuku did have to wonder if All Might’s fondness would last when he inevitably figured out Dabi’s identity, but for now he could only be relieved his double life hasn’t been rooted out yet. 

Anyway, so Dabi’s disappearances didn’t seem to be related to All Might in the slightest, but very obviously had everything to do with the criminal uptake in the greater Tokyo Metropolitan area that was having All Might so ill at ease lately. 

And the thing was… Izuku had no idea how to approach that topic with the villain.

Everything about Dabi just… really confused him. He was funny and clever and seemed, at his core, a genuinely good person. Izuku knew he was a good person. He’d seen endless evidence of this— starting from how he offered a hand of friendship to Izuku when he had no reason to do so, and ending with all the miscellaneous and unremarked good deeds he saw the older boy perform all the time. Dabi was the sort of person that would stop a bike theft in front of him just because he could, even when no one else in the crowd lifted a finger to help. He helped old ladies cross the street with their groceries and stopped traffic for elementary school kids on their way to school. Izuku has literally seen him fish kittens out of trees for distressed housewives (who then, predictably, fawn all over the handsome young lad who helped them out). He did all of this without any recognition whatsoever, just because it was the right thing to do and he was a person capable of helping others at the right time. 

Even if Dabi was by pure technicality a villain— or perhaps a vigilante, depending on what internet forum you were stalking— he had the heart of a hero beneath it all. Izuku had seen it. He knew it. 

That didn’t make it any easier to see the man turn around and blow up entire warehouses in the blink of an eye on the nightly news. 

These past few months leading up to the exams Dabi has gone from a mysterious but dangerous criminal to one of the country’s most wanted. 

His methods of operations haven’t changed since his debut as a villain, but the frequency in which he committed criminal acts had skyrocketed. His victims still tended to be other criminals, mainly involved in organized crime or drug and human trafficking. He still seemed to have a personal vendetta of some kind against Trigger, which often went hand in hand with quirk trafficking. Izuku had asked him once, tentatively, why he was so hellbent on stopping quirk trafficking of all things— not that Izuku didn’t agree with the principle, but there were a lot of awful criminal acts out there, so why that one? Dabi had replied that he loathed the idea of children’s futures being taken from them, and victims of quirk trafficking tended to be children under the age of ten. It was difficult to disagree with him in light of that, even if there could be an argument made for the necessity of his methods. 

So Izuku was at a bit of a loss. 

He wasn’t sure how to accept it; this reality that existed between the legal standpoint of villains and heroes. He’d grown up with the word ‘hero’ being a defined employment career. There were standard rules of engagement, price ranges, tax deductibles, insurance policies, and hundreds and hundreds of court rulings and legal documents declaring who could be a hero, and how they could be a hero. Dabi’s idea of heroism as a moral dilemma almost seemed more of an ethical philosophical question in light of that. But at the end of the day, what Dabi considered good and evil wasn’t all that different from Izuku, or even All Might. 

And his own emotional turmoil didn’t mean he wanted to see Dabi less. 

“Thanks for coming, sensei,” Izuku says, before he can stop himself. 

He knows Dabi has… issues with the word, but it’s the easiest thing Izuku can focus on that stops him from slipping up and calling him ‘Dabi-san’. 

He can see the way Dabi’s smile strains a bit at the word, but he still grins widely as he reaches out to ruffle Izuku’s hair. 

“Of course! I had to make sure my padawans are ready to make me proud!”

Izuku scowls as he makes a vain attempt at straightening out his mess of curls, pouting. “You still haven’t even explained to me what a padawan is supposed to be!”

“All in good time, youngling.” Dabi replies, eyes twinkling. “Anyway, eat up, and don’t stress out too much. You’ll do just fine.”

“There’s giant death robots involved!” Izuku hisses in frenetic horror, as he’s reminded of exactly what he’s up against. 

“Could be worse,” Dabi shrugs. He waggles his brows. “It could be me you’re facing up against!”

Izuku shudders at the mere thought. 

Dabi is right. A thousand death robots was a better deal than dealing with the supervillain when he was intentionally trying to be a bigger pain in the ass than usual. Dabi had a viciously vindictive side of him, that was for sure. And a terrible, no good sense of humor. It was a dangerous combination.

He claps his hands. “So, Izu-kun, Yui-chan, try to just keep your heads and not freak out too much. You’ve got this in the bag! You’ll both be excellent heroes in no time.”

“Is this your professional opinion as a wanted supervillain?” Yui asks coolly, causing Izuku to gape in her direction. Even Dabi blinks a few times. 

It’s the first time he thinks he’s ever heard Yui directly admit that she knows exactly who her Satoru-san is, and clearly Dabi's realized the same. 

Then his grin returns tenfold. “Yes, it is!” He agrees roguishly, giving them both a thumbs up. “So do your best, because you’re the only two heroes who will ever have a chance of stopping me!”

“That’s not a lot to live up to, or anything,” Izuku mutters nervously, creasing his nyan cat bun so badly he squeezes the matcha cream stuffing out of it. 

Somehow, he feels even worse after the pep talk. 

//

@18-lg-tv | no scrubs #1 scrub♡

@ru-kun is on twitter break and if thats not tragic enough @noscrubsofficial IS ON HIATUS and they played Plug In Baby at their last show AND I DIDNT SEE IT 

Comments 15 |  Likes 45 | Retweets 14 

//

Tokyo is a far cry from Hawks’ usual hunting grounds. Despite being the capital of the country he’s lived his entire life in, he drifts across the city with the wide-eyed novelty of a foreigner. It’s a hike from Fukouka, where he spends most of his time now, and a marginally less taxing flight from Mustafu, where the HPSC branch he all but grew up in is located. Obviously the HPSC would have their main headquarters in the capital, but Hawks so rarely has any reason to go there when his handlers are housed in the Mustafu branch with their hero training initiatives.

He’s not here for a leisurely flight around the capital skyscrapers, no matter what social media might be calling it. His iconic silhouette has drawn plenty of speculation on why he’s in Tokyo— which is exactly how the HPSC likes it. Tokyo has seen an exponential rise in gang activity in recent months, ostensibly due to a rise in quirk and drug trafficking. Trigger is at an all time premium, and gang wars have exploded out due to the scarcity. The Number One Hero— who was meant to have eradicated organized crime as part of his enduring legacy as the Symbol of Peace— has been oddly quiet during the rise. The Number Two, Endeavor, is also based out of Mustafu but has put in more than a token effort in wrangling Tokyo’s underbelly. Hawks wouldn’t be surprised if he sees a spiral of fire light up across the skyline right at this moment. Endeavor has really been stepping up to the plate All Might’s absence has left. But the HPSC isn’t just going to let the Number Two steal all the spotlight— especially not when their hand-groomed Number Three is so well suited to these messy, high-casualty urban fire fights. 

He banks left as an updraft catches against his wings, swinging past the infamous Mos Eisley ward and back towards the Correlian trade district, where the HPSC headquarters looms like a glowing, metallic empire. 

Things look quiet, from what he can see, but it’s still early enough in the night. 

He swoops high above the gleaming tower, than curls his wings around him and nose dives for the open penthouse courtyard. He unfurls out of his dive at the last moment, dropping gracefully down onto the balcony just outside the sliding glass doors to the presidential suite. A vaguely familiar woman in a sharp suit sits behind an imposing desk, not even a blink to remark on his presence as she types away at her computer. He’s not sure if that annoys him or intimidates him. Probably both.

He strolls in with a blandly pleasant expression fixed onto his face, giving away nothing of his inner turmoil. 

“Commissioner Saito,” he greets levelly.

The woman finally looks up from her work; just a quick glance in his direction. “Ah, Hawks. You’re right on time.”

He’s worked with Kobayashi-san, the vice chair of the HPSC and the overseer of the Mustafu branch, long enough to infer how to act when dealing with her direct superior. Give nothing away, remain as pleasant as possible, and get out of her hair as soon as he can, lest she gives him undue attention. 

“How was the flight over?”

Small talk? He blinks rapidly, regaining his composure. “Fair skies.” He replies, benignly enough.

She nods. “Good to hear. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Hawks isn’t entirely sure what to make of her. Kobayashi-san is forever swamped in paperwork and more often than not putting out several work fires at once, and tends to cut to the chase in a way that most people would probably find snappish, but Hawks appreciates. He’s not the fastest hero for nothing— dawdling around with social niceties rarely interests him. 

“Of course, Saito-san. What did you need me for?”

She casts a vague hand towards the windows behind him. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the rise in criminal activity in the capital as of late.”

He nods slowly. “I’ve been informed, but so far it’s just been a brief overview on the situation.” 

“Yes, aside from the raw data, we have nothing more to offer than conjecture.” She admits, brow pinched. “After organized crime was ‘eradicated’ under the Symbol of Peace, resources have been reallocated towards other vectors of criminal activity, leaving us in a bit of a bind.”

He nods again, well aware of the situation. In his opinion, it’s a bit of a heinous oversight. Do people really assume All Might’s reign to be so infallible that they’d overlook such a large part of the underworld because of his reputation alone? It’s true he’s made incredible strides in dismantling organized crime in Japan during his tenure as Number One, but to assume it’s no longer a threat seemed laughably short-sighted. Or more than likely, an issue of budget. Organized crime investigations tend to be lengthy and heavy on undercover personnel rather than automated surveillance, leading to higher costs. That same amount of funding, allocated towards search and rescue, or first responders, had double the capacity and had the added bonus of high public visibility. Taxpayer money and approval ratings go hand in hand, after all. 

It was this exact precarious house of cards that Hawks was meant to inherit as the face of the HPSC— the forever shifting sands of visibility, public approval, and assurances of security and safety. 

He can’t say he doesn’t get it, but nonetheless the issue remains.

“Has the budget for a full-scale investigation been approved then?”

“For Heroes? Hardly.” She snorts. “We’re still tied up in the courts with the insurance companies over collateral damage laws. The local precincts have been given emergency funding, but that’s not the issue. The public needs to see a familiar face at the forefront of this mission, inspiring a sense of safety.”

He’s not dense enough to miss the implication, but nonetheless he’s confused.  “There aren’t any heroes currently involved?” 

“There are a few agencies that work organized crime cases still, but none with a reputation that will inspire the sort of confidence and recognition the Number Three Hero can.” 

“Won’t this be a conflict with my regular duties? ”He asks, puzzled. 

“You have sidekicks for a reason; use them.” Saito-san dismisses. “At any rate, this is a good opportunity to expand your sphere of influence. Right now your approval ratings in Fukuoka are at an all time high, but the rest of the country is fairly indifferent to you. This is an excellent chance to change that.”

Hawks should have expected as much. The HPSC has invested a great deal of money into him and his career— of course they’d never be satisfied with him as anything but the Number One. Everything they’ve done since then has been to set him up for the eventuality. Every step forward in his life has been towards his goal. 

To be entirely honest, he’s still fairly ambivalent on the idea of it. 

“What in particular will I need to do? Rescues and arrests?” 

Rescue missions were child’s play to him. Apprehending criminals was something he could do in his sleep. If that was all they needed of him, it’d be smooth flying for the next couple months. 

“Yes both, we want you to have a high-profile presence in the area once we announce your arrival. We’ll be adding you to the current active operation roster for this purpose.” Saito agrees. “But we have a secondary operation for you. In some respects, it is in fact your primary objective.”

Hawks stands a bit straighter at that, paying attention.

“We need you to investigate and infiltrate the criminal underworld. Your main objective is to find and identify the key players running the operations.”

He doesn’t like where this is going… “And how do you want me to go about that?”

“You’ll have to use your best judgment on that. We are ready and willing to green light any means necessary.”

//

@rumisimp | ♡❊rumi simp❊♡

HAWKS SIGHTINGS IN TOKYO EVERYONE REJOICE!! 

Comments 42 |  Likes 45 | Retweets 19 

//

It’s nights like this that make him feel painfully, terribly, alone.

The Commission wants the impossible from him, but that’s nothing new. He wants to despise them for it, like he used to when he was young and bitter and training for a goal he didn’t really understand. These days he hates that he understands where they’re coming from. 

They want Hawks, the charming and charismatic Number Three Hero, the national heartthrob, the handsome magazine cover model, the delightfully captivating personality that skyrockets radio and television ratings with a single appearance. He was trained for this role. He’d been learning how to smile perfectly since his baby teeth had all fallen out. 

But by that same turn, he’d been trained extensively in infiltration and assassination. In the spycraft that his wings were so perfect for. 

Hawks’s problem, you see, is that he’s a little too good at everything. 

He’s an excellent search and rescue hero. His crowd control with his feathers is impossible to beat and makes him an excellent candidate for fighting heavy hitters in difficult surroundings. The versatility of his flight capabilities and telekinetic feathers means he’s adaptable to just about any environment, narrow and urban or wide and rural. He can cover incredible ground with great precision; the dexterity he has with his feathers gives him unparalleled spatial awareness. 

Everything that makes him a good spotlight hero, in turn, makes him an excellent assassin. 

Hawks hadn’t always been slotted into this role. Before his senpai’s career crashed and burned, he’d been training full-time as a spotlight hero. Full front assaults, offensive support, search and rescue, crowd control— he was molded to be the smiling hero in front of the cameras, not the agent with a blade in the dark. That all changed after Lady Nagant’s arrest, when the Commission found themselves with a glaring hole in their hero roster’s skill repertoire. There were other candidates, but none as well suited as Hawks. 

So he was trained in more than just tactical surveillance, intel gathering, and general spycraft. He was trained how to take a life without flinching and how to clean up the evidence or plant it on someone else. 

He can’t say it’s a part of his job he likes much. But it is what it is. 

As his career trajectory skyrocketed to the top of the billboards, the unsavory assignments petered out as his popularity grew. Unsurprisingly the Commission wasn’t willing to risk their golden egg on off-the-record missions they could theoretically push to others. 

He’d thought this part of his job was behind him.

But it looks like the Commission has other plans.

Hawks scowls out into the glittering metropolis, peering down at the lights from his solitude atop one of the highest skyscrapers. 

How exactly did the Commission expect him to pull this off, while meeting the mission goals and still keeping his reputation spotless? 

This is a fucking mess, he thinks, uncharitably. The writing is on the wall here, he’s fairly sure. Not even the fastest hero can outrun a fate like this. 

Hawks idly debates just throwing it. The recon side, or the spotlight side. But those are just trivial daydreams; the Commission doesn’t assign missions without reason. They wouldn’t risk their perfectly molded hero unless they thought the reward was a greater return. A reward worth risking everything for… like, perhaps, catching the so-called ‘Emperor of Darkness’ once and for all and resoundingly proving to the country that the HPSC was all the public needed to keep order and security. 

It would cement their legacy and their supremacy as the keepers of peace and order once All Might inevitably retired. 

And if their prized hero gets a bit burned in the process… it’s an end that justifies the means. More recognition means more budget, more budget means more public safety initiatives that benefit society. 

He ruffles his windswept hair, rising from his crouch and stretching his arms over his head as he unfurls his wings out to full mast. 

Well, that’s enough dawdling around. He’s got a job to do, and he plans on finishing it in record time. 

As if on cue, his police radio crackles to life as urgent voices bark about a situation unfolding in Ginza.

Chapter Text

Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty.

Had Hawks known what he was getting into, he probably would have— well, let’s just say he’d have a lot of regrets. And he’d probably give himself the time and space to have a private meltdown in the relative safety of his apartment as opposed to the middle of a stakeout mission gone terribly wrong. 

It starts out innocuous enough. 

He’s introduced to the key players in the organized crime operations going about the city, mainly divided by precinct and ward. He shakes hands with plenty of police commissioners and the underground heroes their detectives tend to work side by side with. A great deal of them are appreciative of his presence and his expertise, but there are still a solid few who seem mostly bewildered, if not downright hesitant, at his presence in the operation. He knows from experience now that it probably has less to do with him as a hero/person and more to do with his mysterious backing from the HPSC. The underground hero he’d met in Mustafu, Eraserhead, had mentioned as much at the end of their investigation after he’d eventually warmed up to the incessantly upbeat spotlight hero. 

He would have expected a fellow spotlight hero like Sir Nighteye to greet him with a bit more approval than the precincts, but the welcome he received from the agency was decidedly lukewarm. Bubblegirl and Centipeder, his sidekicks, were effusive in their welcome and thrilled to meet him in person, but Sir Nighteye himself had been rather dismissive. Hawks wasn’t sure if it was an ego thing or a paranoia thing. Probably both, from what he gathered about the man. He’d thought it might be easy enough to just work out of Nighteye’s agency while he’s here, but after that introduction he hikes it back to the friendliest police precinct he'd found so far instead. 

That precinct ends up being the one for the Mos Eisley Ward of Tokyo, by and large the friendliest and most relaxed of all the offices he’d visited so far.

The reason for that becomes apparent when a delivery for head detective Tachibana arrives in a flurry of chocolate and charcuterie boards. 

“Every Sunday like clockwork!” Echo, one of the underground heroes who’d been showing him around, enthuses. 

Hawks raises both eyebrows at the sight. It looks both totally over the top and very expensive. If shit like this is getting delivered every week to this place, it’s no wonder everyone’s always in such a good mood. 

He whistles. “Someone knows how to treat a man right around here.” 

For some reason, this causes Echo to double over in laughter so hard her knees almost give out. He has no idea what he did to cause such amusement from her, but by the time she’s done she’s wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh god, I would have paid to hear you say that to Detective Tachibana’s face.”

Hawks blinks. “Why? Did I say something wrong?” 

“Well, that’s—

A screech of fury reverberates down the hall, at a decibel that has both Hawks and Echo wincing in pain with their superior hearing. A frazzled looking man— much younger than Hawks would have expected from someone so high ranking— only slightly taller than Hawks lunges out of a nearby office, looking like he’s about to strangle the delivery man.

“Get this fucking thing out of my sight before I toss it out a window!” Tachibana howls, having to be restrained by two of his thoroughly amused coworkers. 

“There’s no need for that, Tachibana-san!” Echo returns jovially. “If you don’t want it, you sure as hell know the rest of the office is happy to take it from you!”

A bunch of cheers go up from the bullpen behind them, where evidently no one shares Tachibana's aggravation.

She tosses an amicable arm over the frazzled-looking delivery man’s shoulders, and says, sotto voce; “I’ll show you to the break room.”

She steers him and his wheeled cart clear of Tachibana’s fury, and soon enough the detective is being dragged back into his office, shouts muffled by the closed door. Hawks takes the opportunity to ask; “Does he not like charcuterie boards?”

“Oh no, he loves them,” Echo refutes, grinning widely. “He just happens to despise who he’s getting them from.”

Hawks frowns. “Vengeful ex?” He tosses out, at a loss.

Echo shakes her head. “Oh, it’s much worse.” She leans over the cart to pluck a floral envelope from a bed of roses. 

Curious, Hawks plucks the card from its heavy cream envelope. 

Will you brie my valentine? It reads, which is cheesy (no pun intended) but not particularly enlightening. Then he spies the signature, which is just two simple hiragana characters. 

だび

“Da—bi?” He repeats, and at first it doesn’t register to him, because in news broadcasts and even official documents the name is always used with the traditional kanji for the word. 

“Wait, hold on—” He chokes, totally flummoxed. “That— that Dabi?!” 

Echo nods in a way that seems both sympathetic and yet thoroughly amused by his plight. 

“Your supervisor used to date a supervillain?”

“Maybe in his dreams,” Echo mock-whispers with a snort. Then she shakes her head and explains, “No, no, nothing like that. Dabi just likes to piss Tachibana-san off with increasingly hideous romantic deliveries as a token of good will. Apparently he does it to all the detectives he likes— which as far as I know, are really only just Tachibana-san and Tsukauchi-san from Mustafu.”

Hawks digests this with a growing look of bemusement. “That’s an… interesting habit, for a supervillain.”

Echo opens the door to the breakroom, hustling in their delivery guy as she plucks a strawberry off the ornate display. “Well, what can I say? Dabi’s an interesting guy.”

Hawks' interest perks up at that. “You’ve met him before?” 

He’s read plenty of briefings on the notoriously elusive supervillain, and has been watching his proliferating exploits on the news like the rest of the country, but doesn’t actually know very much about him. Everything about Dabi is still shrouded in mystery, despite his growing notoriety. Nobody even knows how the hell his quirk works, or what it is. Best anyone can guess, it’s some kind of psychic-based ability. The trending theory is that his psychic powers were so strong he was actually born with them, and his brain needed so much space for such a strong quirk factor that his body compensated by using up the space normally reserved in the skull for the eye sockets, hence why he uses a blindfold. The theory makes zero sense, but his actual reasons for the blindfold remain as unknowable as the rest of him. 

The official profile doesn’t even have an age range or official height and weight. Dabi has an uncanny ability to suss out security cameras, so he’s rarely caught on them. There are a few blurry images from news helicopter footage and pedestrian videos, but since he also tends to avoid leaving witnesses and idling at the scene of the crime, those are few and far between. What they do know is that he wears a blindfold that covers almost the entirety of the top half of his face, has white hair, and usually wears a dark jumpsuit. 

Unofficially, Hawks has heard he’s a mercurial character prone to capricious and unpredictable behaviors, who definitely derives amusement from mocking authorities.

From that perspective, sending absurdly romantic and expensive gifts to a man who’s probably hellbent on chucking you in jail definitely checks out. 

“Never face to face, but believe it or not he’s a bit of a known evil around here.”

Hawks sprawls into a chair across from Echo as she descends upon the charcuterie board with a fervor that means she knows damn well she’s only got a few more minutes before the whole precinct comes to feast. 

“Around here?” He repeats, casually. “You mean in the investigation? Or just Mos Eisley in general?”

“Both,” Echo replies, around a mouthful of cheese. Hawks plucks a cube for himself, figuring he may as well enjoy the spoils if they’re in front of him. Surely Dabi wouldn’t mind, right? “We have no proof, but we think he’s a favorite of Toman.”

“Toman?”

“Tokyo Manji Gang,” the blue-haired girl elaborates. “They’re Mos Eisley’s top gang, and the most likely to cooperate with the police.” 

So Dabi is pretty deep into organized crime then. He could have guessed as much, purely from his criminal record, but it’s questionable how much of that is organized crime or just pure vigilantism. 

The renowned ‘cremation’ villain had of course been in Hawks’s dossier about the top echelons of the criminal underworld, but Hawks had actually tabled him purely on account of his complicated profile. First of all, he was already notoriously difficult to get a hold of. There were lower hanging fruit for Hawks to gather intel from first before he’d ever bother with someone as difficult to pinpoint as Dabi. Secondly, it was unknown just where in the hierarchy Dabi really even was. From the perspective of pure power, Dabi was an undisputed top villain. But his actual ‘criminal acts’ all skirted the line of vigilantism too much for him to be considered an ordinary villain. Hawks had to imagine he probably had a fearsome reputation, but also one other villains would look at and dismiss as too soft. In Hawks’s investigation to ferret out the leylines of the criminal underworld and ultimately topple the whole thing over, he wasn’t a useful target. 

If it turns out he was actually involved heavily in gang activity and organized crime— well, that changed things. 

“So they’ll play nice, given the right incentive.”

“Something like that.” Echo agrees easily. “But don’t tell Tachibana-san I said that.”

That’s intriguing information to know. He wonders if Dabi is a similar character, and if so, what his incentive would be. 

//

@ru-kun | Darth Plagueis the Wise

Hiiiiiii~ no I wasn’t on twitter break I was banned haha but tbh thats the most on brand thing that could’ve happened to me 

Comments 554 |  Likes 694 | Retweets 309

//

“You call this diplomatic relations?” Shrieks the blonde kid with an egregious styled pompadour, as he barely dodges out of the way of the incoming flames.

Gojo doesn’t reply at first, in favor of returning fire. The Kuat shipyards compromises almost the entirety of the capital region’s oceanic trade, so it wouldn’t do to brazenly cast any of his destructive Limitless techniques about. But Gojo has found a great deal of what he can accomplish with powerful, reality bending curse techniques is equally as possible with good old fashioned semi-automatics, so a fear of property damage doesn’t stop him from engaging with the enemy.

Toman’s newest member, a wet-behind-the-ears kid no older than Gojo’s current age scrambles to take cover behind him. 

“Hm, well, I guess at this point we’re better off calling them— aggressive negotiations?” He muses aloud, as he reloads.

By his side, Toman’s first division captain snorts. “There’s no negotiating with these fuckers.”

Gojo glances towards Chifuyu with a considering look, then shrugs. “Yeah. They haven’t been very friendly, have they?”

Chifuyu scoffs, finishing off his round before he slumps back down against the shipping crate they’re using as cover. “And who’s fault is that?” 

“... Mine…?” Gojo blinks, confused. He feels like this is the answer Chifuyu is looking for, but he’s kind of at a loss. Has he ever met these guys before?

Chifuyu just laughs at his bewildered expression. “Yeah, you. Who else has been disrupting the global trigger supply chain and rescuing all their human trafficking victims?”

Gojo blinks rapidly. “These are the guys doing that?”

Chifuyu rolls his eyes grandly. “Yes, Dabi. And I’m sure half the reason they opened fire before even letting us lay out terms is because you teleported in halfway through our meeting with a bag of Shake Shack.”

“I asked you guys if you wanted anything too, ya know,” Gojo pouts. 

Chifuyu doesn’t even deign this with a response, looking around the flaming warehouse with an expression that means he’s wondering what he ever did in his life to deserve Gojo in it— basically everyone gives Gojo this look at some point in their lives, so he’s inured to it at this point. 

“I wanted a strawberry milkshake,” the new guy mutters, sounding put upon.

Chifuyu cuffs him over the head. “And I told you no. Have some professionalism, Takemichi.”

Takemichi just sort of stares blankly at him, then slides his eyes towards Gojo.

“He doesn’t count.” Chifuyu insists, immediately. 

Takemichi looks like he doesn’t know what to make of that statement.

Chifuyu, meanwhile, observes the man in question with a wary eye as the white-haired man suddenly appears distracted by something only he can see. This happens more often than not, and while Chifuyu has never managed to get a straight answer out of the criminal consultant as to how the hell his quirk works, time and experience has taught him to just roll with it and trust Dabi’s judgment.

Dabi’s only half paying attention to their banter, head cocked to the side as the rapid-paced gunfire peters out. He has no issue rising out of his crouch and waltzing into the center of the room in his distracted wandering, gun lowered to the ground in the most blasphemous display of nonchalance Chifuyu has ever seen. 

He hates this guy, honestly, from the bottom of his soul. How is it possible for someone to be so obnoxiously overpowered? Only a guy like Dabi can walk around a situation like this with a chocolate milkshake in one hand and a semi automatic in the other, totally blindfolded, not even paying attention to the gunfight unfolding around him. 

Takemichi makes a move to edge closer towards the edge of their storage-unit turned barricade, and Chifuyu hastily drags him back by the collar of his shirt before he gets his nose sniped off. 

“What’s he doing?” Takemichi whispers furtively, eyes never leaving Dabi’s inattentive form.

“Nevermind him,” Chifuyu says, because that’s probably the most fundamental advice he could ever give a Toman newbie. Don’t bother with Dabi because he always knows what he’s doing, and definitely don’t waste time worrying about him because he’s as indestructible and ferocious as a black hole. 

“Hey, Chifu-chin, what’d you say these guys are called again?” The man in question asks, idly. 

Chifuyu frowns, flicking through his recollection. “Uh,” it eludes his grasp, as he’d only gotten a blanket overview on the organization, with most of the information about the actual key players they were supposed to meet. He remembers it being some weird foreign name— definitely not one of local gangs they get into territory disputes with. 

“Humarise, I think?” comes unexpectedly from Takemichi.

Chifuyu stares at him.

“What?” Takemichi says, defensively. “I have a good memory!”

This seems to jolt Dabi out of his stupor. “Weren't they rumored to be involved with that terrorist attack in Bangaldesh last month?”

Chifuyu thinks quickly. “The bombings?” 

He hadn’t thought Dabi paid attention to stuff like that. Chifuyu doesn’t really either, except it was on the news the other day while he’d been lounging bored at the bar with nothing better to do but watch.  

“Yeah…” Dabi trails off, sounding lost in thought. 

Eventually their opponents take the bait of a distracted target seemingly defenseless and straight in the open, and reveal their positions to take a few shots at him. That’s checkmate for them, as Dabi doesn’t even spare them the time of day as their bullets all meet his impenetrable forcefield, and in the meanwhile Chifuyu can easily pick them off. 

“Good work, Dabi,” Chifuyu praises, grinning widely as he rises from his hiding spot. 

Dabi doesn’t even seem to hear him. 

“Is— is that all of them?” Takemichi asks hesitantly, emerging from behind Chifuyu.

“Probably.” He turns to their consultant. “Dabi?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, frowning deeply from below his blindfold. “Hm? Oh, yes. We seem to have caught them at a bad time— they must have left a skeleton crew here because there’s something going down at the wharf.”

“... the wharf?” Takemichi repeats, blankly. In his defense, it’s a fair distance away, and there’s no good reason for Dabi to know something like that. 

“Yeah. Don’t wait up.” 

And then he blows the roof right off and jumps clear into the sky, and there’s really nothing else Chifuyu can say to that. 

Takemichi stares with wide eyes at the hole he leaves in the metal roof. “... What’s his quirk supposed to be again?”

Chifuyu sighs. “Who the fuck even knows.” 

//

@discozenzie_ | * ☆ Baby spice ☆*

@ru-kun describe yourself in four words

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Replying to @discozenzie:

@ru-kun | Darth Plagueis the Wise

my own worst enemy 🤣😭

Comments 44 |  Likes 94 | Retweets 3

//

The mission starts off conventionally enough. He and underground hero Echo have quickly become fast friends, in no small part because her ‘gives no fucks and takes no prisoners’ attitude reminds him of Miruko and the rabbit hero has ingrained that sort of abrasively honest personality as something reassuring to him. At this point Pavlovian response has conditioned him into liking it, and there’s nothing to be done for it now. 

They both have obscenely useful surveillance capabilities— Echo with her wide-area precision echolocation quirk, and Hawks with his feathers— so they’re oftentimes used together to cover large swaths of urban landscape, where the superiority of their precision hearing dominates other hearing quirks. Predictably Hawks’s presence in the area has stirred a bit of a media frenzy, with an uptick in public safety opinion following his trail. He’s become a regular sight flitting around the narrow Tokyo skylines, usually carting Echo around like a fancy backpack. 

So far they’ve made a few arrests but have mostly kept to laying groundwork for longer intel gathering missions. The criminal landscape of the capital region is robust and complicated; there are dozens of key gangs with webs of legal and monetary resources hidden beneath them, and a tenuous law enforcement dynamic with rival precincts and hero agencies vying for resources and territory in a way that’s not entirely dissimilar to the gangs they’re trying to take down. He has no idea how people do this their whole lives— he wants to go back to the days where someone pointed at a villain and he swooped in to take them down, smiled for the cameras while the police put them in cuffs, and shot off to the next assignment. 

Tonight started off as all his previous nights in Tokyo did, with the sun setting upon a neon dream, the city awakening into a tableau of flashing lights and dizzying sounds, gleaming skyscrapers towering over the lifeblood of the city, and streets crawling through the darkness like glowing veins sprawling through the night sky, as far as the eye can see. Hawks alighted against a nearby radio tower, peering down into the luminous abyss as his radio crackled in his ear. Across a bleak strip of darkened windows, a man was pacing back and forth down the polished floors of a darkened office, phone pressed to his ear.

“Look, there’s nothing more I can do, my hands are tied,” he’s saying nervously, worrying at his tie. “If I try to ship out anymore we’re liable to expose our shipment route, and then it’s all over. You don’t understand, Toman likes to keep their streets clean, running this much through their territory is already dangerous business—

There’s a long pause as Hawks shuffles his feather closer along the ridge of the floor-to-ceiling window, pressing it hard against the glass. 

“—I don’t know anything about that, I don’t want to know anything about that,” the man’s insisting, as his tie unravels in his fretful hands, “I just run the factories, okay? I’m a book keeper. I don’t want to know what I don’t need to know. I don’t know who’s buying, I don’t care.”

“I can’t get anything from the other side,” Hawks says into his mic. “Too much disturbance from the airconditioner.” 

“Roger that. I’ll see if I can help.” Echo returns. Hawks turns towards a distant skyscraper, his sharp eyes easily discerning Echo’s crouched form as she slowly conjures up one of her sound bubbles. It’s indiscernible to the naked eye, but her hands clasp together before she holds her palms out as if she’s slowly pushing something away from her.

“—they’re the only buyers in town and we can’t pass this up. They just need a ship to go as far as Okinawa. They’ve got their own transportation method from there.” The voice on the phone is low and soothing, in direct contrast to their mark, who looks close to worrying himself to tears. “They’ve got two shipping containers. Real small. We can just add them to the freighter bound for Hong Kong, call in a maintenance issue to stop in Okinawa. No one needs to know what’s in them, it doesn’t matter to us.”

“I can’t be involved in this,” the businessman insists, moving on from his wrinkled tie to clutch at his receding hairline. “You don’t understand. Trigger is bad enough, but Dabi doesn’t kill for that anymore— 

Both Hawks and Echo jolt in surprise at the sudden dropping of Dabi’s name. 

“But if this is what I think it is… we’re dead meat, do you hear me? I don’t care who’s buying or how much they’re offering. We’re all fucked. He’s going to erase us from existence.” The man gasps, panicked. 

“He’s not going to find out,” the voice on the phone soothes. “And even if he does, these guys are big time. Interpol’s most wanted kind of shit. They can handle him.”

Their mark laughs nervously. “Look, you’re not from around here, you don’t get it. Dabi fucking runs this town. And Toman’s in his back pocket. They own the Kuat Shipyards, do you understand me? They’re going to know.”

“We’ve got confirmation on location,” Hawks speaks quietly into his mic. 

Hawks’s comms crackle to life as their surveillance team jumps to action. “Roger that Hawks, good work. Echo, stay in position. Hawks, head over to the shipyards.”

“On it!” He chirps, unfurling his wings and freefalling off the roof. He catches an updraft and soars high over the metal towers of Tokyo’s downtown, heading for the dark blanket of water at the edge of the glittering city. 

Even at this time of night traffic trudges on through the streets below like neon sludge; Hawks arrives at the bay in record time, banking around the rainbow bridge and Odaiba proper as he circles around. 

This’ll be a tough one to spot, but maybe he’ll get lucky and see something off. The Kuat Shipyards are the lifeblood of Tokyo’s maritime trade, and finding criminal activity among the busy port feels a lot like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Enormous warehouses cluster along the banks and sprawl up towards the freeway in impenetrable steel mounds, massive oceanic freighters heavy with shipping containers idle in the black waters of the bay. 

As he observes the world below, he wonders what in particular they’re shipping that has their money launderer so afraid. 

Hawks has been on this case long enough to know whoever their buyer is holds a lot of international sway and has a massive global presence. He hasn’t heard a name yet, which is already a bad sign. Only criminal organizations that have something to hide go this far in hiding their identities. 

It’s just as he’s idly musing on how daunting it would be to find out the culprit is some kind of household name— like a government official or corporate executive— that the warehouse he’s floating over explodes. 

“Holy shit!!” 

The unexpected wave of heat sends him spiraling into a freefall, and he just barely manages to catch himself before he hurtles into the water. 

Hawks pitches his wings, and staggers to keep airborne. He gasps loudly when he sees the pillar of white-blue flames soaring high into the sky, so hot that it tingles against his skin, even at this distance. He’s lucky the updraft acted as a buffer, otherwise his wings might have incinerated on impact. It’s the sort of heat that seems impossible in real life, scorching his lungs on every inhale, its sheer brightness whiting his vision so hard he’s still blinking the spots from his eyes. 

“Are you okay, Hawks? Come in, Hawks!”

He grasps for his earpiece, shocked it didn’t melt right off. “I’m fine, just got caught off guard. A warehouse just blew up at the Kuat Shipyards— think I found myself our culprits.”

There’s a bunch of cursing from the surveillance as they make contact with HQ. Everyone is caught off guard by this turn of events; this was supposed to be a recon mission, not a full on tactical assault. 

Hawks rubs the smoke and dirt from goggles, squinting down into the blinding flames. The warehouse is just… gone. There isn’t even the remains of metal support structures to denote it was even there at all. If Hawks hadn’t just seen it with his own eyes, he would have thought the spot had been entirely empty. Usually fire left remnants— even cremation fires left bone shards and other residue beyond just dust and ash. He’s not certain how hot a fire has to be to level a metal building instantaneously, but he’d imagine that sort of power would have some kind of blowback. The pressure alone should have destroyed the nearby warehouses at least, yet the rest of the shipyards are perfectly untouched. 

Wait— Hold on. 

Cremation…

Hawks soars upwards, out of range from the smoke and haze to get a better view of the situation. His heart skips a beat as trepidation rises in his chest— was he seriously about to come face to face with one of the most notoriously elusive supervillains in the country right now? He frantically scans the dark streets and— there. Dangerously, almost suicidally, within range of the sweltering pillar of blue flame is a figure with pale white hair, gleaming an eerie white-blue in the light of the fire. He could be mistaken, but his instincts have never led him wrong before. And right now the primal intrinsic raptor side of him is going haywire, shooting adrenaline straight into his veins, sharpening his senses like a predator preparing for fight or flight. 

