Chapter Text
Masaru sighed for the nth time that morning, his uncooperatively fidgeting canvas once more upsetting the motion of the pen mid-stroke.
Not to mention, the artist’s distracted humming.
"The more you squirm, the longer this takes," he sing-songed with a grin while faultlessly overlining the jumped swirl with a graceful flourish of his wrist, before dipping the quill back in the henna pot.
Katsuki took the short reprieve to brace up on his elbows, shooting a glare at his tormentor/father.
"Fuck this, Old Man. You’re taking forever on purpose. We've been at it since dawn, plus four hours last night— this shit better turn out fucking world-shattering!"
"Stay down, Katsuki! Your trapezius is creasing!"
Without shifting attention from his work, the older man shoved his son's head into the pillow mound under his chin.
Snarling into the silk, Katsuki begrudgingly did his best to force his back muscles to unfurl.
“Better!”
“Tch!”
Masaru sighed deeply and aimed a soft smile at the back of his son’s head, before bringing the pen down on his skin again.
"Your generation… you’ve become soft, complacent. A century ago, a man who dared show his face sporting temporary inks would be shamed right out of court, fortunate to catch the eye of a merchant, much less a Lady. Back then, it was all or nothing. The brand a man put to his skin proved his drive to incur favor with the Families."
Katsuki scoffed through a mouthful of fabric. "You’re one to fucking talk! You’re all of a minute removed from my generation! But, by all means, continue waxing poetic on your decades of personal experie—ouch! The fuck! Wha—”
Masaru grinned wide and ignored the explosion of expletives, easily forcing the boy’s head into the cushions one-handed, as he lifted his off hand to jab a finger into the puncture at his son’s upper buttocks before it could start seeping.
It was too far from his work to cause damage, but he didn’t need to deal with the mess.
“Is it wise to sass the man holding the sharp implement, son?”
Katsuki howled into the cushions in an attempt to control the knee-jerk compulsion for retaliation. Fingers curled into his palms, hard enough to leave half-moons. His calves flexed and wound taut with restrained violence.
Objectively, he knew from training never to attack from a disadvantageous position. His father had the leverage and reflexes to break a limb if he countered.
To the casual onlooker, Masaru Bakugou was meek, soft-spoken and slow to anger. And, though those traits were certainly true to the man’s character, after training under him since he could walk, Katsuki knew the depth of danger they bellied.
Came with father and son’s Clan genes... along with the other… baggage.
Should he still risk it?
Would the old man send him off to Trials with such an exploitable injury?
His mother would, no hesitation, on principle alone.
His father was less impulsive, empathetic.
Then, there was the elephant in the room: the reality that—with or without out an injury—, Katsuki's odds going in were already stacked.
Even taking all that into account, however, the pulsing blood in his ears made callousness so fucking tempting in that moment.
Ultimately, practicality beat out rage and, after a few moments of rhythmic breathing and allowing his father's lyrical humming as he worked dull the anger, Katsuki reigned his temper enough to find his voice, albeit through a clenched jaw.
"If assholes a century ago were stupid enough to permanently brand themselves with shit they may or may not have had a fucking say in to get some ass, fuck them! If I lived back then, I would’ve had enough spine to say the hell with that and stayed Unbound!”
His father scoffed, unimpressed. “The blood you inherited by chance is the only reason the option to remain Unbound without disgrace is available to you, Katsuki. Few others have that opportunity. Check your privilege before demeaning the less fortunate.”
Though his ears burned from the deserved reproach, Katsuki still clicked his tongue.
“Okay. I’ll give you that. But, you gotta admit all this pageantry and tradition is superfluous as fuck this day and age. The scribbles some asshole had their rich mommy pay to have inked onto their torso being the driving criteria in claiming a life partner is backward as fuck. And we wonder why the West looks down on us? This backwater, misogynistic bullshit doesn’t fly in the States!"
A swift swat landed to the shaved nape of his neck and, instinctually, his head shot up to snarl at his assailant.
