Katsuki Bakugo and Ejiro KirishimaThe room is sterile. Too clean. Not in the comforting way—more like the kind that burns behind your eyes, scrubs out the soul until only government polish and hollow authority remain. The air smells like antiseptic and the ghost of cigarette smoke, like someone tried to scrub out bad news but couldn’t get it all.
Kirishima gets there first.
He’s already seated when the door opens again, posture straight, hands folded neatly on the table as if waiting for a performance review. His blazer stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled past his elbows, and his smile is steady.
Then the second door opens.
Bakugo walks in like the storm system they all knew was coming. Dressed in a sharp black jacket, white shirt open at the collar, eyes cutting through the room like shrapnel. The second he sees Kirishima, something flickers—confusion first, then something tighter. Unspoken. He doesn’t say a word, just folds his arms and drops into the chair beside him with a grunt and a glance that could cut concrete.
They sit like live wire and reinforced stone—shoulders squared, arms crossed, both radiating heat in their own ways—when the agent enters with a clipboard and a briefcase of bureaucracy.
“Gentlemen,” the man says, unfazed. “Appreciate your punctuality.”
He gestures for them to remain seated, then settles across from them. Opens the briefcase and lays out papers with the efficiency of a man who’s done this far too many times. The click of the latch, documents sliding across polished wood—each sound precise, rehearsed, meant to fill the silence before the blow lands.
“You’ve both been selected for immediate enrollment in the Quirk Marriage Initiative,” he says, tone flat. Rehearsed. Lifeless. “Due to your combat records, Quirk classifications, and national influence, you’ve each been flagged as Priority One candidates.”
Kirishima’s smile holds, but his fingers twitch. “Right. Of course. Uh… thanks?” he offers, because politeness is safer than silence. His voice stays light, easy—meant to smooth over the tightness in his chest.
Bakugo doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once.
The agent flips a page. “This is a shared-partner mandate. You will both be married to the same spouse, selected for compatibility and genetic stability.”
A pause.
A long one.
Bakugo’s hands flex, fingers digging into his arms. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and even—like a blade pressed flat against a throat. “You’re shitting me.”
“No,” the agent replies. “This arrangement is in full compliance with federal mandate.”
Kirishima chokes on air. “Wait—hold on. We’re supposed to just… move in together? With a stranger?”
Bakugo’s head turns, slow and sharp. His glare lands on the agent like a targeting lock. “You expect us to just sign our lives away like this is a damn team-up exercise?”
“The alternative is license suspension and revocation of hero status,” the agent says, as calm as ever. “Compliance is not optional.”
A heavy silence falls.
He flips to the final page in the folder, the rustle of thick paper slicing through the still air. “One final note before we begin introductions,” he drones, like it’s policy and nothing more. “As part of your Priority One status, this pairing falls under the Strategic Lineage Provision. That includes a structured timeline for offspring production.”
Bakugo’s eyes narrow. His shoulders tighten. “The hell did you just say?”
Kirishima stiffens beside him. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe—for a second too long.
The agent doesn’t even look up. “You’ll receive a separate packet on reproductive expectations—compatibility treatments, fertility assessments, and the approved conception timeline. First conception: within six months.”
Bakugo leans forward, elbows braced on the table, voice low and clear. “You got a death wish, saying that shit like it’s weather.”
The agent finally glances up. Unfazed. “It’s not personal, Pro Hero Dynamight. It’s policy.”
Kirishima speaks before Bakugo can launch across the table. “We heard you.” His voice is quiet. Controlled. Too calm for the tension in his jaw. “We’ll… go through it.”
Under the table, his hands are white-knuckled.
The agent presses a recessed call button.
Bakugo’s head snaps toward the door like a predator scenting prey. Kirishima shifts beside him, posture taut—ready and dreading.
Neither speaks. The silence drags—until the door opens.
“Please, come in. We’ve just finished the initial briefing. Gentlemen, this is your assigned partner.”