The wind turns, and Hawks slopes across the roofs to avoid the smoke columns. The change in angle and lighting has his pupils adjusting, refocusing until his vision is perfect once again. This time, he can make out more of the scene below; Dabi standing backlit by the flames, facing a man in a pinstripe suit with a gun in his hand. They seem to be speaking to each other, but Hawks can’t hear anything over the roaring of the flames. He’s too far to read Dabi’s lips or discern his expression, but it’s obvious enough what he intends to do when he pulls a hand out of his pocket and reaches up for his blindfold. 

Hawks sucks in a sharp breath as it falls to the floor.

Oh shit. 

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

OBVIOUSLY we have a lot of problems to address, I say, referring to one specific problem, which I created, alone. 

Comments 482 |  Likes 594 | Retweets 394

//

In Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to seize the warehouse in an atomic level distortion so strong it eradicated the entire structure from the face of existence, but he’s in a pretty pissed off mood and wanted to be dead certain the entire contents of the warehouse were disposed of in an irreversible manner. 

It’s still so ironic to him, that the quirk his father and his childhood doctors had taken one look at and professed as malfunctioning and crippling to his body, is actually the perfect compliment to his Limitless techniques and Infinity. 

He’d honestly assumed he’d reached the pinnacle of what any mortal could ever hope to achieve with his combined Six Eyes and Limitless, but good old Endeavor proved him wrong. 

The quirk factor Gojo inherited from his father allows him to create and emit flames from his body: the body he inherited from his mother can’t handle the extreme temperatures created by those flames. 

In theory, this should render his powerful fire quirk as worse than useless. In reality, in combination with his Limitless, he can use the attraction power of blue to directly increase the temperature of his flames to the proportion of the pressure he puts on it, and the reversal of red to confine it. This creates a flame with unlimited temperature and kinetic energy, and a barrier around it that allows Gojo to control the radius and trajectory with impossible precision. The result is a technique that, in some respects, he thinks might be superior to the Gojo clan’s acclaimed Hollow Purple.

The Hollow Purple technique combines the convergence and divergence of two polar infinities, the infinity of positive energy and the infinity of negative energy, and the resulting fusion effectively erases anything it comes in contact with from existence. But manifesting a power that completely bypasses the laws of physics is time consuming, energy intensive, and somewhat unwieldy in practice. Its precision and speed is very limited. It looks epic, don’t get him wrong, but it has its drawbacks just like any other technique. 

But this technique he’s perfected in his second life— dubbed cremation by the police, a name that has, to his begrudging disbelief, started to grow on him— has none of those drawbacks. He can use extreme heat to achieve the same result as Hollow Purple in practice, if not in theory. Technically, Hollow Purple is completely erasing atoms from existence. Cremation just changes the structural integrity of molecules using the principles of thermodynamics until they become utterly unrecognizable, all at instantaneous speeds with perfect precision. 

To make a long story short: cremation has no business being this flashy when it can rearrange molecules in the space of an instant, but Gojo’s pissed and in the mood to watch things burn, and there just so happened to be an entire warehouse full of Humarise’s new and dangerous version of trigger conveniently nearby. 

And anyway, it’s been ages since Gojo’s engaged in any kind of arsonry. He’s missed it. 

“So, still think I’m playing around?” He says, casually.

He turns towards the Humarise member he’d encountered when he’d first warped over here, a lanky man in a striped suit whose earlier arrogance has deflated like a punctured balloon. His bluster from before has left his face ruddy and reddish, and combined with the sudden shock of Gojo’s explosion leaves his skin an odd shade of aubergine. 

The man staggers back in horror as his grave, wide eyes tilt up towards the sky, where an infernal curtain of flame rises into a starless black maw.

“You— what did you do?!  Why isn’t it working?” He cries in despair, waving his gun around erratically. 

Gojo doesn’t bother to tell him that his flames are so hot they burned off the Ideo Trigger instantaneously, leaving nothing left but diatomic carbon. Frankly, outrageous showboating not withstanding, Eraserhead and Naomasa and even that bratty Tachibana should really be thanking Gojo, because trying to get rid of such a vast amount of such a volatile substance like Ideo Trigger would have been hell for the police. 

Now why the hell this organization would want to even make a synthesized version of Trigger that would kill the user almost upon injection and in such an enormous quantity is a whole separate issue. It makes no sense to Gojo— nothing about Humarise makes much sense to him so far. They’ve turned a street drug like Trigger into a murder weapon, while simultaneously trafficking quirkless people, whom the drug will have no effect on. As far as a criminal enterprise goes, it’s pretty dodgy logic. Killing off all your users sounds like the pinnacle of bad business practice.

“Bring it back!” The man wails. “Bring it back, damn you!”

Gojo laughs. “Your product is long gone, dude.” He thumbs at the bottom of his blindfold, gently tugging it off. “And on that note, you will be too, if you don’t cooperate.”

Predictably, the man insists on doing the exact opposite. He sends one last frenzied look in Gojo’s direction before staggering off into the maze of shipping containers behind him, leaving Gojo alone with his flames.

Well, almost alone. 

He throws his hand up in a mock salute, grinning widely. “Hey there Kei-kun, fancy seeing you here!”

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

Me, whenever my own terrible life choices catch up to me

Comments 501 |  Likes 571 | Retweets 387

//

Hawks is suddenly very glad for the ongoing gunfights, explosions, and general mayhem, because it means his mic probably can’t pick up the sounds of his hyperventilating over all the background noise. He can barely even concentrate on the escalating situation around him over the white noise of his own hysterical panic, but he has enough presence of mind to remember to mute it. 

He’ll never admit it aloud to anyone, but his very first coherent thought after he’s had his internal meltdown is: Damn he’s really as hot as I remembered. …Literally. 

After that, he has no real time for regrets or dumbfounded realizations, because this might definitely be the first and only guy he’s ever slept with… but he’s also one of the most dangerous villains to exist and he’s kind of in the middle of fucking shit up, and Hawks has a job to do. Namely, arresting him. Probably. Well, he can certainly try. But everything he’s heard about Dabi— Satoru— would infer that to be a lesson in futility. And anyway, Dabi’s… telekinesis(?)… flames(?) (How exactly can flames be telekinetic? Are they just usually invisible? Or is this a secondary utilization of some kind? Or were all the reports just plain fucking wrong???) — Dabi’s quirk, whatever the fuck it is, looks like a terrible matchup for his highly flammable feathers, so he can try but he doubts he’ll get anywhere. 

Most heroes would radio in for backup when encountering an unknown and unconfirmed villain. They’d also try to get a second opinion on the identity of the individual they’re trying to confirm. Corroborate with databases and other eyewitnesses. 

Most heroes also, probably, haven’t had intimate relations with said villain that they haven’t managed to get out of their head since. 

Hawks knows with an exacting, terrifying degree of certainty that Satoru is Dabi. He has perfect recall and an eidetic memory. There is absolutely no way he’s ever forgetting Satoru’s face— not when he spent an entire night memorizing those features as they contorted into every shade of ecstasy. 

Hawks is the fastest hero in the country. He always has a plan, and a backup plan, and even a hail mary if all else fails. 

He has no idea what the fuck to do in this situation.

So he finds himself just returning the greeting. 

“Long time no see, Satoru-san,” he replies, in just as pleasant a tone as the villain had greeted him in. Which is bewildering, because he’s the Number Three Hero and he’s not supposed to be on first name basis with villains. 

Oddly enough, heedless of his overwhelming panic he finds himself frozen in some numb oasis of calm. Like an out of body experience, or something. Maybe it’s all his training finally kicking in like muscle memory, his mind on autopilot as he strategizes the best way to approach this situation. 

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as his wings beat a few times against the warm air currents to remain hovering in place. “So, what brings you around these parts?” 

Dabi laughs. “All work and no play, unfortunately. I’m assuming you’re the same?”

“Something like that,” Hawks agrees. “We got wind of a deal going down tonight, thought I’d head over and scope it out.”

“Deal’s over.” Dabi’s grin is all sharp teeth. “I don’t negotiate with human lives.”

“Words a fella could live by, huh?” Hawks returns idly, feeling his own lips twitch upwards in response. 

“You’d think, right?” Dabi complains, sighing. “And yet it seems people like that are so hard to come by these days.”

“You might be in the wrong occupation if that sort of morality is what you’re looking for.” Hawks points out, mildly. 

“Actually, I’d disagree.” Dabi shrugs, then peers up at him with those mesmerizing eyes of his. Even from this distance, they’re oddly ensnaring. Hawks would bet his left wing there’s something utterly abnormal about them, even if he has no idea how such a thing could be possible. “But nevermind me— what about you?”

“What about me?” Hawks replies, shoulders tensing. 

“Well, I’ve got a bit of a hostage situation on my hands here. People’s lives are at stake— think you can put aside our occupational differences long enough to save them?”

Hawks doesn’t even have to think before replying; “That was never in question.” He tucks his wings in close, and plummets back to the ground. He lands a few paces away from Dabi. “What can you tell me about their status?”

Chapter Text

Gojo hadn’t intended on getting Hawks involved in this, but the hero was already here and there really wasn’t much point in passing up an opportunity like this. 

Frankly, he’d expected he’d run into Hawks sooner or later in a situation like this, and he figured if he ever wanted any genuine insight into the man’s personality, the quickest way to do that would be to engineer a set of events wherein they’d have to work with each other. As it turns out, the opportunity just fell right into his lap, so he may as well make the most of it. It’s not as if Gojo had gone into this with some sort of grading criteria involved, but if this was a test, then so far Hawks was passing it. 

And hell,  better Hawks than Endeavor, the only other top three hero stomping around these parts these days. 

He hadn’t turned tail at the first sight of Gojo, which happened with alarming frequency when it came to heroes who stumbled upon him in the streets. Gojo understood it, of course; they were usually much weaker than him and poor matchups to boot, so it made sense they’d want backup or would call in for a hero better aligned to combat Gojo’s abilities. But that’d be pretty poor behavior for a top ranking hero like Hawks. The winged hero didn’t disappoint though. Not only did he stand his ground, he didn’t immediately engage in combat without first judging the situation. He’d actually even treated Gojo in open negotiation, although with a wary caution well warranted for a first (known) encounter with a villain. And after confirming what was going on, he’d agreed to put aside their differences in favor of the lives at stake. 

Hawks had discussed possible solutions to the hostage situation and listened openly to Gojo’s advice. He didn’t disagree with any of his suggestions straight out of hand just because Gojo happened to be a villain— if anything, he seemed to recognize Gojo’s extensive history with the criminal underworld and defer to his judgment. You’d think all of this would just be more or less common sense, yet it was disheartening how many heroes would dismiss an opportunity to save lives with less risk just because a villain was involved. 

Gojo wondered if he’d still be so approving of the Number Three if he hadn’t met him as Keigo beforehand. Probably not, but he wasn’t against acknowledging his own biases. 

He was probably being too lenient with Hawks, in all honesty. He doubted he’d be so open and forthcoming with information had Hawks been anyone else— even Eraserhead of Naomasa, whom he’s developed something of a soft sport for. 

He rarely, if ever, went out of his way to explain the nuances of his technique to anyone. Actually he tended to come up with progressively more bizarre explanations the longer the line of questioning went on. He also didn’t make it a habit to work with others. It was an unnecessary level of complexity, when he so rarely actually needed assistance. 

Yet here he was, making concessions. 

“We could always wait for backup,” Hawks says, as they linger in a dark alley just across from the warehouse Humarise is keeping their human hostages. 

Between Hawks’s feathers and Gojo’s Six Eyes, scoping the building out for weaknesses hadn’t taken long. The place was crawling with goons, but most of them seemed like hired third-party contractors. Easy enough to scare off with a well timed curse technique, or even just Hawks or Dabi’s presence alone. However, just strolling in there unthinkingly would escalate the situation; Gojo doesn’t know enough about this Humarise group to know whether they’d make good on a threat to start killing hostages or not. 

Gojo debates the merits of it. “Who’s your backup?”

“Underground hero Echo is assigned on this mission too— she’s probably finishing up the arrests for their financial backers. But it wouldn’t be that difficult to pull in another hero on patrol nearby.”

Gojo knows Echo by name and reputation if nothing else. She’s a frequent adjunct to the Mos Eisley police department, one of his favorite precincts to fuck with, so she’s come up in conversation plenty of times. He thinks Smiley’s a bit sweet on her too, and anyone Smiley likes can generally be counted on to be a decent enough person. Much like her fellow underground hero Eraserhead she’s got a quirk that’s not entirely suited for combat but can kick ass nonetheless. 

Gojo doesn’t think it’s necessary to drag her into this mess, though. 

He can handle it himself, in all honesty.

But having Hawks here— a known and reputable top hero (although that sparkling reputation is very suspicious, in Gojo’s opinion) will go a long way in easing tensions during a hostage situation. Unsurprisingly, frightened civilians already stuck in tenuous situations tend to hear the name of one of the country’s most wanted villains and get a bit hysterical. With Hawks, he’s guaranteed to cut his quota of screaming women and crying children by at least fifty percent. And if he doesn’t, well, Hawks is here so he can fob all that nonsense onto the guy who actually deals with traumatized civilians as a profession. 

That being said, one hero is bad enough. And anyway, Smiley would kill him if something happened to the girl he’s been trying to mack on for months under Gojo’s watch.  

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He pauses. “Although I do sense a trap.”

Hawks’ gaze flits towards him, glowing gold in the low light. It feels a lot like the stare of a predator in the dark, and even though the thought sends a shiver down his spine, that’s somehow not nearly as frightening as it should be. “Next move?”

Gojo grins roguishy. “Spring the trap.”

Hawks doesn’t ask how he intends to do that, since he’s already well aware at this point that Gojo has plenty of ways to go about that. Gojo had given him a rough overview of how Limitless worked— it might have been nothing more than a cursory explanation, but it was a far cry more informative than the usual ringaround he gave people on the subject— namely that Gojo could use it to manipulate space in a way that could cause untold levels of destruction and could teleport instantaneously. 

So Hawks just gives him a slightly exasperated look as he fixes his visor over his eyes. “Just try not to burn my eyes this time.”

Gojo rolls his eyes. He’d already explained to the hero why a flame of that temperature (and the subsequent property damage) was necessary considering the volatility of the airborne, modified Ideo Trigger. It wasn’t his fault the winged hero had taken the opportunity to soar closer than Gojo had expected him to the moment he’d blown it up. 

“No flames necessary, promise.” Gojo assures with a flirty smile.

Maybe too flirty, even for him, given the situation at hand.

Sue him, okay, he can’t help it. Stick a criminally attractive guy in front of him and a bit of harmless flirting is basically subconscious to him. And anyway, it’s not like Hawks’s status as a top hero or Gojo’s status as a top villain is going to change the fact they’ve already slept with each other.

Predictably, Hawks just shakes his head at his antics. He does, however, look to be fighting off an unwilling smile as he does it. 

“Fine, I’ll wait for your signal.” He shakes out his feathers, spreading his wings. As he shoots into the air, he tosses a finger at Gojo, “And don’t think we’re not talking about this later!”

Gojo smiles up at his retreating figure wryly. 

Yeah, he supposes it’s a conversation a little overdue. 

But really, what is he supposed to say? Haha, sorry for sleeping with you? I had a great time and I don’t regret it, but I feel bad that I probably made you go through an existential moral dilemma I hadn’t intended to give you? But it’s not like I knew you were a hero either, so, let’s just call it even and agree to walk away as enemies???

Gojo cuts those thoughts off, reminding himself he’s on the clock here.  

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

why do I keep putting myself in situations that require me to be a responsible and/or reasonable human being??? I am not qualified to be the adult here

Comments 511 |  Likes 524  | Retweets 402

//

So meeting Dabi has not gone at all how Hawks could have ever expected, and on a horrifyingly related note, meeting Satoru again has also by that same turn gone demonstrably disastrous. 

As he flies low between the warehouses and leaves Dabi’s immediate line of sight, he lets his amicable facade crumble a little. He alights atop the roof of the warehouse adjacent to the one they’d confirmed the hostages were being held in, and lets out a long, shaky breath. That was… harrowing, to say the very least. 

He’d expected his inevitable meeting with the infamous Dabi to be filled with danger and violence, and although he hoped he’d be able to negotiate some sort of dubious pact of non-aggression with the villain, he fully expected to meet him as a known enemy on bad terms.  

He’d expected to never see Satoru again, but entertained idle daydreams of running into him in just as serendipitous a manner as their introduction, perhaps at a coffee shop or just bumping into each other on the street, and privately admitted that if such a scenario ever miraculously came to pass he was unlikely to let the man go again without at least getting a number if he ever got the chance. 

The actual reality of both meetings was almost too bizarre to comprehend. 

What were the fucking odds they’d be the same person, he thinks, deliriously, as he sends a sharpened feather to quietly pick the lock of the window across from him. He watches the feather burrow into the latch with only half a mind on the meticulous detailed work involved.

Hawks can barely come to terms with the reality of Satoru being Dabi (and all that entails) when his first encounter with the villain has left him so shaken. He’s a top hero for a reason— there’s very little that can truly throw him off his game these days, and fewer still capable of causing  such situations. Dabi is obviously one of them. Nevermind that he incinerated a multiple storied warehouse the size of a few city blocks into nothingness— it was the calmness he displayed in the midst of the destruction and the sheer control he wielded over his own destructive powers that truly alarmed him. He’d seen plenty of villains cause horrific levels of destruction on greater scales, but never with so much precision, such mastery over their quirk. Flames that hot and that explosive should have destroyed the entire warehouse district at the very least, possibly even the neighboring districts, and Dabi had confined it into a perfectly measured area with mathematical precision. And at Dabi’s— Satoru’s— age… probably not any older than Hawks himself… it was chilling. Just what had Dabi had to go through to achieve such unprecedented control over a quirk that must be unimaginably dangerous? 

Hawks knew exactly what it was like to be in possession of something so cripplingly powerful. People considered his own quirk S-tier, and his mastery of it sublime. And it had taken him years of exhausting, endless days of training to achieve it. It had, quite literally, taken his entire life. Everything that could compromise a human life well lived— the routineness of everyday normal life that most people took for granted: friends, school, social outings, life milestones—he’d given it all up to achieve the proficiency he had now. And his feathers weren’t even what would be considered a classically ‘dangerous’ quirk. He could sharpen them, sure, but they weren’t inherently a danger to himself or others. Dabi’s quirk, whatever it was, was so powerful and so catastrophic it must require impossible levels of control. Control he’d have to have learned at a young age, otherwise he would have permanently damaged himself and others. 

It… must  have been a difficult life. Probably not one dissimilar to his own. 

It’s the combination of their inherent similarities and the pure, exponential power of his quirk that has Hawks so troubled. 

Dabi was, in a word, terrifying. 

Hawks’s preternatural instincts weren’t wrong to immediately label him a threat. It’s just too bad the rest of his brain was having such a hard time agreeing with the sentiment. 

The man with the indomitable control over his cataclysmic quirk was also the same man that had smiled so softly at Hawks and promised him he wasn’t interested in taking home anyone else, even after Hawks had nervously confessed he’d never done anything like this before. He’d been funny and sincere in equal turns, and unabashedly genuine in everything he did. And that was probably the most terrifying thing of all. Because Hawks was too well trained to miss a lie when he saw one, and if Satoru hadn’t been lying at all that night, then that meant his every word and action had been the truth. Satoru was the truth of Dabi. 

His feather pries the latch free and the window yawns open in a soundless arc. Hawks immediately flits down to it, and disperses his feathers to carefully haul himself over the ledge and onto the rafter on the opposite side. Once he’s settled in the shadowed darkness above the warehouse, he calls them back to him. 

He pushes all thoughts of Dabi out of his mind and focuses on the mission at hand. 

Chained in rows in the back end of the warehouse are dozens of civilians of all ages. Some can’t be any older than two or three, sniffling and shaking as the adults near them try to quietly comfort them. They were heavily guarded by an encirclement of what must be hired thugs, with the man Dabi had confronted whispering frantically off to the side with what could only be their ringleader. They really weren’t playing around— in addition to whatever quirks they might possess, they were all armed. A well-financed group, but that was to be expected from what he knows of their financial backers. And there was an easily discernible line dividing the guards that must be hired for the gig and the ones that worked directly for the organization, judging from attire and quality of weaponry alone. The thugs were in the sort of streetwear and cobbled together support items he’d expect from run-of-the-mill villains; the members of Humarise were all fitted with military grade tactical gear. 

The man in the rumpled suit from earlier was hissing frantically at an equally frantic looking tattooed thug, gesticulating wildly. A red feather zoomed across the darkened rafters, slinking into a position for Hawks to overhear their conversation.

“I’m paying you triple what was originally agreed, Ishimoto.” The man in the pinstripe suit griped, wiping madly at his sweating bald head. 

His tattooed companion, Ishimoto, gave him an incredulous look. “All due respect, Hamauzu-san, but you could pay me my weight in gold and my answer ain’t changing. No one in this town crosses Dabi.”

“You already made an enemy of him when you agreed in the first place!” the Humarise exec, Hamauzu, returns. “There’s no point in running now, we just need to wait a bit longer for the strike drones to be in range—

Hawks narrows his eyes in alarm. So they have access to military grade weaponry as well? This was bad. Just who the hell was this group? There weren’t very many players in the criminal underworld capable of purchasing that kind of firepower. Hawks had known Humarise was an international terrorist group of some kind; now he had to wonder if they were state sponsored, and if so, by whom.

“Military strike drones? Just for me? I’m flattered!”

Hawks sucks in a sharp breath, blinking furiously as he feels like his own eyes are playing tricks on him.

Did Dabi just… teleport?

Oh, right, yeah. That's… a thing. He can do. Apparently. As if scorching hell fire and deadly telekinesis weren't enough already.

Shouts of shock and alarm erupt from the armed guards below, and plenty of them start shooting erratically without even waiting for any kind of signal. Hawks nearly lets loose a dozen feathers to intercept on instinct, and just barely manages to refrain at the last second as to not blow his cover. His intuition proves itself in spades, as Dabi stops all the bullets in midair… without even pulling his hands out of his pockets. 

He’s such a tool, Hawks thinks, with far too much endearing fondness. It’s mildly infuriating that he finds it so attractive. 

“Yeesh, everyone’s so trigger happy today!” Dabi comments breezily. “If I wasn’t here to kill you all, I’d think you were happy to see me!”

“I don’t want nothin’ to do with this,” the tattooed thug insists, backing away. 

“A little late for that,” Dabi remarks with a raised eyebrow, tone mild as milk, as if he’s not discussing the impending mass execution of every criminal in the room. “Come on man, you had to know I’d be coming for you, the moment you knew exactly what kind of goods you were transporting.”

Dabi jerks a thumb towards the chained up hostages. The burly criminal has nothing to say in defense, expression surprisingly stoic and fearless in the face of approaching doom. 

“I’d hoped the heroes would get here first.” The criminal admits, shocking Hawks into almost giving away his position with a loud, incredulous snort.

It’s positively absurd that criminals apparently hope to be captured by heroes over Dabi. Even if it theoretically makes a great deal of sense. They were far less likely to lose their lives in an altercation with heroes, who were trained to apprehend and not kill, as opposed to Dabi, who was notorious for his ultimate insta-death quirk. 

Dabi just laughs. “Hedging your bets on heroes beating me to the punch, huh? You know I can teleport, right?”

The man just shrugs. “They say Hawks is the fastest hero alive. And he’s in town.”

Awh, Hawks is flattered. Slightly. 

“They’ll come for you!!” The suited man shrieks, as he frantically backs away to place the tattooed thug between them. He points wildly at Dabi. “The heroes have been investigating us! They’ll be here any second!”

Hawks mouth drops open— in shock or outrage, he’s not sure.

Well, now it all makes sense, he thinks, grimly.

Both he and Echo had remarked how oddly easy it had been to pinpoint Tawada Takeshi, the financial backer and shipping manager that had been working with this Humarise group, and the man they’d been spying on earlier. Almost as if he’d been some kind of red herring. Turns out they weren’t entirely off the mark. Takeshi had been there to lead the heroes, but not in a different direction, no— they’d wanted the heroes to find out about this. Because between the hired thugs and the armed guards, even a team of veteran heroes would have trouble neutralizing this threat. 

Add to that their prototype Ideo Trigger, which apparently had the power to overload a person’s quirk with just an inhale of the airborne toxin, and this whole night was just one huge powder keg ready to blow up in their faces.

Damn, they’d really almost got us on this one, huh? He muses, with an internal wince. 

He can’t imagine how bad this night could have gone without Dabi’s interference.

He would have made it here in record time, because he’s Hawks, the fastest hero in the country. He would have scoped out the situation and scouted the area, pinpointed the hostages and the warehouse full of drugs. He’d have requested backup, and plenty of it, after realizing they were dealing with military-grade opponents. The police would have gotten involved. Other heroes would have been called, possibly even other Top Ten Heroes, like Endeavor and Kamui Woods, who Hawks knew to be in the area. They would have been caught entirely unawares. It would have been a bloodbath. 

Hawks shakes his head in wonder. 

And yet, all their plans had fallen apart in an instant. All because Dabi just happened to show up tonight. 

Dabi is laughing so hard he’s nearly in tears. “Unbelievable! So the criminals are actually hoping to be saved by the heroes? You guys were counting on it, huh? That’s a shame.” He rubs his chin as he tilts his head up in a thoughtful manner, as he comes to the same conclusion Hawks did. “You know, a threat of this level would have had all the heroes in the area gunning straight for this place, for the glory if nothing else. And they woulda been slaughtered, right? All you’d need is someone like Endeavor to show up, and just one whiff of Ideo Trigger and he’d blow half the city up.”

The profusely sweating Hamauzu peers over the shoulder of his thug bodyguard, suddenly looking eager. “Yes, yes exactly! We could still make it work, Dabi-san! Think of all the heroes we could kill! Possibly even three of the Top Heroes, all in one night!”

The man looks giddy at the thought, wiping a handkerchief over his balding head. “There’s no reason we need to be enemies, Dabi-san,” Hamauzu simpers, fervently. “Heroes are a blight upon society, surely you agree. If you work with Humarise, we can rid the world of them together!”

Dabi blinks. 

His expression is difficult to read, even with his blindfold off. He looks like an entirely different person with it off, actually. With it on, his features are all perfect, exacting sharp angles; the refined bridge of his nose, the perfect slope of his chin and the patrician arch in his brow giving him the sort of remarkably angular look that catapults people onto fashion runways. That’s not to say he’s any less attractive with it off: just completely, almost impossibly, different— which probably goes a long way in explaining why no one has ever managed to uncover his true identity. Without the blindfold his entire face is revealed in full, the big, almost doll-like round eyes, framed by an arresting splash of bright-white lashes; the supple curve of his cheeks. He cuts a distinguished figure no matter what, but he looks much softer without the blindfold on. Almost innocent, in fact.

Hawks knows damn well that innocence is a total lie by every definition of the word. Dabi is no blushing virgin. 

But this Humarise executive was clearly fooled by the ruse. The babydoll eyes and the sweet cupid's bow of his mouth and the naively juvenescent look.

Dabi smiles wide, so sweet but full of teeth and sharp edges. “You wanna work together, huh?”

Hamauzu nods rapidly. The sweat shines as it pours off his bald head. “We’d be unstoppable,” he insists, a positively greedy gleam in his eyes as he stares at Dabi’s form. 

In a move so fast even Hawks can barely catch it, Dabi is behind the armed tattooed thug and right in front of the other man. He raises a single hand a loft, fingers curled into a finger-gun. 

“Bang,” he says, eyes alight with the gaze of a predator toying with its prey.

Hamauzu gives an ear-splitting shriek of terror, losing his balance and sprawling gracelessly on his back like a flipped turtle. He struggles wretchedly as he scuttles to put distance between him and Dabi, eyes full of horror. 

Hawks would have called it bad form for Dabi to put himself in a position with armed enemies at his back, but frankly, with that telekinetic shield of his Hawks has to assume such a point is moot for him. 

Meanwhile, as the Humarise exec is desperately crawling backwards in a fit of terror, Dabi is laughing at him enthusiastically. “Hahaha! You’re really kinda pathetic arent’cha?” He muses aloud. 

His beaming smile dims into something vicious. “I’m already unstoppable, what do I need you for?” 

He raises his hand again, this time palm forward with his fingers wide, and directs it off to the side.

Hawks wishes he’d been wired up with both a mic and a surveillance camera, if only to get a chance to rewatch the footage and get a closer look at Dabi’s quirk in slow motion. As it is, even his superior sight can’t really register what happens. One moment the warehouse is intact, and in the next Dabi has completely blown off the back half of the roof with a resounding boom. Cries of fear rise up from the shocked hostages as they cower at the sudden noise, the guards all panicked and alert as they flounder around uselessly. 

Dabi doesn’t even so much as glance at the ensuing chaos he’s caused. His head is tilted up in Hawks's direction, eyes locked onto his. Even from this distance, Hawks can register the challenge glittering in those radiant eyes. As if Dabi is saying, your move. 

And who is Hawks to disappoint?

He drops down from the rafters and disarms the thug behind Dabi; even if he knows logically a man in his blindspot is not a liability for the supervillain, the thought of leaving his back unprotected just makes Hawks’s skin crawl. As he incapacitates the man, he releases a flurry of feathers to pluck all the hostages up and ferry them to safety. While he’s doing that, Dabi launches forward to deal with the rest of the guards. 

Hawks is a bit busy taking down his own fair share of hired thugs, using his remaining feathers to disarm them before they can start shooting, relying on his hand-to-hand to see him through fighting their quirks off, but he can’t help but keep an eye on Dabi as he does the same. He’s genuinely impressed; most people with quirks like Dabi’s don’t bother learning any forms of physical offense. Evidently Dabi isn’t one of those people. His combat skills might be on par with Hawks, who’s had professional training since he was a small child. He can’t place what style it is— a mix of down and dirty street fighting moves and classical martial arts, interspersed with plenty of improvisation. 

Regardless, impressive martial ability or not, it’s still hardly the most pragmatic or efficient manner for Dabi to handle taking down a group of armed opponents. Especially in light of the staggering power and precision of his quirk. 

Hawks waits until they’ve disarmed and rounded up all the enemies in sight before turning to Dabi with the question on his tongue. 

“Seems a bit underwhelming to show off your flashy quirk for everything but the takedown,” Hawks comments, as he sends a few feathers out to scope out the area for any missed stragglers. 

“Can I borrow those?” Dabi asks instead of answering, pointing to the quirk-suppression cuffs dangling from his belt. 

Curious, Hawks tosses them towards the villain. “Sure. What for?”

Dabi makes his way to a man he’d pinned in a bastardized straightjacket made out of the guy’s own coat. He slaps the cuffs on the struggling man, before wandering back towards Hawks. “He’s the only one with a quirk that can break out of bindings, but watch out for that guy over there,” he nudges his chin towards a man with a mutant type quirk. “His tail’s got serrated spikes.”

Hawks nods seriously, flitting off a feather to keep watch over the thug in question, even as his mind races a mile a minute to process Dabi’s remark. 

How exactly does he know that? Did he have intel before tonight indicating the people who would be involved, and their quirks? The thought is a bit outlandish. The police barely get access to records like that, and they work hand in hand with the law. But the only other logical conclusion is just as absurd. Somehow, Dabi knows what a person’s quirk is just by looking at them. 

That has literally nothing to do with telekinesis at all, but would sure as hell explain the eyes, Hawks thinks, dazedly, as the other man nears and he gets a detailed look at the eyes in question.

But Dabi had explained his quirk in vague, layman’s terms to him already, and hadn’t mentioned anything about his eyes. 

Then again, if I was a villain, I wouldn’t reveal everything about my quirk to a hero either. 

Hawks knew enough about the other man’s quirk to know it must work somehow on the atomic level— that didn’t quite explain the heat and fire element to it, but it was the only thing that fit. Dabi had said, rather nonchalantly, that his technique at its core is the practical application of the mathematical concept of infinity. Hawks has only a rudimentary understanding of theoretical mathematics, so he won’t claim he really understands it. All he can say is that it manifests as sheer, instantaneous destruction that doesn’t seem to have any kinds of limitations to it at all.

Is he somehow using that atomic spatial distortion to figure out other people’s quirks? But how the hell would that work?

He’ll give himself a raging headache if he thinks on it any longer. Maybe he should just give up on understanding how a quirk like Dabi’s could ever even exist, and just accept the fact that it does.

“And for the record, I didn’t use Limitless for your sake.”

Hawks is shaken from his musings at that. “My sake?” He repeats, perplexed.

“Yeah. It looks bad for a hero to leave a bunch of dead people around, right?”

Hawks blinks. “I would have blamed the deaths on you.” He points out. 

“Yeah,” Dabi agrees without missing a beat. “But then you’d have to explain why you were working with a villain in the first place. I figured you’d rather want to avoid a potential indictment.” 

Hawks blinks some more, bemused.

Hold on… did that mean— was Dabi… looking out for him? And his reputation? 

“Fair point.” Hawks replies, a bit dazed. “... Thanks for looking out for me.”

Dabi, to Hawks’s disbelief and distinct gratification, turns a bit pink at that. It’s impossible to mistake, even if it’s subtle, because Hawks has the dubious pleasure of knowing exactly what Dabi looks like when he blushes. And he knows exactly how far he can make that flush go down. 

“Well, for the sake of my villainous reputation, maybe don’t mention it.” Dabi shrugs, burying his hands into his pockets and looking off to the side. It does nothing to hide the dusting of pink across his cheeks from Hawks’s imperviously sharp gaze, nor does it hide the adorable flush at the tips of his ears. 

Now is not really a great time to be thinking about how nice it would be to shove him up against a wall and ravish him. Or be ravished himself. He’s not picky here. 

Hawks breaks that train of thought off forcefully before it totally derails him. 

By the time he’s wrenched himself back to the present, Dabi looks as if he’s composed himself back to his usual self. Not that Hawks even knows what that is. Is he usually more like the Satoru Hawks remembers, affable and loud and outrageously charming? Or is he actually more reserved and standoffish in his daily life, using his irreverent personality as an impenetrable shield? 

“So, you wanna deal with the hostages, and I’ll wrap things up with these guys?” He pulls a hand out of his pocket to point upwards.

Hawks follows his gaze out the cleaved open ceiling, squinting into the night sky. His keen eyes can just barely make out the gleam of light reflecting off a metallic surface. Coupled with the low drone of engines his sensitive ears are picking up, he can infer what Dabi means by ‘these guys’. 

Hawks glances back at Dabi, who looks rather eminently unperturbed by the turn of events. 

It’s not that Hawks doubts him, or anything. He can’t, after what he’s seen. But the idea of leaving him to deal with military-grade weaponry alone doesn’t sit well with him nonetheless. 

“You’re the hero here, aren’t you supposed to be the one to save the day and swoop the victims to safety?” Dabi points out dryly, in response to his unspoken hesitation. 

Hawks grins sheepishly. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

He’s fairly certain those were his words, nearly verbatim, from that interview he did with Put Your Hands Up Radio just to piss Eraserhead off. 

“Well, it’s quite a reputation,” Dabi comments mildly, in a tone that’s impossible to read. 

It’s the closest they’ve gotten yet to clearing the air between them. The whole, ‘accidentally sleeping with an occupational enemy’ thing, still heavy and unspoken between them. 

If he’s actually going to make any progress on the HPSC’s villain infiltration mission, it’s going to have to happen sooner or later. The fact that he already knows Dabi and that they still have plenty of unresolved sexual tension between them, is too good an opportunity to waste. 

But having this conversation in the midst of a hostage situation with missile artillery bearing down on them is probably not ideal.

“You’ve got quite the reputation yourself, to my surprise.” Hawks returns, smirking. 

“It was a surprise to me too, you know?” Dabi laughs, actually looking a bit embarrassed.

He blinks rapidly. 

Wait. Was it really?

He’d assumed, just from what he read from Dabi— or Satoru’s— body language that night that the white-haired man had had no idea who he was. But after realizing Satoru’s actual identity, he’d had to second guess himself. But maybe he’d had the right of it all along. 

Dabi really wasn’t shaping up to be the villain he’d thought he’d be. 

Hawks shakes his head in wonder. “Are you serious? How did you not know? You’re literally a supervillain!”

“Exactly! So why would I know anything about heroes?” Dabi complains. 

“You— that’s—” Hawks squawks in a decidedly bird-like manner he’ll be embarrassed about later, pointing at him wildly. Dabi doesn’t appear to think there’s anything outrageous to the fact he’s a wanted supervillain who apparently can’t even name the country’s Top Ten.

“Nevermind.” Hawks sighs, wondering if he should just give up ever understanding Dabi as a lost cause. “I’m going to go save the day and rescue all the innocents, and probably get stuck cleaning up the mess from this because I doubt you’re up to giving a statement to the police, and pretend like I’m not mortally offended that you’re one of the most wanted supervillains and you don’t even know your own enemies.”

Dabi winks at him. “Glad we’re on the same page!” He enthuses. 

And then to his exasperated disbelief, starts to levitate in the air. “See ya later, Hawks!” He throws up a peace sign. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and definitely don’t do anything I would do~”

“I feel like that’s definitely terrible advice, but thanks,” Hawks deadpans in response, as Dabi disappears before his eyes. 

