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Three Year Ride

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Mustard hadn’t realized when he told Midoriya that he should “just go ahead and kill someone” that the guy would actually do it.

“Dude,” Mustard said, covering his mouth as he walked in the room. The nervous laugh that burst out covered the obvious shaking in his limbs and helped distract him from the smell. Midoriya held the scissors coated in thick red in his left hand, eyes wild and breath heavy over the body of their classmate on the ground. Mustard licked his lip. “Did you do that?”

Midoriya looked at Mustard, eyes widening as he noticed his audience. He looked down at his hand and then at the body. The dead guy’s throat had been torn open, drenching his entire chest and floor in blood. Midoriya laughed—honest to betsy laughed—before he returned his gaze to Mustard.

The freak’s chest heaved as he said, “Yeah. I did.”

The pride and manic delight in Midoriya’s voice sent a shiver down Mustard’s spine.

Midoriya was a guy who just got off on murder and it hit Mustard like a sledgehammer to the side of his head that they were alone.

“That’s freaking awesome, dude,” he blurted, instincts taking over. Midoriya’s eyes darted between Mustard and the body, almost confused. Mustard leaped for it and waved at the body. “Do you need help cleaning that up?”

Midoriya stared at Mustard, eyes far too focused; like a hawk waiting to strike. The intensity of it made Mustard feel like he was even more exposed than being naked; like his every inner thought was on display.

Mustard cracked a smile, knowing it was strained.

Midoriya dropped his scissors by his side and kicked the body over. “I guess I do.”

“I can do that,” Mustard said. He pointed at the back closet. “I’ll get the bleach.”

“Okay,” Midoriya said.

A simple agreement.

Mustard felt proud he kept his nervous shaking to a minimum as they stuffed their classmate in a garbage bag and bleached the floor and everything that had gotten coated in blood.

Hours later after they threw the body in the river, Midoriya turned to Mustard and asked, “You want to get dinner?” as calm as could be.

Not knowing what else to do, Mustard said, “Sure.”


Before walking into Midoriya’s murder scene, Mustard hadn’t thought much of the guy.

He knew Midoriya the same way everyone else did: “The Quirkless guy who mumbled too much and always had his face in a notebook.”

It was also common knowledge that Midoriya had a bully problem when school started. It mostly came from outside of their class, but only until he stopped showing up to school with fresh bruises. Mustard had no idea who had been shoving the guy around before, but there must have been some sort of bully code he wasn’t aware of. The assholes in their own school only started their own campaign of shoving Midoriya around when it was clear the other guy had stopped, even though there were still traces of faded marks.

(It wasn’t too hard to see why a guy might snap after finally getting free from one asshole only to be shoved into a set of new ones.)

Fast forward two months after becoming an official accomplice to murder, and Mustard had learned a few important things:

Midoriya was smart.

And not just in the “He was one of the top students in the school” way. Mustard peeked at one of his notebooks once and they were packed to the brim with notes about people’s Quirks: strengths and weaknesses, counters, pros, cons, all it. He dissected people down to their base components and ripped them inside and out.

Mustard tried super hard to ignore his own page in the book, though he memorized his own weaknesses that Midoriya had pointed out—just in case.

Midoriya was intense.

He threw his entire being into whatever he was doing, whether it was studying for a test or plotting his next murder.

The guy said his first kill was an accident, but apparently it was sink or swim with that guy, because Midoriya’s response to that whole nightmare was: “One wasn’t enough. I want to see if I can get that same feeling again.”

In two months, Midoriya had killed four people. Each one had been a radically different death in different locations, just to keep people from being suspicious. Smart. He thought things through and frankly, that number would have been higher if Mustard hadn’t discretely said he should space things out while looking for his adrenaline rush.

They wouldn’t want to tip off the police with an increased number of murders in the area; they might get suspicious.

(That advice was as much to save his own neck as it was Midoriya’s, but it worked.)

Last: Midoriya thought Mustard was his friend.

Midoriya ate with Mustard at lunch and talked with him about his day and while he mostly disappeared after school to who-knew-where, Midoriya had invited himself over to Mustard’s house on more than one occasion. He knew Mustard better than Mustard did at this point.

