Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11881836.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      僕のヒーローアカデミア_|_Boku_no_Hero_Academia_|_My_Hero_Academia
  Relationship:
      Bakugou_Katsuki_&_Midoriya_Izuku, Bakugou_Katsuki_&_Kirishima_Eijirou,
      Aizawa_Shouta_|_Eraserhead_&_Bakugou_Katsuki
  Character:
      Bakugou_Katsuki, Midoriya_Izuku, Aizawa_Shouta_|_Eraserhead, Kirishima
      Eijirou, Yaoyorozu_Momo, Tokoyami_Fumikage, Bakugou_Mitsuki, Bakugou
      Masaru, Shinsou_Hitoshi
  Additional Tags:
      Rape_Recovery, Amputation, minor_self-harm, Hurt/Comfort, please_read_the
      author's_warnings!, Minor_Bakushima, but_mostly_Gen
  Series:
      Part 1 of Lessons_in_Moving_Forward
  Collections:
      Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-22 Completed: 2017-10-20 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 74847
****** Your Hands Protect the Flames ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     For as long as Bakugou can remember people have been telling him to
     'swallow his pride.' But no one's ever told him how he's supposed to
     sew his throat back up after the fact.
     After an assault leaves Bakugou and his classmates reeling, they all
     have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and move on.
Notes
     Author Warnings: This fic will contain graphic rape and sexual
     assault, as well as a few cases of graphic violence. This story also
     deals with rape as it's core topic, so it is heavily discussed.
     Please take your own comfort into consideration when reading.
     This chapter does not contain anything particularly graphic, but most
     of what happens will be shown in flashbacks in later chapters.
     This takes place some time in their second year at U.A.
***** Icarus is Falling *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Bakugou snarls, baring his teeth.
Fuck this guy, honestly.
Fuck him and his stupidly useful quirk.
“Credit where credit’s due,” the villain says, still slightly out of breath,
“the mask and ridiculous gloves do their job well. You’re much more
intimidating with them on.”
The grenade gauntlets had practically melted off of him at the press of this
bastard’s fingertips. The mask had been ripped off in their fight. Bakugou had
originally figured it was an accident, but now he’s not so sure.
But through it all, Bakugou had not questioned his ability to win this fight.
Metal manipulation is a handy quirk, and a powerful one if the villain is on
the right playing field (and he certainly was, in the middle of an old factory
warehouse), but it wasn’t anything Bakugou shouldn’t be able to handle on his
own. Explosions could rip through metal like anything else after all.
It wasn’t supposed to be a difficult fight after all. He’s still just an
intern. Still just a student, trying to make a name for himself fighting low
level villains. There’d been a tip about some thief that had run off into the
warehouse district on 9th, and Bakugou hadn’t hesitated to follow.
In hindsight, Bakugou should have called for backup as soon as the fight
dragged on past the first five minutes. Should have realized his mistake at the
first press of finger tips to his gauntlets.
He didn’t realize until the metal collar that protected his neck suddenly
wrapped itself around his throat, choking him.
He didn’t realize until the metal staff came down over his temple. Then the
back of his head.
He didn’t realize until the villain, in Bakugou’s daze, managed warp the metal
collar off of his throat and used it to pin his hands above his head, his palms
pressed together, melding the metal of the collar with the metal of the floor.
There’s something that feels innately wrong and insulting about his own costume
being used against him in his newest capture. Something upsetting on some kind
of primal level.
Bakugou had screamed, and cursed, and kicked, trying his damndest to wrench his
hands from the ground (without using his explosions, and blowing up his own
damn arms). But all he’d gotten for his effort was a dislocated shoulder, and a
busted knee curtesy of this fuckwad grinning over him.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Bakugou growls for what must be the twentieth time
already.
The asshole’s smirk would almost look teasing if it weren’t for the underlying
malice, and the almost manic gleam in his slate gray eyes.
“How are you going to reach me from all the way down there?” the villain
mockers, tilting his head.