His mother.
Of course.
“Watch it, brat. If Western socio-politics are so much more palatable than the traditions of your own country and culture, you could’ve forfeit your ancestral titles and holdings and stayed in America, like Lady Inko’s boy. You chose to come home to honor your heritage, so suck it up. That slanderous talk is good and well with us. We raised you to embrace free-thought and new ideas but spew it in the wrong mixed company and you might insult someone important enough that even my influence won’t save your ass.”
Katsuki eyed the woman warily from his periphery, as she languidly distanced herself from his vulnerable body. His glare morphed into an outraged sneer when she showed no signs of leaving the studio.
"The fuck you doin' in here, Hag! Women are forbidden from The Preparation unless their presence is implicitly requested by the Inductee, and nothing short of an aneurism would make me invite your crazy ass to this shit!"
Mitsuki moved to stroke her husband's wild spikes from his forehead before resting a soft kiss there, then shot a haughty glare of her own. “My being Domina of this house and therefore entitled to do as I please, notwithstanding, I was invited to be part of the ceremony by the only other person entitled to extend that invitation.”
Her hand swept lovingly through her husband’s tresses, features softening into a smile as she surveyed his work, and prompting Katsuki to crane his neck uncomfortably to aim a recriminating look over his shoulder at the traitor.
Masaru noted it, shrugging with a contrite smirk as he finished touching up the final details on the young man's lower back. "Your mother is my Mistress, son."
"And, after all—" he sighed, the self-deprecating tone his voice took on, letting Katsuki know he wasn’t going to like where he was diverting the conversation. "—it is my ultimate inadequacy: the inability to breed but one child—and a male, at that— as heir to one of the Great Houses. Honestly, I’m grateful your mother is gracious enough to want to share in this occasion with us."
As if they’d coordinated it, Mitsuki and Katsuki chorused a derisive "Tch".
Mitsuki brought her arms around her husband’s shoulders and rested her chin on the crown of his head.
"Don't be ridiculous, Masaru. I was fortunate to come of age the year you debuted. A chance to claim the first of the Fennikussu clan presented in forty years? Only a fool would pass up such an opportunity!”
She delicately tipped his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers.
“I’ve never cared about the… less-desirable nuances to your bloodline. The positives overwhelmingly overshadow the one negative and my family’s holdings were secured well before my claim over you. You are my beloved paramour. It was a bonus, our paring producing such a beautiful child.”
She added with love-softened, mischievous eyes towards Katsuki, “Even if he is a nasty little shit.”
The blonde flipped her off with a huff and once more buried his face in the pillows.
She snorted, cleared her throat, and turned to more thoroughly appraise her husband’s work.
"You’ve outdone yourself , my love!"
She once more embraced Masaru's shoulders, bouncing excitedly. "My boy will be the season's Premier! I'd bet my cars on it! Oh, I can’t wait to shove it in Lady Rei’s face, bitch is constantly droning on about her boys as if the sun rose and set out their inbred ass holes!”
“Isn’t Lady Todoroki one of your dearest friends, darling?”
“And your point is?”
“Oi! Assholes! I’m fucking dying down here! Are you done?”
His mother snorted.
“Oh, sorry, son! Yes, we’re done. Go have a look!”
His father’s voice was breathy, slightly muffled, which Katsuki took as cue to avoid his eyes from the pair—lest he lose his breakfast— as he lifted off the chaise with a grunt. He took care his obliques and back didn’t graze the silks.
Upright for the first time in hours, his arms extended over his head in a joint popping stretch, leading into a joint popping toe-touch, finishing off with a sharp jerk of his head to pop the vertebrae of his neck.
"For God's sake, Katsuki! That’s fucking repulsive! How do you plan on landing a respectable match with that disgusting habit?"
Ignoring her, Katsuki walked the few feet towards the corner of his father’s studio, where stood a mirrored, three-sided nook.