Kirishima exhales, slow and careful, and offers a tired smile. “Hey there,” he says, voice a little raw. “We, uh… just found out, too.”
Bakugo doesn’t speak. Just stares—unblinking, burning.
Kirishima gets there first.
He’s already seated when the door opens again, posture straight, hands folded neatly on the table as if waiting for a performance review. His blazer stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled past his elbows, and his smile is steady.
Then the second door opens.
Bakugo walks in like the storm system they all knew was coming. Dressed in a sharp black jacket, white shirt open at the collar, eyes cutting through the room like shrapnel. The second he sees Kirishima, something flickers—confusion first, then something tighter. Unspoken. He doesn’t say a word, just folds his arms and drops into the chair beside him with a grunt and a glance that could cut concrete.
They sit like live wire and reinforced stone—shoulders squared, arms crossed, both radiating heat in their own ways—when the agent enters with a clipboard and a briefcase of bureaucracy.
“Gentlemen,” the man says, unfazed. “Appreciate your punctuality.”
He gestures for them to remain seated, then settles across from them. Opens the briefcase and lays out papers with the efficiency of a man who’s done this far too many times. The click of the latch, documents sliding across polished wood—each sound precise, rehearsed, meant to fill the silence before the blow lands.
“You’ve both been selected for immediate enrollment in the Quirk Marriage Initiative,” he says, tone flat. Rehearsed. Lifeless. “Due to your combat records, Quirk classifications, and national influence, you’ve each been flagged as Priority One candidates.”
Kirishima’s smile holds, but his fingers twitch. “Right. Of course. Uh… thanks?” he offers, because politeness is safer than silence. His voice stays light, easy—meant to smooth over the tightness in his chest.
Bakugo doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once.
The agent flips a page. “This is a shared-partner mandate. You will both be married to the same spouse, selected for compatibility and genetic stability.”
A pause.
A long one.
Bakugo’s hands flex, fingers digging into his arms. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and even—like a blade pressed flat against a throat. “You’re shitting me.”
“No,” the agent replies. “This arrangement is in full compliance with federal mandate.”
Kirishima chokes on air. “Wait—hold on. We’re supposed to just… move in together? With a stranger?”
Bakugo’s head turns, slow and sharp. His glare lands on the agent like a targeting lock. “You expect us to just sign our lives away like this is a damn team-up exercise?”
“The alternative is license suspension and revocation of hero status,” the agent says, as calm as ever. “Compliance is not optional.”
A heavy silence falls.
He flips to the final page in the folder, the rustle of thick paper slicing through the still air. “One final note before we begin introductions,” he drones, like it’s policy and nothing more. “As part of your Priority One status, this pairing falls under the Strategic Lineage Provision. That includes a structured timeline for offspring production.”
Bakugo’s eyes narrow. His shoulders tighten. “The hell did you just say?”
Kirishima stiffens beside him. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe—for a second too long.
The agent doesn’t even look up. “You’ll receive a separate packet on reproductive expectations—compatibility treatments, fertility assessments, and the approved conception timeline. First conception: within six months.”
Bakugo leans forward, elbows braced on the table, voice low and clear. “You got a death wish, saying that shit like it’s weather.”
The agent finally glances up. Unfazed. “It’s not personal, Pro Hero Dynamight. It’s policy.”
Kirishima speaks before Bakugo can launch across the table. “We heard you.” His voice is quiet. Controlled. Too calm for the tension in his jaw. “We’ll… go through it.”
Under the table, his hands are white-knuckled.
The agent presses a recessed call button.
Bakugo’s head snaps toward the door like a predator scenting prey. Kirishima shifts beside him, posture taut—ready and dreading.
Neither speaks. The silence drags—until the door opens.
“Please, come in. We’ve just finished the initial briefing. Gentlemen, this is your assigned partner.”
Kirishima exhales, slow and careful, and offers a tired smile. “Hey there,” he says, voice a little raw. “We, uh… just found out, too.”
Bakugo doesn’t speak. Just stares—unblinking, burning.
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