“Fuck you!” Bakugou kicks out again, trying to reach the guy’s shins
desperately.
The villain (and damn it, Bakugou can’t keep calling him that in his head, and
Steelhands McFuckFace is too damn long) laughs again as he dances back.
(Bakugou shortens it to Steel in his head for the time being. He’ll come up
with something better later.)
“You’re certainly everything they’ve said you are,” Steel says, and his foot
stomps down on Bakugou’s leg, pinning it. Nothing breaks this time, thankfully.
“Bakugou Katsuki… you know there’s quite a bit of buzz about you in the
villains’ circle.”
“Who knew villains were gossips,” Bakugou sneers.
But it explains how Steel knew how to restrain him. Those League of Villains
fucks must have talked- spread the word of how they’d had the top student of
U.A. chained up like a fucking weakling.
“Isn’t everyone when you get down to it?” Steel shrugs. “Besides, that power,
that temper of yours, plus the whole kidnapping scandal? You’d be hard not to
notice.” Steel tilts his head as he stares down at Bakugou. “Then again, I
suppose that might be what you want. Easier to get popular that way. Better for
you pride.”
There’s something in his voice that Bakugou can’t place.
“Like I give a fuck what you shitheads say about me.” Bakugou tries to jerk
against his bonds again, flailing his broken leg uselessly as he tries to push
Steel off of him.
“It’s kind of fascinating,” Steel continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all,
barely having to move an inch to avoid Bakugou’s thrashing. “Usually people
talk about pride as someone’s hubris. But you’ve turned it into a motivator.
It’s almost impressive.”
“Are you just going to monologue all damn day?” Bakugou grinds his teeth
together, trying to think his way through any route of escape.
The monologuing is annoying and predictable, but maybe he should allow it. The
asshat could run out the clock talking all damn day long. It’d give Bakugou
more time to think of something.
Or, at the very least, it would allow more time for someone to find him.
The thought of having to be rescued again turns Bakugou’s stomach, reminds him
too much of All Might’s weak, and broken form, of how fucking weak he really is
in the face of true, monstrous power.
He’s trying- trying to stay focused here. To not let the fear that’s pumping
through his veins, telling him run, run, run, only to get worse when he
physically can’t(like one of the worst feedback loops in existence), get in his
way of thinking clearly.
But this fucker hasn’t done anything yet. Which means Bakugou hasn’t a clue
what he might want, which only adds to his unease. Maybe he’s just here to
monologue then run away. Maybe he hasn’t a clue what he’s doing.
Panicking isn’t going to get him anywhere right now. He needs to stay focused.
The weapon in Steel’s hand, an abandoned piece of metal that he’s been
reforming again and again throughout their fight, warps once more into a long
staff, and Bakugou finds himself forced back against the ground as the staff is
pressed to his neck.
Bakugou’s lips curl back further, but he can’t manage a sound.
Steel’s small, self-satisfied smirk hasn’t left.
“It’s such a shame,” Steel continues, “that pride is still such a volatile
thing. Don’t you think?”
Breathing becomes difficult as the villain presses harder against his weapon.
Steel waits, his gaze never leaving Bakugou’s as the young hero gasps for
breath.
Then- just as suddenly, the weight against his neck is gone, and Bakugou is
pulling in a gasping, sputtering breath.
“What,” Bakugou manages to cough out, his voice ragged, “the fuck… do you
want?”
Steel’s small smirk seems to slip, and he looks honestly surprised for a
moment.
“Really? I have one of the most prolific heroes of the up and coming generation
at my mercy- and you can’t think of a single thing I might want?” The smile is
back. “And here I heard you were supposed to be intelligent.”
“Fuck you,” Bakugou says, basically on autopilot at this point. “If you’re here
to ask me to join the stupid villain’s boyband again, don’t even fucking
bother.”
Steel taps his staff on the ground, before leaning against it, looming over
Bakugou.
“Yes, I heard about that. Tell me, how was Tomura’s pitch? That bastard was
always so long winded-”
“Something you have in common I guess,” Bakugou interjects, but Steel ignores
him.