Needless to say, when a serial killer thought you were their friend, it was best to stay on their good side.

Mustard started to call the guy “Izuku” just to make sure Midoriya knew he was right on that whole “friend” thing.


“I’m starting to think I should dye my hair,” Mustard said, sitting on a crate in the side of the room of the warehouse they’d been using as a base. He swung his leg back and forth, watching Izuku stare down at the guy tied to the table. Their latest catch sobbed through his gag, tugging at this limbs. “Your thing with blonds is starting to worry me.”

Izuku pulled his knife out of the guy’s side and scrunched his nose as he looked over his shoulder at Mustard. “I don’t have a thing with blonds.”

“The last ten people you’ve killed have all been blond,” Mustard said. He unwrapped a sucker and popped it in his mouth.

“They have not all been blond,” Izuku said.

“They have all been blond,” Mustard repeated, pointing at the strawberry blond hair on their current victim. “I’m dead serious, dude. I was wondering if you finally decided to set yourself a pattern to get noticed. That’s a serial killer thing, right? Getting your name in the papers with a cool alias so you can read about yourself?”

“No, you know I’m not ready for the press yet,” Izuku said. He frowned at Mustard again before reaching up and tugging on the victim’s hair. “Have they really all been blond?”

“Yup,” Mustard said, popping the last syllable.

“Oh,” Izuku said. He snorted and stabbed the knife into the table, cutting the crying man’s arm. He rubbed the side of his temple and licked his lip, half-laughing to himself. “I guess I’m more angry at Kacchan than I thought.”

Mustard spun his sucker. “Kacchan?”

Izuku flushed and tapped the edge of his knife against his index finger as he fidgeted. “My boyfriend.”

Mustard wondered how the heck a guy who’d been murdering people in his free time for a little over a year had time for a boyfriend, but he supposed it shouldn’t be too much of a shocker Izuku was good at multitasking.

However:

“I feel like if you’re mad enough at your boyfriend that you’re murdering people who look like him, you should probably dump his ass,” Mustard said, offering what he hoped was friendly advice. Mustard popped his sucker back in his mouth and shrugged. “Unless he’s like, I don’t know, that amazing in bed or something.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Izuku said, lifting the knife and jabbing it into the table again. He curled his lip in disgust. “Because he wants to wait.”

That last “wait” had been hissed out with so much anger, Mustard tensed in his seat.

“It took me a year to work up the nerve to ask him out and aside from one make out session, there’s been nothing!” Izuku said, lifting and stabbing the knife again, this time into the flesh of the man on the table’s arm. He shrieked through the gag; an agonizing wail. Izuku kept his eyes on Mustard as the dam broke. “At first I thought he was just shy, which was kinda cute considering Kacchan’s this big tough guy.”

Another stab, this time in the chest. Izuku didn’t look at his own jerked movements.

“But no! I offer to give him a blow job two months into dating—stupidly thinking that was enough time to wait before taking the next step—and he said ‘No.’ No!” Another stab. The blood splattered up Izuku’s arm. “What sort of healthy teenage boy turns down a free blow job?”

Izuku waited, clearly expecting an answer. Mustard held his hands up and blurted, “No idea.”

“Exactly! So I asked him why he didn’t want me and he said he just wanted to put off sex until we graduated. Kacchan wants to focus on his studies or something,” Izuku said. He stabbed the knife into the chest again, this time with enough force that it stuck in the rib cage. Izuku kept talking as he fiddled with it, trying to pull it out, the meat squishing under the blade. “I can’t even tell if that’s true. Is he really that serious about his studies or does he just not want to sleep with me and is making excuses? I mean. I made it clear I’ll do whatever he wants. And I mean anything. I spelled out all the ways I’d be more than happy to bend over, ride, or suck him off and he still decides to go with abstinence.”

“I’m cute, right?” Izuku asked, ripping the knife out of the gurgling corpse. “I’m pretty sure I’m attractive enough that he’d want to take a break from his stupid books to fuck me. Or I should be. I don’t understand why he doesn’t want to sleep with me.”