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

God, I am just so tired of people throwing roses at my feet

Comments 491 |  Likes 475 | Retweets 371

//

He really doesn’t want to answer, because Giran calling at this time of night— or godforsaken hour or the morning— is never a good sign. But there’s a chance, however slim, that Giran has finally made a breakthrough in his investigation into the Hero Killer, in which case it’s in his best interest to pick it up. All Giran has managed to find out so far is that the word on the street has the Hero Killer meeting up with this League of Villains a few times. Just casual discussions, probably not unlike what they had originally wanted from Gojo himself. Gojo blew them off of course, but apparently the Hero Killer wasn’t quite as cavalier. 

Pity for him, really.

After the whirlwind of a night he’s had, he would have liked to just take it easy. 

But there’s the crippling chain of responsibility, shackled against his ankle once again. He sighs gustily. 

“Hello there.” 

“Dabi-kun, good evening.” Giran returns. 

“Is it?” Gojo wonders. 

“I guess that’s up to interpretation.”

“Or what news you’ve got for me.” Gojo quips back. 

“Nothing on the Hero Killer, I’m afraid,” Giran pauses, “but I have some time sensitive information I think you’d be interested to hear, on the League.”

Gojo considers it. “Yeah okay, I’ll bite. What?” 

He’s more interested in Stain, but he’d agreed to Eraserhead and Detective Naomasa’s terms on being their informant, and he’s interested enough in the prospect that he’ll follow some leads up for them on the League. 

He’s drawing a line, though.  

Doing it on his own, on his own initiative, on his own terms. He doesn’t want their gratitude, and he sure as hell doesn’t want their money. He doesn’t want some ridiculous plea deal. He’s helping them because Naomasa is Makoto’s brother and Eraserhead is Midoriya and Yui’s sensei. To wit; he’s helping them because he feels like it, no strings attached. The moment he no longer feels like being helpful, he’s out. 

“The League sent out a final invitation for the individuals they’ve contacted throughout the last year; they’re big debut is set for tomorrow.”

Gojo sits up a bit straighter at that. “Tomorrow? When?”

Giran seems taken aback. “Do you want to attend?”

Gojo tempers himself. “Well, I was planning on a spa trip to Hokkaido, don’t really know if I can squeeze that in,” he drawls, nonchalantly. “But I’d consider it, for the right price.”

Giran outright laughs at that. “Then you’re better off going to your spa day,” he says. “I have it on good authority they’re paying their goons chump change for what they’re asking them to do.”

“They’re scalping them? That’s bad business.” 

“To be fair, I don’t think there’s a price for trying to take down the Symbol of Peace,” Giran throws out mirthfully, causing Gojo’s brows to raise. 

“Yeah, even I might think twice before taking a job like that,” he admits, candidly, although not for the reason Giran likely assumes. He’s certain he could do it— he’s met All Might in person after all, he’s well aware he’s not in top form— but being responsible for the fallout of knocking the Symbol of Peace off his pinnacle sounds like more trouble than it's worth. 

“I figured as much, but I thought I’d let you know just in case.” Giran says. “I’ve heard a rumor that the big showdown is set for the USJ. Something like that might even be big enough to pull the Hero Killer out of the woodwork.” 

Gojo puzzles at the ceiling. What sick bastard would attack Universal Studios Japan? That’s just cruel.

“Hm, well, thanks for the info. I’ll think about it.” 

He flicks the phone off and tosses it away from him. With a heavy sigh, he drags himself out of his invitingly soft hotel bed. 

Looks like his night’s not over after all. 

*SpongeBob narrator voice* it was not universal studios Japan 

Chapter Text

Shouto is barely awake when he drags himself to the breakfast table, falling asleep into his bowl of rice. Fuyumi clucks admonishingly when she wanders back towards the table with a pot of miso soup and sees the bags under his eyes. Her admonishing look turns downright judgmental when he bypasses the soup for the carafe of coffee at the center of the table. 

“Shou-kun, were you up all night again online?” She prods, reproachfully, sitting across from him.

His intended, “No, of course not, it’s a school night,” comes out instead as a garbled, “mrrgghh,” in response. 

Fuyumi just sighs, divvying up the plate of tamago between their plates and the placeholder for a still sleeping Natsuo. “Growing boys your age need sleep, you know.” She remarks, in a caviling tone that automatically has him rolling his eyes. “Especially with how much energy you’re burning in a day, now that you’re at U.A. Are you meeting with a nutritionist at school?”

“Lunchrush handles most of that,” Shouto deflects, prodding at his rice. 

Fuyumi tsks. “But how is he supposed to know your dietary needs if you’re not voicing them to him?” She points out, reasonably. 

She’s got a point, but no one else in his class has gotten preferential treatment at lunch and he doesn’t want to be the first to do it. Not when he’s already so set apart from everyone else. There’s already talk of him being standoffish and pretentious, no need to add fuel to that fire. 

Shouto doesn’t exactly help things along, being as selectively mute as he has been in school. 

But he just… never knows what to say, or how to act. 

He’s had the very best tutors his whole life, and has spent almost every waking hour of his day not in his classes in some kind of extracurricular. During middle school, he had cardio and physical conditioning in the mornings before class, followed by combat training in the afternoons directly after class, and afterwards quirk specialized training. Ever since that disastrous night when Endeavor was permanently scarred and Touya-nii was proclaimed dead on the scene, his father has been entirely off hands with every aspect of his life. Especially in regards to his training as a hero.

He hired the absolute best in the industry for Shouto’s education, so he was hardly complaining. And he’d decided on his own to become a hero, regardless of his father’s personal ambitions for him. 

Some days, though, he wonders if maybe Fuyumi had been onto something. 

She’d fretted endlessly over his decision, worrying how it might affect his social and emotional growth to be so cordoned off from other kids his age. Shouto had dismissed the idea as ignorant and short-sighted; the conditioning he filled his hours with were integral skills he needed to succeed as a hero— to be the kind of hero he could be proud of. In light of that, who needed friends? It didn’t help that Endeavor was in staunch agreement with Shouto’s choice; between the two of them adamantly refusing to consider other options, she could only throw up her hands in defeat.

Having encountered a group of cohorts he intended to actually create bonds and socialize with, he was realizing just how woefully inept his social skills really were. 

Not only were the other children in his class equally as ambitious and talented as he was, but Shouto found most of them to be fairly amiable and agreeable characters. And they would be useful contacts when he began his hero career. 

The only problem was— he had no idea what to do with them all. 

Some tried to include him in conversation sometimes, but he never knew what to say in response. He didn’t know any new trends, sports teams, actors, or musicians. He didn't have any social media of any kind. He had basically nothing in common with any of them, aside from a shared ambition to be career heroes. 

And the one he wanted to be friends with the most was the same one he had the least in common with.

Midoriya Izuku made absolutely no sense to him. 

He ostensibly had a quirk, although he had never once demonstrated it. He came from an apparently fairly standard family background, with a father that worked overseas and a nurse for a mother. He went to an entirely unremarkable middle school, where he received overall favorable grades, but had no real extracurriculars or academic highlights to make him stand out. As far as Shouto was aware, he had no specialized training. Shouto may or may not have had to do some rather unsavory digging to find all this out, but most of it was easily traceable online if one knew where to look. And Shouto knew, since he spent a great deal of his time troving online forums. He might not have any social media accounts of his own, but he knew a great deal about navigating the internet. 

(He had no real time for hobbies, and no friends to whittle away what little free time he had. So what he did instead, was spend hours and hours scrolling through the internet in a manner that had Fuyumi near apoplectic.)

Midoriya was entirely unknown and unexpected, and that was sort of what Shouto liked best about him. He had an unassuming aura to him, and a generally nervous and skittish personality, lending him an air of unreliability and mediocrity. In reality though, he was a tactical genius and an unparalleled strategist, and had the physical conditioning to back it up. The first time Shouto had seen him fight in the battle apprehension test he’d been utterly flummoxed. The matchup should have been decided from the get go. Iida Tenya came from a famous family and likely had the same sort of personal specialized training Shouto did. And Bakugou Katsuki had an exceptionally powerful quirk and knew damn well how to use it. In contrast, Midoriya Izuku had an alleged strengthening quirk he hadn’t used at all during the quirk physical apprehension test, and Uraraka Ochako had a flotation quirk. 

And yet, Midoriya and Uraraka had been the undisputed winners of that matchup. Neither Iida nor Bakugou showed an ounce of Mirodiya’s aptitude for spatial awareness, battle strategy, and plan execution. In a world where everyone else overly relied on their quirks, Midoriya didn’t even need to use one to win. 

It was a bit awe-inspiring, to be honest. 

Shouto wished he could approach the boy and ask him how he’d come up with such a flawless plan on the fly, but he wasn’t even sure how to say hello to him.

He sighs heavily, reaching for the coffee once Fuyumi’s properly occupied with her own breakfast.

Natsuo trudges in with all the grace of a grizzly bear stumbling out of hibernation, flopping into his own seat. “The old man’s not back yet?” He brightens at the very thought.

Fuyumi purses her lips. “He’s still in Tokyo, I believe.” She replies. “I don’t think he’ll be back for a few days, with all that’s happening there.”

“Small blessings,” Natsu-nii remarks, digging into his breakfast with relish. 

Shouto is of a similar opinion to Natsuo, honestly, but he refrains from adding anything when he catches Fuyumi’s gaze. She’s always been holding out hope they’ll all somehow find a way to get over their father’s neglect and glaring absence in their lives to make some kind of amends. Shouto is usually too polite to summarily obliterate all her dreams, and just lets her have her small fantasies. He’s fairly certain she knows anyway, deep down, that their family is never going to be the idyllic tableau she sees in all her favorite daytime k-dramas. 

Fuyumi sends Natsuo a pinched look across the table, but says nothing in response. The silence descends into something tense and unspoken. Shouto doesn’t really know what it is; he just knows it's been there, an unacknowledged but tangible presence haunting them all, for as long as he can remember. 

It probably has to do with Touya-nii, he thinks. None of them have really accepted or moved on from his death. Not even their father, for all that he refuses to speak of his mysterious eldest.

Evidently Natsuo can no longer bear the oppressive quiet, and swipes the remote off the table and turns the television on. It says a lot that Fuyumi doesn’t even scold him for turning on the tv during mealtimes. Shouto looks up briefly from the mush he’s making out of his eggs and rice when he hears Natsuo flip from early morning children cartoons to the morning news. 

“It’s a developing situation, and we don’t have much information still,” a man’s voice explains, as shaky pedestrian footage shows crowds of onlookers go from staring at the massive Odaiba gundam to the pillar of scorching flames erupting into the sky behind it. 

“The media liaison for the Mos Eisley precinct mentioned earlier it’s an ongoing investigation, so they’re not at liberty to explain much more than what they already have,” adds a female voice. “What’s unsaid in this statement is the presumption that this incident must therefore be related to the city’s ongoing efforts to stem organized crime.”

“It’s incredible that so many top heroes can be in the capital and still have this happen right beneath their noses.” A third voice laments. “What does this mean for the safety of the citizens in the Tokyo Metropolitan Area?”

Natsuo snorts. “The old man’s real hard at work, I see.”

“It hasn’t been confirmed, but we’ve received eye witness reports that Japan’s fastest hero, the Number Three Hawks seems to somehow be involved. He was seen escorting what appears to be a group of hostages into police custody in the Kuat Shipyards last night, just after news helicopters captured this footage here—”

The newsroom disappears into a clip from the news helicopters. The dark expanse of Tokyo bay unfurls beneath the camera, ringed in the glare of city lights. The camera pans upwards, where a flock of massive drones becomes visible in the view of their spotlight. 

“As you can see, these are military grade, state-of-the-art unmanned aircrafts, each equipped with a half dozen air-to-surface missiles. If this is indeed a play by organized crime, then we should expect foreign actors to be involved with this level of weaponry.”

Fuyumi makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “Oh god, dad…”

Even Natsuo doesn’t look quite as disdainful as before, a pensive crease in his brows. 

“They were summarily destroyed by an unknown assailant before any missiles were properly launched, but it was a close call for the greater metropolitan area.” 

“There’s been no reports, official or otherwise, on how they were so effectively destroyed,” the female voice adds. “But the video evidence does suggest certain conclusions…”

The man interrupts abruptly, “There’s been no confirmed accounts of Dabi in the vicinity, so this comment isn’t anything more than mere speculation.”

“Nonetheless, the evidence is compelling,” the third voice insists, just as the helicopter catches footage of the drones being torn apart by an invisible force. “We know of no other way this could have possibly happened otherwise. No hero or villain currently alive has a quirk that acts quite like Dabi’s. And the manner in which these drones were destroyed is tellingly similar to many of his other exploits.”

Natsuo barks out an incredulous laugh. “Why even bother with heroes when this guy’s around to do all the actual work?”

“You know it’s not that simple, Natsuo,” Fuyumi counters, although she doesn’t seem especially upset about it, merely resigned. “All that red tape surrounding heroes exists for a reason.”

“Fat load of good it does,” Natsuo returns, uncharitably. “No matter how many laws they try to slap across them, heroes still get away with being the scum of the earth, and no one says anything about it.”

He’s specifically referring to their father, Shouto knows. And it's pointless for any of them to deny it. No matter how many genuinely good heroes exist in this world, there’s always ones like his father who get away with disorderly conduct, property damage, and even manslaughter. 

Anyway, despite being a hero in training, Shouto more or less agrees with Natsuo. Dabi is… well, it would be prudent to call him a rather decisive character. He’s the match that’s struck something of a burgeoning revolution. His very existence, and the indisputable good he does for society, has incited all sorts of debate. Shouto wouldn’t be surprised if there were protests in the street soon enough; he and Natsuo and Fuyumi aren’t the only ones who recognize the inherent flaws in the hero industry agenda. It was impossible not to, when Dabi exposed them just by existing. 

Dabi had gone from something of an internet forum boogeyman to a household name within the space of a year, and with his meteoric rise to infamy came the inevitable social commentary. 

Shouto had already been a longtime lurker in most of the hero forum boards to begin with, so he’d always known of Dabi. Since the beginning of his criminal history internet denizens had been debating his status as a villain versus vigilante. He had just as much infamy as Stain, although their philosophies (and it was debatable if Dabi even had a philosophy, he seemed to just do whatever he wanted) were entirely different. With all the hype and the mystery surrounding the supervillain, it was hard not to get swept up in the excitement of it all.

When Shouto drags himself out his thoughts Natsuo and Fuyumi are in the middle of a deep discussion. It appears the topic of the morning has inevitably migrated to the (missing) elephant in the room: their father.

“—trying his best—”

“What best?!” Natsuo’s chopsticks clatter to the table. “He’s a fucking idiot who had kids to carry on his hero legacy, because god forbid he wasn’t the Number One, and when it became clear how much of a stupid fucking idea that was, he ignores us all and pretends we don’t even exist!”

“No he doesn’t!” Fuyumi denies, shaking her head rapidly. “He just doesn’t— he doesn’t know what to do with us.”

“Because he never actually wanted kids.” Natsuo stresses.

“Be that as it may,” Fuyumi returns heavily, because there’s really no arguing with that, “He’s trying to make amends.”

Natsuo gives her the most disgustingly incredulous look in response.

“I said he’s trying; not that he’s actually any good at it.” She admits, causing Natsuo to scoff in amusement. 

“Still, it’s something, don’t you think?” She continues. “He asks about all of you when he calls— and he does call, once a week or so. I know he’s not… he’s never been a very good father, or much of a father at all really, but it’s not that he doesn’t care, you know?”

“Too little too late, I say.” Natsuo disagrees, sounding rather unsympathetic to the subject. “Where was that care when he was beating Touya-nii black and blue, huh? Don’t tell me you don’t remember that. I don’t care how much of a prodigy Touya-nii was, or what level of training he needed, he was still a kid. And Endeavor would go at him in the training room like he was a fucking adult!”

Fuyumi winces at the reminder. Shouto sits up a bit straighter at the mention of Touya-nii— it’s rare that anyone in his family ever voluntarily speaks of him. 

“And then when it became obvious he was never going to get Touya-nii to do what he wanted, he tossed him aside the moment he’d gotten his prized creation.” Natsuo pauses. “No offense, Shou.”

“None taken.” Shouto says, shrugging.

“How the hell is that the actions of someone who cares? To me, he’s just a selfish prick who’s better off just staying away.” Natsuo ends bitterly, picking up his discarded chopsticks and stabbing angrily at his tamago. 

To be frank, Shouto’s a bit ambivalent on the subject of their father. He’s not interested in any kind of reconciliation, like Fuyumi, but he’s also not holding a grudge, like Natsuo. Probably because he barely remembers Touya-nii, and how their father treated their eldest brother. He has a few memories of his own training with their father— just as brutal as Natsuo painted it as— but he had been so young at the time they’re just snippets of pain and fear. He’s barely seen his father in the decade since, so he feels rather removed from the man. He’s more likely to see him on tv than at the house. He’s fairly sure Endeavor must have an apartment near his agency, because he’s almost never home. 

“He’s changed,” Fuyumi says, and it must sound weak even to her ears because she winces immediately after. 

She’s always had the best relationship out of all of them with their father, probably by virtue of being the only girl, and one with a quirk he never had any interest in. He had always been a distant and unapproachable figure in her life, but not one that was intentionally cruel. He never raised his voice at her, or forced her into training so hard she puked. And she was the only one who ever got any praise; usually for keeping the house tidy or for cooking dinner or doing the laundry. But for Shouto and probably Touya-nii, there was no praise or recognition to be had in the training room. Endeavor was never satisfied with anything he ever did. As for Natsuo; it was almost as if he didn’t even exist. Fuyumi got the occasional acknowledgment, and he and Touya-nii got all the focus and attention—dubious honor as it was— of their father, and Natsuo never got anything. 

So it was no surprise that Natsuo wasn’t interested in hearing about how the man had ‘changed’. There was unlikely to be anything Endeavor could ever do to make up for the years of neglect and trauma he’d inflicted on all of them, in Natsuo’s eyes. 

“Tell that to Touya-nii.” Natuso replies, flatly. 

Fuyumi’s entire face pales terribly. Natsuo looks stricken, as if he wants to take it back. In the end though he just purses his lips and gathers up all of his plates. “Thanks for the meal.” He says, briskly, and then storms off.

Shouto takes that as his own cue, collecting his own plates. “Thank you for breakfast, Fuyumi-nee-san. It was delicious.”

Fuyumi looks up, dismayed. “Oh, Shou-kun, you’re leaving already? It’s still so early.”

“We have a field trip today.” He intones. 

“Oh?” She perks up a bit. “Where to?”

“USJ.”

She gasps in delight. “Universal Studios Japan?!”

He shakes his head. “No it’s the— Unforeseen Simulation Joint.” And then, to her blank expression; “Hero stuff.”

Fuyumi’s expression falls, but she nods nonetheless. “Oh. That’s— that’s nice. Well, have a good day then, Shou-kun. Let me grab your bento before you go.”

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

Some days I actually get my shit together ?? But then I lose it again like 2 days later

Comments 398|  Likes 575 | Retweets 591

//

“I should have brought a better lunch than this,” Uraraka laments, as she peers down at her paper brown bag she’s halfway into stuffing into her backpack.

“My mom overpacked mine when she heard we were going to USJ today. You can share with me!” Izuku offers. 

Uraraka looks torn, up until Izuku shows her the three bentos his mom had shoved into his hands this morning before he could protest. In her defense, she’d been so excited to hear he finally had some friends to share with and was insistent that he share with his classmates, so the amount made sense. Of course, his mom totally had ulterior motives beyond just benign charity and goodwill; Yui-chan had stopped by to take the train with him to campus (he was on the way for her) and his mom had taken one look at her and gotten all starry-eyed. Izuku had tried to protest that Yui was just a really good friend, but he’d known it was a lost cause. 

“Oh!” Uraraka enthuses, eyes wide. “That looks delicious!”

“She made a bunch to share,” Izuku explains, sighing, already feeling tired even though they haven’t even left for the buses yet. 

He looks over towards Yui’s desk, wondering if he could offer some to her also without it being weird. Would that be weird? He doesn’t think so, but he’s also never had any friends, so he really wouldn’t know. The offer with Uraraka had basically just fallen into his lap. Maybe he could ask Iida instead? He glances over towards the class rep, then immediately shuts down the idea. He’s got what is undoubtedly a chef-prepared meal in an immaculately packaged bento sitting right on his desk. 

Before he can tear his eyes away, he’s accidentally meeting the eyes of the (second) most quiet student in the class. His mismatched gaze is so stoic and unyielding Izuku almost squeaks as he hastily turns back around in his seat to give Uraraka all his attention.

He doesn’t turn back around, but he feels like he can feel Todoroki’s eyes on the back of his head anyway.

Izuku truly, genuinely, has no idea what he possibly could have done to warrant attention from the Number Two Hero’s son.

Both his scores on the entrance exam and the quirk apprehension test were really nothing to write home about. He’d passed both without using One For All in any capacity, something that bemused All Might but also delighted him. After all, the longer they could keep it under wraps, the better. All Might had a lot of enemies after all, and Izuku was still young and vulnerable. 

He’d worked with Yui to take down a few of the three pointers during the entrance exam, which apparently totally bewildered and derailed the examiners, who reputedly had never in the history of the exam had ever had two examinees work together. That just floored Izuku: heroes work together all the time! It’s basically a cornerstone of heroism! Teamwork is such an integral part of the profession— how could the exam be entirely individual based when testing for an industry that almost always required some level of teamwork? Even the big shots like All Might and Endeavor and Hawks had to work together with others! 

Anyway, so he and Yui scored quite a few of those, with Izuku scouting for weaknesses and assisting Yui in getting the most useful items to use her quirk on. Afterwards they’d stumbled upon both Uraraka and Iida getting caught in the path of the zero pointer, and Izuku had managed to climb onto it with a combination of Uraraka and Yui’s quirks and pry it open with a giant oversized nail clipper courtesy of Uraraka’s miscellaneous beauty pouch, and then trip it using a massively elongated hair tie, once again courtesy of Uraraka. 

Allegedly he’d confused the examiners so terribly that they had to revise the entire point distribution strategy and awarded bonus points for both rescues and teamwork. In the end, he’d passed on those alone without taking down a single robot with One for All. As for the quirk apprehension test: most of them were similar enough to the physical conditioning he’d been doing for months that he easily passed in the middle of the pack. 

That is to say; he passed, but he didn’t exactly do anything monumental.

And his performance in the battle test was equally as clever, but ultimately still showcased nothing of One for All. He’d basically just channeled as much of Dabi as possible and infuriated Kacchan into blowing up enough pieces of the building for Uraraka to incapacitate both him and Iida under the rubble. Aizawa-sensei eagerly applauded him on his novel application of the environment (or as eagerly as Aizawa ever did anything, which was really just an unenthusiastic shoulder clap) and quick thinking on his feet, but again, it was hardly anything flashy. Todorki himself had easily won the battle test with a truly impressive display of his ice quirk, used a combination of both his fire and ice to take number one in the class in the apprehension test, and undoubtedly got the highest score on the entrance exam of the whole entering class.  

So why on earth did Todoroki seem so interested in him? If he was looking for a rival, Kacchan was probably a better option. But Kacchan was probably too busy pitching a fit over Izuku’s existence in his class to even pay an ounce of attention to the other boy. 

Izuku sighs heavily.

Kacchan was a whole other can of worms he wasn’t too keen on examining right now. The boy had predictably flown off the handle when he’d found out Izuku was also in Class 1-A. He’d insisted vehemently Izuku couldn’t be a hero because he was quirkless, to which Aizawa-sensei had stoically pointed out he’d passed the exams regardless, under the same criteria Bakugou himself had, and therefore had just as much of a right to be there as Bakugou. Kacchan didn’t really have much of a coherent retort to that, namely because the idea that a quirkless kid was in any way, shape, or form his equal had him in explosive fits of rage. But according to the testing standards of U.A., Izuku– without demonstrating any quirk at all– was considered just as worthy to attend as Bakugou.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Todoroki was always staring so intensely at him. 

Everyone else in the class had already commented on it; mainly they all had nothing but benign and curious remarks on the matter, but took it in stride. A few were just genuinely ignorant to the reality of quirkless people and needed some explanations, but everyone had been nice so far. Or they just didn’t comment on it at all. Izuku assumed Todorki had been part of the latter half— but maybe he was secretly like Kacchan, and was actually pretty mad about it? Maybe he felt slighted, being in a class with a (supposed) quirkless kid, being the son of a top hero.

“Midoriya-kun?” Uraraka calls, pulling him out of the spiral of his thoughts. 

He shook his head rapidly. “Sorry— what did you say?”

She points to the front of the room, where the rest of the class had gathered to follow Aizawa-sensei out to the bus. “We’re getting ready to leave!”

“Oh! Right!” He hastily swipes up his headset, before jogging to catch up with everyone else. 

He palms the shiny black material in his hands as he diligently trods down the stairs in between his classmates. 

He’d ended up changing his original childhood dream costume to something slightly more practical after discussing it offhandedly with Dabi a few times. The supervillain had an incredible amount of practical experience in the field, so his advice was exceptionally astute. All Might probably had more experience, but he had an entire support staff outfitting him all the time so he didn’t have much personal input in any of his designs. Dabi himself had zero need for armor of any kind, but he did have helpful insight into fabric types that offered the best maneuverability, and what sort of silhouette would limit air drag and increase speed. 

The end result wasn’t terribly different from his original idea, just a bit more fitted and much darker in color. 

He’d been so excited to finally get to wear it, during the battle tests. But now, as he files down in line with the rest of his classmates, he feels a strange sinking feeling in his gut. Nervousness, maybe? Getting to go to USJ is a pretty big deal, especially for a class this young. He really wants to prove himself, and so his anxieties are getting the better of him. 

The rest of his classmates are chattering excitedly around him, their enthusiasm increasing in volume as the bus trundles up the road. 

Izuku shakes his head rapidly, clearing his thoughts. It’s just a funky mood, is all. 

//  

Aizawa probably should have expected this.

“... Where’s Sato-san?” He says, in a tone that means he doesn’t really know if he wants to know the answer.

Their surprisingly young and good looking driver grins up at him. Somewhere in the interim of today and the last time Aizawa had politely inclined his head to the U.A.’s resident bus driver he’s gone from a spritely older gentleman with a hunchback into a teenage pop punk gremlin. 

“He was so excited to have a surprise day off to go out of town for his granddaughter’s ballet recital! I’ll be sure to send him your regards.” 

Well, that was a far sight better than Aizawa had expected. He’d assumed he’d find the poor man passed out in an electrical closet missing all of his clothes. Although upon further consideration, it appears Dabi didn’t even bother with the pretense of the uniform at all. 

“It’s too early to deal with this.” Aizawa sighs. “Please tell me you have a license.”

“I know how to drive!” Dabi retorts, affronted.

“... That didn’t answer my question.” Aizawa deadpans. 

He hustles his kids in their full regalia onto the bus and decides his best bet is to just ignore his own impending doom until he’s had at least another half hour of sleep. He has to imagine Dabi wouldn’t decide to spontaneously drop by to be their bus driver if he didn’t at least know how to control automated vehicular machinery. And if he can’t… well, the objective of today’s lessons was rescue experience— no one said that experience couldn’t be gained on rescuing themselves. 

He’s tired enough that he should have been able to totally conk out within minutes of the bus moving, but Dabi’s presence nearby is enough to entirely derail that farflung dream. He would hardly call he and Dabi friends, acquaintances, or even coworkers, but these days they tend to toe the line of allies a little too closely for Aizawa’s comfort. If he’s here right now, entirely unannounced, Aizawa has to wonder at the reason. Are the kids in danger? 

Aizawahasn’t seen much of the elusive villain since he’d agreed to be their informant. He and Tsukauchi receive updates on increasingly girlish stationery delivered with increasingly outlandish romantic gifts sent to Naomasa’s precinct. The last update had been scrawled on a pale pink card attached to a white stuffed teddy bear holding a heart. Aizawa has no idea what the hell Detective Tsukauchi is doing with all the flower arrangements and balloons he’s been getting, but fortunately that’s the detective's problem to handle. Aizawa keeps abreast on the latest news from Dabi, but has been understandably distracted by the start of a new semester. 

Which makes it even more concerning that Dabi would show up here of all places, entirely unannounced. 

Aizawa groans, giving up any kind of rest as a lost cause, and hastily swipes out his phone to text Thirteen to give him and his students a fifteen minute buffer before making her entrance, ostensibly for a pep talk. In reality, he wants the quick break to level with Dabi. Is he just messing around, or is something really going on here? With Dabi, there’s really no way to say. 

Fortunately Dabi— regardless of his status as a legal driver— gets them to the USJ without issue, and the rowdiness of the kids behind him increases tenfold as the bus sputters to a halt. 

He shouts at all of them to stay in the bus and puts Iida in charge as he all but punts Dabi out of the bus. 

“Do you have an actual reason for being here, or are you just here to cause problems for me just because you can?” He asks lowly, barely audible over the rumble of the idling bus, which is exactly how he intended it.

“You give me too much credit,” Dabi grins, leaning back against the hood of the bus. His posture is relaxed as he lounges with his hands in his pockets; to the kids no doubt snooping behind them, he’ll look entirely at ease. “I don’t have that much free time on my hands.”

So it was as Aizawa expected. Privately, he wished this impromptu surprise had just been an attempt at Dabi’s awful sense of humor. 

Aizawa sighs. “How bad is it?”

Dabi doesn’t answer at first, peering around at the world from behind his impenetrable sunglasses. Aizawa is dead certain the young man has a telekinesis quirk, and yet those eyes always have him second guessing his surety. He has a way of staring at things that’s positively unnerving. Even now, as he surveys the idyllic landscape, Aizawa feels as if he’s seeing something entirely different.

“Where’s All Might?” He asks, instead of answering.

Aizawa’s brow pinches. “He’s meant to be here, but he’s been held up.” He admits, seeing no reason to lie. 

Dabi makes a thoughtful noise. “Interesting… intentional? I wonder…” He drifts off, shaking his head. “Well, that might work out in our favor.”

“How so?” He asks, a little impatient. Dabi still hasn’t answered his question, and the longer he takes to answer the more Aizawa worries. His students are here, after all. 

“Like I said in my last report, that kid who’s currently calling the shots for the League is obsessed with taking down All Might. He plans on staging his big debut against him here.”

“Now?” It keeps everything in him to keep his voice down. The bus engine can only do so much to mask them from Jirou’s earjack, which he knows her classmates are bribing her into using. He clenches his jaw. “And you’re only telling me this minutes before we enter the place?”

Dabi scratches his cheek. “Well, ya see, I only got confirmation about the plan last night, and I’d heard USJ and assumed they meant Universal Studios Japan. But after checking it out immediately after, I realized I definitely had the wrong place! How was I supposed to know there were two USJs? Whose brilliant idea was that anyway?”

Aizawa sighs heavily. Great. Just great. 

“Do you have any further information on the League’s objective for today? Is there any way to stall them?”

“All I know is that the majority of their recruitment initiatives have been for this attack, and beyond just revealing themselves to the public, they intend to kill All Might while doing it. They seem pretty confident for a large but ultimately ragtag group of b-rate villains, so I have to imagine there must be some ace they’ve got up their sleeve.”

Dabi sounds so nonchalant about it, Aizawa almost wants to lash out at him. 

He refrains at the last second, gritting his teeth hard enough to break something, wondering if every moment of his acquaintanceship with the villain is going to be this fraught with heretofore undiscovered levels of anxiety, or if there’s light at the end of this tunnel somewhere. He glances at the supervillain, who still doesn’t look like anything is amiss. Yeah. There’s no light here. 

“And you didn’t think I might be concerned over this with my class of first year students in attendance?” Aizawa points out, perhaps a bit more snappish than he’d intended.

Dabi looks a bit taken aback. Aizawa doesn’t think Dabi’s ever witnessed his temper before. 

His expression hardens into something austere. “I’m not going to let anything happen to them.” He vows. 

Aizawa nods wordlessly, finding himself suddenly too exhausted to speak further.

Dabi frowns. “It’s still possible to drive them back to campus.” He says, slowly.

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he exhales harshly, shaking his head. “If we do that, they’ll know we’ve been tipped off and might call the whole thing off.”

He hates to even think it, hates to even consider weighing the safety of his students over the possibility of capturing the League. But even with Dabi’s assistance fleshing out the landscape of the criminal underworld, any news on All for One has been slim. Short of asking Dabi to join the League on their behalf— something both Eraserhead and Naomasa are adamantly against— they don’t have any other leads.

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of it. It goes against all the better instincts he has as a teacher. Yet at the same time the intuition he’s honed as an underground hero is telling him to trust Dabi. He doubts he even knows the bare minimum of what the supervillain is capable of, and even then he believes with the utmost assurity that Dabi could easily handle this alone. Even acknowledging this doesn’t do much to stem his nerves as the idea of subjecting his first years to something like this, however. Even if they’re adequately protected between himself and Dabi and Thirteen— does he want to expose his fifteen year-old students, only weeks into their hero training, to something like this? 

“This might be our chance to finally make some headway into this case.” Aizawa sighs deeply. “We won’t let this opportunity go to waste, but we’re going to play it as safe as possible.”

Dabi nods. “Understood.”

At least he seems to be taking this situation with the severity it warrants, now. 

Aizawa gets it, he really does. For a supervillain like Dabi, he’s certain the idea of a bunch of half-rate goons and a fledgling league of virtually unknown villains is downright amusing. It’s no surprise he found the entire situation rather humorous. Considering what he’s been up to in the last few months, this is child’s play. But there are actual children involved right now, innocent and ignorant to the true horrors of the world they’re working towards. 

And in his defense, he looks to be taking this much more seriously now that the students’ safety needs to be taken into account. 

“I’m sending an update back to Principal Nedzu that we’ve been tipped off to a possible villain attack at USJ, and to have the rest of the staff on standby and ready to engage if we don’t check back in within the next fifteen minutes.” Aizawa proclaims, after he’s given the matter some thought. 

Dabi makes a noise of agreement. “Including All Might?”

Aizawa considers it briefly, before dismissing the idea. “If absolutely necessary. I’d rather not play into their hand, and it sounds like All Might had been at the center of their plans.”

The white-haired villain shrugs, clearly ambivalent on the subject.

Aizawa clears his throat. “In the meantime, we’ll proceed as planned as if nothing is amiss. The moment they attack, student safety is our number one priority. The moment we’re certain they’re not in danger, you’re free to engage however you see fit.”

“Got it. So how do we play this? Should I hang back and hide somewhere?”

“You’d only make yourself even more suspicious to my already suspicious students.” Aizawa sighs. “And no one believes you’re actually the bus driver. I’ll introduce you as a teacher’s aid for the day; just try not to draw attention to yourself. And for the love of god, don’t say anything.”

Aizawa’s well aware of how tall an order this is to a person like Dabi, but he may as well try to hem off the rumors before they start. 

“That’s fine with me, senpai~” Dabi agrees, making Eraserhead regret everything about this already.

“Great. I’m going to let them out of the bus now. At least try to look professional, okay?” The day has barely started and Eraserhead is already wishing it was over. He has so many problems, and it slays him that almost all of them are entirely the supervillain’s fault. 

“Gotcha, senpai!” Dabi crows, far too enthused with his new role.

“And— Dabi,” Aizawa pauses, and the seriousness in his voice has Dabi’s smile falling from his face. “I need you to apprehend, but not kill.” 

The villain looks rather churlish at the ultimatum, but doesn’t dismiss it out of hand. “Yeah, I understand.”

Chapter Text

Izuku had woken up with a bad feeling in his gut, and it looked like his premonition was proving itself right. 

Seeing Dabi of all people, the deadly and infamous and now finally appropriately ranked supervillain (the HPSC really dragged their feet on that one, he has no idea why they finally upped his status to S-rank last night of all times) with a baseball cap slung over his hair in some poor approximation of a bus driver’s uniform, had him nearly breaking out in a cold sweat. And not because he was in the presence of a supervillain— at this rate Izuku was almost immune to the man’s presence, garbage personality notwithstanding— but because of the successively more disturbing explanations Izuku’s neurotic subconscious kept suggesting for his presence here of all places. In conclusion; it was a bad omen if he ever knew one.

Even Yui shared his apprehension, opting to slide into the seat next to him before Asui or Uraraka could attempt it, hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

She hadn’t been standoffish, necessarily, since they’d both ended up in Class 1-A, but she was a quieter person in general and gravitated more towards the similarly placid members of the class. The opposite of Izuku, who had ended up with Iida and Uraraka, some of the friendliest (and loudest) of the class. At any rate, they’d shared a knowing, worried look when they’d locked eyes, but hadn’t spoken anything further on Dabi’s presence since. 

Predictably the moment the bus wheezed to a halt and Aizawa-sensei told them all to wait on the bus while he talked to Dabi outside, the class erupted into a frenzy.

Ashido and Kirishima immediately hounded Jiro to use her quick to spy on them, with Iida instantaneously shooting them down in response. The ensuing argument was loud enough that even if Jiro had wanted to use her quirk, it would probably be impossible to hear their teacher’s conversation with it anyway. Kirishima and Kaminari then moved on to badgering Yaoyorozu to create a listening device, putting the rule-abiding girl in an awkward spot as she attempted to politely fend them off. All the while, Bakugou was loudly shouting at all of them to shut the hell up so he could go back to sleep.

In the end their reconnaissance attempts catastrophically failed, and Aizawa-sensei stomped back onto the bus with the same plaintively exhausted expression he’d worn beforehand, barking at all of them to follow him.