“Let me guess, it was something like ‘paying heroes is corrupting society’ and
‘aren’t rules annoying,’” Steel’s voice turns warbled and mocking as he
imitates Shigaraki. “Am I right?”
“Why, you got a better pitch?” Bakugou growls.
Steel shrugs. “Not really. Mine would go more like: If you hate those pieces of
shit telling you what you can and can’t do all the time, why not just go rogue-
beat up bad guys if you want I guess, but do it your way. Why not?”
Bakugou scoffs. “So vigilantism. That’s your great pitch?”
“Sure.” Steel straightens, twirling the staff in his hand, the metal twisting
and untwisting around his arm like a thoughtless habit. “Villains get to see
the hero system undermined, and you get to do whatever the fuck you want. Best
deal I can think of.”
“What I want,” Bakugou says, lifting up as far as he could with his hands
pinned above him and his shoulder dislocated, “is to be a top hero.
Professional. To prove I can kick ass without having to do something stupid,
like go outside the law.” His grin is downright spiteful. “Tough break.”
“Eh,” Steel says, nonplussed, “that’s more or less what I figured you say.”
Then Steel’s eyes flash, and he lunges forward, the metal a blur as it warps
and shifts once again. Bakugou is knocked back down, and Steel is suddenly on
top of him, his legs straddling Bakugou’s thighs, and a newly formed, wickedly
curved blade is pressed to his neck.
“I could just kill you,” Steel says, leaning down until his mouth is right next
to Bakugou’s ear, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bakugou freezes, his chest heaving.
Shit, shit, shit, shit-
Terror slices down Bakugou’s spine, cold. Cold like the floor he is pressed
against. Cold like the curve of Steel’s knife.
“Slit your throat, and watch you choke on your own blood.” Steel closes his
eyes, taking a deep breath, like he’s fucking imagining it, and-
Shit this is not good.
Bakugou’s starting to think he might actually be dealing with a legitimate
psychopath.
He’s dealt with people who want to murder him before, sure- he’s had a few near
death experiences already. But that doesn’t keep the panic from pumping dread
through his veins.
But he just glares up at Steel, red eyes bright with defiance.
Steel exhales softly, opening his eyes, and staring down at Bakugou once more.
That stupid, stupid smirk is back.
“But no,” Steel says, and Bakugou forces himself not to let out a breath of
relief. “If I do that all I’d give them is a martyr. A symbol to rally behind.
Tomura’s lucky he’s too stupid to ever seriously consider killing you. Us
villains would have really been fucked then.”
The knife is pulled away, and Bakugou tries to force his heartrate to slow
down. “So what, then?” he demands. “You’re not gonna get me on your side, and
you’re not gonna kill me. You might as well walk away.” His eyes narrow.
“Before the entire fucking school starts headed straight towards you.”
Steel laughs, and it sounds cold, and manic, and Bakugou tries not to shudder.
“You really have no creativity, do you, kid?” Steel asks.
Bakugou bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood.
“I could just saw off your hands,” Steel suggests, almost casually.
Bakugou’s heart stops at the suggestion.
His hands are his quirk. His quirk has been everything to him since he was four
years old, maybe even before that. Without his hands, without his quirk,
everything he’s ever worked for for his entire life-
Steel cackles. “Oh isn’t that a thought. But,” he says, his laughter dying out
quickly, “I have no way of knowing when your stupid little rescue team will get
here. You might very well bleed out before then. And then we’re back to square
Martyrdom.”
Steel sits up, tapping the knife against his left palm, thinking- or at least
faking thinking.
“I wonder,” he begins as the metal warps around his hand again, “how quick that
rescue team will really arrive. I assume you have a tracker on you, yes?”
Bakugou refuses to reply.
Steel nods anyway, and the metal finishes reforming into shiny, steel plated
set of claws.
“That’s what I figured. Don’t worry, I don’t have the patience to go searching
for it. For all I know they implanted it somewhere in your pancreas. And that’s
just far too messy to bother with.” Steel’s smile spreads. “So then. It’s just
a question of how much time I really have.”