Mustard had never seen Izuku this animated or furious in his life and he was one hundred percent sure he was terrified.

And horribly, stupidly amused by the ranting and said subject matter.

“Maybe he’s just got good instincts?” Mustard nearly slapped himself for saying what he was thinking out loud, but he couldn’t help the jab. “I mean, there’s like a rule about sleeping with crazy people and like, not doing it—no matter how hot they are.”

Izuku dropped his shoulders and looked down at the mutilated chest of the body he’d been stabbing. He mouthed, “Crazy?” to himself and Mustard decided to remedy this situation before Midoriya added one more blond to his collection.

“But never mind that. The guy said he was going to sleep with you after graduation, right?” Mustard said, forcing himself to sound calm and friendly. “Is he the kind of guy to break his word?”

“Kacchan would never,” Izuku said, narrowing his eyes. “He always does what he says he will.”

“Then after graduation when he holds up his end of the bargain, rock his damn world in the sack and you’re good to go!” Mustard said, holding his hands up. “Maybe he’ll have figured out what he was missing and make up for lost time and you two can spend a week fucking each other’s brains out or something.”

“Maybe,” Izuku said.

“In the meantime, I highly suggest getting familiar with your hand,” Mustard said, biting the edge of his sucker off with a loud crack. “Because you’re way too tense. I’ve got some porn you can borrow if you need it.”

“Shut up, Mustard,” Izuku said. He stabbed the knife in the guy’s throat and left it there, walking away to grab his towel. Izuku cleaned his hands off, the motions short and choppy. “Make sure I don’t pick a blond next time.”

“You got it, boss,” Mustard said hopping down and gathering up the cleaning supplies.

As he grabbed the bucket, a thought struck him and he couldn’t help but giggle under his breath.

Izuku tilted the dead man’s head back to open up one of his eyes and inspect the iris. “What’s so funny?”

“I just thought about the fact that you’ve been killing guys who look like your boyfriend because your boy toy won’t jerk you off,” Mustard said, snorting into his hand. Izuku glared at him and he held his arms up in his defense. “It’s kinda funny.”

“Don’t call Kacchan a ‘boy toy’,” Izuku said, rolling his eyes. He dropped the body’s head and started to untie the knots on his limbs.

Mustard picked up the bottle of bleach and went to work.

Whoever that “Kacchan” guy was, he wished the dude luck.


“This test is going to kick my ass,” Mustard groaned, dropping his head on to the table as he sat in the classroom. “Who needs final grades? I sure don’t.”

Izuku, without missing a beat while writing his own notes of who-knows-what, clicked his tongue and snickered under his breath. “I offered to help you study.”

“Yeah, but your study sessions are way too tough,” Mustard said. He cradled his head in his arms on his desk. “I’ll just fail, thank you.”

“What a way to end your second year,” Izuku said.

Mustard stretched out his arms and cracked his spine. “As long as I pass, who cares?”

“With that attitude, you’ll be lucky to pass,” Izuku said. He continued writing, scribbling note after note on Quirks and heroes and whatever else. Mustard never really bothered to look what he was writing down these days, but he supposed it was good the guy wrote about everyone and not just the people he murdered. “You must have some job you want in the future.”

“I don’t really think about it that much,” Mustard said. He stared at the front of the classroom as the rest of their group shuffled in for the day. “Never was any good at all that planning stuff.”

Izuku paused and tilted his head, thinking. He scribbled another note soon enough. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“What about you?” Mustard asked, genuinely curious. With what Izuku liked to do in his spare time, Mustard wondered just what could keep his attention for a day job. “What’re your big plans for the future?”

“The same as my plans for now, really,” Izuku said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I can’t imagine letting that go.”

“You can’t exactly make money off of that though,” Mustard said. He scrunched his nose and looked at the ceiling. “At least not the way you’re doing it.”

“I won’t have to worry about that,” Izuku said.

“Oh?”