Izuku caught Dabi’s eye as they exited the bus, the white-haired man offering him a cheeky salute and a wink in response, as he remained by Aizawa-sensei’s side. 

Izuku had so many— so many— questions for the villain. Why was he here, and how did he know Aizawa-sensei? Were they friends or something? The thought was so bewildering he had to table it for later. Yui kept close to his side, quiet as her keen eyes observed their two quasi-sensei as they led the group towards the massive doors of the USJ. A hero in a memorable spacesuit waited at the mouth of the grand entrance, waving cheerfully. 

“Hello Class 1-A, and welcome to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint!” The space hero greeted, voice distorted by the suit. 

Aizawa-sensei bounded up to her quickly, murmuring something too low to hear over the drone of the USJ’s generators. He jerked a thumb towards Dabi, who waved in response. Thirteen just nodded along, opening the doors to the compound and beckoning them in. 

Once they were all within the doors and situated on the entrance platform overseeing the massive complex, Thirteen began a brief speech on rescue operations. Her tone was decidedly less upbeat than before, and with growing dread Izuku wondered what Aizawa-sensei had said to her beforehand to cause such a definitive change in mood. 

He and Yui seemed to be the only ones to notice something was amiss with their teachers. The students at the front of the class with them were all dutifully paying attention, but he could hear his classmates in the back still muttering awestruck remarks on the grandness of the place. The students seemed split between listening avidly— perhaps too avidly in the case of Uraraka, who looked ready to vibrate out of her own skin in excitement at being faced with one of her favorite heroes— or getting distracted by all the different rescue zones they could see. With the sole exception of Todoroki, who was instead staring fixated at Dabi. This above all else skyrocketed Izuku’s blood pressure. Todoroki… did he recognize their newly introduced teacher’s aid ‘Satoru-sensei’ as the S-rank supervillain Dabi? Surely if he did, he would have reacted a bit more explosively, right? As of now, he was just staring at the white-haired man with a slightly puzzled frown.

“—so you leave here with the understanding that you have powers in order to help others,” Thirteen is in the middle of concluding her speech when Izuku tunes back in. “Aaaand that’s all! Thank you for listening!” She gives a flourish of a bow, to the cheers of Izuku’s classmates.

Off to her left, Aizawa-sensei’s expression has only grown darker as they’d lingered atop the entrance platform. His red-lined eyes darted furtively around the compound, as if in pursuit of something. Dabi, meanwhile, was decidedly more relaxed with his hands slouched in the pockets of his joggers, but Izuku had been around the villain long enough to know the nonchalance was faked. 

Once the applause had petered out, Aizawa-sensei cleared his throat. “Right, then. So— 

As if on cue, the entire building seemed to heave a great, shuddering sigh. The low hum of the generators crackled and then slowly powered down with a shrill whine. Lights flickered and burned out, just as the fountain at the center of the complex began to sputter. Both Aizawa-sensei and Dabi were immediately on alert. 

“They must have deactivated the trespassing sensors,” Thirteen murmurs, sounding pensive. 

A great maw of black mist tears across the surface of the fountain, expanding into a flat portal. A single hand wrenches through it, pulling a man along with it. After he emerges from the inky darkness, several more figures push through the smoke. Izuku’s breath catches in his throat as he counts ten, then twenty, and more incoming. 

“They’ve been planning this for some time.” Aizawa-sensei says in response, pushing his goggles over his eyes as if preparing for battle as he surveys the emerging crowds. “That media break last week must have been their distraction to break in and get their hands on a schedule.”

“For what purpose?” Thirteen asks, horrified. 

“We can ask them once they’re under arrest.” Says Aizawa-sensei. He turns to Dabi. 

Dabi just tilts his head at Aizawa-sensei, eyes obscured by his usual pair of impenetrably dark sunglasses. “So what do you think, senpai?” 

Aizawa-sensei grits his teeth. “I—

“Is this like the entrance exams all over again?” Kirishima whines from beside him, breaking Izuku’s concentration. “Don’t tell me it’s already started!”

Uraraka looks dismayed at the thought, stepping forward. Murmurs of discontent rise from behind him; he can hear Sero wondering whether they’re going to have secret objectives like the rescue points from last time. 

“All of you stay where you are!” Aizawa-sensei commands, causing the class to freeze in place. “This isn’t a test. Those are actual villains.”

The students behind Izuku cry out in shock. His eyes immediately flicker towards Dabi, then Thirteen, and back again to Aizawa-sensei, who already has his goggles on. None of them look surprised by the turn of events. They knew this would happen, then? Izuku wonders, unsure if that makes him even more worried or not. He desperately wants to ask Dabi what’s going on, but can’t in front of all these people.

“Our main priority is the student’s safety,” Aizawa-sensei says, to Thirteen. “Once they’re secure, we’ll get in contact with the authorities.”

He turns back. “Satoru-sensei,” he directs to Dabi, looking like it kills him inside a little bit to have to refer to the villain this way. 

It’s all Dabi needs. He nods once in response, looking more serious than Izuku has ever seen him. He plucks his shades off to reveal the profound, orphic blue swirl of his eyes, not an ounce of his usual levity to be found in them. 

“Stay together everyone! Head back to the entrance!” Thirteen shouts at them, pushing them along with her. 

Izuku frantically looks between them, realizing all of a sudden what their plan is. Of course Aizawa-sensei would prioritize his students over arresting any villains. Thirteen too, as a teacher at U.A., would have their safety top of mind. But for both of them to chaperone the class… leaves Dabi alone to deal with the hordes of villains slowly emerging from the massive portal. 

He swallows thickly. 

//

His number one priority is ensuring the safety of the students Eraserhead’s in charge of. 

His second priority is making sure they seize this opportunity to the fullest and make damn sure the risk they’re putting the students in is worth it. 

Those two goals aren’t as mutually exclusive as they might first appear. 

This is Gojo’s first time meeting the League of Villain’s face to face too, after all. 

It’d be a shame to let the opportunity go to waste. He has exactly fifteen minutes before the rest of the heroes show up to make this count.

//

Tomura’s heard of the infamous cremation villain, Dabi. He’d have to live under a rock not to have. It’s impossible to get very far in the criminal underworld without his name cropping up in some manner— and in recent months, in an increasingly ultimatum-like fashion. A great deal of criminal groups have begun to weigh the pros and cons of pursuing a certain course of action entirely on how Dabi might react to it. Getting in his way is a death sentence for a criminal; usually literally. 

Having him show up in the middle of his much anticipated attack on U.A. was emphatically not how he had expected to finally meet the other villain.

“Tomura-kun, how would you like to proceed?” Kurogiri asks, in that intractably impassive voice of his.

Tomura grits his teeth.

He’s come too far just to turn tail. At his debut, no less. Nevermind Sensei’s reaction, how is he supposed to face himself in the mirror knowing he ran like a coward at the first sign of a change in plans? Fuck no. Sensei might be pissed, since he seems so keen on getting to be on good terms with the guy, but Tomura’s not interested in playing nice. 

“We’re not pulling back now,” he declares. “I don’t care that All Might’s not here. I want him to see a bunch of dead kids and know he’s failed. Kill anyone you can get your hands on.”

Kurogiri nods wordlessly, directing the masses with a wave of his arm. Tomura doesn’t have high hopes for most of them— just a bunch of NPCs rounded up to increase the group stats— but between Kurogiri, himself, and the perfect beast of a Nomu the professor’s cooked up, he’s sure they’ll clear the level objectives. 

Even if an unknown, boss level opponent has shown up. 

//

Izuku has to physically drag himself in the direction Aizawa-sensei is leading them in when he hears the explosions going on behind him. Yes, they’re in the middle of a crisis here, but Dabi is fighting behind him and literally no one in the history of the internet has ever managed to get footage of a full fight, and here Izuku could have a prime view of it if he wasn’t being dragged in the opposite direction! There’s no helping it, though. He’d probably just get in the way at best, or be taken hostage at worst, and anyway poor Aizawa-sensei looks near hysteric with worry already and he doesn’t want to do that to his sensei. 

So Izuku sighs internally at such an incredible missed opportunity and follows his classmates as they’re ushered back towards the front entrance with Thirteen and Aizawa-sensei in tow. 

“Who is that guy, anyway?” Kirishima is murmuring to Ojiro, “should sensei really have just left him alone with all those guys?”

“I dunno, but I think we should just follow what sensei says,” Ojiro returns, eyes darting about nervously. 

“I can’t believe they’re real villains,” Ashido remarks, worried. “How’d they even get in here?”

“Everyone, please remain calm and quiet and follow sensei diligently!” Iida shouts over the din of their classmates, sounding rather harassed. 

“You’re not being particularly calm or quiet yourself, Iida-kun,” Asui comments, hopping by his side.

Iida looks sheepish. “Good point, Asui-san.” 

“Bunch of fuckin’ extras,” Bakugou mutters from in front of Izuku, shoulders hunched up towards his ears. From his usual irritated tone, it’s impossible to tell how he feels about it all. 

To Izuku’s left, Todoroki’s expression isn’t all that forthcoming either. He’s jogging lightly next to him with the same utterly impassive expression he always has. He’s actually even harder to read than Yui-chan, Izuku thinks, as he examines the girl on the opposite side of Todoroki, whose usually even features have pinched into a look of evident worry. 

“This way, everyone!” Thirteen is shouting from the front of the group, drawing Izuku’s attention away from his fellow classmates. 

She flags them over to the grand double doors they’d entered from, only to halt abruptly when she finds them locked. With a muffled curse she jogs over to the side panel and wrenches it open, fiddling with the interface as the class skids to a stop at the blocked doors. A few cries of alarm and confusion rise up from the crowd of students pinned to the doors, even as Aizawa-sensei shouts at them all to stay calm. 

“— the doors are locked?! How are they locked?!”

“—automatic locking from the power surge—” 

“—maybe Kaminari can—”

“How many times do I have to tell you all to stay quiet?” Aizawa raises his voice to be heard over the tide of worried students, fortunately managing to quell them into uneasy silence. “Alright. I need Bakugou, Todoroki and Ashido to come to the front please— 

Izuku doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence, the words drowned out in the white static noise of his own panic. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up in a way that immediately raises his instinctual, almost primitive fight or flight response. 

Later, he’ll realize it feels so familiar because it’s the same sudden swell of panic he gets when Dabi’s about to reappear next to him to get the drop on him, usually to ruffle his hair obnoxiously or plop a cold drink on his head just to hear him squawk. Some kind of instinctual reaction to an intangible spatial distortion. 

It’s the only warning he gets. He lunges to the side and tackles Todoroki and Yui to the ground, his greater than average strength flinging them a few meters away, just as a sickly purple portal opens up where they’re feet used to be. 

Aizawa-sensei swears loudly as shrieks of terror erupt from the class, wildly looking around for the culprit of the portals. 

“Forgive me for the sudden intrusion,” a placid voice remarks, as a humanoid man with a head of gaseous purple clouds rises from an inky black portal. At his feet more villains begin to emerge from the darkness. Izuku shivers at the voice, so cold and removed. “But I cannot allow anyone to leave this place alive.”

//

None of these villains are even worth his time. He flings them across the grounds like toys, and doesn’t need anything more than his own strength, speed and physical combat to do it. If this is the skill level of the majority of villains out there in the world, then his training for Izuku and Yui has been overkill. From what his Six Eyes are telling him, the only real threats in this group are the portal user, the ringleader with the hands all over him, and the monstrous looking creature still loitering by the fountain. 

It’s not a terrible turn of events, but still not a great one either, as a teleporter like himself can prove to be a tricky opponent. 

He roundhouse kicks the thug nearest to him, sending him flying into a few of his fellow goons. They all collapse in a heap across the square, as Gojo surveys the rest of the crowds. 

“So uncivilized,” he laments with a shake of his head. Everyone here is a waste of his time. 

He has to double back in the midst of taking out the throngs of low-life criminals to pry open the locked doors for the students, teleporting just in time to blow out the locked USJ doors with a prompt application of his Limitless technique. Eraserhead is at a disadvantage fighting in crowds like this, especially when he needs to focus his quirk entirely on the portal-user to keep him at bay. Pro Hero Thirteen is also at a disadvantage in close quarter group fighting like this, with her quirk being what it is. That really only leaves the students to defend themselves, and he’s proud to see Izuku and Yui eagerly step up to the plate and join him in taking down some of the villains. 

“Alright kiddos, follow your dear sensei out to safety!” He sings over the chaos of the fighting, loping over towards where Eraserhead is trying to keep the portal-user pinned while simultaneously fighting off half a dozen thugs. 

Eraserhead doesn’t necessarily look pleased to see him. “The villains on the lower floor—

“They’ve got numbers and not much else,” Gojo interrupts. “This guy here is one of the ones you have to watch out for.”

“You truly think so? I’m flattered.” The villain demures. He doesn’t look overly concerned that Eraserhead has his quirk pinned like this, which only proves Gojo’s point. Only people who don’t have anything to prove are this calm in the face of an adversary like Gojo. 

“It’d be easier if I could just kill them all, ya know.” Gojo can’t help but point out under his breath, as he takes point in front of the portal user.

Eraserhead sighs heavily, like he really does know. Considering it’s his student’s lives on the line here, he probably does. “I hate to say it, but I’m going to have to ask you to avoid that scenario as much as possible.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Gojo returns, dryly. 

Eraserhead nods once, then drops his quirk to sprint towards the herd of his students, all caught up in fending off their attackers as they try to head towards the doors. Gojo can hear him making quick work of the crowds frisking the students, but keeps the majority of his focus on the villain in front of him. 

“All of you, out, now!” Eraserhead shouts after he’s presumably finished off the rest of the stragglers, as Thirteen herds them all out the blasted hole Gojo’s made out of the doors. He’s clearly put the fear of god into his students at some point, because they all listen reasonably well to his command. 

The haze of darkness surrounding the man’s face is positively irritating. There’s a lot Gojo can glean from the information he gets from his Six Eyes alone, but there’s really something irreplaceable about having access to your opponents facial expressions. As it is, Gojo can tell this guy has a powerful quirk and knows exactly how to use it, but otherwise doesn’t know much else. Even things like age and ethnicity are impossible to discern.

“I’d rather not come to blows with you,” the man says, casually. His hands remain placidly at his sides. 

Gojo doesn’t move to drop into the offensive either, just eying the villain speculatively. He tilts his head curiously. “Are you worried you’ll lose?” 

“It’s not really a matter of winning or losing,” he rebuffs. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on you.”

It’s nothing Gojo hasn’t already expected. He grins widely. “You like what you see, huh?”

“You’re quite a formidable foe.” He agrees without missing a beat. “And not someone we’d like to make an enemy out of.”

“I’m flattered!” His grin turns sly. “And yet, we’re enemies right now nonetheless.” 

He spreads his hands placidly. “Tell me, what can I do to change your mind?” 

“About protecting these students?”

“Indeed.”

He shrugs. “Absolutely nothing. Let them leave peacefully, then we can talk.”

The man makes what he thinks is some kind of sigh, distorted by the clouds across his face. “That is most disappointing. I’m afraid my orders are to kill as many as possible.”

You don’t seem to be trying very hard on that one, Gojo notices silently, intrigued by the prospect. From what he could tell, the one calling the shots was that scraggly looking kid with the hands all over him. If anyone was ordering the portal villain to kill, he’d have to imagine it was that guy. What could it mean, that this man was intentionally neglecting orders? 

Or, he might just be wise enough to realize it’d be an effort of futility with Gojo around, and decided to hedge his bets on a bigger prize— like negotiating a deal with the infamous Dabi.

“Looks like we’re at an impasse, then,” he comments, mildly. 

The man gives another sigh-like capitulation. “Indeed.”

Gojo had predicted his next move, but a part of him was hoping this guy would prove him wrong and make the smarter play to just take the deal and let the kids go. 

Still, the portal user was clearly not only one of the more powerful of the bunch, but also one of the more intelligent, because he recognizes a poor matchup when he sees one and decides on a well-timed retreat instead. Gojo is briefly disappointed by the turn of events; he’d been itching for a serious fight and none of his opponents so far had given him much to chew on, and this guy seemed like he’d at least bring something interesting. But alas, the villain is smart enough to know not to face an opponent he can’t possibly hope to beat head on, and Gojo can respect that if nothing else. 

He sticks his hands in his pockets as his lips purse in what he refuses to call a pout, spinning back around to see if Eraserhead needs any help.

He seems to have it all under control— Space Hero Thirteen has effectively corralled most of the group of students out the doors and Eraserhead has more or less finished up rounding up the villains that portaled over. 

The students are all off running to safety with Thirteen, aside from his two little padawans, who seem particularly uneager to leave him alone, along with another straggler that Gojo hasn’t had enough time to think much on. Even without his Six Eyes, Gojo would have immediately recognized his little brother on sight alone. His remarkable chimerism makes him rather unforgettable. 

It's been years since Gojo has seen him with his own two eyes. Observing him through the powers of his Six Eyes just isn’t the same. Even though his cursed eyes give him infinitely more information onto the boy’s wellbeing and health than any natural sight ever could, there’s still something unfathomable to seeing him in person. He’s grown quite a bit from the scrawny child Gojo remembers him as, taller and more filled out, with cheeks that have lost that adorable chubbiness. 

He definitely wasn’t prepared for it— all the emotions seeing Todoroki Shouto in person again would stir within him. 

He viciously shoves them all down in favor of the situation at hand. Wouldn’t do to get caught up in his own maudlin thoughts when others are in danger around him. That being said, he might actually be able to use Shouto being here to his advantage…

While he’s just standing around looking distracted, an enterprising thug tries to take the opportunity to clock him in the head. 

Gojo dodges gracefully out of the way of a haphazard kick, spins around, and uses the man’s ridiculous fringed jacket as a makeshift rope to keep him tied up. It’s only been two days of working with heroes and he’s already emphatically over it . Going through the trouble of apprehending villains instead of just killing them is such a hassle. 

He keeps a foot on the guy's head as he shoves his hands into his pocket and watches Eraserhead chew out his three students who adamantly refuse to be budged. 

“—first year students and this is not your fight,” Eraserhead is in the middle of saying, clearly on a roll now, “your teachers have a responsibility and a legal obligation to your safety.”

“But Aizawa-sensei, we’re in training to be heroes— to deal with this very situation!” Izuku returns, with a certain adamance to his tone that surprises Gojo. Gone is the adorably stuttering little bean that feels too shy to speak his mind. 

Ah, I’ve probably been rubbing off on him, huh? He thinks, half proud and half dismayed to see both Izuku and Yui taking after him. On the one hand, telling authoritative figures to fuck off seems like a rite of passage for adolescent youths. On the other, he is the poster child of terrible life-decisions and he doesn’t want to see any kids following in his footsteps. 

“Ignoring the plight of others doesn’t seem very in line with the spirit of heroism,” Yui agrees blandly, and fuck it all, Gojo really is proud of them both.

“I don’t want to be the kind of hero that runs at the first sign of trouble.” Shouto adds, and Gojo can’t help but marvel at the novelty of that toddling little kid all grown up like this, unruly and pigheaded personality and all. 

“None of you are heroes.” Eraserhead denies them all, flatly. “You are heroes in training, and minors in addition to that. I have the authority as your teacher to expel all of you at my own discretion, and insubordination of this level is perfect reason to do so— you’re putting yourselves and the rest of your fellow students in danger by staying like this. Now Thirteen and I are separated and she’s either going to have to double back for you and risk harm to the students under her care, or I’m going to have to escort you personally and leave my teaching aid to deal with all these villains alone.”

This would probably be an excellent guilt trip, if two of the students getting this lecture weren’t unerringly aware that Gojo was one of the most deadliest supervillains on the planet, and was hardly in any danger with these clowns. 

Luckily neither of them show as much on their face, as Eraserhead stares them all down with a look that would make lesser kids cry. “I’m not going to ask you all again.” 

Gojo watches the volleys back and forth like a spectator sport, a bit torn on the subject himself. On the one hand, as a fellow adult he totally gets where Eraserhead is coming from; these kids are their responsibility. And he knows with painful intimacy what a heavy, horrifying burden that kind of responsibility is to bear. Of course he doesn’t want to see these kids get hurt. He, rightfully, sees their youthfulness and lack of experience and believes it's better to have them learn in a structured and safe environment. On the other hand, Gojo has originally come from a vicious and ruthless world that didn’t have the luxury of a structured and safe learning environment. He’s shoved kids their age into life or death situations without batting an eyelash, although he’s not proud to say it. 

If this was Eraserhead’s entire class, he would have unanimously agreed with the man. But most of the class had been corralled out by the combined efforts of Eraserhead’s most law-abiding students— the tall kid with the glasses and the girl with the ponytail— and Thirteen’s best efforts. And two of these kids that have stayed behind are ones he’s trained with for months; he knows their strengths and weaknesses with the exacting clarity of his cursed eyes, and he thinks they’re up to the task. Especially with both he and Eraserhead here to guide them. 

And as for Shouto…

Well, Shouto would be highly convenient right now, if Gojo does say so himself.

“Hey, senpai,” he calls cheerfully, interrupting the man’s tirade. Izuku looks relieved to be spared the lecture, at first, before he realizes that anything Gojo says is a prelude to pure chaos, and then begins to look rightfully horrified. 

“Yes, kohai?” Eraserhead all but twitches as he’s forced to address him as such.  

He points to the guy at his feet, struggling weakly and groaning in pain. “If they’re already here and going to be stubborn about it, why don’t we just put them to use?”

Eraserhead is clearly not impressed at all to have his authority undermined by Gojo of all people. “Oh? Is this your professional opinion, kohai?” 

Gojo gives his brightest smile in response. “Yes it is! You see, we’re running into a bit of an issue with the numbers of all these bad guys— not too difficult to smack down, but the problem is, there’s no real way to keep them there after the fact.” 

Gojo is a consummate professional, and knows exactly how hard to hit someone to knock them out. That being said, even with the superior power of his Six Eyes even that is nothing but precise guesswork— at the end of the day, knocking someone unconscious is always going to be a dangerous business with potential for accidental death. But just knocking them down via broken bones or incapacitation still leaves the more ambitious of the lot with plenty of room for retaliation. And he doubts Eraserhead came into this with a bulk supply of costly quirk suppressant cuffs. 

He points straight at Shouto. “But, I think this particular student of yours might be able to help with that.” 

Both Izuku and Yui turn as one to stare at their preternaturally quiet classmate, who looks just as stunned as they do.

“... Me?” His little brother says, blankly.

“Yep, you, frosty the snowman!” Gojo nods cheerfully. “If you can ice them up for us, that’ll keep them down and the likelihood of them dying of frostbite before the authorities come to round them up is pretty low.”

Eraserhead looks like he absolutely does not want to give Gojo the satisfaction of being right, but has no cause for recourse. And the way his brow twitches in evident disapproval is a delightful sight to see. Nothing brings him joy quite like making Eraserhead begrudgingly acquiesce to his demands, despite his own better judgment… Man, he really does have a terrible personality, doesn’t he? 

Eraserhead sighs deeply, pinching his brow. “Fine.” Izuku and Yui light up like Christmas trees. 

“But you’re not to engage anyone unless in self defense.” He continues, severely. “And you’re to stay near us at all times. Midoriya, Kodai, your primary objective is to support and defend Todoroki.” 

Both students nod earnestly. 

“And Todoroki, you’re on ice duty. Try not to wear yourself out, and tell us if you get tired, but make sure to keep the ice at least a couple meters thick so they have no chance of breaking out.”

Shouto nods as well. “I’ll make sure to leave breathing holes too.” He says solemnly, and it takes everything in Gojo to refrain from joking to just leave the breathing holes out entirely. Eraserhead probably wouldn’t appreciate his sense of humor right now. 

The teacher still doesn’t look particularly thrilled with this sudden turn of events, but he seems to see the logic in Gojo’s proposal. He turns to Gojo. “I’m going to take them to block the door and then round up the downed villains. Can you handle the rest?”

Gojo winks. “Was that ever really in question?”

If anything, this just manages to make the man look even more put upon. “Don’t give me gray hairs here, problem child.” He retorts, surprisingly serious. “I need to hear it.”

Gojo’s playful demeanor falters a bit. He blinks rapidly. Eraserhead… can’t possibly actually be worried for him, can he? 

“Yes, I’ll be just fine. Look after the kiddos.” 

He nods once, sharply, then directs his remaining three students back towards the gaping hole where the doors used to be, already asking Yui if she could shrink and then expand a couple of the miscellaneous items lying around to use as barricades in addition to Shouto’s ice wall, with Izuku adding in helpful suggestions for what items would be the most effective. 

He leaves Gojo standing there with a weird and funny feeling in his chest. Gojo immediately decides he doesn’t like it, at all. He wonders if he’s getting heart burn or something, or if all those sweets he eats are finally catching up to him.

//

“I believe it would be in our best interest to retreat and regroup.” Kurogiri intones solemnly, to Tomura’s skyrocketing fury. 

Tomura curses under his breath, frustration mounting in the pit of his chest as he watches the massive doors of the USJ complex splinter apart in a display of invisible power. Students frantically take off into the campus beyond, sprinting off into different directions. It’ll be impossible to get to all of them now. 

His plan is crumbling apart around him and he can only watch with an imploding fury as the man responsible rounds up his NPCs like they’re, well, NPCs. 

And it’s all that guy’s fault, he thinks, fury and want warring terribly in his stomach. 

Dabi was… everything people said about him, and more. A god-tier boss easily capable of desecrating any player foolish enough to get in his path. He was so stupidly, obnoxiously over powered that Tomura wanted to simultaneously strangle him and chain him to his side. The things he could achieve with that sort of power at his beck and call… even Sensei clearly agreed, if he was expending this much effort to entice the man to their side. 

Dabi was practically a fucking cheat code, and Tomura wasn’t the kind of gamer who could accept cheats. Unless of course, he was the one using them. 

He grits his teeth, three fingers digging hard enough to leave welts in his palm. His plan was collapsing around him and there was literally nothing he could do about it.

I could fight him, he muses, even though the thought sends a palpitation of fear and trepidation straight through him. Even Kurogiri hadn’t bothered to try, and Tomura would have thought they’d be a decent matchup. They both could fucking teleport, which was already stupidly OP.  But in addition to that Dabi also had his unnamed telekinetic abilities in his favor, and on top of that, his outrageously maxed out hand-to-hand combat and speed stats. Honestly, was this man bad at anything? He’s probably a maxed out swordmaster and a sharpshooter too, knowing Tomura’s luck. 

As if summoned by his own thoughts, the supervillain in question flickers off the entrance podium, where he’d been in some kind of conversation with underground hero Eraserhead, and reappears once more in the middle of the square. The remaining NPCs still strong enough to fight him immediately surround him, although it’s a total lost cause. He tosses them around like they’re low-level farming enemies on a beginner’s level zone and he’s a level 80 that’s accidentally fast traveled to the wrong map. He’s clearly better trained than all of them in fighting, and faster on his feet to boot. And not a single one of their quirks even bothers him, as if he already knew exactly what they were and how to combat them before they even engaged him. It’s infuriating, truly. Infuriating, and so seductively tantalizing. 

When he’s finished not only beating them all silly, but tossing them all into one giant pile of broken bones and crippling regret, he turns towards Tomura with a bright, brilliant grin.

Tomura wants to slam his head into the fountain and drown there. 

Of course he’s fucking attractive too.

At this point, he’s fairly certain Dabi’s not even human. There’s no way he’s real. Real people have flaws. Defections and faults, however small. This guy— this guy’s just a fucking glitch with great hair. 

Kurogiri moves to step forward as Dabi walks towards them, but Tomura holds him back.

“No,” he tells the portal-user, scowling deeply. 

“Tomura-kun,” Kurogiri says, in protest.

He shakes his head. “I’ll handle this.”

He has to. His pride can’t really handle anything less. 

Kurogiri looks as if he’s physically restraining himself from objecting, worry evident in the tense lines of his posture, and the way his hands flex anxiously at his sides. “Very well.” He concedes.

Tomura steels himself and walks forward. Dabi just watches him do it with an idly benign expression, sticking his hands in the pockets of his joggers. He tilts his head with evident curiosity as Tomura approaches.

“So you’re the one in charge, huh?” Dabi greets, sounding chipper. 

“Shigaraki Tomura.” He replies. “I’m the leader of the League of Villains.”

“You’re the leader? You’re shorter than I expected.” The cremation villain says, smiling. 

Tomura just frowns at him. He’s heard Dabi is quite the eccentric character, but it’s one thing to hear about it and another to experience it in person. Eccentric is putting it mildly. Gently, if not clinically insane, is probably more accurate.

“And I thought someone of your reputation would be a bit older.” 

Dabi’s eyes light up in delight at the remark, although Tomura doesn’t see what’s so special about it. He’d meant it to be equally as insulting as Dabi’s comment on his height. 

“Oh, what a shame, I really like you.” Dabi says, eyes gleaming in the light. 

There’s something really unnerving about them— and the way Dabi’s gaze seems to pick him apart. 

“Can’t really say the same,” Tomura says. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know?”

He casually flexes out his hands as he eyes up his opponent. Dabi still looks relaxed and totally at ease, shoulders sloped, hands buried in his pockets. Even his stance is poor form for fighting, his weight unbalanced as he rocks back on the balls of his feet. Dabi’s got incredible speed, Tomura knows, and that idle expression of his obscures an observant mind that doesn’t seem to miss a thing. 

If he wants any chance of beating this guy, it’s going to have to be from close quarters. He can’t let him put distance between them and use that devastating quirk of his. 

And all he needs is one touch.  

Even from this close of a distance, he doesn’t think he’d be able to reach Dabi in time. The man’s reflexes are just too quick for it. But Tomura’s patient, and he can bide his time. Eraserhead and the leftover students are slowly making their way towards them, icing over the fallen villains as they go. All he needs is for Dabi to be distracted for just a second; just a single moment of inattentiveness, and the other man is done. 

“People tell me that a lot~” Dabi grins, unabashedly. His stupidly sparkly eyes crinkling up with the movement. “It’s really my best asset!”

Tomura scoffs. “Don’t go fishing for compliments.” He steps aside the stationary man, keeping him within his sights. Dabi does the same, and soon they’re slowly circling each other. 

“Why not?” The white-haired villain blinks, far too innocently. “There’s really a lot to compliment on!”

He chuckles lowly, almost in disbelief. “You know, I really hate guys like you.”

“Is it the hair?” Dabi says, blithely. 

“It’s your fucking attitude,” Tomura counters. “So high and mighty… you’re just as bad as all the heroes, you know? That arrogance really pisses me off.”

And he’s not even lying. There’s nothing he wants more right now than to wipe that smug smile off the other villain’s face. Even All Might defeated and on his knees doesn’t seem as worthy a prize. 

“Arrogance? Hey now, I’m not the one who waltzed in here with a whole damn entourage and a monologuing manifesto!” 

That only makes it all the more infuriating, because Tomura had a plan. He had a whole fucking entrance staged. And Dabi had ruined it entirely, and didn’t even have the good sense to be apologetic about it. 

Well, whatever. He’ll feel better about it after he’s dusted an arm. Or two. 

Tomura tenses on his feet as he watches Eraserhead and his gaggle of kids descend the staircase. A few of the villains strewn about the ground get to their feet at the sight of a bunch of stragglers. In the interim of the chaos of movement, one of the thugs playing possum leaps from his spot on the ground and charges for Dabi.

Tomura takes his chance and closes the distance between them.

Caught between two opponents, Dabi has to make some choices. As Tomura predicted, he goes for the easier prey first, dodging out of the way of the man’s swipe and ducking under his reach to toss him over his shoulder. As the man is floundering on his hands and knees Dabi kicks him in the stomach and sends him off flying. It’s in that moment, when Dabi’s back is turned, that Tomura strikes.

Predictably Dabi reacts just in time and jumps over his own low sweep. And then, when he’s off centered, Tomura throws a punch. Dabi reacts instinctively and pulls up his forearm as a guard, and that’s when Tomura knows its checkmate.

He pushes his other hand forward, palm spread, reaching for the arm. 

But before it can even make contact, Tomura’s spread hand seizes in the air, as if caught in an immutable, impossible force field. His red eyes widened in shock.

I can’t… touch him? 

“Oh, did you want to hold hands?” He croons, leaning in closer in a parody of intimacy. 

The white-haired villains reaches up with his own palm and presses against Tomura’s outstretched hand, lining their fingers up perfectly.

“Eat shit,” Tomura grits out, spread fingers shaking in the uncompromising grip of telekinetic power as he tries desperately to force them forward. 

What the fuck is this thing?

“You’re not exactly stopped,” Dabi comments idly, and he wonders if he’s just answering the unspoken question or if he really did ask that aloud. “But the closer you get, the slower you go.” 

He thinks he gets what Dabi means; he feels as if he’s moving forward, as if the momentum of his arm is going somewhere, but he’s not seeing it happen. 

He tries to use his other hand to dust him instead, but it too gets stuck before it can make physical contact with Dabi. 

The field drops even further, until even Tomura’s own eyes fool him into thinking Dabi has laced their fingers together. Tomura sputters. “You— what the fuck are you—”

He swears he can feel the heat of the other man against his palm, against each fingertip as they line up perfectly together, Dabi’s fingers just a little bit longer than his own. He’s never held anyone’s hand before, never touched anyone deliberately since he was a small child before his catastrophic quirk manifested. Just the sight of all five of their fingers lined up together, in some sick parody of intimacy, has him reeling. 

“Well don’t be shy now, you’re making me embarrassed!”

“You—” Tomura grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he feels a molar crack, incensed beyond belief.  

He lets out a frustrated growl, yanking both his hands back as he shouts, “Nomu!” At the top of his lungs.

The obedient beast springs to life, launching at Dabi. 

In the interim, Tomura puts some distance between himself and the villain. He sees Eraserhead sprinting towards him, leaving his students to finish up on their own. He doesn’t wait before putting both hands flat on the ground, causing the cement floor to crack and splinter apart. He waits until it's sure to cave in entirely before jumping out of the way of the ensuing destruction, just as Eraserhead skids to a halt at the end of the massive ravine he’s caused. The entire complex groans at the onslaught of pressure as a jagged chasm erupts between them, splitting the arena in half. 

Tomura looks up, gasping, as cracks start to form in the massive domed ceiling. The ground quakes beneath him, the structural integrity of the hippodrome buckling under the pressure. 

With an impassable chasm between him and his enemies, he catches his breath. 

“Tomura-kun,” Kurogiri says, worried.

“I know.” He replies, bitterly. 

They should really get going before backup comes, or the building falls on top of them. But he can’t help but want to see the Nomu tear the man apart with his own eyes. It was made to defeat All Might, after all, the pinnacle of quirk science birthing a creature of pure, impossible power. Sensei said so— he promised. This beast would be more than enough to bring down the Number One Hero, All Might. Who was Dabi in comparison?

In hindsight, he’ll be made aware of his own hypocrisy in putting so much stock in something he regularly ridicules, like heroes and their blasphemous ranking systems. 

//

The beast lunges at Gojo, and he can hear the shouts of alarm from Eraserhead’s students behind him as they cross into the main square. There’s the flair of Shouto’s ice quirk as he immediately gets to work capturing the nearby defeated villains. There’s the pulse of power as Eraserhead activates his own quirk, attempting to help Gojo fend off this monster. And then there’s the beast itself, a ghastly, macabre creature. 

All its monstrosity is revealed in ghoulish and glorious detail by Gojo’s Six Eyes. He doesn’t even know where to start. There must be countless quirks all haphazardly sewn together in this wretched, pitiful being. Pitiful human, for Gojo can tell by its base energy that it is, indeed, a human. If he hadn’t been so accustomed to seeing curses in his old life it might have even been enough to horrify him. As it is, he’s only grimly reminded of some of the more grotesque curses he’d encountered in his past life. 

It’s pity that he feels, more than anything. Curses were born from the negativity of the world, the evil and the cruelty. Gojo never pitied them, knowing there was nothing to be done for it. But this creature that Shigaraki had called a Nomu— he doesn’t know the circumstances of its creation. Maybe they had been bribed or coerced, or even taken against their will.

The Nomu swings at him, it’s massive hand swerving to flatten him entirely, only to be caught in his Infinity. The sheer force of the blow is enough to dent the ground around him, but Gojo remains untouched. 

He holds the creature there in the unbreakable grip of inertia, and walks around its outstretched arm. 

“You’re really quite a pitiful thing, aren’t you?” He murmurs quietly, as he reaches up a hand to the center of its chest. 

Within the blink of an eye, the Nomu is gone, leaving nothing left beneath his palm but shivering air and stray flecks of dust. 

“Are you alright?” Eraserhead asks, jogging up to him. Hie glances briefly to where the Nomu used to exist, and it's nothing more than a flicker but Gojo can read all the apprehension and disquiet the man feels in that quick second before he schools his expression back into serious professionalism. 

It's nothing unexpected, really; it's an expression directed towards him fairly often, and always has been. And Eraserhead might have seen his cremation in person before, but he's aware it's a disconcerting thing to witness. For something to tangibly exist in this reality in one moment, only to be entirely and instantaneously eradicated in the next.

“Just fine,” Gojo shrugs. “The students?”

“The signals are still jammed,” he replies grimly. “But I trust Thirteen.”

Gojo refrains from any critical commentary on that front. He’s sure Thirteen is a capable hero, in scenarios in which her specific skillset is best utilized, but that suit of hers isn’t really suitable for close combat. Still, with a bit of concentration he expands his senses in search of the quirk factors of the students. The ones still within his radius all seem fine, from what he can tell. 