Steel tipped fingers reach up, and trail across Bakugou’s cheek lightly.
Bakugou pulls away, snapping his teeth at the offending hand. Steel doesn’t so
much as flinch.
“How long will it take before they realize you’ve been gone too long? How long
for them to mobilize? To get here?” The fingers brush through Bakugou’s hair,
light, and shit, Bakugou hates this, hates him. “I’d say we still have some
time. Nearly an hour at least. A bit more if we’re lucky.”
That same gleam, that same unnerving look that Bakugou can’t quite place
returns to Steel’s eyes. “So I have time.”
The hand that is in his hair curls into a fist, and Bakugou to hiss in pain.
The other rests against his collarbone, metal claws digging into the flesh
there for a moment, before slowly, painfully, dragging down.
Bakugou cuts off his own cry of pain, and arches, kicks, and tries to press
away from the burning sensation scratching at his chest.
Three parallel lines of blood well up as Steel’s hand stops at Bakugou’s
waistline. His shirt is ripped, but even with the sting, Bakugou tries to
reason with himself that it’s not that bad. That it’s just a few scratches.
It’s nothing compared to what he’s taken in the past.
Steel grins down at him. “Let’s have some fun.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Izuku cringes as the window they’re sneaking through creaks open.
They have no idea what they’re dealing with here- how many combatants- if any-
or what their quirks might be. The last thing they need is to lose the element
of surprise.
It might be overly cautious- they don’t even know if Kacchan is really in
trouble or not.
But when Kirishima had sent out a group text, asking about Bakugou, and
expressing concern at being unable to contact him, they hadn’t wanted to risk
anything.
Technically, it might be nothing. Kacchan had texted Kirishima that he would be
going on patrol for his internship, but that his typical supervisor was not
there today. So when Kirishima hadn’t received any sort of reply after texting
him, he couldn’t help but be concerned.
Izuku can’t blame him. Given the League of Villain’s interest in Kacchan, it’s
probably best that they err on the side of caution.
So those closest had convened at Kirishima’s location. Momo had been the first
to arrive, with her tracker ready (each of their costumes now had one). Izuku
and Tokoyami made up the rest of the team.
“Should we tell someone?” Momo had asked. “If Bakugou really is in trouble-”
“But we don’t know if he is,” Tokoyami pointed out. “It could be that it’s
simply a drawn out battle. Or that he forgot to respond.”
“I don’t care,” Kirishima said, brimming with impatience. “Whatever we do, we
need to get a move on- if something is wrong, then we need to act fast.”
All three had looked to Izuku, who hummed, hand pressed to his chin as his brow
scrunched down.
“Tokoyami, you let Aizawa know that we’re going to check on Kacchan,” Izuku
finally said. “That way if something is wrong, they’re ready to mobilize if we
need them.”
Tokoyami had nodded, and with that they shot off in the direction of the
warehouse district.
It wasn’t far, technically. But the metal buildings did interfere with the
tracker a bit, making it difficult to find an exact location. They ended up on
several rooftops, only to find out that they were in the wrong building.
Finally it settled on one towards the outer edge of the district, and they were
able to form something resembling a plan.
Which basically boiled down to: sneak attack if there were assailants. Send in
Kirishima if there were not, and sneak away quietly with a quick text to Aizawa
apologizing for the false alarm.
The building looks deserted, but Izuku doesn’t put much stock in that. It’s a
big building- anyone could be hiding, or simply in another part of the
warehouse.
After they’ve all managed to climb through the window, finding a footholds on
the rafters going across the top of the building, Izuku glances back to his
friends and presses a finger to his lips. The others nod, following him as he
slowly begins shuffling along the rafter. Technically none of them would be too
hurt if they fell- he and Momo were probably at the most risk actually- but it
still wasn’t something he wanted to risk.
Again- they’re going for a sneak attack here.
Their shuffling echoes quietly in the large open space, but Izuku can’t hear
anything else.