“Kacchan’ll make enough money for the both of us,” Izuku said. “So it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Mustard snorted and leaned his cheek in his hand. “So your boy toy is gonna’ be a sugar daddy, too?”

“He’s not a boy toy,” Izuku said, breathing in slowly before exhaling. “But I might get a cover job or something after college. It all depends on how things are going.”

“At least it’s another year off,” Mustard said.

“Yup, which means you can concentrate on your test today,” Izuku said, reaching over and poking Mustard in the arm with the end of his pen. “Don’t fail. It’d be annoying if we didn’t share a class next year.”

“No arguments here,” Mustard said.

Another year of watching Izuku kill people in between homework and video games.

Mustard grinned—who needed a real job with that sort of life?


“I can’t believe murder has gotten boring,” Izuku said, holding the head of some brunette with pretty eyelashes. She didn’t cry, but glared back at him with the fury of a harpy, which was convenient considering her bird-wing arms. He drew small circles on her temples as he stood behind her, half leaning on the table. “This is getting too easy, Mustard.”

“Because you’re a freak,” Mustard said, blowing a bubble with his gum. He tapped at the controls of his handheld game, lying on his back on a box. To keep things “interesting” Izuku had started taking literal hours to kill some of these people. Torture was his newest kick, but he wasn’t wrong about the whole “boring” thing. Mustard licked his teeth. “You could always take a break for a month or two and then see if you miss it?”

“No, it’s our third year of high school. It’s supposed to be a big year for everything. Transition,” Izuku said, tugging on the girls hair. She whimpered and he reached for a pair of scissors. “Change! Progress. I feel like I’m stagnating in place when everyone else I know is advancing toward their futures.”

Mustard made a grunt that he was still listening.

“And it’s not even just here with this part of my life! Kacchan’s still a blushing virgin who gets twitchy if we make out too long, so I’m certainly not making any progress there,” Izuku said, cutting off the full length of the girl’s hair. He tied the strip of it into a knot and set it on the table. “School's not much better. My grades are already the top in our class, so that’s status quo as usual.”

“Sure is,” Mustard said.

“And this, the one thing that makes me feel alive these days,” Izuku said, stabbing the girl in the throat with the scissors. She gasped around it, and he twisted the blade. “Has lost its edge. There’s no thought to it anymore. The challenge is gone with all these people who barely know how to use their Quirk.”

Mustard paused his game.

Quirks were a touchy subject.

(Mustard needed to start paying attention.)

“I mean, look at this girl!” Izuku said. He yanked the scissors out and the blood choked her. It spilled out onto the table in a rush, the nicked artery freed from the scissor block. “She has wings for arms. And they’re big enough that she could support her body weight in flight with the right support equipment. But what’s she doing with this amazing Quirk?”

Mustard tried to remember where they nabbed this chick. He couldn’t remember if it was a bakery or a pizza stand so he took a shot in the dark: “Works in a bakery?”

“She works in a bakery!” Izuku shouted. He threw the scissors on the table, and they clattered next to the pile of plucked feathers. “What a waste of talent.”

He stomped around the table, hands in his hair. He tugged on the loose curls before huffing at the table. The girl continued to choke, still drowning in her own blood. Mustard sat up and shoved his game in his pocket.

“Maybe she could have an issue missing her hands, but a lot of people go through life with no hands and are just fine,” Izuku said, lifting a wing. He spread it out at the joint and twisted it, stretching it back. The girl didn’t notice; too busy struggling for air. “You could do so much more with these! She could have been in rescue, or reconnaissance, or who knows what else!”

“Right,” Mustard said, nodding.

Izuku dropped the wing and walked over. He hopped on the crate next to Mustard and pulled his knees up. He fiddled with the strap of his gas mask, twisting it around his fingers. Bitterness seeped into his voice as he glared. “I can’t stand it when people waste their Quirks.”

(Mustard knew better than to comment on that one.)

The girl’s soft sounds filled the room as they watched the body on the table, the girl still twitching as the last bits of life drained out of her. Izuku typically finished them off himself with a decided blow, but today it looked like he’d let her die slowly.