He makes a noncommittal noise, turning back towards where Shigaraki ran off. He decayed a chasm into the center of the complex, creating an enormous rift between the two sides. It would probably deter most people, if only because the jump required to cross it would leave them entirely open to attack, but Gojo’s hardly most people. He doesn’t give chase, however. It would be pointless when that teleporter is already opening up a portal for them both, and Gojo isn’t really trying to antagonize them too terribly. Not yet, anyway. 

An organization as well-funded and well-equipped as the League has a deep and complex support system behind it. Roots that spread deep underground, farther than even his Six Eyes can see. It might seem simple enough to just pluck out the stem when it's in front of them, but in the long run that'll only make it more difficult to unearth the whole labyrinth beneath. And if at the end of that labyrinth is the person Gojo thinks it is… well, Eraserhead and Detective Tsukauchi will be happy to have waited.

“It doesn’t sit well with me… Just letting them go like that.” Eraserhead says bitterly, watching the two disappear in a tendril of smoke. 

“You got plenty of arrests in the exchange,” Gojo points out, mildly.

The underground hero shakes his head. “We both know they’re not going to know anything beyond what they were hired to do. These people are too smart for that.”

Gojo just nods along, attention drifting up to the ceiling. Eraserhead follows his gaze with a confused look. 

“I’d get frosty to ice this split as soon as possible, if you don’t want the ceiling falling onto all the villains he just spent all that effort in incapacitating.”

Eraserhead’s attention snaps back down to him, brow furrowed. “Are you going to go after them?”

“Nah, not now.” Gojo replies, airily. “I’m gonna bounce before things get dicey.”

Eraserhead’s frown deepens. “Dicey?” He echoes, rather incredulously. How can things get any worse?

Then the white-haired villain disappears right before his eyes, teleporting off to who knows where. 

As if on cue, the ceiling shatters apart in a stunning array of fractured glass. All Might sails through the hole, landing directly in front of Eraserhead. 

“I AM HERE!” 

There’s an offbeat of silence.

Eraserhead sighs. "Yes, you are. And you're late."

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

this day has been just one long series of unfortunate eyebrows yikes

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Chapter Text

Izuku and Yui really have nothing to say to each other. No words need to be exchanged. He’s fairly certain they’re both feeling the same things; shock, disbelief, a general detached sense of bewilderment, with a slight dash of fanboying because he finally saw Dabi in action and holy hell it was the most terrifying thing he's ever seen in his life and yet also the coolest, most unconfrontationally badass, most magnificent—

Right, okay. That last one’s probably just him. But still. 

It’s a lot to unpack; they’ve both known Satoru to be Dabi for some time now. In theory, anyway. The reality is… a lot harder to swallow. It’s much harder to dismiss the sheer, impossible power of the man when he’s not actively portraying himself as an irreverent, irresponsible, overgrown brat. Distantly, Izuku wonders if that’s the reason Dabi seems to go out of his way to be as eccentric and ridiculous as possible. If that’s how he copes knowing the kind of power he’s capable of wielding. If he likes to do silly, childish things like prank Yui and Izuku with water guns at the end of his training-death-trap-mazes and make them guess the mystery flavor in his favorite nyan cat buns, just to make himself feel a little more human. 

Izuku wouldn’t blame him, if so. 

It’s been hours since the USJ incident has been sorted out and all the kids have been checked over by the EMTs. Frantic parents have descended upon the mess like a flock of traumatized seagulls, students protesting loudly that they were completely fine and didn’t even see any of the action. Aizawa-sensei hasn’t moved from his spot cloistered with Principal Nedzu and a police detective from their spot behind a cop car. It looks to be a tense conversation— Izuku almost wants to listen in, but thinks better of it at the last second. It would look really weird, if he went up and started asking oddly pointed questions about Dabi and his quirk. 

Izuku side-eyes the girl sharing a shock blanket with him; Yui might look outwardly as composed as ever, but there’s a pinch in the corner of her eyes that betrays her own distress. He desperately wants to ask her if she’s alright, but knows she wouldn’t be able to answer here, even if she wanted to.

Yui has probably known Dabi a lot longer than Izuku. And she knows him in an entirely different capacity than Izuku; he’d always known Dabi was a villain, directly after their first encounter. He’d accepted it long before he’d approached the man for a mentorship and tentative friendship. It had been difficult to reconcile even then, and much worse now. But he’d always known, at least peripherally, that Dabi’s reputation was well-warranted. But Yui had been his bandmate— had been Satoru’s bandmate. Satoru, who was very kind, and very silly, and oftentimes acted like a kid himself. Having watched them interact during all their training this past year, Izuku could tell they had something of an overbearing older brother and forever suffering little sister dynamic. He didn't know how or when she's figured out that the overgrown child who doubled as her band's frontman was also a wanted supervillain, but from her nonchalant approach to it he imagined it was probably a while ago.

How would it feel, to know the person you sort of saw as an older brother was an s-rank villain perfectly capable of toppling the hero industry like a house of cards?

Because there was no denying it now; Izuku had seen the evidence with his own eyes. 

If Dabi really wanted to, he could easily crumble the entire structure of society as they knew it. He had a world-altering kind of power, just like All Might. He could upset the balance of the world with his own two hands. And who knows, maybe in his prime All Might could have kept him in check, or maybe not. It didn’t matter anyway, since All Might was far closer to permanent retirement these days. 

“So do your best, because you’re the only two heroes who will ever have a chance of stopping me!”

Did he really mean that? Izuku wonders, lost and forlorn. 

Is that what it’ll take to stop him? His own ‘student’s surpassing him and putting him down, once and for all?

Izuku hopes it doesn’t come to that. He desperately hopes. Dabi is frightening, but Satoru is kind. He wonders if Dabi meant those words to be as haunting as they sounded; if he really wanted to put that burden on Izuku and Yui’s shoulders, or if he’d just been joking around in a way Satoru would with them. The awful part was— there was no way to tell. Izuku, with a sinking feeling in his gut, was realizing he really didn’t know much about Dabi at all.

“We should go see him,” Yui says, suddenly. The first thing she’s said since they’d left USJ, and Dabi had disappeared before their eyes. “After.”

Izuku’s head snaps towards her, eyes wide. “You— really?” He asks, voice high. With alarm or elation, he doesn’t really know. 

She nibbles at her bottom lip. “Mn,” she says after a moment, dipping her head. “I’m worried.”

Izuku stares blankly at her. …About Dabi? The man who almost single-handedly took down an entire horde of villains? In under fifteen minutes? All without breaking a sweat? 

“He didn’t look okay,” she adds, which only compounds Izuku’s bewildered dead-eyed stare threefold. 

…What part of him seemed not okay? If that was Dabi having an off day, Izuku shuddered to think of what he was like when he was at his best. 

But then again, Yui had known him much longer than Izuku. And she had proven to be an apt judge of character. 

“Sure,” Izuku agrees, hesitantly, tugging the shock blanket tighter across his shoulder. “But… how?”

“I know where he lives,” Yui says simply, as if that’s not the most absurd thing Izuku has ever heard.

His classmate and (maybe?) friend knows the home address of one of Japan’s most wanted villains. Of course she does.

“Right,” Izuku says slowly, trying to make his peace with the absurdity of his own life. He has no one to blame for it but himself, after all. “Okay. After they let us go, then?”

She nods. 

Izuku wrings his hands anxiously in his lap as he tries to formulate a proper excuse for his mother that doesn’t result in being grounded for a month. If she’s gotten off her shift already than she’s most certainly seen the news, and will be very cross with him if he’s not home on time. If she’s not already on her way to get him. But what to say? He looks to Yui, struck by inspiration. 

“What are you going to tell your parents?” He asks. 

She just shrugs. “I’ll make something up.”

Izuku hangs his head with a sigh. With a poker face like hers, she can probably get away with saying the most outlandish lies to her parents without them batting an eyelash. Izuku, meanwhile, falls to pieces the moment his mother so much as looks at him suspiciously. 

As if heralded by a headwind of good luck, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. It’s his mom, frantic with worry, her words so strung together when he answers he can barely pick out what she’s saying. She’s at the hospital still and needs to work a double shift, but she saw the news and was ready to rush out to him, paycheck be damned. Izuku tries to keep the relief out of his voice as he assures her he’s totally fine, not injured at all, the teachers had everything under control, and she doesn’t have to come out here. They talk in circles for a good ten minutes as she frets over the situation and seems on the fence about staying for the rest of her shift or just completely ditching it. Izuku manages to calm her enough to see reason, with plenty of assurances they’ll see each other at dinner. 

Privately, Izuku thinks the whole USJ mess might have actually been good for her. This was actually a fairly benign incident, all things considered, and his life is only going to get more dangerous from here on out. Better for her to get used to it now. 

As he looks around, he realizes that with the chaos of frantic parents buzzing around equally harassed looking EMTs and whining students, this would be the perfect opportunity for he and Yui to slip out unnoticed. 

“Should we leave now, while sensei is still occupied?” Izuku asks, sending a furtive glance back towards Aizawa-sensei, who has started to look rather contrite amongst a flock of police. 

Yui nods. “Mn.” 

The two shuck off their shock blanket and slowly start to creep around the side of the ambulance. Luckily, Kaminari had chosen the perfect opportunity to accidentally overload a radio and caused a commotion as first responders worked to put out the ensuing electrical fire. Yui proved herself to be far more adept at slinking through crowds unnoticed, because she had already ducked behind the hastily erected medical tent to slip through the gates behind it. Izuku scrambles to follow her, and runs straight into someone for his troubles. 

“Oh—!” He looks up, startled, to see he’s rammed headfirst into the Todoroki. His classmate stares down at him with that impassive, dual-colored gaze of his. Izuku has never seen him up close like this before—he’s very… pretty. 

"S—Sorry, Todoroki-kun!” He ducks his head, and dodges around him quickly to follow Yui. 

//

Yui gazes up at him with big, innocent dark eyes. Izuku has an identically big and innocent gaze fixed upon him, but in green. 

Dabi looks down at them with a look of profound despair as he opens the hotel room door, clad in nothing but an enormously fluffy bathrobe. 

“... I said for emergencies, Yui-chan.” He sighs deeply, but opens the door for them nonetheless.

“This is an emergency,” Yui replies, without missing a beat, waltzing right in. 

Izuku follows a step behind her, eyes as big as saucers. He’s never been in a place this nice before. He’d almost gone into anaphylactic shock when they hopped off the metro and waltzed into the nicest hotel lobby he’d ever seen in his life. He was terrified of touching anything or talking to anyone; Yui had to press all the buttons in the elevator, and somehow finagle Dabi’s room number from the front desk while he hovered behind her in dazed shock. 

The whole building, from its gleaming outer towers and sleek interiors, oozed opulence and luxury. Unsurprisingly, Dabi seemed to fit right in with the similarly artless manner he approached everything in life; he didn’t so much as blend in with his scenery, as the scenery comported to fit around him. His suite was grand and spacious, multiple rooms and magnificent windows unfurling the glittering heart of Mustafu beneath them. 

“Satoru-sensei, do you live here?” He can’t help but ask, when he spies the incredible view off the sitting room, revealing the glowing veins of downtown Mustafu, all the way to the boardwalk beyond by the water. 

“For now,” Dabi says, glibly. 

And then adds, continuing on his prior remark; “And I meant emergency as in, y’know, having an explosion of teenage angst and jumping out your bedroom window and needing a place to run away from your parents kind of thing,” Dabi opines, as he leads them towards a luxurious sitting room, “not, like, emotional reassurance or something.” He says this with such a look of terror Izuku can’t help but smile a little. 

“I can jump out this window if you want me to,” Yui suggests evenly, without batting an eyelash.

Dabi chokes. “Okay, nihilistic jokes are only funny when I make them. You’re way too young to be joking about that.” 

“By that logic, so are you,” Yui points out, sitting primly on a loveseat. 

“That is so hilariously untrue, I can’t even begin to formulate a response,” Dabi disagrees, dramatically.  “Fine fine, whatever, come in, make yourself at home, help yourself to the open bar— but no alcohol for either of you!” Dabi gestures towards the handsomely stocked sideboard, flopping onto the settee across from Yui. 

Izuku gingerly avoids all the expensive alcohol bottles in favor of a soda. He takes the opportunity to eye the room with blatant intrigue, cataloging all the small signs of life in such a desolately impersonal place. 

There’s a half-smoked pack of menthols on an end table, an open wallet flopped next to it, stuffed alarmingly with bills. Izuku had always known Dabi was rich, at least suppositionally; he always had on the sort of trendy sneakers that normal people waited in line for hours to get, his sunglasses were always designer, and his outfits always looked like he picked them at random off a runway. And if he was staying in a hotel like this long enough to give Yui the address, he was dropping astronomical amounts of money on this suite alone. And he’d always half-wondered how Dabi came in to such money. If he was born into it, if he made it on his own somehow, if he… was getting paid for his criminal activities.

“Can you grab me a Yebisu, Izu-kun?” Dabi calls from behind him.

“A coca-cola for me please,” Yui adds. 

Izuku swallows thickly, turning away from the sight and hastily grabbing the drinks. He hands them out and sinks into a chair next to Yui’s, a leather jacket thrown carelessly over the back of it. It smells like Dabi’s expensive cologne, Izuku can’t help but notice. He hopes his ears aren’t turning red; he’s not usually close enough to smell it like this.  

“Okay, seriously, why are you two here?” Dabi squints at them as he pops the cap of his beer. “You didn’t get kicked out or something, did you?”

“No, Aizawa-sensei was too busy covering his own relations with you to notice our own,” Yui says. Both Dabi and Izuku choke on their drinks at the same time.

Dabi coughs weakly. “Nothing escapes your powers of observation huh, Yui-chan?” 

“You know Aizawa-sensei?” Izuku asks, shocked.

“Ahhh, kinda.” Dabi ruffles the back of his head, looking a bit sheepish. “Keep that on the down low though, okay? No one outside of the investigation is supposed to know.”

Izuku nods, eyes wide. 

Yui has the opposite reaction, perceptive eyes narrowing. “So you are working with the authorities?”

“Yui-channn~ have a care for my reputation!” Dabi whines, as melodramatic as always. “I’m a scary super villain, you know. I don’t work with the police!”

Yui merely hums in response. “Your reputation is in tatters, and it’s all your fault,” she returns primly, taking a sip of her soda. “If you really cared about your villainous reputation, you wouldn’t be sleeping around with a—

She’s cut off by a shocked gasp from Dabi, who bolts upright so fast his can nearly goes flying out of his hand.

“Who the hell told you?!”

“Makoto-san was not very subtle.” Yui pauses. “She seemed to think it was the funniest thing to ever happen in the band. Even funnier than that time you left with the guy dressed as a bear on the back of a motorcycle.”

Dabi looks horrified. Izuku’s mouth drops open— whether in horror or delight, he can’t really say. “Okay, he didn’t spend the whole night dressed as a bear,” says Dabi, defensively.

“Or that time you almost got arrested for public indecency at Ikea,” says Yui.

“I was just shirtless! And we really needed those string lights!”

Izuku’s mouth is almost to the floor, at this point. 

Dabi scrubs a hand over his face. “Oh my god, I can’t believe she told you.”

“Told you what?” Izuku asks, head whipping back between the two of them with the rapt attention of someone watching a sporting event, or alternatively, a slow motion train wreck. 

“Nothing!” Dabi shouts— 

— just as Yui says, “He slept with Hawks.”

Izuku shrieks.

“The— the— the Number Three Hero?!” He squeaks. 

“So that is why you seemed so out of sorts today.” Yui nods solemnly. “You were there last night at the shipyards. You two met then, I take it.” 

“Okay, seriously, you’re not a mind reader, how are you doing this,” Dabi says incredulously. “Not even the police know that.”

“Not even the fastest hero in the country could solve a hostage situation that fast.” Yui shrugs. “Or without casualties. And you’re usually in that area of Tokyo with your Toman friends—

Dabi makes another strangled noise of disbelief. 

“—couple that with the timing, your odd mood, and what I knew previously of your relationship with Hawks, it just made sense.” 

“... This is the most I’ve ever heard you speak in a single sitting, ever,” Dabi says, faintly, “and it’s to judge me for sleeping with a superhero??? Do you have any idea how rude this is?”

“I’m not judging you,” Yui replies primly. 

“You are absolutely judging me,” Dabi deadpans. 

“I just don’t understand your reasoning.” Yui sidesteps the accusation, proving that she is, indeed, judging the fuck out of him, “You have categorically bizarre and somewhat poor taste in men—

Dabi looks as if he’s about to protest, but then concedes her point. 

“—but this is beyond that. This is borderline insanity, even for you.” 

“I would hardly call Hawks ‘bizarre or in poor taste’,” Izuku cannot help but add, meekly. 

Yui pouts in his direction. Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so offended. 

“I just mean— he’s really good looking. And nice,” Izuku finishes, scratching his cheek. “He’s actually kind of… like, a catch, I guess?” Or at least, that’s what every magazine from here to Fukuoka would suggest. 

Yui narrows her eyes. “Perhaps. If Satoru wasn’t someone he was occupationally obligated to arrest on sight.”

“Ah,” Izuku winces. “That’s… true.”

Dabi brightens. “Awwhhhhh— Yui-chan! Are you worried for me?” He asks, sounding delighted. 

“Of course I’m worried about you,” Yui retorts, hotly. “You’re off doing dangerous things all the time, like blowing things up when you don’t need to, holding an entire building hostage in broad daylight, taunting the police for no good reason— and then you go and pull a stupid stunt like sleeping with your number one enemy! He could have killed you!” 

By the end of it, both Dabi and Izuku are staring at her in awestruck disbelief. Izuku doesn’t think he’d ever heard Yui raise her voice before. From the look of it, neither has Dabi. Evidently, Dabi’s teasing was actually more on the mark than either of them could have predicted. Yui really is worried about him. 

“Yui-chan,” Dabi says, calmly. “I promise you, I was never in any kind of danger.”

Yui makes a noise dangerously similar to a tea kettle approaching boiling point. Izuku winces, wondering just how catastrophic the following explosion is going to be if Yui of all people is this incensed. Even Dabi raises both hands in front of him in defense. 

“You can’t promise that,” she replies, voice deceptively even. “There’s only one way to get around your forcefield— it’s if you pull it down yourself, and anyone with half a brain can figure that out. And you know what would be a perfect way to get you to do that? Sex.”

Dabi makes a strangled noise. 

“And any hero worth their salt is going to know that!” She continues, calmness splintering apart as her voice rises. “Someone like the Number Three Hero in the country is definitely going to know that! And you slept with him anyway!”

“Please stop talking about sex,” Dabi begs. “I can’t handle it. It’s too weird. You’re too young to be thinking about sex, let alone talking about it.” 

“It’s a little late to be lecturing me, considering you’ve picked up half the goth punks in Japan right in front of me.”

“I didn’t realize you knew what was going on! I would have been more subtle if I did!” Dabi protests, totally missing the point.

Yui purses her lips, hands fisted at her sides. Dabi blinks furtively, then begins to panic, when her bottom lip starts to tremble.

“Oh god, oh god, listen, do not cry, Makoto will kill me if you cry, I don’t know what to do when girls cry— jesus christ please stop I’ll do anything oh my god—”

Yui sniffles. “I just wish you’d realize how important you are to us,” she murmurs, eyes downcast. Izuku glances back and forth between Yui— sniffing quietly— and Dabi, dawning an expression of wide-eyed hysteria, and has a sinking suspicion Yui is totally playing the supervillain. And winning. 

“I’m sorry,” Dabi says, and actually sounds genuine about it.

“I don’t like seeing you do reckless things on television, but I’m not about to pass judgment on your criminal lifestyle when I don’t know your reasons for doing it… and I trust you to know what you’re doing when you’re off fighting drug kingpins or whatever.” She rubs her eyes. “I’m just worried about you. It feels, sometimes, like you don’t even really care about your own life. Do you have any idea how reckless that is, sleeping with a hero who’s perfectly within his rights to kill you? You basically handed him the knife and told him to take a free shot!”

Dabi blinks rapidly at her, expression shocked stupid. 

He swallows thickly, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Yui-chan… I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you feel like this. You too, Izu-kun.”

“Uh,” Izuku says, panicked at being put on the spot. “I… uh… can’t really claim to be as close to you as Yui-chan is or anything, but, um, I do worry about you too sometimes… Not that I think you can’t take care of yourself!” He adds hastily. “I guess it’s just… natural to worry about the people you care about, you know?”

Dabi looks kind of pale, and also like Izuku just knocked him clean upside the head with a metal stove pipe. Which is sort of ironic, because Izuku would never have managed to get a clean hit on the villain in reality, but metaphorically he somehow managed to accomplish it. 

“Natural to worry about the people you care about, huh?” He repeats, running a wary hand through his artfully disheveled hair. “I see. Well, I’m really sorry I worried you both. But I promise I always know what I’m doing whenever I go out there, indulging in villainy or fighting off drug kingpins or whatever you want to call it.”

“Working as an unpaid police informant, which is illegal, by the way,” Yui sniffs, pettily. 

Dabi shrivels his nose at her. “That is unconfirmed hearsay, young lady, and I’ll have you know I won’t stand for it.”

Yui just stares at him flatly. 

Dabi wisely concedes defeat and looks away, downing the rest of his beer. “And anyway— about Hawks. I know this is going to sound ridiculous but… neither of us were actually aware of who the other was? At the time? It just… sort of happened?” 

Yui and Izuku both stare at him incredulously.

“Hawks not knowing you, I can understand,” Yui says, slowly, after a long beat of incredulous silence.

“But how did you not know he was the Number Three Hero?” Izuku ends, voice high with disbelief. “He’s, like, super distinct!” 

Dabi sighs laboriously. “Yes, I am aware. Look, I don’t pay much attention to heroes, and especially not those ridiculous hero rankings, which I think are the strife of all evil and also totally biased garbage. So no, I really had no idea. Did I know enough about his quirk to judge whether or not he would be a threat to me at any point? Yes. Did I get to know him enough to decide he wasn't interested in attacking me at any point during the night? Yes.”

And then, to their waiting expressions; “And am I going to do it again? No.” 

(Well the answer is, probably, most likely no. They had left a lot unsaid the other night. And Gojo wasn’t ignorant to the unspoken tension that remained between them, even if he doubts either of them will ever act on it again.)

But they don’t need to know that. 

Yui lets out a breath. “As long as you know how foolish it is.” 

“I’m aware.” Dabi sighs again. “And, frankly, this mortifying conversation is enough to keep me celibate for life.”

“Good,” Yui says, just as Izuku turns red and starts to sputter. 

She finishes off her own drink, dabbing her eyes a few times, face once more as placid as can be. Izuku is now dead certain her earlier crying spell was— well, while not entirely disingenuous, at least somewhat overemphasized for dramatic effect. 

“Well, I’m glad to see you seem alright,” Yui comments, standing up and brushing off her skirt. “Also, thank you for saving us earlier.”

“Yeah! Thank you, Satoru-sensei. Sorry for all the trouble,” Izuku adds. 

Dabi waves them both off. “It was nothing, seriously. Honestly, I should be the one apologizing. That must have been unnerving huh? Sorry if I scared you.”

Izuku shakes his head profusely, but doesn’t manage to put his thoughts in order long enough to respond. It had been… a lot, that’s true, but at no point had Izuku been worried over his own safety. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d be safe as long as Dabi was around. 

On the other hand though, seeing Dabi unleash even a fraction of his true power had been an alarming and eye-opening experience. Unnerving didn’t even begin to cover how he’d felt watching Dabi easily deal with a threat that likely would have mortally wounded both Thirteen and Eraserhead had he not been there. And he’d done it all under fifteen minutes, without even breaking a sweat. 

Honestly, whatever Yui’s reasons for coming here— whether that was just to yell at Dabi or to relay her own concerns on the man’s behaviors, or even just to reassure them both that he was fine— Izuku was happy to have tagged along. Seeing the man flounce dramatically over the couch in a bathrobe and sputter loudly as Yui revealed all his embarrassing secrets went a long way in reminding Izuku that there was more to Dabi than the intimidatingly powerful supervillain on TV. Dabi was still Dabi, with his terrible sense of humor and love of nyan cat buns, and apparently trashy taste in men. (Izuku was going to have to turn that realization over in his head, a lot, at a much later date.)

“It was fine,” Izuku finally gets out, throat feeling rather dry. “It would have been much scarier if you hadn’t been there.” He adds, which was true. 

Dabi tosses his empty can into the trashcan across the room with an impressive throw. “Do you need me to teleport you guys back? Your parents must be worried sick.”

“We made our excuses,” Yui assures him. 

Izuku grimaces at the reminder. Hopefully his mother hasn’t beaten him home… 

“Actually, do you mind taking me to the roof? I can walk home from there,” Izuku asks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. It’d be a lot faster than getting on the trains at this time of day. 

“Sure, sure,” Dabi agrees easily. “What about you, Yui-chan?”

“I’ll be fine,” She promises, but Dabi walks her to the door nonetheless. After she’s gone, he puts a hand on Izuku’s shoulder and does something very, very weird to the world around him. 

He feels like he wants to stumble around a bit, but he can’t move with Dabi’s hand clamped tight around his shoulder, holding him close. That’s probably for the best, because he’s still blinking spots out of his eyes as he feels the cool night air across his face, a familiar view of downtown Mustafu coming into focus. 

He decides then and there that he’ll do everything he can not to have to deal with that disorienting experience again. 

“You okay, Izu-kun? Sorry about that, it feels a bit strange at first.” He squeezes Izuku’s shoulder reassuringly, reminding Izuku of the fact he’s basically wrapped in the older man’s arms.

Izuku disentangles himself with a squeak, nodding his head rapidly as his words fail him. “I’m— I’m fine! Thanks.” 

Dabi just looks down at him curiously, still barefoot and in his bathrobe, looking entirely at ease and yet totally out of place on this roof. He smelled really good, too, different from what his jacket smells like. Like fancy herbal shampoo, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, which would make sense since he was in a bathrobe—

Izuku rapidly shuts that trail of thought down. “Thanks for the ride… and for today. I don’t really know your reasons for being there— and you don't have to tell me either! — But, um, I’m glad you were there.” 

Dabi peers down at him with those luminous eyes of his, scrutinizing and inhuman, and it’s a little hard to meet his gaze, but Izuku does it anyway. Finally Dabi blinks, eyes crinkling up in a smile as he pats Izuku’s fluffy hair. 

“Of course,” he says. “If you ever need me, you know you just have to call, right?”

Izuku flushes to the roots of his hair, too overcome to do anything but nod wordlessly. The idea that he can just text him, like Yui-chan does, or call him if he ever feels he needs something is… a lot to take in right now. 

“And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but keep all this stuff from tonight off the record for me, okay, Izu-kun?” Dabi winks at him. 

“I— I would never say anything, I promise!” Izuku swears, flushing. 

“I know, I know! You’ve kept my secrets this long, right? Even though you’re terrible at keeping secrets.” He grins. “Although I guess even if you did say something accidentally, it would hurt Hawks’s reputation more than mine.” 

Which is true. And also begets yet another fundamental question that doesn’t make any sense here— if Dabi and Hawks are mortal enemies, why hasn’t Dabi outed him already? Hawks’s career as a hero would go down in flames if the press ever got wind of his rendezvous with a wanted supervillain. Dabi could have easily done it, too. Hawks’s reputation is so spotless, the press are always sniffing around for cracks in his PR armor. 

Izuku can’t help but be curious, but refrains from asking. 

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

@yui-chan (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) I can only rely on you and taco bell 

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//

After the utterly bewildering week he’s had, Gojo feels it's perfectly justifiable to find himself dragged out by Makoto to yet another disco club, drowning all his feelings in inadvisable amounts of tequila. He hates tequila. It says a lot that he’s drinking it anyway.

“How the hell are you so much better at picking up than I am,” Makoto is in the middle of complaining, voice only a bit slurred as she lists on his shoulder. The night was still young, and Gojo had already gotten three free drinks and turned down twice as many potential suitors. “You’re not that cute, you know.”

“Clearly you’re the only one who thinks that,” Gojo counters, but his heart isn’t really in it. 

Despite the many appreciative eyes still lingering in his direction, Gojo’s just not really feeling it. He doesn’t want to think too deeply in his sudden one-eighty from consummate manwhore to devout spinster, but he knows damn well why he’s just not in the mood these days. 

On the one hand, the last person he picked up at a nightclub was the Number Three Hero. A man legally obligated to be his sworn enemy. But on the other hand, he does feel pretty smug about picking up someone consistently voted as the most attractive hero in the country, but that also just forever reminds him that Keigo is in fact Hawks, the hero.

Unfortunately, none of the people that have come up and flirted with him have come close to topping that.

Not that it matters, anyway. Gojo thinks, exasperated with himself. He’s not sleeping with Hawks again. That shouldn’t even be a thought he’s entertaining in his head. Yui was right; there’s only one way to disengage his Infinity, and that’s if he pulls it down himself. Hawks is going to know that, now, and if he’s at all as good of a hero as Gojo suspects him to be, he’ll be sure to use that to his advantage if given the opportunity. 

“I still can’t believe you bagged Hawks of all people,” she mutters bitterly, as if sensing his current turn of thought. “What does he even see in you? He’s prettier than you are.”

“Hey!” Gojo protests, offended. Hawks is handsome, that’s true, but he’s not pretty. Gojo’s pretty. He’s the fucking queen of prettiness— and pettiness, evidently.

Makoto flaps a hand in his face. “And when are you ever going to get over it? It’s not like you to be so hung up on a one night stand, even if he was really that hot.”

Gojo pouts. “I’m not hung up on him!”

She snorts hilariously. “Your twitter ban says otherwise.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gojo retorts, offended. 

She rolls her eyes grandly, and pulls out her phone. After a moment of her swiping as Gojo pouts outrageously at her, she sticks it in his face, so he can see all his sins up close. 

@ru-kun:

I will admit I have terrible taste in men: but I have FUCKING FABULOUS taste in clothes and really what’s the comparison here

 

@ru-kun:

The moral of this story is to never have feelings for anybody, ever.

 

@ru-kun:

Sometimes you just need to eat garlic bread and move on 

 

@ru-kun: 

Is it morally objectionable to hook up with my sworn enemy? Asking for a friend.

 

@ru-kun:

Things that annoy me:

-Feelings

-People

-Basically everything idk why I started making a list. 

 

@ru-kun:

Hm if horoscopes aren’t true then why did I (a sagittarius) make myself cry (beautifully) for no reason while lying on my couch? And don't say depression

“This is why you were banned,” Makoto says, aggrieved. “Disorderly conduct in a public space.” 

“What is the point of twitter if you’re not using it as free therapy?” Gojo asks, seriously. “And for the record, those were entirely taken out of context.”

“I wouldn’t know, I only use it for legitimate reasons, like band promotion,” she returns, crabbily. “Because I am clearly the only person in this damn band who actually cares about making music!”

“That’s not true,” Gojo whines. “We’ve all just been super busy!”

Makoto gives him a blatantly judgmental look. “What the hell have you been doing?” Because for all she knows he’s consistently jobless and drifts around life with zero obligations. 

Flipping the underground organized crime world on it's head and running around causing chaos in a most nefarious manner. “Uh… “ 

Makoto squints at him. Gojo blinks back. She shucks back the rest of her straight tequila, then almost fumbles back into him as she attempts to set her glass back on the counter. It’s only a quick application of his curse technique that stops it from shattering to the floor. This is why he hates eloquent drunks. Why can’t she be a slurring mess like everyone else when they get wasted on tequila? 

“Don’t tell me you’re just sitting there crying into your pillow and pining after Hawks of all people.”

“Of course not!” Gojo protests, on principle. “I would never cry over a man! How dare you be so cavalier!” 

“Did you run into him again or something?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?” He asks frantically, only panicking a little bit. Who the hell knew drunk!Makoto could be this observant. 

“Oh my god you did!” She gasps in delight, smacking him across the chest. Gojo curses liberally. He’d forgotten about her fucking quirk and answered her question directly. Shit. “What happened? Did you go home with him again? Did you get his number?” 

No, I left him to deal with at least two dozen hysterically crying hostages and noped the fuck out of there before I got roped into dealing with feelings.

“Uh— no. To both of those.”

Her look turns slightly sympathetic. “Oh, honey. It’s okay. He’s really not that hot. Don’t let it get to you if he rejected you— you can do so much better.”

“He didn’t reject me!” Gojo denies, annoyingly offended on his own behalf. Rejected? Him? Blasphemy! 

“Oh,” if anything, she looks even more sympathetic. “He didn’t even give you the time of day, huh?”

“He was… very professional,” Gojo hedges, awkwardly, trying to somehow gloss over the fact they met up during an active hostage situation without tripping Makoto’s quirk. “And also seemed like he was in the middle of something really, uh, stressful. It didn’t seem like a very good time to talk.”

Makoto attempts to pat him on the shoulder, but due to her current lack of depth perception it comes out more like a couple of half-hearted swipes to his face. “You’ll find someone better, I promise. There's always a bigger fish."

Gojo gently removes her offending appendage from his face, sighing. “If you say so,” he replies, noncommittally. Off limits or not, it's pretty universally acknowledged that Hawks is a catch. He reaches over the bar behind them to flag the bartender with his credit card. 

He'll have to though, is the thing. 

“Alright I think you’re about done for the night, yeah? Let me call a cab.” 

At least one of them managed to have fun tonight. 

Chapter Text

Hawks stabs at his cheese wedge with a little more force than necessary, suddenly not nearly as amused by Dabi’s romantic jokes as he had been the last time they’d been delivered to Detective Tachibana’s place of work. The poor hapless delivery guy was as clueless as all the others had been— at this point even trying to interrogate them was just a lesson in futility. Everyone in the precinct seemed to just accept it with a benignly cheerful enthusiasm; if Dabi’s end goal was to lure the police into a false sense of goodwill, it was working. 

If his end goal was getting into Detective Tachibana’s pants— well. He’d be better off committing himself to a monastery. 

Hawks brushes the thought off. What did it matter to him, what the answer was? Dabi was at perfect liberty to do whatever he pleased, up to and including sleeping with detectives hell bent on arresting him. It shouldn’t mean anything to Hawks either way.

“Oh no, what’s with the long face Number Three?” A familiar voice chides with amusement, as underground hero Echo hip checks the break room door open, carting a massive bouquet of white roses— Detective Tachibana’s least favorite flower. He’s allergic, in fact. There’s no way Dabi wasn’t intimately aware of this. 

She plops the stunning arrangement on the counter between the dying keurig and a sad, wilting cactus from the last delivery. How, exactly, an entire precinct full of responsible working adults could kill a cactus was still a mystery to him. 

“You’re, like, trending on the news, y’know?” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “People are saying with all this publicity you’ve got a shot at Endeavor’s spot.”

Hawks shrugs, not particularly enthused by the idea. 

Although he’ll happily tell anyone who listens that his dream is to be the Number One and create a world where he can just take it easy and heroes aren’t necessary anymore, he’s well aware that’s easier said than done. Criminal activity didn’t accelerate in a vacuum; just like the rise of the Hero industry was a direct reflection on super-powered criminal enterprise, and criminals themselves are always a direct response to shortcomings in society’s framework. But it’s an easy soundbite for his fans, and the only answer he’s truly willing to give on the subject. Because the reality is: Hawks has never really given it much introspective perusal. He was tossed so suddenly and so thoroughly into this role and it’s been the structure of his entire life ever since. 

He’s not even sure who he is without all the trappings of a modern, top ranked hero. 

Does he even actually like half the stuff he swears by in the magazines, or is that just his analytical subconscious remembering popular trends online and repackaging them into effortless headlines? Does he have a favorite sports drink, that's unrelated to whomever has paid for his sponsorship? A favorite clothing brand that has nothing to do with what's on his advertising docket for the next quarter? 

It is way too fucking early for this level of self-introspection, he thinks, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Detective Tachibana strolls into the breakroom, chin held high, gaze studiously fixed away from the hideous display of cheese and wine in what must be an impressively concerted effort of willful blindness, beelining for the coffee machine. 

He and Echo observe with interest as the man ignores the flowers she’s arranging, and reaches right over for a coffee cup. 

He cuts her off just as she opens her mouth; “I love the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning; and I love the sound of no one talking to me as I drink it.”

Echo quickly shuts her mouth. 

The keurig wheezes to life, just as Detective Tachibana turns to him. “Good work last week, Hawks. The Jakku precinct has been singing your praises after that trafficking business at the shipyards.”

Hawks shrugs awkwardly, plastering on an easy grin. “Always happy to be of service!”

He can tell Tachibana doesn’t fall for it in the least, but seems amused by it anyhow. “Is that so?” The man arches a brow. “How do you feel about a trip further east then?”

“East?” Hawks blinks. 

“The eastern Tokyo wards, specifically Hosu, have been asking to ‘borrow you’.” He rolls his eyes. “I told them I don’t pay your gensen so it’s not really up to me.” 

He turns back around to swipe his coffee off the machine, reaching for the sugar with lightning speed to avoid staring at the bouquet of roses for too long. 

Hawks takes the moment while his back is turned to debate his prospects. 

On the one hand, helping out another precinct is only going to bolster his rising reputation in the region, which is the entire point of his tenure in the Tokyo Metropolitan Area. It’s more or less exactly what he came here to do, and Tachibana is basically giving him carte blanche to do it, no hard feelings on his part. 