Crimson eyes narrowed, as he studied the design spanning his pectorals, spilling over his broad shoulders and weaving down the sinew of his biceps to his elbows. He turned, brows lifting at the detail painstakingly inked over the plains of his back.
His father had transformed him into the cosmos.
Literally.
Stars. Constellations. Planets. Galaxies. Nebulas. All decorated every inch of his torso and upper arms.
Katsuki was a fucking stellar-cartographical map.
His questioning eyes flitted toward his father, who was making his way over with his mother’s arm linked through his elbow.
"You don't like it," Masaru stated, voice uncharacteristically uncertain, dejected, even.
"Fuckin’, no, Dad!" Katsuki assured quickly with a definitive shake of his head. It was rare for his father to express vulnerability about his work and Katsuki would be damned to be the cause for it now. His father was the fucking best!
He contorted to appreciate the panorama on his back. "It's amazing, Old Man. One of your best, honest. It's just—" He faced his parents, gesturing expansively down his torso. "—why all the space shit?"
Masaru visibly relaxed. Mitsuki scoffed.
"Why do you think we waited an extra year to present you?"
"Hah?"
Mitsuki huffed again, snuggling further into her husband’s side. Even with the extra several inches her son held over her, she managed to stare him down. "Vicountess Uraraka came of age this past winter," she stated as if that was knowledge so common, he automatically branded himself a moron for not knowing.
“Oi! Why the fuck would I know that? I’m not part of your inane gossip circle! And what does that have to do with this?” He swept a hand over his torso again.
Mitsuki ignored his statement and continued, unfazed. "You remember little Ochako, don't you, Katsuki? You were playmates before you started primary. The two of you were joined at the hip. You’d get lost for hours exploring the hedge maze at Tatooine House…"
Katsuki tried to recollect that time in his early childhood. He faintly remembered, his sixth Spring, sloughing through the mud and insects of a garish garden; a filthy, overfed wildling with gigantic burnt umber eyes and ratty auburn hair, toddling behind him.
Sticky, fat fingers snatching at him incessantly, a shrill baby laugh, which persisted through tears after taking a tumble; which the clumsy fucking banshee was constantly doing. Katsuki's features twisted from vexed to disgusted.
"Oh, don't scowl like that!"
His mother feigned a swat at him with a chuckle before growing serious again.
“During your tenure studying abroad, Lady Ochako has blossomed into a lovely young woman. A lovely young woman—" her hand swept pointedly over his body "—who is rumored to be quite fond of astronomy. So much so that she’s majoring in the subject in her higher studies this fall."
Katsuki's eyes narrowed as he grasped his mother's machinations.
While he’d been away studying, she’d been orchestrating a match she’d find worthy of her House’s name, and—by extension— his foreseeable future. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Arguably, that was one of his mother’s duties to him and to her House. Distantly, he knew his mother loved him, had the best intentions, wanted the very best for her only child.
But he couldn’t help his abhorrence at the scheming, the subterfuge, the complete disregard of his agency.
It was fucking shitty, having your life laid out for you, your input not necessary.
But, he’d made the choice to take up his heritage.
The bed was made. He had to sleep in it.
And fuck all if he wouldn’t be the best at it.
He’d been borne of the finest bloodlines, honed to be the best, and as such, his match could be nothing but the fucking best.
Katsuki straightened, head held high as he met his mother’s eyes with determination. It was his duty as male heir to his house to obtain the most prestigious match, to honor his mother’s line. His father’s clan.
His newfound resolve didn’t go unnoticed and the woman who sired him smiled deviously, voice shrill with anticipation.
"The Viscountess Lady Ochako Uraraka won’t know what hit her! House Bakugo will emerge the victor of this Social Season!"
Katsuki turned back to the mirror with a half-slash grin, and renewed appreciation for what he saw.
Though he rarely acknowledged it, his mother's greatest attribute was her tenacity. She was ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted.
That was the Bakugo clan's Modus Operandi: being undisputed victors.
Who was Katsuki to disparage so hallowed a family tradition?