“Next time, let’s go hunt down something bigger,” Izuku said, eyes locked on the table but he clearly wasn’t looking at the girl. He tapped his shoulder against Mustard’s and bit his lip. “Much, much bigger.”

“Sure,” Mustard said. Feeling the atmosphere calm, Mustard leaned on the wall and pulled his game back out while they waited for the woman to die. “Should be fun.”


When Izuku said he wanted to go after something bigger, Mustard thought he meant that literally.

Like a body builder or a big buff dude or something. A guy they’d have to work a little harder to corner in an alley and hit with Mustard’s Quirk.

Not. Not whatever the heck he had started charting diagrams of in his notebook. Mustard stared at the notes and the documents spread out over Izuku’s floor during their “study session” and he gaped at how open everything was spread out with his mom not ten feet around the corner in the other room.

Mustard hissed under his breath, “Are those Villains? Like, you’re researching Villains from the news. That’s who you want to go after?”

“Yup,” Izuku said. He pointed at one of the pages and bit the edge of his pen. “I’m thinking that one for our first. Complex Quirk, but he’s not very bright—the idiot’s not even remotely using his powers to their full potential. Should be a good warm up for some of these other ones that continue to avoid the Heroes and I feel like he’d be good stress relief.”

“I know you said you wanted to try something bigger,” Mustard said, laughing under his breath and attempting to smother his nerves. “But those are like. Villains. They’re sort of a big deal. Like. There’s a reason Pro Heroes with super powered and trained Quirks go and fight them.”

Izuku looked up from his notes and stared Mustard in the eye. He reached over and placed a hand on Mustard’s shoulder, squeezing. “Mustard, how many people did I kill our first year?”

“Ten?” Mustard glanced at the hand holding his shoulder.

Izuku nodded. “And what about our second year?”

Mustard said, “I don’t remember. Like twenty-six or something?”

“Thirty-seven,” Izuku said. He dug his thumb into Mustard’s collarbone and grinned. “I did a few solo.”

Mustard nodded.

“And this year so far? Even though it’s only been a few months into our third year?” Izuku asked, rolling a finger for Mustard to answer.

“Six that I know of,” Mustard whispered.

“And that makes how many people I’ve killed in the past two years, covering our trail well enough that no one even knows there’s a serial killer in town?” Izuku asked.

“Fifty-three,” Mustard said, hearing the awe in his own voice.

Had it really been that many?

Holy shit.

Mustard had been an accomplice to fifty-three murders in two years. He fell back on his butt on the floor, staring at the wall. He’d…he’d never really added it up all before.

“So, what do you think that makes me?” Izuku asked, patting Mustard’s cheek.

Mustard stared at the documents scattered about with mug shots and newspaper clippings; thought of the knife in Izuku’s pocket.

“A Villain,” Mustard said.

“Then what are you so worried about? I’m worse than any of these guys,” Izuku said, going back to his notebook. “We’re going to be fine so don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah,” Mustard said, nodding and digging his hands into his hair. He laughed and cover his mouth with a giggle. “Wow. Yeah.”

Izuku snorted, dragging Mustard over to go over their notes.

If Izuku was a Villain and Mustard was his accomplice—that made Mustard a Villain, too.

They were Villains.

Mustard giggled under his breath.

Villains!


“I love your Quirk,” Izuku said, speaking through the gas mask that covered the lower half of his face. He’d forgone the goggles for some mad reason, but if the gas didn’t bother his eyes, who was Mustard to correct him? “It makes things go so much faster.”

Mustard snorted through his own face mask, the oversized thing bulky but far more air tight than what Izuku had decided to wear. They’d be out of luck if Mustard knocked himself out, now wouldn’t they?

It wasn’t even worth the risk.

“You know I live to please,” Mustard said, grabbing the ankles of some low-time crook they’d picked off on a whim. Literally. They passed by the guy robbing some lady and Izuku got angry and stalked him home while Mustard got their equipment and shit. Took him out in his own home with. “We doing this here or somewhere else?”

“Here is fine,” Izuku said. “We’ll string him up on his bed. I don’t think I’ve done that one yet and we do need to keep things as varied as possible to keep the police busy.”