For a moment, he thinks that perhaps they were wrong. That this was the wrong
building altogether, or that perhaps Kaachan just lost the tracker somehow.
Then he hears-
“What’s wrong?”
The question rings throughout the previously silent building, and Izuku presses
his hand to the top of the ceiling to prevent himself from falling off the
rafters. He whips around to look at his friends, who’s expressions likely
mirror his own surprise and unrest.
“You’ve gotten quiet,” the voice says (they’re clearly talking to someone).
“Don’t tell me you’re getting bored.”
The voice is male, deeper than any of his classmates, older most likely, and
seems to be coming from the other side of the factory, around a bend.
Izuku feels his heart rate quicken.
Someone is here then. Someone other than Kacchan.
Is that who this man was talking to? Or is there someone else here as well?
Kacchan wasn’t exactly one for quiet after all.
If there’s a response to the man’s question they can’t hear it.
Izuku doesn’t have to glance back at his friends to know they’re following him
as he changes direction and begins making his way towards the voice, quicker
than before.
It feels like the rafter stretch too far. Like the building is too large.
But as he reaches the bend, wrapping around what was once likely an office,
Izuku begins to hear other things as well.
Not voices- but noises. Gasping, heavy breathing, and a choked off growl.
Izuku feels an itch crawling up his veins as he moves closer to the source,
something unexplainable screaming that something is wrong, wrong, wrong-
When he finally rounds the bend, Izuku knows that Kacchan must have been here.
The wall on this side has nearly been blown away, and scorch marks litter the
floor. But what’s more impressive is the warped flooring, spiking up, sweeping
across, and spiraling from the ground. It’d almost look like an art display if
the evidence of struggle wasn’t so clear.
The villain must have some sort of metal manipulation quirk then.
If that’s the case they’ll have to be cautious.
Izuku crouches lower, trying hide in the shadows of the roof, as he presses
forward. The noises are louder, but he can’t quite see their source from this
angle- the warped flooring acting as a barrier of sorts.
Finally though, at the back corner of the large expansive warehouse, still
partially obscured, Izuku can make out a person’s back.
There-
Izuku tries to hurry further, trying to crane his neck to get a better view of
what is happening.
The man is too large to be Kaachan, and his movements, what little Izuku can
see of them, are strained and jerky looking. But he seems to be hovering close
to, or even over, someone else. Izuku just can’t see who yet.
Then, everything seems to still for a moment, going quiet. The back of the
man’s head disappears from this vantage point altogether, then-
“A shame we don’t have more time.” And as the man’s voice drifts up to them
again, Izuku is finally gets a clearer view of what’s happening.
The man, whoever he is, is leaning over someone, straddling them. Izuku sees
strips of cloth on the ground around the two, and-… boots?
Izuku’s breath stutters in his throat.
Kacchan’s boots.
“Imagine what I could have done with you in a week or two,” the man says, and
unruly blond hair comes into view. “I bet I could have made you beg so
beautifully.”
Izuku freezes in place, as the scene in front of him finally registers in full.
It’s Kacchan beneath the man- there’s no mistaking the hair, and the bright
crimson eyes that screw shut, as Kacchan turns his head away from the man, and-
He’s... his shirt has been torn off, and his legs look bare. His hands have
been trapped above his head, and-
The man reaches up, carding a hand through Kacchan’s hair, and Kacchan actually
flinches-
It hits Izuku all at once what he is seeing.
From the small gasp that comes from Momo behind him, he isn’t the only one.
Izuku would like to say that his blood was boiling, that his vision turned red,
that there was some sort of incomprehensible anger, or pain that spurred him
into motion.
But the truth is- he’s moving before any of those emotions even have time to
hit.
Izuku’s honestly surprised that he lands as solid a hit as he does, his fist
connecting firmly with the villain’s cheek, sending him flying to the side like
a ragdoll.
Izuku is forced to roll when he lands, his legs and arms jarring from the jump.
But he’s able to use enough of One for All to minimize the damage.