On the other hand— well, he’s come to really like it here. He and Echo get along like twins separated at birth, an effortless synergy and camaraderie growing between them, interspersed with a lot of affectionately aggressive shit talking. If he had ever had a sibling, he imagines their relationship would be a lot like his and Echo’s. And he likes all the detectives and officers too; it’s a strange feeling to wander around the bullpen just to stop at someone’s desk to chat and have everyone greet him amicably. The luster and intimidation of working with a spotlight hero as high ranking as he is has worn off now that they’ve seen he’s a pretty laid back and charming guy. It’ll be difficult to cultivate that reputation and camaraderie all over again at a brand new precinct. 

“It’s not really up to me either,” Hawks replies after a beat, shrugging. “I’ll see what the HPSC thinks.”

Not that he even has to wonder on the answer— they’ll be thrilled to see him in such high demand. His handler and technical support are off to the races ferreting about for more information on this Humarise group, and in the meanwhile they’re going to want him continuing to expand his sphere of influence. 

“Well, whatever you decide just let me know.” Tachibana shrugs. “You’re always welcome back here if the other precincts suck.”

“Ehh, Tachibana-keibu, that sounded almost sweet of you!” Echo cheers. 

“Fuck off!” Tachibana shoots back, like the total tsundere he is. His face is red as he clutches his coffee to his chest. “He does great work and I don’t have to worry about him procrastinating on his expense reports— unlike some people.” 

Evidently caught out, Echo has no defense to that but to laugh sheepishly. Tachibana wanders back in the direction of the bullpen, likely to intimidate all his rookies. “And throw out those damn flowers!”

Echo rolls her eyes at his back. “They’re perfectly nice roses, honestly.” She complains. “And I made such a great arrangement out of them, too!” She pauses. “You wanna take them home? My cats will just eat them if I do it.”

The thought of taking home a bouquet of roses that were sent to annoy Detective Tachibana, from Dabi of all people is… he doesn’t know what he thinks about it. He doesn’t know how to think about that whole damn conundrum, so he just doesn’t. It’s unlike him to just bury his head in the sand like this when faced with a problem, but normally his problems are solvable with good old pragmatic logic and don’t have nearly as many feelings involved. 

He glances at the bouquet once again; it came carted in squished between the wine bottles and the cheese, but Echo had done an excellent job rejuvenating it back to full glory. He’d only spent a night with Satoru, but he could definitely see the man’s sense of humor being a direct reflection of Dabi’s. Not surprising, considering they were the same person. 

Hawks shakes his head. “Nah. They’d just go to waste in my hotel room. Maybe give them to the front desk? Tachibana only ever uses the backdoor.”

“Oh, good idea,” Echo chirps. “And I’ll get good will points from the front desk people. Man Hawks, you’re really good at this PR stuff aren’tcha?”

“As second nature as breathing at this point,” he says breezily, because that’s really the sad truth of it. 

//

@dreambeatspop | Gacha Hell 

@ru-kun we are dying here when will we get any new content pls 

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Replying to @dreambeatspop

@ru-kun | I'm never releasing anything 

I don’t make the rules here lol go complain to @noscrubsofficial

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//

He would have thought a lecture from Eraserhead to be inevitable after what happened at the school, but the underground hero has been surprisingly unforthcoming. Instead he gets a distinctly out of breath Tsukauchi Naomasa waiting for him at one of the rooftop haunts he uses to bug Eraserhead when he’s on patrol. 

“Oh good, so it was this one.” The detective sighs in relief. “At this rate I thought I’d spend the whole week traipsing over rooftops trying to find you.”

“You were looking for me?” 

Gojo hops off his perch on the ventilators, where he’d been enjoying the nighttime view. Every once in a while the rot and disgust he feels towards the hero industry melts away for a brief moment and he’s tickled by the idea that his new life mirrors the marvel comics he used to obsess over as a child. Would he be Spiderman or Deadpool, lounging on a rooftop overlooking the magnificent city they call home? He refuses to be Batman. Brooding has never been a good look on him. 

“You’re an annoyingly hard man to find.” The man replies drily, smoothing the wrinkles on his trenchcoat. 

Come to think on it, it’s always him reaching out to law enforcement, isn’t it? It’s not as if he’s inclined to give any of them his number. 

He snorts. “I hope you don’t intend to install a spotlight signal for me.” 

The detective chuckles. “Not a chance. I could pull off Gordon, but you’d make a terrible Batman.”

Gojo’s eyes widen in delight behind his shades. “You know what Batman is?”

“Sure” Naomasa looks confused by the levels of his enthusiasm. “They're very old and something of a niche, but the comics are a classic. Although I suppose it's true they've fallen out of style since the advent of quirks.”

Gojo blinks furiously. Huh. He wonders why some of the media he used to love in his old world has carried over, and some hasn’t. Do marvel movies still exist then? He dismisses the thought for later. Detective Tsukauchi evidently went out of his way to find him, and likely for a reason.

“Anyway, I doubt you went all this way just to talk comics with me.” Gojo segues casually. “Not that I don’t appreciate a man of good taste and all.”

“Fair enough.” Tsukauchi chuckles. He leans back against the railing, coat folded around himself to keep out unseasonably cold night air. “I suppose if we want to go with the Gotham vibes we can continue up here, but if you’re not opposed I just spent half the evening running around the Mustafu rooftops for the third time this week and I could really use a drink.”

Gojo is startled into a laugh. 

Usually the idea that Makoto and Naomasa were siblings seemed bizarre and bewildering to him, since they looked and acted nothing alike. Suddenly, he can see exactly how they’re related. 

“As long as the drinks are good, I’m not opposed at all!” Gojo agrees.

Neither he nor Tsukauchi are terribly familiar with this part of the city, so they scuttle into the first Izakaya they find. They end up squished into a booth in the back, where Gojo finds himself ordering a highball just to keep the stuffiness of the shop at bay. He looks around the establishment, unsurprised to find it chalk full of businessmen and other office workers this late at night. After taking stock of himself and his companion, he realizes they actually blend in rather well. Detective Tsukauchi looks like your average zealously overworked but gainfully employed middle-aged man, and Gojo in his light cardigan and t-shirt could either be mistaken for a delightfully fashionable coworker or an offduty model. It’s just loud enough to be mildly annoying, so he surreptitiously puts up a barrier to mute the worst of the noise, and keep their own conversation confidential. 

He hides a shit eating grin behind his drink as he thinks on what Makoto would do if she saw them now. 

“Thank you for what you did at USJ,” Tsukauchi says after the waiter has come and gone with their drinks, and a lull of silence has washed over them. “You didn’t have to do it, and it probably made things harder for you, but it’s thanks to you that that whole situation turned out as good as it did.”

It’s not like he did it for Tsukauchi and Eraserhead— once he found out USJ was not in fact Universal Studios Japan but actually the Unforeseen Simulation Joint, a building on U.A., property, not inserting himself into the situation and washing his hands of it was no longer an option. Yui, Izuku and even Shouto’s health and safety had been at stake. 

He shrugs.  “At least we know for sure now that I’m still on the League’s radar.” 

“Aizawa mentioned,” Tsukauchi nods. “Have they reached out to you?”

“Not yet,” Gojo swirls his glass, chin in hand. “But I’ve also rebuffed all of their advances so far, so maybe they’re tired of trying.”

Not that Gojo actually believes that. That teleporter guy’s words made their stance— or at least, their actual leader’s stance— on him very clear. They greatly wanted him, and from what Gojo had seen, urgently needed him as well. 

Their current ‘leader’, Shigaraki, had the potential but lacked the training and the experience. Gojo might even call him sheltered; something about the young man seemed rather pointedly childish, as if it was on purpose. The way that teleporter catered to him like a young master only added to his theory. The teleporter himself was probably the most dangerous villain of the whole incident, and even then he’d evidently been playing nice. Everyone else Gojo had seen was just cannon fodder, although for all he knew they had an extended roster they were keeping close to the chest. 

Tsukauchi sighs heavily. “I know you and Aizawa already spoke of this, but we don’t want you endangering yourself here.”

Gojo nearly snorts aloud. What endangering is going on here, exactly? 

“I know we asked you to collect any information you can on them, but there are other ways of doing that besides joining them directly. We cannot and will not ask that of you.”

“Good, because I’m not asking for permission.” Gojo tosses the rest of his drink back. “I do what I want, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Not that Gojo even knew what he was going to do on that front, currently. He’s got no interest in joining the League; he doesn’t want some entitled brat thinking he can boss him around like he does that misty-headed teleporter. But who knows what the future might bring? 

Tsukauchi snorts. “I definitely haven’t forgotten.” It’s an impossible thing to miss. 

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Gojo quips back, cheekily. “And you’re worrying over nothing, anyway. Those losers couldn’t even get a scratch on me.” 

As fond of Eraserhead and Tsukauchi as he is, at the end of the day they’re using him for their own gains and he’s only passively letting them do it. Right now, the League is something he wants to keep tabs on as well, and they might be a good avenue for sniffing out the Hero Killer from wherever he’s holed himself up in. Their goals currently align, and the only pact they have is that Gojo gives them whatever information he gleans on the League and whatever other various intel he thinks they might find useful, and they give him whatever information the police have on Stain’s movements. 

Gojo doesn’t need to ask permission to do anything. He does what he wants and he’ll continue to do so, regardless of what they think.

(Of course, what they don’t know is that Eraserhead currently has two of his cute little munchkins in his possession and Gojo has a vested interest in seeing them flourish to their full potential, so their goals and wants are far more aligned then they know.) 

“Aizawa sends his regards, by the way,” Tsukauchi mentions, offhand, as he palms his whiskey. “He’s grateful for what you did for his students. He would have come in person, but his current… occupational responsibilities make things difficult for him.”

Gojo withholds a snort. Yep, he remembers exactly how hectic it was to be a teacher, even with as small a pile of students as he had. 

As a general rule he stays as far away from hero news as possible, but with Yui, Izuku and now Shouto all involved in U.A, he’s started keeping tabs on the school from a distance. Apparently they have a big shounen-tastic school tournament every year, and as a show of strength are intending for it to proceed as planned despite the break in. He can imagine the trials of whipping a bunch of first years into shape in time for it is keeping Eraserhead— and by extension, Gojo’s nosey little brats— busy. 

“I figured as much when he didn’t immediately hunt me down to yell at me,” Gojo says with an impish grin.

Tsukauchi looks surprised. “Why do you think he would yell at you?”

“He seems pretty overprotective of his brood,” Gojo comments. “And they all went through something really harrowing.”

“But not because of you,” Tsukauchi counters. “If anything, he wanted me to convey his utmost gratitude on the matter as well. He was very appreciative of your assistance.” 

Gojo scratches his cheek, unsure how to respond. That’s a bit surprising to hear. He thought the man would be annoyed that he'd undermined his authority in front of his students during the whole mess, and tell him off for it. It wasn’t really Gojo’s place to get involved with his students, so it would have been totally fair. Not to mention the trouble he probably put the man through just by showing up there in general. He has no idea what Eraserhead ended up saying to the school or the police. 

Tsukauchi clears his throat. “We also had some new information regarding Stain.”

Gojo perks up immediately. “Go on.”

“The local authorities are trying to keep it under wraps so as to not incite panic, but two heroes have ended up dead in the Kanagawa prefecture.”

“Not Tokyo?” 

“Not yet.” Tsukauchi shakes his head. “But he’s likely making his way back in that direction after lying low for a bit.”

Gojo’s brows raise. “Bold of him.” Toman was out for blood, surely he had to know that. 

“Isn’t it?” Tsukauchi agrees, taking a sip of his drink. “I have to imagine there are very few things a man with that much to lose would return to the city for.”

Gojo considers this. Giran hadn’t mentioned anything about the Hero Killer, but if what Tsukauchi said was true then the underworld wasn’t aware of the dead heroes yet. Either that or Giran was scoping out the situation and how to best turn it to his favor, which wouldn’t surprise or offend Gojo in the least. Everyone has their own agendas— that’s nothing new to him. 

“That’s an interesting take,” Gojo replies, mildly. “Or maybe he’s got new friends in high places?”

For all Gojo knew, the League may have already worked out a deal with Stain. He doesn’t know much about the League’s motivations— all that Shigaraki kid really said was that he wanted to kill All Might. At least in that regard, he and Stain should get along great. 

“That could very well be true. I don’t think I have to tell you how dangerous those combined forces may be,” Tsukauchi agrees, solemn. “If that’s the case, I’m sure you’ll use your best judgment on how to proceed.”

“I’ll be sure to take that under advisement,” he responds, noncommittally. He’s not even remotely worried about any alleged danger— not when it's only himself he has to look out for. His enemies can come at him all at once if they like, it wouldn’t bother him at all.

“What are your plans after this?”

Gojo blinks in surprise, truly not expecting that question out of the blue like this.

Then his look turns coy. “Why, Tsukauchi-keibu, are you trying to pick me up?”

The man rears back, flustered. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he explains hastily. “Not now, just— in general. I can’t imagine he’ll be at large for much longer now that he’s back on your radar. What’s your plan once he’s been… dealt with?”

That’s a very eloquently evasive way of talking around premeditated murder, Gojo can’t help but think in amusement. 

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Gojo answers, honestly. Then he bats his eyelashes. “Why, will you miss me, detective?” 

To his endless amusement, Tsukauchi blushes a bit at his blatant flirting. How cute— he and Makoto look a lot alike when they’re flustered. 

Tsukauchi answers his teasing with an earnestness he hadn’t been expecting. “Yes.” He says succinctly, surprising Gojo. “You might be eccentric, but you do good work. I won’t claim to understand your motivations for getting into your… lifestyle, but you’re not like the others. I’m sure you’ll go out of your way to deny it, but I don’t think you’re doing all this for the wrong reasons. And you’re an asset, frankly, and one I don’t want to lose.” 

Gojo is so surprised he’s speechless. It’s such a rare thing in his life, to be so blindsided by someone else that he can’t even formulate a blithe response. The novelty of it all has him blinking rapidly.

“There’s no need to butter me up,” Gojo says finally, still reeling from that entire speech. “If you want to continue our relationship even after Stain’s gone, that’s fine.”

“I’m speaking the honest truth of it, but if that’s how you want to take it then that’s fine,” Tsukauchi replies, in that same earnest yet placid tone. 

Honest or not, there was really no need for it. However unknowingly, Eraserhead— and by extension, Tsukauchi— are currently in possession of the only thing that could even potentially be considered his weakness. 

There’s nothing he loathes more than repeating his same old damning mistakes, and yet he’s found himself doing it anyway. 

Hindsight and a second chance at life have taught him a lot of things, but he’s repeating the recipe for his own inevitable end in the same stupid pattern as he had before. His bonds have always been his weakness. Alone, he is invincible; a god among mere men. Opening his heart up to others is a fundamental weakness on his part, but one so ingrained in the human experience it feels impossible to rid himself of it. Even now in his second life where he's made a notable attempt at distancing himself from others, he’s still somehow managed to find people to care about. His little mouthy drummer and his earnest bean sprout— even the doe-eyed little brother he’d thought he’d moved on from. The loud and vivacious Makoto, and even the surly and aggressively affectionate Kenji. Smiley and Micchan and the loud and unruly Toman members. Even Tsukauchi and Eraserhead.

Nothing good has ever come from his bonds with others. For a near-god like himself, it’s only a path leading to sorrow, regret, and inevitably his own demise. Yet he keeps doing it anyway. Is that suicidal of him? Or just proof of his own fatalistic humanity?

He dismisses his maudlin thoughts, shoving them back into the recesses of his brain where he keeps all his regrets.

“So, if we’re continuing this, do you have a preference on desserts?” Gojo grins widely. “Chocolates and cheese boards are boring me. I’m thinking for the next delivery I’ll try for a three-tiered strawberry shortcake!”

Tsukauchi groans loudly. “No more teddy bears,” he begs. “My sister won’t take them anymore and even the local charities are asking for other toys.” 

Gojo laughs, delighted at the idea of one day showing up at Makoto’s apartment, only to find all the hideous stuffed bears he’d given to the detective all around her house. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for my next order.” 

//

@ru-kun | My Own Worst Enemy

Me IRL: Thanks for the kindness but sorry you have to be at least support rank C to unlock my tragic backstory  

Me on Twitter: And on today’s episode of inconveniently oversharing why my Daddy Issues are the reason for all my life’s problems - 

Comments 398 |  Likes 501 | Retweets 449

//

When Naomasa thinks back on that moment, watching his companion grin cheerfully as he dismisses the idea of any kind of endangerment to his own life, he can only feel a sinking sense of hopeless dread. 

He supposes it probably is rather outlandish to assume the League— or anyone, really— was capable of physically harming this young man. Naomasa hasn’t seen his quirk in person, but he’s heard enough of it from Eraserhead. The combined reports he’s gotten on the USJ incident from the underground hero and the super villain himself have painted a rather frightening picture. Eraserhead mentioned he showed no signs of his quirk when dealing with the majority of the villains, just pure martial ability, with the exception of one. A monstrous, unidentified creature that had hung back at the behest of its master until the last moment. Eraserhead didn’t have any information to provide on the strange beast— only that Dabi had taken care of it within a blink of an eye with his cremation. 

Eraserhead never speaks much on that quirk, unless to provide clarity on a situation or objective technical fact. It alarms the underground hero, he thinks, which is a daunting concept; Eraserhead has seen a lot of terrible, wretched things in his career. Naomasa cannot fathom it, but then again, he’s never seen it in person. It seems rather… subtle, all things considered. There’s no grotesque display of death, no macabre scene of destruction. That’s probably what’s so unnerving about it, he supposes.

At any rate, Dabi’s report had far more information on the monster, although he hadn’t specified how he’d known so much about it. He claimed it to be some sort of frankenstein-esque experiment, a hybrid monstrosity of multiple quirks stuffed together. If that was the case, they were going to have to figure out just how it came to be, and who was behind its creation. Was it possible to make more of them? And how strong were they, really? He imagined they must be quite difficult opponents (for anyone but Dabi) but without further clarification he wasn’t sure how to profile it. 

In light of this event, it’s really no surprise Dabi doesn’t take the League as a serious threat. 

In many respects, there are likely very few things that could be considered any kind of threat at all to the top supervillain. 

But it’s not exactly his safety Naomasa is worried about.

If he thought he had even the slightest chance, even for a second, of Dabi agreeing to formally work with him in any capacity he would take it in a heartbeat. He would reach out his hand to him in any manner he could, in any way possible— spin any kind of deal, any kind of overture no matter how questionably legal or even illegal it may be— if he thought the younger man would reach back. He may be physically invulnerable, but Naomasa knew better than to believe that only physical blows were enough to hurt a man. 

He knew it would be no use, though. Any attempts, no matter how subtle, to reach any kind of explicit agreement with the criminal have been rebuffed. Not always unkindly, but emphatic nonetheless. 

Naomasa doesn’t know how to save that boy from his path, what he can possibly do to stop him from going any further down that road to his inevitable end. He’s been knee-deep in the darkness of the criminal underworld for most of his career, he knows exactly what repeated exposure to that corrupt, hopeless world does to a person. Dabi already worries him— both he and Eraserhead agree his careless indifference and indolent stance on life will only get worse the longer he’s surrounded by that filth. He’s already shown a stunning lack of interest or ambition for anything. One of these days he’ll look around and stop finding anything genuinely good in this life worth fighting for; he’s already disillusioned and disappointed with heroes and society as a whole— when will that apathy turn embittered? If he’s eventually surrounded by an equally embittered and virulent crowd, resentful of heroes and the society that applauds them, how long will it take until he eventually concedes their point?

The thing is, Naomasa wholeheartedly believes Dabi has his heart in the right place. 

He’s no ordinary criminal. He might be disenfranchised with society, but he’s not interested in causing anarchy just to be destructive. He doesn’t cause pain just to watch others suffer. 

Naomasa has no idea what might happen to him, if he starts associating with the truly corrupt and malicious characters the underworld has to offer. 

He's really just at a total loss regarding the young man.

Even earlier, when he’d just given the criminal his honest opinion of him, he’d known he’d pushed a little too far. He didn’t need his quirk to know Dabi didn’t believe any of the words coming out of his mouth. He’d thought Naomasa was just flattering him to get him to agree; he has no idea what in particular the man had taken exception to in his speech, but the response worried him. Did Dabi really think so little of himself and all that he does? 

Those kids at USJ could have died without him there. Eraserhead could have died. Thirteen could have died. If Dabi hadn’t taken the time to follow up on a lead, and then go out of his way to finagle himself into the situation (in a uncharacteristically but suitably unobtrusive way, at that) U.A. could have lost an entire class of children, and society’s faith in heroes would have ruptured. The fallout would have been apoplectic. Heroes in training, dying on school grounds in a villain attack, on the same campus as high profile professional heroes including All Might himself? There would have been riots. 

And that’s to say nothing of all the other utterly thankless good work he does all the time. 

He’d taken it upon himself to wage a personal war on quirk trafficking— the single most difficult enterprise for law enforcement to break into— to help the people who need it the most when the law can’t. Quirk traffickers rely on and exploit the inconsistencies between jurisdictions to keep the police tangled up in legal red tape, but Dabi can bypass that issue entirely. And he has access to his own network to track down the traffickers and root out the organization from the shipping routes all the way to the financial backers. He’s covered more ground on the war against Trigger in the capital region in the last five months than the government of Japan has managed in the past five years.  

“I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful,” Eraserhead had told him, the last time they managed to meet face to face without a horde of police and first responders listening to their every word. “I was probably a little harsher than I needed to be, with him. Tell him I can’t thank him enough for keeping my kids safe. He handled that situation better than any hero I know could have. I honestly don't think there was anyone else I would've wanted at my side in a situation like that but him."

Aizawa would have come with him to meet Dabi if he could have, but he really did have no time to spare with the U.A. tournament coming up.

Who knows, maybe if he’d been there they might have made more headway in getting Dabi more firmly planted on the side of the law. Dabi seems to have something of a soft spot for the criminally overworked and underpaid erasure hero. 

And it’s just a hunch, but he’s started to notice— Dabi seems to respond surprisingly well to earnest praise. 

It always seems to take him by surprise, but from his reaction the words are never unwelcomed. If Aizawa had been there to thank him in person and impress upon him how monumental his actions were, that might have been enough to get the criminal to seriously consider a more formal arrangement with law enforcement. Or perhaps it would have only made him uncomfortable and caused him to withdraw. He supposes he’ll never know.

As it is, he should probably be thankful the meeting had went as well as it had. Dabi had agreed to continue their arrangement even after he’d gotten what he wanted out of it. Once Stain had been dealt with Naomasa would probably have to scramble to find something else to entice the man to stick around for a bit, but for now the matter was tentatively solved. 

He could only hope they could manage to keep the villain around long enough to entice him to stay for good. 

//

Hawks is fairly sure there’s a word for his situation. He dozed through most of the legal lectures thrust upon him at the HSPC, but evidently some of the jargon must have seeped into his brain by osmosis. They call people like him an emotionally compromised, potential liability. If the HSPC ever deigned to operate by the letter of the law, they’d have to pull him off the case. He can’t be trusted to make a fair and impartial decision concerning Dabi, thereby putting his integrity as an (adjacent) officer of the law in jeopardy. If this case ever came to light in a court of law, it could even be enough to get the whole case and any associated arrests dismissed. 

Of course, by that same turn his current ethically questionable predicament is precisely the in the HSPC wanted him to carve out for himself in the criminal underworld.

— Not that he’s even made them aware of it. 

He told them all about the Kuat Shipyards situation, of course, but at the time it’d been nothing but a hastily summarized story over the phone as he was busy being pulled in multiple directions by the investigation team. He’d told them he’d made contact with Dabi, and the event went favorably neutral. His handler seemed pretty approving about it, and thankfully hadn’t pressed the issue. 

What he has emphatically not told them about was meeting Dabi well beforehand.  

He wonders whether he’s going to end up keeping this encounter close to the vest as well.

Hawks, in the sort of tragic stroke of irony that he’s come to accept is just a cornerstone of his life, does indeed end up getting his ‘meet-cute’ with Satoru. 

“Hey there stranger, come here often?” The current bane of his existence says, tilting his sunglasses down to stare him down as a slow, drawling smile crawls across his face.

If he’d never met Satoru beforehand, he would have walked right past this strangely attractive yet entirely unassuming man. He was one of the most wanted criminals in the country, and yet he could lounge in the sunlight and enjoy the splendid morning breeze beneath the awnings of a trendy coffee shop without issue.

“Not at all,” Hawks makes the split second decision just to roll with this turn of events. It worked out pretty well for him last time. “A friend recommended it to me.”

“Your friend has good taste.” Satoru comments, leaning back in his chair. 

A gaggle of highschoolers clamor behind him as they head into the crowded interior, casting giggles and cow eyes Satoru’s way. A few drift over towards him as well, appreciative but entirely without recognition. Without his iconic wings and outfit, he’s just a university-aged blonde with striking eyes and a light jacket a bit unfitting for the sunny weather. To them, he and Satoru are just two good-looking young men who seem to know each other chatting outside a coffee shop. The idea that the two of them— a Top Three Hero and an S-ranked supervillain— could ever be mistaken for something so casually benign almost sends him into a fit of inappropriate laughter. 

He supposed he may as well play off that angle. 

He takes the empty seat across from Satoru, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the criminal. He doesn’t remark on it as Hawks drops his backpack at his feet and sinks into the seat, just takes another sip of his frothy latte. 

In point of fact, this place had been recommended to him by a friend. Echo, in fact, who’d mentioned to him in confidence that it was a place frequented by Toman members. She had her own in with the infamous Tokyo gang, which she kept zealously close to the chest. It seemed to be a trend in organized crime units and underground heroes in general; information was king, and informants were highly prized and vehemently guarded. Echo’s informant had done the Mos Eisley department some serious solids over the course of her acquaintanceship with him, so no one was willing to jeopardize that. 

Even though he was technically transferring to the Hosu office, they still wanted him working on this Humarise case. He’d asked Echo for any recommendations on how to deal with Toman and maybe proposition an exchange of information on the matter, and she’d pulled him aside and sworn him to secrecy before explaining how she’d met Toman’s notorious fourth division captain. He’d promised her he wouldn’t cause any trouble and would go incognito, and here he was, meeting a potential informant of his own.

“Yeah, she’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.” Hawks admits honestly. Satoru just smiles enigmatically at his answer; he wonders if the villain knows who he’s referring to. 

What is he saying, of course he does. If he works as closely with Toman as they suspect, then he probably knows all about Smiley’s quid pro quo with Echo.

His lips curl up in what Hawks this is approval. “I’m sure she is.”

Yep. He knows.

Maybe Hawks can use that to his advantage. “It looks like we have mutual friends with good recommendations, huh?”

“I guess we do.” Satoru agrees. “Do you like sweet things? You can’t go wrong with anything from their bakery.”

He shrugs. “I’m more of a fried chicken kind of guy, but I don’t mind sweet stuff every once in a while.” 

Satoru nods along, taking a sip from his drink. Hawks waits until the cup is at his lips to add; “But there’s this guy who gets chocolates delivered to the office once a fortnight though, so I’m a bit done with those.” 

The white-haired villain just barely manages not to choke, coughing lightly into his hand as he hastily drops his drink back onto the table. “Is that so? What a great guy.”

Hawks smiles innocently.  “It seems to be a bit of a running gag, but a good natured one, I think.” 

Their conversation is interrupted by a waitress bustling around the crowded patio tables. She asks Satoru if he wants another blueberry lavender latte, to which he emphatically agrees. Hawks eyes it critically, wondering if he can even stomach that much sugar this early in the morning. When she turns his way, he just asks for a regular cappuccino. 

The exchange only brings the differences between the two entirely separate lives this man leads into the stark light of day. Right now it’s taking a conscious effort to remind himself that the man in front of him is not just a young, good-looking guy enjoying a coffee break, but a wanted supervillain that Hawks knows from personal experience has a reputation that’s well-earned. 

He supposes the opposite must be true for himself, too. Without all the embellishment of his fancy hero costume and massive wings, he probably doesn’t look like a Top Ten hero, either. 

“So, what brings you here, if not for the sweets?” He pulls a face. “The drinks are just okay, in my opinion. Not really worth the price, but I guess you pay for the atmosphere at places like these.”

Even though he remembers how easily their conversations came when they’d spent the night together, it still surprises him how effortlessly disarming the other man is. Hawks cannot imagine it to be anything other than genuine, which is the truly bewildering part. Satoru really isn’t faking it at all. He’s not at all surprised, or even remotely concerned, to be seen here by a top hero. To be speaking with one, as if Hawks isn’t his sworn enemy. He’s making conversation because he’s legitimately curious, without any ulterior motive. 

Hawks wonders if this is actually what makes him one of the most dangerous villains alive. 

It’s not the lethal quirk, the sharp intelligence, the flawless technique— it’s the fundamental lack of any known motivation. No one knows why Dabi is a villain, what he’s after, why he does what he does. He doesn’t have some grand manifesto like Stain, or even this League of Villains Hawks has been hearing about. He’s not part of any criminal organization. Whatever his reasons are, no one knows them. 

In some respects, that unknown motivation of his might just be something Hawks can use to his advantage. He doesn’t know what it is, but he can infer enough from the man’s actions alone. He doesn’t have any kind of vendetta against heroes— perhaps an issue with the industry in general, but nothing against them personally. He was willing to work with Hawks in light of a greater cause. He’s willing to talk to him now, even knowing who he is, and doesn’t seem inclined to cause a scene. 

Favorably neutral, as he’d told the Commission. 

He can work with that. 

“Well, in addition to mutual friends, I have a feeling we have some mutual enemies too.”

Satoru looks intrigued, a flash of those cerulean eyes peeking out from behind the impassive wall of his sunglasses. 

“I was hoping to find someone who could tell me more about them.” He continues, casually. 

Satoru shrugs grandly. “I can’t claim to know much, but ask away.” 

Chapter Text

Hawks agrees with Satoru about the coffee— it is pretty mediocre.

Fortunately the company makes up for it.

They migrate towards a table further back in the patio, after Satoru dramatically complains of heatstroke to their waitress, who takes one look at his fair skin and starts to fawn all over him. Hawks can only roll his eyes, having played that trick plenty of times himself. The hapless and charming young man subtly manipulating others into doing what he wants with a bit of overemphasized drama and a handsome smile. He doesn’t tease the other man on it, since he knows he’s only doing it for their benefit. 

Crowded places like this cafe are actually his ideal location for meetups like this. It’s hell for hearing-type quirks, even ones as precise as his or Echo’s, even when they have the luxury of proximity. The group of girls gossiping loudly behind them effectively makes their own conversation as audible as white noise, and the constant movement of the crowd acts as a screen for any mouth reading. He can’t imagine such a thing was lost upon Satoru, who intentionally moved them further in closer to the establishment for this purpose. Then again, maybe Hawks was reading too much into the other man. Maybe he really was just worried about getting a sunburn. 

He takes one look at Satoru’s curling smile and decides he’s got the right of it. His intuition hasn’t led him astray in regards to this man so far, no need to doubt it now.

“Okay, this is going to sound pretty dumb,” on the subject of following his gut, he’s really taking it a bit far by just blurting this out without considering the repercussions. “But I really gotta ask— are you really a villain?”

Because while all evidence might point to the validity of his status, Hawks can’t break the nagging suspicion that this guy… well, he can’t really put his finger on it. All he knows is that Satoru doesn’t strike him as a villain the way all the others do, something fundamentally different about him. And he hopes that’s not just his own bias speaking. 

Fortunately instead of taking offense, Satoru just gives out a delighted laugh. Again, any other top ranked villain would have considered that deeply insulting, yet Satoru just seems amused. Intuition: 1. Logic: 0.

“You know, I think you’re the first person to ever ask me that,” he remarks, cheerfully. “But you’re going to have to clarify. What do you mean by villain?”

He wonders if this is really a conversation he should be having here, even if they’re relatively safe from eavesdroppers. He supposes it really just comes down to whether he trusts Dabi enough to risk it. The other man might be wiretapped— although he’s pretty good at spotting those— or might doublecross him and take this conversation back to unsavory parties. But again, going with his instinct, he doesn’t think that’ll be an issue. Dabi could have caused him plenty of issues after the Kuat Shipyards incident— and he could have ruined his career by even hinting at their intimate relations. He doesn’t even seem interested in using it as leverage. He doesn’t know what it means, that Dabi’s kept his secret this long, but he knows it must mean something.

“True. I’m not talking about your exploits, it’s more like…” He trails off, tapping his chin. “Your reasoning, I guess. It’s usually pretty easy to guess, with villains. A vendetta against heroes, a grudge against society, loyalty to an organization… that kind of stuff, you know what I mean? Yours is hard to pinpoint.”

“Bold of you to just come out and ask that.” Satoru looks impressed, more than anything else. 

“Go big or go home, right?” He chirps back, grinning slowly. 

Satoru shakes his head, with a mystified expression of wonder. “Sure, yeah. Most people are too scared to just ask me things like that directly, ya know. But I guess you’re not the Number Three for nothing, huh?”

“I’d hope not,” Hawks agrees easily. “What a waste of all that time and effort otherwise.” 

Satoru barks out another surprised laugh. “How pragmatic,” he muses. “Well, to answer your question— even if I wasn’t fairly disillusioned with the capitalist construct of heroism as an industry, I don’t like taking orders from anyone. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty for a cause I believe in. Those things are pretty mutually exclusive to heroism in this society, and if you’re not a hero, then you’re a villain.”

“So it’s a logical default,” Hawks surmises. Satoru shrugs ambivalently. “So you’d never personally consider yourself a villain?”

“I think terming yourself hero or villain in general is pretty dumb— anyone can be the villain in a situation depending on the perspective, and the same is true for heroes,” Satoru points out, before grinning, rakish and wide. “But I will admit I get pretty tickled whenever someone calls me a supervillain.”

“Your name is synonymous with vigilantism these days,” Hawks remarks, tone cool and almost ambivalent to an untrained ear. “What do you think about the vigilante movement people are associating you with?”

“Is this an interview for a magazine or something?” Satoru whines, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. Even then, he doesn’t seem irritated so much as fondly annoyed. “What’s with all these questions huh? Just because you have to answer them all the time doesn’t mean you have to subject me to them.”

It feels a bit like playing with fire, to press his advantage like this in a battle of words with what is likely the most dangerous supervillain in the country, and he can admit he finds it rather thrilling. It’s a different kind of battle than the ones he usually participates in as a hero, but one he’s no less skilled in. Satoru hasn’t shut him down yet— just gently deflected. He can work with that. 

He grins as he leans forward with his chin in hand, arm propped on the table. “I can’t help it— I’m really curious about you.” And then, in a display of boldness that even he isn’t expecting: “Won’t you indulge me?”

Satoru blinks in surprise. Hawks privately shares the sentiment. That was pretty brazen, even for him. But he can hardly take it back now.

“If you were even a little less cute, that move wouldn’t work at all, you know,” Satoru complains, after he seems to have recovered himself. Which doesn’t actually answer the question, Hawks notes. He might have to just chalk this line of questioning to a loss and move forward with his actual agenda, before he loses him entirely. 

But it must have been more effective than Satoru outwardly let on, or maybe he really did find Hawks’s impudence more endearing than insulting, because he actually does answer. “I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t really keep up with it.” He smiles enigmatically. “I’m not brave enough for politics.” 

It’s still not a direct answer, but far more than Hawks had expected. 

“Makes sense,” he agrees amiably, conceding the point. 

The whole thing was a social powderkeg; if Hawks was in Dabi’s position, he wouldn’t want to get involved either. At the very least, that’s a good indication that Dabi isn’t some kind of megalomaniac-type bent on shaping society in his image— not that Hawks had thought that was much of a possibility, but still relieving to hear. 

That’s probably all he’s going to get from the elusive supervillain on the subject, so he switches tracks. “So, those guys at the wharf the other day— what do you know about them?”

Satoru rolls his shoulders. “Honestly? Probably no more than you. They’re foreign and have a huge global presence. Right now they’re primarily involved in the trigger and quirk trades— not quirk trafficking in the normal way either. Rather, the lackthereof seems to be what they’re after, rather than interesting techniques.” 

That’s news to Hawks. “Quirkless people? What on earth for?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Dabi shrugs. “I can’t follow their logic at all: they’ve evolved trigger into a lethal and highly dangerous drug, making it a useless product to sell on the streets. And they only care about quirkless people, who are entirely unaffected by their product.” 

Hawks considers this puzzle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “So money’s not something they care about, then,” he ponders aloud, going for the lowest common denominator in the scenario.

Dabi nods along. “Which would infer they’ve got plenty of that to spare.” 

That’s… harrowing to hear. And definitely smells like state-sponsored terrorism to Hawks. “Have any guesses on who they’re getting it from?” 

“Who benefits the most from global unrest?” Dabi returns, sipping his frothy latte. “Can’t really say I’ve been paying much attention to global affairs, so I don’t really know.”

Still, it’s a good trail to dig through. Hawks isn’t exactly an international relations guru either, but he can at least get his analysts on the scent and see what they sniff out. Everything he’s heard so far about Humarise paints them out to be real bad news, for everyone. He wouldn’t be surprised if an international task force gets involved. 

“Have they tried getting in contact with you?”

He shudders to think of the terror an organization that well-backed could reign with Dabi at their side. 