“You got it,” Mustard said.

Just another day in the life of a Villain.

As he tossed the body on the bed and watched Izuku tie him down, it occurred to Mustard this had started getting fun somewhere down the line. He dropped his Quirk, leaning against a window to watch for people in the street as the remainder of the gas dissipated throughout the house. When it had thinned enough, he took off his mask for a better look a the mastermind preparing for the kill.

Izuku straddled the prone body and smacked his cheek to wake the man up. He always wanted the people he killed awake, Mustard had noticed. There just wasn’t anything fun about stabbing someone unconscious, he supposed. When the man woke, Izuku slammed a hand over his mouth to stop the scream and even from here, Mustard could tell his friend was hard as a rock with anticipation.

He was having fun.

Mustard was having fun watching.

(It was about damn time this whole serial killer thing stopped making his gut squirm and hands shake when he was alone.)

Mustard forwent his regular video game to watch Izuku, happy he was still free to do so.

It paid being best friends with serial killer; kept you watching the knife instead of finding yourself under it.


“You’ve been a pain in the ass to find.”

Mustard and Izuku whipped their heads to the side door of their latest warehouse base. The man on the table yelled, “Shigaraki! You came!” before Izuku jabbed him in the neck with his scalpel to shut him up.

The stupid Villain actually thought Tomura Shigaraki of the League of Villains was there for to save his two-bit, nobody ass.

“Can I help you?” Izuku asked, standing straighter. He kept his hand on the scalpel, and his other near the strap of his gas mask. “We’re a little busy.”

“I noticed,” Shigaraki said. He scratched his neck as he walked further into the room. Leaving the shadows behind him, a man with burnt skin and a blond girl skipped forward, trailed by Black Mist. Mustard snorted; the dude brought an entourage with him to look tough. Shigaraki pointed at the table with a crooked finger. “That’s the fifth guy you’ve killed from my minions.”

“Your minions shouldn’t make it so easy to catch them,” Izuku said, with zero fear and narrowed eyes.

(Mustard would have killed for that confidence; maybe.)

Shigaraki laughed, scratching his neck. “I like that. I like you. You want to work for me?”

Izuku tapped his fingers along the metal handle of his scalpel. “Why should I?”

“For starters, it means I won’t kill you,” Shigaraki said, stepping closer to the table. He pressed his palm on the dead Villain’s body and it disintegrated to dust. The girl behind him snickered in to her hand, the high pitched giggle freaking Mustard out. “Besides, I think I have a suggestion that will make both of us, very, very happy.”

Izuku dragged the knife back, splitting a section of the remains. “I’m listening.”

Shigaraki folded his arms on the table, cracked lips smiling wide behind the hand stuck to his face. “Do you like games?”

Mustard knew he was in for a wild ride when Izuku grinned.


“One week!” Izuku shouted, throwing his hands up. He spun in a circle, holding his bag high above his head as he and Mustard walked toward the station from school. He practically skipped, eyes alight. “Graduation is so close I can taste it.”

Mustard shoved his hands in his pockets and trailed alongside Izuku, wondering where this burst of energy came from. Izuku was always active, but the obvious glee was a new thing. “Yeah? You that excited about joining the rat race?”

After entering the League of Villains, the rest of mundane life seemed to have lost half its meaning. Mustard had gotten as bad as Izuku when it came to getting a fix from watching someone croak.

“Did you forget?” Izuku asked, stepping closer to Mustard. He grabbed his bag straps and whispered. “Kacchan! He said we could sleep together after graduation and that’s in one week!”

“I guess getting laid after two years of pining is something to get excited about,” Mustard said. He shoved Izuku in the shoulder and stretched his neck. “You’re not going to get all boring once you finally have an outlet for all that sexual tension, are you?”

“Hardly,” Izuku said. He stared forward in a daze, mind lost to his own happy thoughts. “It’s going to be so good. Excitement during the day and the night. You know the best part?”

“What?”