Kacchan lets out a half pained cry, likely jarred by the attack, and his eyes
flying open.
But Izuku doesn’t have time to check on Kacchan, not right now, with the
villain still in front of him.
And- okay, wow, there it is.
Disgust and rage boil in his blood, hotter than he’s ever known as he advances
on the villain, as the full weight of the situation suddenly slams down on his
shoulders.
He- he-
Izuku will make him pay for this.
The villain groans, and begins to stand shakily. But he is smirking just
slightly, and the floor is warping around him.
“I guess I lost track of time,” the villain says, seeming almost sheepish.
“Perhaps I got a bit carried away.”
And then Izuku really is seeing red- and not just metaphorically.
Kirishima suddenly swings in from the rafters, in his full hardened form, with
a vicious roar, landing a solid, devastating punch on the villain’s solar
plexus.
The metal stops all at once, and Kirishima does not give the man a chance to
regroup, instead continuing with a steady assault and barrage of fists.
Izuku watches, straightening out of his fighting stance for a brief moment as
he realizes that he is shaking.
“Deku,” Momo calls sharply, and Deku turns to see her and Tokoyami already at
Bokugou’s side (when did they get there?).
She is kneeling by Kacchan’s trapped hands, her brows drawn, and Tokoyami is
unclipping his cape, and carefully laying it over Bakugou, trying to afford him
some modicum of modesty.
“We can’t break these bonds. You handle this- get him out of here. We can take
care of the villain,” Momo says, standing.
Izuku doesn’t know if that’s the truth, or if she simply doesn’t trust him to
be a part of this fight right now, but either way, he’s grateful. He doesn’t
think he could control himself in this fight. Not like this.
He nods, rushing over to Kacchan’s side. Momo runs towards the fight without
hesitation, but Tokoyami gives Bakugou one last parting glance before
following.
Izuku skids to his knees, coming to a kneel besides Kacchan and immediately
turning his attention to the metal that has been warped around his hands. Red
eyes slide towards him, a bit glzzed, and shining with unshed tears. He’s
panting- gasping for breath still. Izuku can’t tell if it’s from exertion,
pain, panic, or some combination of the three.
Kacchan’s jaw trembles for a moment, before he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck.”
Izuku grimaces as he feels around the bonds to find a good enough hold to pry
the metal from Kacchan’s hands without possibly crushing them.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kacchan keeps mumbling. “Fucking- of course it’s fucking
you, Deku. Fucking of course.”
He almost sounds like his normal self.
Almost.
“Kirishima, stop!”
Izuku’s head snaps up at the sound of Momo’s voice.
Kirishima has the villain on the ground, pinned the floor, his hardened fists
raining down without pause. Izuku can hear the vicious crack! with each blow.
“Kirishima, that’s enough!” Momo runs to her friend, trying to grab his arm.
“Stop! You’re going to kill him!”
But Kirishima doesn’t seem to hear her, and pushing her off with a snarl of
rage, sending her stumbling away.
Another crack! as Kirishima’s fist connects again, and Izuku can hear a
strangled laugh from the villain as he chokes on blood.
Kacchan flinches at the sound, his body pulled taunt, like an over stretched
rubber band about to snap.
Kirishima manages to land two more punches before the laughter dies out
completely, and Izuku realizes that the villain must have fallen unconscious.
But Kirishima still doesn’t stop, still punching blindly before Tokoyami’s dark
shadow finally wraps itself around Kirishima and snatches him away from the
villain.
Kirishima fights against the restraints, still snarling, and roaring,
practically foaming at the mouth as he strains to reach the villain once more.
Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend like this before- he didn’t even
think Kirishima could get this angry.
Then again, Izuku didn’t ever even consider that something like this could
happen.
Momo finds her feet, and pulls a large, intricate net from her back, and tosses
it over the villain. Disgust and horror mars her expression as she walks
towards the unconscious man, her lips curled back in a snarl.