Dabi sends him an unimpressed look. “You should know— you were there, after all.”

He does recall that panicking executive trying to pander to Dabi at the last minute. Outside of that incredibly tense hostage situation, the whole thing had been pretty hilarious. “Nothing official, though?”

Dabi chuckles. “Do you really think there’s an ‘official’ way to get in contact with me?” 

Hawks momentarily entertains the amusing idea of Dabi having some harried and overworked secretary, forever hounded by all the people trying to get in his good graces. It gets significantly less amusing when he recalls his own secretary, who is almost always in a similar position. 

“Good point.” Hawks grins sheepishly. “You didn’t seem all that keen on them before, but I just wanted to double check.”

Dabi raises a brow. “I already said I don’t like taking orders from anyone.”

“How would you explain your relationship with Toman, then?” Hawks counters.

“Mutually beneficial,” the white-haired supervillain replies, succinctly. 

Hawks just makes a noncommittal noise. “And the police?”

Dabi’s grin turns wolfish. “Quality entertainment.” 

Hawks stifles a laugh. Yes, he could see how that relationship would be entertaining for Dabi— and unendingly frustrating for Detective Tachibana. “Entertaining and mutually beneficial, huh? How exactly did you end up with two entirely disparate groups like that?”

It’s worded casually, but they both know he’s after something. Namely, a blueprint into Dabi’s good graces for him to emulate. 

“Can’t really say it was anything specific— just life being unpredictable, I guess.”

“So it wasn’t planned that way?”

“No, not at all.” 

It’s a little ridiculous, to hear that this man was sitting on a veritable fortune of information and ended up in a position to carve a channel of exchange between two opposing sides of the law. He was any underground hero’s dream, really. An informant of his caliber was priceless; no wonder Detective Tachibana ranted and raved all he liked, but never outright stopped Dabi from pranking him. 

He’s pandered around the subject long enough, he supposes. May as well hint at it more directly. “So you don’t have any more plans to work with anyone else in the future?” 

Dabi sees right through it, of course. 

“You know, if you just want to see me more often, you could just say so,” Dabi teases, with that devilishly charming smile Hawks remembers far too fondly. 

It’s just a game, Hawks knows. It’s a game he’s familiar with— one that he’s good at, even. Toeing the line between flirting and bantering, keeping it impossible to judge the truthfulness of your words. But the best teases only work when there’s just enough truth in them to seem genuine. 

“I do want to see you more often,” Hawks agrees without missing a beat, brazenly leaning forward. “What do you say?”

Dabi’s lips curl into a delighted smirk. 

He opens his mouth to reply, and if Hawks is reading this right, he’s even going to agree, which is beyond what Hawks had thought he’d get out of a single conversation with the supervillain, and if he’s being honest with himself, privately what he wanted regardless of any tasks given to him by the Commission—

And predictably, this is when it all goes to shit.

Dabi is abruptly cut off by a loud clattering of glassware and surprised shrieks. A man behind Dabi gets up onto his table, sending his breakfast crashing to the ground. He whips out a gun from his jacket, holding it aloft, and the cafe descends into screams.

“Everyone be cool, this is a robbery!” The man shouts, firing one shot off to quell the shouts of alarm from the crowd. 

Across from him, Dabi’s mouth drops open. “That’s my fucking line,” he hisses, outraged.

(Which he had stolen from Tarantino to begin with. But it's the principle of the thing!)

Hawks just drops his head onto the table with a dull thud. What are the odds, seriously, that he finally gets a face to face meeting with Dabi of all people, has an informative conversation and a good rapport going, even almost getting him to tentatively agree to working with Hawks, and some two-bit villain decides to rob the damn place? 

“Do not,” he starts, emphatically, although he’s not entirely certain what, in particular, he’s begging the supervillain beside him from doing. Lighting the whole cafe on fire, probably. Causing a scene of untold chaos. 

“This guy is either an idiot, or is intentionally trying to stir up trouble with Toman,” Dabi sighs under his breath, brow twitching. “And he’s holding my favorite cafe hostage? Homeboy’s got a death wish and I’m happy to oblige.”

“Please do not talk about premeditated murder in front of me,” Hawks begs. “Look, just let me handle this, please.”

Dabi pouts outrageously. It shouldn’t be as endearing a sight as it is. Finally he lets out a petulant sigh, crossing his arms as he slumps in his chair. “Fiiiine,” he drawls, childishly. 

Hawk sighs in relief. 

//

@bushidobushiroad | Eve Wakamiya Stan

Hawks out here kicking ass and taking names and looking fine as hell man the city of Tokyo is just #blessed right now

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//

If this asshole is actually a copycat of mine, I’m gonna fuck his shit up, Hawks be damned. Gojo thinks, deeply annoyed. 

He still has half a mind to deck the guy in the mouth just for the grievous offense of wearing that hideous hawaiian print shirt over a hot pink tank top, but decides it’s not even worth the effort. Anyway, this is a perfect opportunity to observe Hawks in action up close, and who is he to get in the way of that? He does wonder how Hawks intends to apprehend this guy in such a crowded venue, without giving away his identity. 

Truth be told, Hawks had truly shocked him when he’d nearly walked right past Gojo as he enjoyed a midmorning coffee break. 

After meeting him at a nightclub, he’d figured he’d have no issue picking the man’s iconic silhouette out of a crowd. He really hadn’t expected how effectively he could blend in without those eye-catching wings of his. He was just as good as Gojo at making himself unremarkably attractive enough to blend in anywhere. Gojo can’t imagine this mastery of surreptitious disguises came without a lot of time and effort. Would he throw that all away just to save a couple civilians from a robbery? With his kind of rabid fanclub, it would only take one stray photo from this incident for any hope of his continued anonymity to go up in flames. 

He supposes there’s always more aggressive forms of concealment, like hair dye and cosmetics, but there’s something truly impressive about an effortless disguise; like wings or a blindfold. 

Gojo needn’t have worried; Hawks proves himself as capable as he is charming. 

The bag at his feet rustles subtly, and Gojo just barely manages to catch a parade of feathers turning the corner into the alleyway to their right. The robbers— a husband and a wife, maybe?— are too busy collecting wallets and keeping the crowd under control to really notice. 

Gojo sighs internally and wonders how long Hawks plans on letting this farce go on, as the man finishes up one side of the outdoor patio and turns in their direction. If he has to lose his wallet to this clown, he’s going to be super pissed. 

Fortunately it doesn’t come to that; feathers zoom out of the air from all angles to the cries of delight from the crowd. Before the robbers can even react, feathers have knocked their guns clear out of their hands and are working to pin them both to the walls. Once the robbers are disarmed the crowd turns into a frenzied mob, people screaming and running in all directions, feathers flittering in the air around them. 

In the midst of all the chaos cheers go up as people begin to cry out Hawks’s name, his elated fans looking around in hopes of catching a glimpse of the famous hero in action. Unbeknownst to them, the hero in question was seated alongside them, sending a triumphant grin in Gojo’s direction. Gojo can admit to being a little impressed. There are very few people he’s met— in this world and his last— capable of diffusing a situation involving this many potential casualties in such a timely manner, with absolutely no injuries or collateral damage. Gojo’s not even certain he could pull it off, actually. His Infinity is incredibly precise, but even that technique doesn’t have the dexterity of Hawks’s feathers. 

Hawks leans forward with shining eyes and says, over the crowd chanting his name, “Looks like I’ve gotta run— is it too soon to ask for your number?” 

The nerve of this guy, seriously, Gojo thinks incredulously, as he’s startled into a laugh. “Way too soon,” he agrees with an easy smile. “Why don’t we plan on meeting up next week, same time and place?”

He grabs his bag from under the seat, hefting it over his shoulder in a fluid motion as he stands. He throws a wink in Gojo’s direction. “It’s a date, then!”

Gojo just watches in amused disbelief as he darts into that same alleyway his feathers had first disappeared down, likely to change into his iconic hero outfit with no one the wiser. Before he even realizes it, a delighted smile is stretching over his face, far too fond and indulgent to be directed towards a hero of all things.

And yet, there’s something about Hawks that fills him with a childlike, uncomplicated delight. In many respects the man reminds him of the charmingly nostalgic characters he used to read about in a long gone childhood. The doggedly charismatic, occasionally arrogant, yet earnestly genuine comic book heroes in stories full of whimsy and good humor. They were always fun to read about in comics, and entertaining to watch in movies— but living in a reality full of ‘heroes’ has thoroughly disillusioned him. Heroes were very rarely as honest and outstanding citizens as the likes of Clark Kent or Peter Parker. 

He’s not really sure where Hawks, Number Three Hero and fastest man in the country falls on that scale. But Keigo, he thinks, definitely has that same magnetic appeal and potential for greatness. 

He can tell when Hawks makes his grand appearance from the shrill cries of the crowd alone. A group of teenage girls at the table across from him look ready to faint with joy. Camera phones take to the air like seagulls descending upon stray breadcrumbs, fervently grasping for even a glimpse of the famous hero. Gojo decides to take that as his cue to beat a hasty retreat of his own, before he ends up a stray extra in any shots. 

The thought sends a trickle of ice cold fear down his spine, as it occurs to him that there’s a very good chance his incredibly perceptive little bandmate might find out he’s met with Hawks again, regardless of if he’s photographed or not. 

Ahh, she’s going to stab me with a dinner fork, isn’t she, Gojo thinks fondly. Little Yui has a mean streak buried underneath that stoic demeanor of hers.

Just as he ducks inside the cafe and heads for the bathrooms to teleport off, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Speak of the devil.

It’s Makoto, asking if he could possibly make an impromptu band meeting this evening. Yui has already replied with an affirmative thumbs up emoji. Kenji, as usual, has left them all on ‘read’ but that’s probably a yes from her as well. Gojo half expects Yui to be able to, like, sniff Hawks off his clothes or something and find out exactly what he’s been up to, but he agrees anyway. 

//

@noscrubsofficial | Sailor Bae Mako-Chan

@ru-kun WAY TO THROW ME UNDER THE BUS ASSHOLE fine okay we’re playing one (1) show in Tokyo, I'm not gonna say the venue but tickets are limited!! do your stuff scrubs ;)

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//

Gojo wrinkles his nose. “Why Hosu?”

Makoto shakes out her glossy mane of hair without even sparing him a glance, adjusting the strap of her bass. “Because I said so, that’s why. Got a problem with that?”

“It’s so far for Yui-chan!” He protests.

Yui glances at him with a deadpan stare that reads; don’t drag me into this, solve your own damn problems. 

“Have you even been to the venue?” Kenji asks skeptically.

Makoto scowls, looking annoyed that they’re both pushing back on this. “No, but I have it on good authority that it’s a pretty nice place.”

“Are you going to tell us where it is, or are you going to make us hunt around for it like our fans?” Kenji asks dryly.

It's a bit of a running joke at this point, to make their fans run around trying to find where their next show is going to take place, and then almost start a riot fighting to get tickets at what inevitably always ends up being some tiny dive of a venue. 

“The address is on the calendar invite, not that any of you even know what a calendar is.” Makoto opines, sounding rather more aggressive about it than necessary, in his opinion.

He decides to just stay out of it. What does he care, if it's in Hosu or Mustafu or even Sapporo? He can teleport.

“Yui-chan, is this going to be an issue for you?”

Wisely, Yui just shakes her head. It’s not a school night, so it should be fine. Probably. 

Or maybe not.

“She mentioned there’s a guy she’s seeing in Tokyo, this is definitely some kind of setup,” Gojo complains after their practice, as he walks besides Yui. 

Practice went fine, he supposes, although he’s dead certain Makoto really desperately needs to get laid. She reminds him way too much of Utahime whenever she’s been without a lover for too long; all nagging and impatient and super bossy. Even ‘his’ newest songs weren’t enough to pull her out of her foul mood. Gojo is a bit offended, on behalf of the great bands he’s ripped their latest setlist from. 

Yui doesn’t respond to his whining, probably because she’s already well aware of Makoto’s current beau and how that’s factoring into their rather impromptu live show they (read: Makoto) have spontaneously decided to do in the middle of their hiatus. Frankly, Gojo’s still half expecting her to turn to him with an irate expression and demand to know why he was with Hawks this morning, no matter how well he covered his tracks. 

But Yui seems a bit too preoccupied for her usual supernatural levels of observance, gaze focused inward as she fiddles with the strap of her backpack. She looks like she has something on her mind, but hasn’t quite figured out how she wants to phrase it aloud. Instead of prodding, Gojo prattles on indolently on the latest baking show he’s binge watched. It’s not until they’re about to reach the metro station that she finally cracks.

“Satoru, are you free this weekend?” 

Gojo blinks. Aside from his meeting next week with Hawks, he has nothing set in stone. “You mean, besides the concert? I can be, why?”

“I was hoping we could train again,” Yui reveals. “Izuku too.”

“Sure,” he says. “What time?”

Yui pauses. “... The whole weekend…?” She replies, sounding like she only just decided on the answer herself. 

“Uh,” he says. 

“The school tournament is next week,” Yui explains. “I want to be as prepared as I can be for it.”

School tournament, huh? Man, that’s nostalgic. Gojo grins widely. 

“You know what you’re signing up for, right?” He asks, just to be sure. Yui and Izuku have fondly referred to his training techniques as 'cruel and unusual' punishment plenty of times before. For a given definition of ‘fond’. Maybe distantly traumatized might be more apt. 

Yui somehow manages to look determined and yet utterly resigned. “Yes.” 

Chapter Text

Tensei’s only real saving grace of anonymity was that no one would ever dare to think the lauded firstborn son of the Iida family would be caught dead in a basement rave like this. 

And in their defense, Tensei himself wouldn’t have thought it either.

As a child he had little free time to indulge in any leisurely pursuits, and whatever spare hours he did have between school and training were spent with Tenya. As an adult and top hero with his own agency to run he had little and less of it than he had then, but far more freedom on how to spend it. No longer were there authoritative figures in his life to question where he was, or what he was doing, or who he was with. 

Regardless of that freedom Tensei had never imagined he’d manage to work up the nerve to actually attend a concert of his favorite band, but the unexpected opportunity had fallen into his lap and he’d jumped on it before his own pervasive self-doubts could think better of it. Would it truly be so heinous, for Ingenium to attend a music concert of his own volition during his own free time? Theoretically no, but he’s still fairly certain his fans (and his parents) would lose it if they knew it was a No Scrubs concert in particular— not the sort of refined recreational pursuits one would expect of the Iida family heir. 

Having grown up with family seats at the opera and the national ballet, he’s not entirely certain how he ended up being such a diehard fan of underground alt rock bands. (He blames spotify, really, those recommended playlists were dangerous rabbit holes.) He can appreciate a fine concerto and talented orchestra, it’s true, but he’d never go out of his way to wait online for hours to snag tickets to see one. 

He’d first heard No Scrubs on a shaky online video of one of their live concerts. 

At the time, they played live shows exclusively and had little to no online presence. No recording studio to push them to release new songs quarterly, no digital music channels to harangue them over streaming rights. They had a cult underground following of diehard fans ecstatic to see a band playing incredible music with utter disregard for the industry. They weren’t in it for the fame or the money, they weren’t sellouts to the corporate machine. No one even knew their real names. They often wore elaborate cosplays and ensembles with masks to their concerts. There was no schedule of events to follow. If fans wanted to see them, they had to trove through the various individual websites or even physical bulletin boards of underground venues across the greater Tokyo area to see if No Scrubs was listed as a performing act. 

All that mystique and exclusivity— however unintentional— only made people more obsessed with them. Tensei included. 

He’d taken one look at Ru-kun, the lead singer and guitarist, and promptly fell headfirst into his big gay awakening— luckily he was in good company, as the online forums were full of people having their big gay (or straight) panic over the unbelievably attractive singer. Honestly, Tensei couldn’t really tell you what in particular made the man so hypnotically irresistible. He was conventionally attractive, yes, but the same could be said of bassist Mako-chan (who always strikes him as oddly familiar even though he can never place from where), who might have had a generous following herself but nothing near the ravenous fans of Ru-kun. 

He’d read plenty of college thesis-worthy dissertations on the subject online from fellow fans, but in Tensei’s tentative opinion, it was the vulnerability of the man. He was the one who wrote the songs, even if he insisted drummer Yui-chan was the real musical brains behind the operation. The lyrics were the sort of searingly raw and unflinchingly personal admissions most men were, frankly, incapable of admitting outside of court-mandated therapy sessions; it took real courage and charisma to get on stage and lay bare your open wounds like that. Whether he knew it or not he had inspired hundreds with his words.

Ru-kun as an icon for an entire generation aside, their music was also just plain incredible. 

So when they finally released an album online, Tensei had wasted no time buying the digital copy. And when they finally released some songs on Spotify they quickly became his top artist. 

And when a show was announced here in Hosu, he’d pounced on the opportunity to finally see them live.

They didn’t disappoint. 

“Your drug is a heartbreaker,”

His voice could send an entire crowd into a frenzy, as it did as he leaned closer to the mic and crooned against it, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth as soft and plush as a caress. 

People were pushing, screaming, throwing their hands up in the air like a fervid prayer, devout sinners waiting for ablution from their pious savior. The chorus reverberated so loudly the floor seemed to shake with it as hundreds of voices sang in unison, even though this song was unreleased and before this moment entirely unknown to the world. 

“My love is a lifetaker,”

His voice was even better live, somehow so much more electrifying in person, sending shivers down Tensei's spine. Dressed in his usual all black outfit with his leather trench coat flaring behind him, pure wintry hair like a halo around his face, he’d been likened to a fallen angel before, and evidently for good reason. 

Tensei was jostled around violently as the instrumental riff descended upon them, finding himself caught up in the swell of the charged atmosphere of the crowd and Ru-kun’s magnetic presence. He’d ended up tossed towards the front of the mosh pit, a place he would have expected to resemble a sweaty cesspool; his intuition was spot on, but he was so close to the stage he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Ru-kun was voltaic up close, glitter sparkling across his cheeks and in his hair, lurid red mouth hypnotic as he grasps the mic in both hands as he sings, words like a caress; “Dear daddy, I write you, in spite of years of silence,” voice pitched low in a viscerally intimate murmur, he’s impossible to look away from, “you cleaned up, found jesus, things are good—oh, so I hear—” 

The whole setlist was incredible, and full of brand new songs he’d never heard before. He wasn’t the only one ecstatic at the thought of new music from them, fans around him screaming their joy. He wanted all of them, every single song; he wanted to lie in bed for hours and just hear every note on repeat. The encore was absolutely explosive, the crowd screeching the moment the iconic opening chords of A Little Less Sixteen Candles blasted through the venue. His voice felt raw from singing along with the crowd to the classic No Scrubs hit. 

By the time the concert was over and Tensei had been spat back up into the warm summer streets he was still shaking from the experience. The milling groups of people slowly dispersed into the dark city around him, chatting excitedly about the show and making plans to hit up nearby bars in droves. Tensei staggers past the exit before he can get trampled, relieved no one seems to notice or care about his presence. He’s just another fan showing his support to an incredible band, band paraphernalia t-shirt and distressed jeans acting as camouflage. He’s not a top hero with an agency and a plethora of sidekicks. He’s just another young adult in pursuit of authentically good music. 

Nonetheless, he ducks down a quiet side street to keep out of the eyes of the crowds. He’s got a lot of diehard fans that could easily recognize him on sight.

Tensei hops up onto a stack of crates and pulls out his phone, debating if it's worth it to walk all the way back to his apartment or wait for the crushing surge of crowds shoving for ride shares and taxis to die out. He idles on his phone as he decides, scrolling through his feed to find people have already uploaded videos from the concert. Having experienced the real thing in person, he now knows they're nothing in comparison to the real thing.

He nearly hops in the air in fright when a door he hadn’t realized was there slams open right across from him. 

Tensei watches in disbelief as a familiar head of shockingly white hair ducks out of the opened doorway, cigarette dangling from glossy pink lips. His eyes grow wide as he recognizes the outfit— the all black trench coat, skin tight ripped black jeans. As he bends down to fumble with something in his pocket the collar of his loose tank top swoops low, revealing delicate collarbones and a slope of a chiseled, pale chest. Ru-kun looks up as he flicks his lighter on, the warm blaze lighting his galactic eyes in a kaleidoscope of colors. He meets Tensei’s wide eyed stare with a raised brow.

“Hello there. You need a light?” 

“Um,” Tensei says, speechless. “...Sure.”

He doesn’t actually smoke, like, ever. He thinks he’d gotten badgered into it once or twice in university, but he never favored the taste overmuch. As he leans over to bum a cigarette and a light from a veritable rockstar, he wonders if he’ll ever smell menthols again without thinking of this moment. Probably not. 

Ru-kun’s eyes flicker down to his open jacket, where his limited edition No Scrubs Halloween shirt is peeking out from below his windbreaker. Tensei flushes, before deciding there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. So what if he’s a fan? Surely Ru-kun is aware he makes good music. 

“How’d you like the show?” The white-haired man asks, leaning against a stack of crates across from him. He looks just as incredible up close as he had on stage— almost too stunning to be real. 

“Awesome.” Tensei grins, unabashed. “I want the whole setlist.”

Ru-kun laughs— it's low and smokey, the man’s voice pitched a little low, probably from screaming into a microphone for the past hour— “You might have to wait a little on that one. We haven’t recorded them in a studio yet.”

Tensei gapes at him, shocked. “Seriously?! Did you just come up with it tonight?” 

He laughs again. “No, no, we practiced before the show— just haven’t had the time.”

Tensei makes a noise of commiseration. He’d kept up to date with No Scrubs ever since they started a band twitter account. He follows Ru-kun of course, but the man is infamous for his shit posting and not much else. He knows they’re on something of a hiatus currently due to scheduling issues between band members. 

“Life getting in the way, huh?” He says, sympathetically. He knows the feeling terribly well. It’s hard to have any kind of hobby as a pro hero. 

“Something like that,” Ru-kun agrees, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Man, adulting really sucks.”

Tensei chuckles. “Yeah, it’s pretty awful.” He agrees wholeheartedly, taking a tentative drag of his own cigarette. It’s oddly nostalgic, reminding him of riotous university nights; hopping bars across town with his friends, no overbearing responsibilities heavy on his shoulders. 

Something about the smoke carries a hint of that daring and untroubled spirit. It makes him feel a little reckless, stirring up an impulsiveness he’s worked hard over his adult life and hero career to stifle, a foolhardy confidence of youth that he feels he lost somewhere between a sea of spreadsheets and arrest audits. 

The other man is surprisingly easy to talk to. Tensei has never met any rockstars, to be fair, but he expected them all to be minor divas— or at the very least, far too cool for the likes of him. Ru-kun is a pretty down to earth guy; he’s witty and clever and has a wicked sense of humor. He makes it look so easy to just laugh things off— from the things people say about him online (usually flattering, but sometimes pushy to the point of rude), what haters think about their music, and just the state of society in general. He doesn’t seem to care a lick about heroes, which is relieving to hear. Tensei doesn’t mind when people know who he is, of course, he’s a spotlight hero and he’s always been aware of the life that entails. But it’s refreshing to meet someone who just… clearly has no idea who he is. To Ru-kun, he’s just a regular guy who smokes every once in a blue moon and likes his music. 

“My name's Tensei,” he says after a comfortable lull in their conversation; the cool night air, the smoke, and the imprint of the resounding bass from earlier making him far bolder than usual. “What’s yours?”

The white-haired man blinks, expression shifting a bit, as if he can sense the change of mood like a scent in the air. “Satoru,” he all but purrs. 

“Satoru,” he repeats, rolling the sounds over his tongue. It’s a really nice name. “Well, Satoru, is it too bold of me to ask you what you’re doing later?”

Satoru just grins widely. “Considering it’s almost two in the morning, I’m assuming you mean tomorrow?”

Tensei pauses, then inwardly curses. He’s on patrol tomorrow. And the day after. In fact, his only real night off is— 

Satoru bats his eyelashes. “Or, were you asking to come home with me?” 

—Tensei splutters, turning red. His brain can’t even handle that, actually. “No, I—” He shakes his head. “Um, not that the idea isn’t tempting, but…”

He steels his resolve. He’s gone this far, may as well continue. 

“I want to take you out.” He says, resolutely. “On a date. I’m not interested in just a night with you. I want— I want to do this properly.”

Satoru blinks rapidly. His cigarette dangles from his long fingers as his mouth drops open a bit, even as no words seem forthcoming. He looks away briefly, under the pretense of flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette. But in the dim lighting, he can see the bright red tips of the other man’s ears. His fair skin doesn’t do much to hide his blush. 

Satoru clears his throat, cheek still a bit pink as he doesn’t quite meet Tensei’s gaze. “Huh. Well, since you asked so nicely, I suppose I could spare some time in my schedule for a— date.”

He grins widely, triumphant with his success. “Great. How does Monday night sound? I’ll take you out to dinner.”

Satoru still seems a bit dazed, as if he could somehow be surprised that someone wants to take him out on a date or something. Tensei has to imagine this happens to the man at least once a fortnight. Although the idea that maybe Satoru doesn’t normally take people up on their offers, but did agree to his, makes his heart flutter a bit. 

“Sure, Monday sounds great.” 

//

@steponmerukun | #1 scrub

I want every word out of @ru-kun’s mouth tattooed on my soul

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Replying to @steponmerukun

@sjk098 | smells like teen sprite

Lol even his shit posts??

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@steponmerukun | #1 scrub

ESPECIALLY those

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The next day, Gojo’s fairly certain his cheeks are still a bit flushed. 

He’s not entirely sure what it was about Tensei that had him so flustered. He was a genuinely attractive man, with the sort of comely appearance Gojo would define as classically handsome. Tall, with broad shoulders, thick wavy dark hair and a nice smile. Not at all Gojo’s type— if he even has one. 

It was his unabashed earnestness, Gojo decides after much deliberation. 

Gojo’s just not used to that brand of unerring honesty. The noble and righteous white-knight types have never really appealed to him. They tend to leave him cautiously waiting for cracks in that honorable armor. Maybe that’s why Hawks appeals to him so much— even his perfect public persona isn’t the facade of a virtuous and principled hero. He’s known as the bad boy of the hero industry, with a confidence that borders on arrogance, and a cavalier attitude that easily comes off as abrasive and rude to the more stalwart newscasters. And the person beneath it is just as intriguing; there’s a darkness there, that Gojo is certain of. It’s a darkness not entirely dissimilar to his own. 

Tensei though— Gojo didn’t get that vibe from him at all, not even a hint of it. 

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. 

Yui is right, after all. No matter how intriguing he finds Hawks, and how intense their obvious attraction is to each other, that’s a relationship doomed to fail from the start. He’s better off going home with another random dude dressed up in a bear costume on a motorcycle than he is getting involved with a hero. He’s got to distance himself and slot Hawks into a perfectly professional box in his mind. Working with him is fine: sleeping with him is not fine.

So maybe Tensei will be good for him.

He seems like the upstanding and respectable type; the perfect guy to bring home to meet your folks. He’s probably, like, an accountant or an insurance underwriter or something. He has that look to him, like you can trust him with your money, your kids, your mortgage and even your family dog and he won’t let you down. A perfectly nice guy with a perfectly normal life, far removed from all the chaos of Gojo’s life. 

His musings are interrupted by a vibration in his pocket. 

It’s Yui-chan, telling him she and Izuku will be a few minutes late to their training session today.

Gojo’s not in any hurry, so he tells her to take her time and make sure to look both ways and hold Izu-kun’s hand before crossing the street. Predictably, she leaves him on read for that. 

He idly wonders what’s holding them up: both Yui and Izuku are incredibly punctual people. Yui just likes the routine of being five minutes early to everything, and Izuku is too neurotic and worried over being impolite to be late to anything. And they both have been so keyed up over this school tournament thing that they showed up an entire hour early yesterday for no good reason. Gojo wandered towards their usual spot on Dagobah Beach a few minutes past eight in the morning— already a hellish and unreasonably early hour to begin with— only to find his two munchkins hard at work starting their circuit training warm ups. He’d spent the entire day going over their hand-to-hand skills in preparation for the tournament’s inevitable exhibition match bracket. He doesn’t know much else about the U.A. school tournament and hadn’t cared to subject himself to footage of prior years, but he assumed they’ll have the usual round robin with one on one matches. 

The reason for their lateness becomes apparent when they grow near enough for him to pick them all up with his cursed technique.

Ah. This is an interesting turn of events.

A visibly fretting Izuku is squished between two entirely different yet equally stoic companions. One is Yui-chan, her expression as calm and placid as always. The other is Todoroki Shouto, whose expression is similarly impassive. But where Yui’s look is quiet and serene, Shouto just looks plain unapproachable. 

“How unexpected!” Gojo chirps, burying his internal panic at the surprise of seeing his little brother again. “You two brought a friend!”

“Ah— Satoru-sensei, this is our classmate, Todoroki Shouto,” Yui introduces after an odd beat of silence when it becomes apparent Izuku is in no condition to do it.

Izuku actually looks a bit terrified of his baby brother. The thought is a little amusing; Izuku never so much as twitches in fear when it comes to him, but little Shouto has him nervous? 

“He invited himself to tag along,” Yui adds, something disapproving seeping into her normally detached tone.

Shouto doesn’t even look remotely apologetic. 

“I want to learn to fight like Kodai and Midoriya.” He says, tonelessly, staring him down with a surprising intensity. 

“Is that so?” Gojo raises a brow. “...Hasn’t anyone ever told you it's impolite to invite yourself to things?” 

What he actually wanted to say was, didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners, but mercifully managed to catch himself before it came out of his mouth. Considering the state of their mother, the tact is probably for the best. 

Shouto blinks, stoic expression slipping for a moment. Evidently that’s a no. 

Then again, who would even teach him manners? Ha! Definitely not Endeavor. Maybe Yumi-chan? 

“Oh,” Shouto says, this time sounding a bit less sure of himself. Even the slightest hint of vulnerability peeking out from the cracks of his stoic demeanor has Gojo folding like a house of cards.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Gojo assures him, waving his hand in the air. “The more the merrier, ya know?” 

He probably doesn’t know, actually. He doesn’t seem to know much about most social cues. 

Gojo is demonstrably not in the habit of lying to himself, so he’s always made conscious efforts to distance himself from Shouto. He gets too attached to kids, and that’s something he’s always known about himself; he’s not overly interested in figuring out the tangled knot of subconscious issues that manifested itself this way, but he assumes at the very least it has something to do with his own appalling lack of a childhood. He always wants to do right by them, because they just don’t deserve the wretched world the adults have left to them. Anyway, he’s never had little siblings before, but he knew right off the bat they’d be a recipe for disaster as far as his own self preservation was concerned. 

And he’d done a pretty admirable job of keeping his distance from them.. But despite his best efforts, he has some regrets about it nonetheless. 

All of those regrets are manifesting themselves in front of him as he stares into a familiar pair of dual-toned eyes. 

Shouto was so young when he’d left, he doubts the boy even remembers his older brother Touya. He was never in the house, for one, and his visits became increasingly sporadic around the time Shouto’s long term memory would have been developed enough for him to remember them. There was that one memorable time he’d shoulder tossed Endeavor into the pond and afterwards taken them all to the konbini where the old lady behind the counter yelled at him for smoking indoors but patted him sweetly on the head for treating his younger siblings to ice cream, but Shouto had been, like, two. 

There was also a time, when their mother’s mental health had been in serious decline— and Endeavor either didn’t care enough to see to getting her professional help (likely) or just wasn’t even aware there was a problem at all (even more likely)— that he’d taken them all to a New Years’ visit at the local shrine just to get them out of the house. But Shouto would have been three for that one. The next he saw of him, he was vomiting on the floor in the family dojo, and it had been the final straw to convince Gojo to get out of this fucked up house. 

He only knows pieces of what happens next in the boy’s life. 

He’d done his own surreptitious sleuthing into Rei’s disappearance from the house (he didn’t trust Giran with that kind of information) and found her in the mental ward of a critically acclaimed hospital in Mustafu. Honestly, that was probably the best outcome for her. She could get the help she needed without all the additional stress and trauma she’d end up saddled with if she’d stayed in that house. The only problem was that the timing coincided with him lighting the dojo on fire and his father by extension; with both parents out of the house, the three were left on their own. That was probably still a damn sight better than the original arrangement; the staff took good care of them all, and Endeavor was at least not enough of an asshole to stop paying for their lifestyles. Last he’d heard, Natsuo had been accepted into a prestigious (and accordingly expensive) medical program and Fuyumi was a teacher. 

And Shouto… Shouto had decided on becoming a hero, despite what was done to him.

Gojo doesn’t know the kid’s reasons, so he’s not going to pass judgment on that decision. At the very least, he knows Endeavor probably had little to do with it. 

“Is that— is that okay, Satoru-sensei?” Izuku asks fretfully, finally finding his voice. 

The poor bean looks like he’s awaiting divine judgment, as if the Sword of Damocles is hanging over his head. One look at his wide green gaze tells Gojo he’s terrified of being the one responsible for outing Gojo’s secret. 

Is it? Honestly, Gojo doesn’t really know enough about Shouto anymore to know. 

But he wants to know. And he damns himself for thinking it, but there’s no use arguing with the truth. He’s agreeing to this despite his own best interests solely to satiate his own curiosity on the matter. 

“Yep! I’ve got plenty of fun activities for today’s summer camp festivities!”

“Summer camp,” Shouto repeats, incredulity and bewilderment coloring his tonelessness. 

Yui shoots him a look that says, is it really fine?

Gojo shrugs. It is what it is at this point.

Then he gestures off to the side of the beach where he’s got one of his usual outlandish mazes set up, in addition to a giant container of water balloons. He grins widely as he also brandishes a pair of water guns. Yui and Izuku look at him in despair. Shouto just looks confused. 

“I hope you guys brought swimsuits!” 

//

The training session makes absolutely no logical sense in Shouto’s mind— at least in regards to training. It does, however, go a long way in making sense of both Kodai and Midoriya’s fighting styles. 

It also makes him almost dead certain that this ridiculous overgrown child is S-Rank cremation supervillain, Dabi. 

He’d always found Midoriya’s general approach to heroics and combat to be novel and intriguing. It reminded him of a lot of underground heroes and their no-nonsense, no holds barred approach to crime fighting. He could— and would— do anything in his power to secure himself the win. Up to and including things entirely unexpected and out of the box. 

At first he’d assumed Midoriya had some kind of prior relationship with their sensei, Eraserhead. It would go a long way in explaining why Midoriya always seemed so shifty at school. Was Eraserhead his dad or something, and he was just embarrassed for his classmates to know? Or maybe— and this was Shouto’s personal favorite— All Might was his father, and it was meant to be kept secret from everyone, even their teacher. 

He hadn’t connected Yui to the equation until watching them train together one day after school. 

They never spoke much during school, gravitating to their own cliques within their class. They sat at the same table at lunch, but with half a dozen people between them. He saw them walk into the gates together sometimes, but not always. And then there was the time they snuck off after USJ together. They didn’t seem to be hiding some kind of romantic relationship, but he also wasn’t sure if this was usual for friendship. 

But then it made sense— they weren’t friends, exactly. They were fellow disciples. 

Disciples training under Dabi. 

The sudden appearance of their new ‘teacher’s aid’ at the crucial juncture of USJ’s assault just smelled like a total setup to a regular conspiracy enthusiast like Shouto. He’d greeted Eraserhead like an old acquaintance, which would prove the whole ‘secret vigilante’ angle some of the diehard Dabi fans always touted about on the internet forums. This Satoru-sensei character used some kind of telekinetic power, just like Dabi, and also boasted teleportation abilities— an unconfirmed but alleged power of Dabi’s— and if that hadn’t been damning enough, he’d disappeared that beast from existence in front of Shouto’s own eyes. The infamous cremation technique was something even the most devout of Dabi supporters couldn’t verify with consistency. Everything about him was shrouded in mystery, but even the slightest hint of his quirk was almost impossible to confirm. By its very nature it was impossible to analyze or trace. 

After the whole debacle, Eraserhead merely mentioned offhand that his assistant had a really powerful spatial distortion quirk. He had little and less to say about the man in general; he’d called him a colleague, and said he was usually too busy to be helping out on a day to day basis and had only come for their field trip as a favor to Eraserhead. 

In other words: Dabi was working with the police. 

Shouto hadn’t connected Dabi to Kodai and Midoriya until a few days after the event, when he’d come upon them training in one of the unused school gyms. 

In retrospect, the two of them had been surprisingly calm in the face of a legion of villains out to kill them, and unlike their classmates they hadn’t been even remotely curious about the identity of their bus driver. But he only realized the connection when he watched Midoriya practice a shoulder toss on Kodai on top of a generously enlarged training mat. He knew that move, if only because he’d been trying to emulate it himself at home after seeing ‘Satoru-sensei’ use it a few times to great effect on various villains at USJ. 

Also in retrospect, he could have gone about his investigation into their relationship with Dabi with a bit more… subtlety.

Now Midoriya was under the impression he was out to shank him in the middle of the night or something, and Kodai thought he was a bonafide stalker.

But whatever. He was right, and now he was also getting the opportunity to learn under one of the most impressive villains in history. 

It doesn’t really bother him, that the man who’s currently flipping over his ice spear to squirt him in the face with a water gun is an S-rank supervillain. He’s spent most of his life deliberating on what it really means to be a hero, what it means to be a villain, and how subjective the line between them really is. 