“I found a college near Kacchan’s future Hero agency, which means sharing an apartment won’t be an issue,” Izuku said, pulling out his notebook. He flipped through a few pages, stopping at a pullout brochure that had housing listings. “We’re going to live together! It’ll be so perfect.”

“That’s awes—Hero agency?” Mustard stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the back of Izuku’s head as he kept walking. “What do you mean Hero Agency?”

“Did I not tell you Kacchan was a student at U.A.?” Izuku looked up from his notebook. The look of pride that split his face sent shivers down Mustard’s spine. “He’s been working hard the past three years to be a Pro Hero and it’s paid off. He’s graduating first in his class!”

“You’re dating a smart guy, sure-sure, who cares? Go back to the important part: Pro Hero. You just said Pro Hero.” Mustard grabbed Izuku’s arm and yanked him to the side and ducked in an alley. He lowered his voice and hissed. “Are you really telling me your future boy toy is going to be a Pro Hero? You’re in the League of Villains and you want to live with this guy! Do you want to get caught?”

“I get why you’re concerned, but trust me,” Izuku said, leaning forward. He grabbed Mustard’s chin and shook his head back and forth. “Kacchan won’t be a problem.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?” Mustard asked, knocking Izuku’s hand off. That touchy-feely thing he did was for corpses and victims, not his friends. He was creepy enough as it was. “Because I for one don’t want to go down with you just because you want to get laid by some dude who barely likes you from the way you talk about him.”

Izuku scowled; Mustard should have watched his phrasing.

“Kacchan’s a self absorbed brat that has absolutely zero friends outside of myself and his parents,” Izuku said. He shoved Mustard out of the way and walked back into the light of the street. “I worked harder at winning him over these past three years than I did at learning how to murder people, so I refuse to lose him now. You worry about your part and I’ll worry about Kacchan. Deal?”

“I knew you were crazy, but this is still pushing it, ” Mustard said, muttering under his breath. “A Serial Killer dating a Pro Hero. That’s just a recipe for disaster.”

“Maybe,” Izuku said, shrugging. “But I don’t care. There’s no reason I can’t indulge in both as far as I’m concerned.”

Mustard scratched the back of his hair and huffed. He’d have to keep an eye on that development.

(Or start making some more friends just in case this all went south.)

“I’ll be careful though,” Izuku said, glancing at Mustard. “Shigaraki’s little game is going to be big, so there’s not need to rush into it. It’ll take time to establish what I want my signature to be when I make my debut, and he’s already approved of my time table when it comes to taking the next leap in our future. We’ll have a couple years to prepare, and in the meantime, I can make sure Kacchan learns to behave.”

Mustard shivered at the steel in Izuku’s voice; it left no room for question or disagreement.

“And in the worst case scenario that Kacchan does stick his nose where it doesn’t belong,” Izuku said, thumbing down the apartment list. “I’m sure Shigaraki has some shackles I can borrow.”

“Long as you’ve got a plan,” Mustard choked out. He hadn’t paid much attention to Izuku’s thing with his boy toy outside of teasing the guy for his lack of action here or there, but maybe he should have. Izuku stared toward the ground as they walked, muttering under his breath. After catching the word “confinement” and “all to myself” Mustard decided a subject change was in order: “So until then, we’re back to the normal? Since Villains are off the plate?”

“Yes,” Izuku said, properly distracted. “You want to go out tonight or tomorrow? I want to get one in before I start spending more time with Kacchan apartment hunting next week.”

“Tonight’s good,” Mustard said.

“Great! I’ll meet you at eleven,” Izuku said. He waved and headed into the train station, heading toward the branch that went to his half of town.

Mustard walked to his own train feeling a bit like his buddy as he ran down a mental list in his head of all the things he needed to get and do before tonight. He needed his mask, a couple weapons just in case things went bad, cleaning supplies, extra gear, and a mental note to discretely mention to Shigaraki that Izuku was more obsessed with that boy toy of his than Mustard realized.

(In hindsight, Mustard really should have noticed that that earlier, but in his defense—watching Izuku murder people always seem to take the priority.)

But hey, that was life now.

Mustard hopped onto a train with a grin.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.