“— I find it almost as disgusting as the society that lets you get away with the behavior— even encourages it.”

His only clear memories of Touya-nii are just the strong and secure clamp of his arm holding him up, the smell of smoke on his jacket, and the words he’d said to their father as he burned down the family dojo. Even now, the sensation of being wrapped in a hug from Natsu-nii will occasionally remind him of the way Touya-nii had held him so tightly, yet so gently. The smell of smoke from his own flames will have nostalgia drifting across his consciousness. And the words still ring clear as day in his head, whenever he stops and considers what lies beyond the veneer of propaganda prolific in the hero industry. 

Touya-nii probably would have really liked Dabi, he thinks, as he dodges out of the way of a water balloon going as fast as a bullet. 

Dabi isn’t blind to the rot pervasive in both the criminal underworld and the hero industrial complex. He doesn’t operate within the clearcut lines society has drawn between the two sides. His only objective is the completion of his mission— whatever that mission may be. Stopping arms deals, toppling drug kingpins, breaking up trafficking rings, exposing the corruption that allows— and even benefits from— the assorted crimes he stops. He always works alone. And he never kills anyone but the targets of his missions, who, in Shouto’s (and the internet’s) opinion definitely deserve it. 

Shouto doesn’t really know why Dabi does what he does, but he thinks the reason is probably something he can accept. Whatever it is, it’s a damn sight better than the rationale behind most of the heroes in the rankings, and most certainly his own father’s. 

And his reputation is evidently well earned.

“I concede,” Shouto gasps out, sweat dripping down his forehead. He’s drenched from head to toe— in sweat and water alike— and his legs feel like lead. 

In contrast, Dabi— or Satoru, as Kodai and Midoriya refer to him as (could that possibly even be his real name? The thought is so bewildering he has to table it for later)— hasn’t even broken a sweat. He looks entirely untouched from the heat and sun and muck around them. 

“Oh, good,” he says, breezily. He tilts his shades down just a bit, to pierce Shouto with those alarmingly unique eyes. “If you’d tried to keep going I would’ve had to toss you out personally.”

Shouto blinks sweat out of his eyes furiously. 

“It’s good to know your limits,” the man continues on, sounding genuinely pleased. “There’s nothing wrong with listening to your body’s needs and stopping when it's appropriate. Everyone learns different things at different paces.”

He tosses an unsubtle look at Midoriya, knees buckled and trembling as he still tries to find proper cover. 

“Are you listening, Izu-kun?” He calls over, waving around his water gun. 

The green-haired boy shakes his head. “I can still do this!”

Dabi sighs. “I give you three minutes before I take you out myself.”

He’d apparently intentionally designed this game to encourage lighter endurance and speed training, since the tournament was so soon. Nonetheless, he and Midoriya were probably taking it a bit too seriously. Midoriya, because it was quickly becoming apparent that the boy took everything too seriously when it came to his own training, and Shouto because he doesn’t want to let this rare opportunity go to waste. He would’ve loved to have been able to crash yesterday’s training too— one on one combat with Dabi, the mere thought of such an opportunity filling him with longing and jealousy— but he’d been asked by Fuyumi to pick something up at the store for lunch and lost track of them before he could tail them here. 

He wonders if it could be possible to have Dabi train him in a more official manner, like he does with Midoriya and Kodai. Today has been utterly bizarre, but very enlightening. 

Shouto collapses gratefully into the shade of a nearby haphazardly assembled garbage tower, muscles screaming with relief as he falls in a heap. Midoriya makes a valiant effort to stay out of Dabi’s range, but he’s fairly certain they all know it’s a lesson in futility to really stay out of the man’s sights. Dabi’s spatial awareness is unparalleled— Shouto has to imagine such a preternaturally powerful ability must somehow be tied to his quirk, although he still doesn’t know how. He hasn’t seen Dabi use his quirk once this whole training session; he’s relied on nothing but his own speed and reflexes so far. 

He can see now why Midoriya never bothers much with his own quirk. Dabi makes it emphatically clear that quirks are not infallible, and in many respects, even detrimental. He’d tapped Kodai out almost right off the bat, apparently just to prove his point that she was over relying on her quirk and was leaving herself wide open. He seems to be a rather vocal proponent of stopping over reliance on quirks. Shouto has to admit it is a humbling viewpoint, especially from someone with as much renown as Dabi. Shouto himself could probably keep such a lesson more top of mind; it’s true he makes efforts to keep up with physical training and martial arts, but that’s only really because his quirk relies so much on his conditioning. He doesn’t put emphasis on them as genuine skills to hone, but rather as supplements to his quirk.

He wonders if his father would approve of such a mentality. He doesn’t really know Endeavor, so he can’t say for certain. 

Shouto is wrenched from his thoughts by a loud bang! As two massive metal pillars collide in the air. Dabi has leapt out of the way of their trajectory, but in the meanwhile Midoriya has used a burst of speed to intercept him midair. Dabi fends him off easily enough, but his decision to focus on Midoriya leaves him wide open to a sudden hit by Kodai.

She’s standing in the shadows of some cardboard monstrosity, half peeking out of an empty fridge. In her hands is a makeshift slingshot. 

The water balloon splatters directly in Dabi’s face. He probably could have dodged it, honestly, but this is a training lesson and the objective isn’t necessarily to discourage his students entirely. 

“Not bad,” he says, and upon further inspection the water balloon doesn’t actually seem to have hit him at all. There’s droplets hovering in the air around him, but none touching him directly. “I’ll count it, even though Yui-chan is technically already ‘out’ and this wasn’t a team exercise.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘not a team exercise’!” Midoriya insists, grinning triumphantly. “As long as there’s someone else around, there’s always an opportunity for teamwork!”

Dabi shakes his head fondly. “Using my words against me, eh? Fine, fine, I said I accepted it!” He claps his hands cheerfully. “That makes the final count… one hit for the students, and five hundred and thirty for me!”

Midoriya’s grin drops into one of despair. 

Even Shouto is in disbelief. Was it really that high? That’s… almost two hundred hits each.

No wonder we’re all soaked.

It’s a good day to be soaking with the water content of over five hundred balloons and a few stray shots of a water gun, he supposes. The weather is blisteringly hot.

“Great job you guys!” Dabi cheers. “You all did excellent work!”

“If we were coming at you for real we’d all be dead.” Kodai points out, deadpan.

“Emphatically so,” Dabi agrees without missing a beat, “but that’s totally besides the point.”

Shouto has to wonder: is it really, though? This is training in the name of their School Tournament, which in and of itself is training for their eventual careers as heroes. And the goal of heroes is to take down villains like Dabi, for real, so in some respects that really is the true point of it all. Which is a disheartening thought. Shouto doesn’t think, even after several decades of training, that he’d ever be in a position to take on Dabi for real.

“But I made so many stupid mistakes,” Midoriya sighs heavily, running erratic hands through his sopping wet hair. For some reason, Shouto really focuses on how the action makes the soaked material of his shirt really highlight his shoulders. “I fell for so many traps I shouldn’t have.”

“Mistakes are just a part of learning,” Dabi replies, in a surprisingly gentle tone. It’s not what Shouto would have expected from a notoriously irreverent and arrogant villain; he’s shockingly good at teaching. “And you weren’t making the same mistakes twice— you learned from all of them, and that’s the important thing to focus on.”

Midoriya nods, still looking a bit glum. 

Dabi seems to consider the boy’s cheerless mood with an unexpected seriousness.  “What’s with the long face, Izu-kun? You did really well today.”

Midoriya groans, slumping over his knees. “I’m worried I won’t do well in the tournament. What if I fail out of it? What if I do terribly and don’t get any internship offers?”

“Fear is the path to the dark side, young padawan,” Dabi says, sounding very sagely and wise even though Shouto has no idea what ‘the dark side’ is supposed to be, or what a padawan is either. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.” 

Midoriya also looks a bit lost. Kodai looks like she’s learned to tune this sort of shit out ages ago. 

“Um…” Midoriya says.

“Just do your best, and if you’re ever feeling unsure just think, ‘what would Satoru do in this situation?’ and then do the opposite.”

“Um,” Midoriya says, again this time with alarm.

Then he tosses his water gun to the side. “Whatever you do, just make sure it’s not something you’ll live to regret, y’know? Alright, that’s enough of that! I’ve got a treat for you all.”

Shouto watches curiously as Dabi disappears behind a row of precariously stacked television sets, and reappears toting a cooler that looks far too clean and new to have been originally part of this junk heap. 

Make sure it’s not something you’ll live to regret, Shouto turns the words over in his head. It’s very good advice. The sort of wisdom learned the hard way, through experience and suffering.

“Ice cream?” Midoriya’s dejected tone has perked up.

“Where’s the catch,” Kodai interjects, voice flat.

Dabi laughs uproariously. “Ah, Yui-chan, you know me so well~ the catch is none of these ice cream cartons have labels, and you have to try each one and guess what they are from taste alone!”

Shouto blinks. 

For someone so impressively strong and surprisingly wise, Dabi’s kind of a total weirdo. 

//

@ru-kun | Camp Counselor Ru-kun

Me: *puts myself in situations where I need to be emotionally available*

Also Me: Stop doing this to me. I’m not qualified to be the adult here. 

Comments 319 |  Likes 428 | Retweets 476

//

Omake: 

In the end, he has no idea how to even begin to try to explain the situation to Fuyumi, so when she asks about his day during dinner, he simply says; “It was good. I went to summer camp.”

Fuyumi blinks at him in confusion, chopsticks pausing halfway to her mouth. “Oh, that’s, um, nice,” she says, bewildered. “What did you, uh, do at summer camp?”

“Got hit with one hundred and seventy-five water balloons.” 

Chapter Text

Despite the novelty of the experience, Hawks isn’t particularly enthused to be here.

He’s not even sure why he’s so ambivalent about it. Theoretically, it’s everything he likes.

Everyone is loud and in good humor, the energy electrifying, the food delicious, and his current company is great. He always loves being at the heart of a crowd, even when the attention isn’t directed at him. There’s just something truly enjoyable about an atmosphere created by hundreds of people all excited for the same thing. He never got to experience things like this as growing up— be that festivals, theme parks, movie premiers, concerts or sporting events— so something about the anticipatory air makes him feel nostalgic for a childhood he’d never had. 

It’s true the talent being showcased is… maybe somewhat subpar by his own standards, but what they lack in finesse the students more than make up for in quality entertainment. Some of the shit that’s come out of their mouths has been a riot. 

He normally never goes to things like School Festivals, but Echo had been adamant about going to U.A.’s in solidarity and support for one of her fellow underground heroes, Eraserhead, who teaches at the school. Hawks had decided to tag along just to witness the spectacle, and maybe to bug Eraserhead if he got the chance.

It occurs to him after he’s signed his umpteenth autograph— “Fifty-seventh,” Echo supplies, far too amused by the circus of his life— that maybe it’s actually the attention centered on him that he doesn’t like. That's putting him off to an event he normally would have enthusiastically adored.

The thought is so absurd he almost drops the yakitori stick he’s carrying. 

Hawks… well, it sounds shallow to say he loves being famous, but he certainly doesn’t mind it. It’s a game, and one he’s trained his whole life to play. Not just to play— to win. He’s good at it. 

Upon further consideration, he doesn’t think it’s the attention in and of itself that’s bothering him. Rather, the circumstances in which they’ve come about.

Hawks hadn’t come here intentionally incognito; he’s not in his hero uniform but his wings are still firmly attached to his back, and he flew over here from Tokyo so his visor is pushed up into his hair. But he hadn’t come here to be Number Three Hero Hawks necessarily, either. He’s just here as… Hawks, just a friend of Echo’s. 

“It must get pretty tiring, huh,” Echo says sympathetically, after he’s waved and smiled and posed for another handful of photos, tearing into her takoyaki ball. 

“Not at all,” he replies, reflexively. “It’s an honor, and a pleasure to get to meet fans in person.”

Echo just laughs, mouth full. “Sure, sure,” she agrees amiably, although her eyes are totally calling him out. “But I imagine it can be a bit tiring nonetheless, right? C’mon, it should be a little less chaotic inside.”

Echo leads them to a quiet and fairly deserted overhead near the very top of the stadium. Hawks appreciates that— the open sky so close the breeze ruffles through his feathers, the domed slope of the arena garnering a reprieve from the sweltering midday sun; quite unlike the stifling heat of the seats lower in the arena. It’s a sizable crowd for the first year students, a class of which Eraserhead is allegedly a teacher of. He says ‘alleged’, because he simply cannot imagine that eternally sleep-deprived, chronically ill-tempered guy voluntarily subjecting himself to the task of herding around a bunch of teenagers. 

Apparently it really was true though, because he spies the man below in the midst of conversing with another hero-teacher. 

He side-eyes Echo when he sees who Eraserhead is talking to, taking note of how she sits up straighter and stares unabashedly at the other teacher. 

“Oh, you came here for Eraserhead, huh?” Hawks asks coolly, raising a brow.

Echo shoves him with an elbow. “Oh, fuck off,” she says, although she doesn’t seem particularly embarrassed to be caught staring. “Midnight is stunning and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

Hawks glances back towards the teacher in question, dressed in her usual form-fitting outfit. She’s a very beautiful woman, that’s just a statistical fact. If Hawks was even remotely interested in women, he’d probably be right there with Echo (politely) ogling the hell out of her. As it is, her attractiveness isn’t anything more than a fleeting observation in his thoughts. 

A shame, really. 

His life would be a lot easier if Midnight was his type. 

Because his actual type is…

“By the way,I went to that cafe you recommended the other day,” he says, after a moment. 

Echo peers at him curiously, mirroring his idle casualness as she props her feet up on the empty seat in front of her. This high up they’ve got the stands to themselves, hidden from prying eyes by the intense shadow cast by the rim of the stadium. Hawks can’t feel anyone nearby with his feathers either. 

“Yeah? How’d it go?” 

“Really fruitful.” He grins widely. “Caught a villain and everything. Didn’t you see it on the news?”

“What?!” She sits upright, gasping.

He laughs. “Some two-bit robbery act tried to hold the place up while I was there— can you believe it?”

“With your luck? Yeah.” She shakes her head in wonder, panic receding from her eyes. “Don’t scare me like that, you jerk! I thought you busted my favorite spot or something, yeesh.” 

“Nothing related to that,” he assures her. “It was just bad timing.”

Or maybe brilliant timing?

If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with handling the situation with the robbery, he might not have been able to work up the nerve to proposition Dabi like that so blatantly. 

He’s still in awe it actually worked. 

“Eh? Are your ears turning red?” Echo crowds into his space, shit-eating grin splitting across her face. 

“What? No!” He rears back, and has to consciously refrain from clasping his hands around his ears just in case.

“Oh, I was joking, but now you really do seem embarrassed,” Echo continues, delight twinkling in her eyes. “Oh man, something happened at Paris Match, didn’t it? Who’d you meet? Was it Smiley? One of the other Division Captains? Or even Mikey himself?”

“Uh— no, none of them.” Hawks replies, hesitantly. 

Should he mention who it really was? Echo is likely to guess, being as close to Toman as she is. For all he knows, her relationship with them is close enough that they’d even tell her about it.

“Let’s just say he’s— not exactly part of Toman itself.” He answers, evasively. “More like a… criminal consultant?”

Echo’s eyes are the size of dinner plates. 

“No way,” she gasps, marveling, “Dabi?! Seriously? What the hell is your luck man!"

Hawks laughs weakly. Is it luck or irony? Even he's not sure.

Echo pounces on him. "Well?! Don’t leave me in suspense here! Is he really as cute as everyone says he is? Smiley said no one is safe from an existential gay panic whenever he’s around!”

Hawks chokes.

I’m probably a bit of a biased source here… He can’t help but think.

“Uh,” he stalls. “... I guess so?”

Echo seizes him by the shoulders, shaking him around. “Oh come on! You gotta give me more than that! I need details!”

“What kind of details do you want from me here?!” Hawks yelps. 

“What kind of— what do you mean? I want all the details. How tall is he? What color are his eyes? Is his personality really as bad as people say it is? On a scale of one to ten, how quickly would you hop into bed with him?”

A little late on that last one, he thinks, hysterically. 

“If you’re so curious, why don’t you just meet him yourself?” He hedges, unsure how to even approach half these questions without sounding like he’s halfway in love with the guy or something. (Which he is not, for the record. He’s not that easy.)

Echo rolls her eyes grandly, mercifully releasing him. “Don’t you think if it was that easy, I would have done it already?”

Really? It seemed that easy for me. The amount of times he’s run into the notorious supervillain is… mildly bewildering, if he’s being honest. He’d call it fate if he believed in shit like that.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he harrumphs, shaking out his feathers. “Everyone seems tall to me, first of all. Secondly, I dunno, his eyes are blue I guess, he was wearing really dark sunglasses.” He answers vaguely, as if he was not intimately familiar with the exact striking shade of blue that make up Satoru’s eyes, “And thirdly— yes. Absolutely yes. His personality really is that bad.”

Not that this stopped me from sleeping with him.

Even during their first encounter Satoru’s personality was equally as bad as 'Dabi's' if he was being honest, and at the time Hawks found it rather charming (and if he’s being honest with himself he still does, even if that attitude as a villain is far more alarming than it is for just an attractive guy at a nightclub). 

“Ehhhh,” says Echo, leaning back in her seat. She slurps at her giant soda. “So, would you fuck him or not?”

10/10 would do it again, yeah.

“No comment,” is what he, wisely, says aloud instead. 

Echo blows a raspberry at him. “Boring!” She complains.

He shrugs unabashedly. “Gotta keep my fans on their toes,” he returns, grinning widely. 

“Ya know, sometimes your media perfect everything is just sooo annoying,” she laments, legs sprawling out over the empty seats in front of them. “But I get it, I guess. Must be tough, having to always toe the straight and narrow.”

Hawks internally agrees. Outwardly, he just keeps his smile fixed in place. “Yeah, sometimes. But it’s not too bad.” He hesitates. “My friends usually know how to read between the lines.”

Echo side eyes him, squinting. He keeps his expression perfectly mild in response. A roguish grin splits her face. 

“Oh my god, you totally would, wouldn’t you?” She crows in delight. Hawks just continues to smile out into the random distance, even as she begins to cackle. “I knew it!!”

This is another thing that’s a bit of a novelty for him— this whole having ‘friends’ thing. It’s one he thinks he could get used to.

//

@ru-kun | Camp Counselor Ru-kun

Character: Ru-kun

Race: Half seagull, half garbage

Charisma check: +100 

Karma check: -10000

Comments 319 |  Likes 428 | Retweets 476

//

Gojo’s a bit shocked, if he’s honest.

He’s not offended. He’s not upset. He’s just genuinely surprised. And worried, more than anything.

It’s probably narcissistic of him to say, but he’s well aware of how attractive he is. Terrible personality notwithstanding, it’s the first impression he makes on people, and it’s a big one. Although in truth he’s never been terribly fond of his own face— it always seemed too soft for his unusual and borderline cruel personality, for the darkness that always lurks beneath his own skin. It feels like a lie, most of the time. But it’s a very nice face, he’s been told so repeatedly; sometimes with reverence, other times with unabashed jealousy, or even just begrudging acknowledgment. 

And beyond that, Tensei seemed to find his uncharitable humor to be charming, as opposed to borderline nihilistic. 

So it’s probably not too conceited to wait twenty minutes for a date to show up, before jumping to the logical conclusion that he’s been kidnapped— right?

Gojo shakes his head. 

Him? Stood up? The thought is just absurd. 

He hops out of the booth he’d been lounging across, and orders a winter melon bubble tea from the blushing girl behind the counter. He tips her generously just to watch her stutter and bat her eyelashes at him— see? So attractive he has girls fawning over him within seconds of meeting them. Tensei was definitely kidnapped. Or maybe held up in a robbery or something. Crime in Hosu isn’t terrible, but it’s still a ward of Tokyo.

Gojo starts to wander aimlessly throughout the streets, the eyes behind his sunglasses closed but his Six Eyes as alert as ever. He expands his senses farther than usual, unenthusiastically subjecting himself to the headache that will follow. Tensei had a unique and vaguely familiar quirk factor— like one he’d passed before on the street somewhere; distantly acknowledged but not noted upon— and one he could pick out easily, even in a place as crowded as Hosu’s downtown at night. 

His phone rings in his pocket.

He pulls it out swiftly, wondering if his kidnapping scenario was entirely wrong and Tensei was in fact just running haplessly late— but it wasn’t Tensei calling. 

“This better be good, ‘cause I’m in the middle of something right now,” he answers with a cheer that’s just short of biting. He’s just not really in the mood to deal with Giran and all the duplicity that entails, currently. 

“I’ll have to make it worth your while, then,” Giran replies smoothly, and it must be something good because he rarely sounds so smug. 

“I’m listening,” Gojo says.

“I’ve got an update on the Hero Killer for you,” Giran wastes no time in revealing. “A sighting was called in to the Hosu precinct, which in turn forwarded it to local hero agency Team Idaten.”

“And?”

“An update just went up on the hero network a few seconds ago— a few sidekicks have been critically injured and they’re requesting back up.”

Gojo internally curses. So much for his totally normal date night. 

“Understood. Thanks for the info.”

Giran just chuckles. “No thanks necessary. It’s nice to be of use to you, as opposed to the other way around.”

//

Sometimes when he’s alone on one of his morning runs with nothing but his own thoughts to entertain him, Izuku wonders what his life would have been like if he’d never met Dabi. He has similar idle thoughts in regards to All Might, but for some reason it’s so much harder to contemplate when it comes to the supervillain who’s wormed his way into Izuku’s heart. 

The answer with All Might is easy. He probably would have carried on with his life as a lonely, quirkless boy, listless and adrift. And then he would have met Dabi, and realized life didn’t have to be that way. But if he had never met Dabi— what would have happened to him? Would he still have gotten One for All from All Might? Would he have been so fixated on his own new quirk, so complacent with the status quo now that he was a part of it, that he never considered any other options than what the Hero industry laid out for him? 

He tries not to think about ‘what-ifs’ like that, because he’s the sort of person who’ll let them take over his entire life if he’s not careful. 

Still, the thought crosses his mind now, as he squares off to fight against Todoroki. 

"Can I ask you something," says Todoroki, in a tone that doesn't at all sound like a question, right before they start to fight.

It's so outlandishly shounen-protagonist of him that Izuku despairs for himself for even having to witness it. Todoroki already has 'main character vibes' emblazoned all over him; attractive and super striking looks, incredible quirk, standoffish and brooding personality. This was wholly unnecessary.

But Izuku didn't come this far in the competition just to back out because he's a little intimidated by the intensity of his classmate's stare.

"I guess if you feel like you need to." Izuku says, reluctantly.

Todoroki takes this as emphatic approval. "Why do you want to become a hero?"

Izuku blinks rapidly. It's not a question he's been asked recently. Everyone in the class has their own reasons for wanting to be heroes; it's not as if his was ever particularly special or anything. Ever since he was a little kid it had been his dream. As he takes stock of the question, he realizes his answer has changed since then.

Where the thought of his dream to become a hero used to conjure up visions of All Might, his thoughts now immediately turn to Dabi.

"I... I want to be the sort of person who has the power to help others, for no other reason than because it's the right thing to do."

It’s not that Izuku’s any less of an All Might fan, or anything, or even that he thinks the place All Might holds in society is no less important. He knows that sort of high profile career is necessary to keep society’s faith in heroes, that people need a symbol, a face to put to an abstract concept. Nonetheless, Izuku’s not sure if that’s still the kind of hero he’s aiming to be. All Might’s own mentor hadn’t been that kind of hero, and apparently neither had any of the former holders of One for All. He hasn’t exactly told All Might yet, that he doesn’t know if he wants to follow directly in the other man’s footsteps, and he’s not sure how to broach the subject. 

He’s not sure how it all fits into his future, yet. 

He doesn’t even know what he wants his hero name to be right now, let alone what kind of hero he wants to be after he graduates. 

But this— this he knows. 

He’s seen the innate acts of kindness that even the most infamous supervillain in the country is capable of, and he wants to be the sort of hero that not only does those thankless acts himself, but inspires others to do so too. He doesn’t want to hold society up on his shoulders, so much as motivate society to hold themselves up, to help them realize they’re not powerless in this system, that they can help each other as much as heroes help them. 

After all, Dabi’s not a hero. But that never stops him from doing the right thing. 

“—you’re the only two heroes who will ever have a chance of stopping me!”

He’s decided already: he’s not going to be the hero that stops Dabi. 

He’s going to be the hero that makes a world where Dabi doesn’t have to exist at all. Where he can just be Satoru, their funny and eccentric sensei and bandmate with a terrible sense of humor. 

Meanwhile, something about Midoriya's words stir up an old memory in Shouto's head. 

Natsu-nii had told him a story once of Touya-nii, where he'd stopped a purse thief right in front of Natsuo as a middle schooler on a street crowded with adults, because no one else had moved to help. Touya-nii was so strong, even then, that it hadn't taken him any effort to pin down the thief without even taking his hands out of his pockets. He'd only been a kid himself, and yet he'd stepped up to help someone in need, because there was something bad happening in front of him and he had the power to stop it.

"Do you have to be a hero to do that?" Shouto wonders aloud, more to himself than for Midoriya's sake.

"No, you don't." Midoriya admits, voice sounding a bit distant as he seems as lost in his own thoughts as Shouto currently is.

"And that's part of the problem, isn't it?" The green-haired boy continues. "How much of being a hero is about helping people, these days? When did doing the right thing become so tied up in publicity and rankings?”

Shouto stares at Midoriya with wide eyes.

The boy looks so earnest, so resolute, that Shouto knows he means every word he says.

Midoriya is… just like him. 

He sees the discrepancy in what heroes are now and what they should aspire to be. He sees the fallacies of the system they put their faith in. He sees the flaws of the industrial behemoth that churns out heroes like Endeavor and catapults them into fame. 

“I see,” Shouto says, quietly. “You’re just like me. You don’t want to be a part of this system; you want to make one that’s better.”

Midoriya nods slowly. 

“Then I won’t hold back.” Shouto continues, voice determined. 

There aren’t many people Shouto considers worthy of his flames. Ever since he started school, he’s almost exclusively used his ice quirk. It’s a great deal less lethal than his flames, and since he was a small child he’s known with great and intimate detail how dangerous flames can be in the wrong hands. Just as he knows, in that same intimate detail, how incredible they can be in the right hands. 

It’s true these flames were given to him by Endeavor, a person Shouto is ambivalent on even on the best of days. It’s up to debate whether Endeavor has ever used his flames for good, or if he’s always used them just as a vehicle to further his obsession with besting All Might. But he shares these flames with Touya-nii too, who had used them to not only rescue Shouto, but even change their father’s entire prerogative on life. And if the police were to be believed (and Shouto and his entire family were skeptical on it, even if they had no proof otherwise and have learned to accept it) then these were even the flames Touya-nii gave his life for. Shouto had vowed to never use them purposelessly. 

But Midoriya— Midoriya is worthy of them. He’s someone Shouto thinks Touya-nii might have even approved of. 

A steely determination crosses Midoriya’s face as well. His hands curl at his sides, a strange electric green energy that Shouto’s never seen before crackling around his arms. It must be his quirk, Shouto realizes. The one he never uses. 

Perhaps Midoriya has been evaluating him this whole time too, and has also found him worthy. 

“Me too.” Midoriya vows, promise and anticipation heavy between them.

“Uh,” Midnight-sensei cuts in, awkwardly, effectively breaking their moment. “So, are you guys done talking and stuff? Just saying, we’ve got a crowd here and everything.”

//

Sometimes, Gojo seriously wonders what he’s done to deserve his lot in life.

Yeah, it’s true he’s got a terrible personality and a really awful sense of humor, but hasn’t he done a lot of good in both his lives too? Hasn’t he saved a bunch of people, trained a bunch of brats, and put a lot of evil people to permanent rest? 

If so, then why exactly do these things keep happening to him?

He enters the alleyway with the loud slurping of his bubble tea as his introduction. 

“Ya know, Tensei-kun, it’s really rude to keep a guy waiting on a first date!” He says cheerfully. 

Tensei, in full hero regalia— because Gojo's karma is clearly not only just bad, but actually dead and buried six feet under the ground, and the perfectly normal and nice guy he was supposed to go out on a date with is of course a pro hero— startles awkwardly from where he’s been having a stare down with a villain that can only be Stain, the Hero Killer.

He'd laugh at the fucking irony of it all, but if he started now he'd keep going until he laughed himself sick and he just finished this bubble tea and really doesn't want it coming back up. He'll just have to drown himself in inadvisable amounts of tequila later.

“You—” he whips around, shocked. “Satoru-san…? What are you doing here?”

He finishes off his tea with a crackle of ice. “Well, I got tired of just waiting around for you, so I thought I might see what you were up to. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“A bad—” Tensei makes a strangled noise, that comes out a little distorted from behind his helmet. “Yes, this is a terrible time. Satoru-san, this is no place for civilians. Please evacuate the premises immediately.”

He’s about to cave and laugh at the pure, wretched  irony of that statement, when Stain beats him to it.

The Hero Killer lets out a long, wheezing laugh. “This guy? A civilian? With an aura like that? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Tensei whips his head between them, confused. 

Satoru lets out a huff of annoyance, suddenly no longer in a laughing mood. He plucks his shades off his head, staring Stain down with the full force of his Six Eyes. 

So Stain knows who he is on sight? That’s interesting. And not entirely impossible, but fairly suspect nonetheless.

White hair is fairly common in this world, where quirks have created an abundance of humanoid and human-adjacent people with hair colors as varied as the rainbow. And Dabi himself is, by design, never caught on camera. And if he is, it’s only a glimpse from a distance. There are very few people who could connect his normal persona with the blindfolded villain— who would have the means and personal knowledge to do so..

Upon further inspection with his Six Eyes, Stain seems to have some kind of blood-related quirk factor. If he’d ever gotten even a drop of Gojo’s blood it might make sense he could recognize him so quickly, but Gojo’s hardly the type to let his blood fall into someone else’s hands so carelessly. There might be a related factor regarding scent, but even then his Infinity would negate that immediately. 

And in consideration with the timing of it all…

“Giran’s playing favorites, I see.” Gojo remarks, a sharp grin spreading across his face.

I wonder what his agenda is with this?

Giran never outright opposes him, after all. He certainly plays all sides of the field when it comes to the criminal underworld, but he never shows his hand to anyone. 

“He told me to watch my back tonight, lest the hunter becomes the hunted…” the bandaged man chuckles. “But I never would have expected a wolf like you to come out to play…”

So that’s how it is? Gojo scoffs. Is Stain a lamb for slaughter then, offered up at the altar of the Honored One as both sacrifice and absolution? Or has Stain simply outlived his usefulness for Giran, and Gojo is his convenient clean up crew to tidy up loose ends? With Giran, you can never really know. With the way he plays this convoluted game, it’s probably both. Gojo is usually ambivalent to that fact, but if his identity is compromised he might just have to tie up loose ends permanently.

But if Stain had only been tipped off that someone even more dangerous than him was on his tail, and had just managed to put it all together with circumstantial evidence, he supposes he could let Giran off the hook this time. He's still got quite a bit of usefulness, after all.

“Satoru-san, what is he talking about?” Tensei asks, warily. 

Stain just continues to laugh. “Putting me out to pasture just because I turned down the League’s offer— the rot of the heroes really is pervasive, isn’t it? It spreads across all veins of society…”

“Don’t blame heroes for Giran’s two-faced rat bastard personality,” Gojo dismisses with a snort. “You should have known what you were getting into with him, and if you didn’t, you’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”

“You seem to have quite a distaste for me,” Stain notices, “yet I can’t say the same. Why is that?”

Gojo cracks his neck. “Let’s just say it’s personal. Now, shall we cut to the chase, or do you have to bore me to tears with your manifesto first?”

“I have no issue with you,” Stain replies. “My business is with the fake hero Ingenium here—” 

“Fake?!” Tensei hisses, clearly taking offense to this enough to pull his attention away from Gojo.

“—and all the others that contribute to the disgusting industry that scorns what it means to be a true hero, those who clothe themselves in fame and fortune and dare to besmirch the title of hero.” Stain intones in a voice that borders on reverence, too close to devout to be anything but delusional. His dark red eyes turn to Gojo with that same pious veneration. “And you… if you are who I think you are… then you are one of the very few worthy of donning the title. A better man than I, truly…”

Gojo snorts again. “Am I supposed to be flattered?” 

Being worshiped by a veritable psychopath is hardly his idea of a compliment. 

The respect and deference in the man’s tone is enough to draw Tensei’s attention to him once more. It’s impossible to tell from behind the helmet, but he imagines the man’s expression to be one of fear and growing dread.

If I wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for myself, I’d spare a moment of sympathy for the poor guy. Gojo thinks. He thought he’d scored a date with a cute singer in a rock band, and ended up with the most notorious villain in the country instead. 

But seriously, what are the fucking odds that the one time he goes out of his way to try his hand at actual ‘dating’ with the explicit purpose of trying to curb his own fondness for a certain hero, he ends up with another hero? 

Hahaha— fuck. I really do have terrible taste in men.

He’d started the evening trying to find Tensei, switched gears to try to find the Hero Killer, and ended up finding both of them at the same time. Really, what even is his life. Maybe he should just give up on the pretense of ever being normal— not that he had been holding out much hope for that to begin with. He’d known going into this that whatever he’d end up having with Tensei would only ever amount to some temporary, light-hearted fun. Something to take his mind off of certain things, to entertain him and give him a chance to pretend like he hadn’t been destined for greatness since before he’d even been born into this life. 

“I wouldn’t expect a man of your caliber to be flattered by mere words,” Stain nods sagely. 

Gojo just sighs grandly, tossing his empty cup into a nearby dumpster. 

He had a plan for Tensei, and he had a plan for Stain. But both of them being here at the same time puts a wrench in both of those.

“No…” Stain begins again, oddly breathless, “A man such as yourself… needs action.”

And then he draws both swords upwards, and with near unimaginable speed lunges directly at Tensei. 

//

Hawks hadn’t come here expecting to be so thoroughly entertained. 

Alone in their private little section, he and Echo guffawed loudly at some of the hideous hairstyles the kids were sporting, cheered for the underdogs and got way too invested in betting on the outcomes of the matches. Hawks felt like he had to bet on the bird kid, just on principle, but otherwise Endeavor’s kid was his runner-up. He was something of the fan favorite favored to win though, and Hawks liked to bet on the underdog. His other choice was the dark-haired girl with the crazy mass-conversion quirk. Her quirk itself was unique but not necessarily offensive— a lot like his own telekinetic feathers— and it was the way she applied it to the scenarios she found herself engaged in and used the versatility of her quirk to her advantage that really appealed to him. That and the fact she was one of the few competitors who didn’t seem to rely entirely on their quirk to fight. The only other kid who showed off such broad martial capability was the green-haired kid who’d ended up with the ten million point headband in the cavalry battle, but Echo had already claimed him.

Some time in the interim of the start of the individual matches and the break for final rounds, he and Echo have been dragged down from their perch to play nice with the other heroes loitering around the arena. He’d call it a ploy for Midnight’s attention, but that would infer Echo was being even remotely subtle about her affections. Midnight, at least, seemed delightfully flattered more than offended by the way a cute girl was throwing herself at her. 

While Echo is off pestering the raven-haired beauty, Hawks finds himself equally engaged with messing with his favorite eraser hero. 

“Long time no see, Eraserhead!” Hawks greets cheerfully, thrilled by the deadpan expression the man sends his way.

“Hawks,” Eraserhead replies, blandly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I had the day off, and it seemed like a fun time,” Hawks shrugs, ruffling his wings. “Your class put up a great showing! I’ll have my pick for internships this year!”

“I heard you haven’t been in Fukuoka much lately,” Eraserhead remarks. “Are you planning on taking an intern with you to clean up the Tokyo streets?”

“Ah, well, we'll see— I might head back for a bit. Check on the sidekicks, make sure my city’s staying pretty and all that.” Hawks replies. It’s true enough; he doesn’t care what the HSPC needs of him, if he can’t even take care of his home turf there’s no point in trying to push his popularity in Tokyo. 

“Anyone catch your eye so far?” The erasure hero asks, voice pitched casually, but Hawks can tell he’s keen on the answer.

He makes a show of looking ambivalent on the subject. “A couple looked promising. That kid who beat out Endeavor’s son was pretty impressive! But his quirk looks wicked. Dunno if I’ll be able to help him much with it.” 

Eraserhead nods. “Midoriya-kun is quite a formidable opponent. He often relies on his wits and his surroundings to best his opponents, so it’s actually the first time I’ve seen his quirk myself.”

“Really?” Hawks asks, intrigued. 

“Yes— it’s quite an impressive thing,” Eraserhead says, but his expression is anything but complimentary. “Terrible, but impressive.”

Hawks rubs his chin. That’s certainly one way to put it. That kind of destructive power is tough on a kid; he can’t imagine what it would be like to have a quirk so lethal it even damages the user. 

His thoughts unwillingly turn to another individual he knows with a terrifying but impressive power. Was Dabi like that, as a child? Is that why he’s so well-versed in martial arts even though he has a quirk that can easily kill people in the blink of an eye?

What a lonely, difficult life that must have been, he thinks, sadly. 

“How’s he doing, by the way?” 

Eraserhead shakes his head. “Recovering, but probably won’t be able to fight for the rest of the tournament.”