Kirishima seems to finally stop, panting in Dark Shadow’s hold for a moment,
before collapsing to his knees, his hardening receding. Dark Shadow releases
him, and Tokoyami backs away.
Izuku feels his own tension drain out of his shoulders, and manages to finally
find a slight catch in the metal of Kacchan’s bonds. He gives the restraints
one last glance over, then pries the metal off with deft fingers.
It comes up in one large, warped piece, and Izuku can just barely recognize it
as what once was Kacchan’s metal collar.
As soon as he’s freed, Kacchan immediately yanks his hands out of Izuku’s grip.
Or at least he tries to.
One of his arms doesn’t bend correctly, and just jerks after the other,
awkwardly. Dislocated in all likelihood, Izuku notes.
“Don’t fucking touch me, Deku,” Kacchan snarls, turning away from Izuku, though
unable to go far.
Izuku takes the hint however, and scoots back a few paces, his hands raised,
placating.
“Okay, okay,” Izuku reassures. “I just-”
The words ‘are you okay’ linger on the tip of his tongue.
But it’s a stupid question.
Of course Kacchan’s not okay. Not after- not after that.
No one could be.
So Izuku bites his tongue, and looks away, trying to mentally give himself some
space here, trying to figure out what to do next- where to go from here.
How is there anywhere even to go?
How is anyone supposed to deal with something like this? Much less them?
How-
Izuku shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. They have to. Kacchan needs help.
They can deal with their own crises later.
“Tokoyami,” Izuku calls, looking towards his classmates.
Momo is wrapping the net around the villain, making sure all the clasps are
secure. But her movements are stiff and jerky, and her expression is haunted.
Kirishima still has not risen, and kneels, shaking, with a hand pressed to his
face.
Tokoyami’s expression doesn’t give much away, though there is something sharp
and disturbed in his eyes that Izuku is not used to seeing. It’s weird to see
him in his hero costume without the cape. He almost looks as if he’s standing
in his P.E. uniform instead.
But even still- he’s the most put together of them all.
And Izuku’s self-aware enough to include himself on that list.
(He feels less than three seconds away from hyperventilating.)
Tokoyami turns, dipping his beak in acknowledgement.
“Call the police,” Izuku says, voice trembling. “And- and an ambulance. Send a
follow up message to Aizawa. We-”
“You’re not fucking calling anyone!” Kacchan interjects, jerking back around.
And Izuku knows that he’s trying to sound angry- trying to intimidate them into
getting his way. But his eyes are too desperate, and his voice is too raw, and
everything about this is so, so wrong.
“Do you hear me?!” Kacchan continues yelling. “You’re not fucking- fuck! You’re
not calling the police, or- or Aizawa. This is- I’m not-!”
“This villain belongs in jail,” Izuku cuts in, quickly, succinctly. “If he
wakes up, we have no way to contain him, given his quirk. We need the police
here as fast as possible, so they can contain him, and bring him to justice.”
Kacchan’s chest is heaving, and he stares at Izuku for a long moment. Then he
looks away, his jaw trembling.
“Fucking- do whatever. What the fuck do I care,” Kacchan finally spits.
When Izuku glances back again, Tokoyami is already on the phone, and Momo’s
expression has cleared slightly, leaving only quiet, but intense pain behind,
as she walks towards Kacchan.
“Here,” Momo says softly, and she stops a few paces form Kacchan, and tosses
him a small towel. “I can… I can make you some clothes. If you’ll give me a
minute.”
Kacchan snatches the rag from the air, and holds it away from himself, as if he
half expects it to bite him.
“…Fine,” he mutters after a moment, and it’s more subdued, exhausted, than
Izuku can remember him ever having sounded. “Do whatever.”
They all look away, giving Kacchan a moment of privacy to clean himself off
somewhat with the rag while Momo works to create the clothes.
After a moment, the shuffling has stopped, and Momo turns to hand Bakugou a
simple black shirt, and black pants.
Kacchan’s expression twists, even as he takes the proffered clothes. “And what
the hell do you expect me to say happened to my actual fucking costumer?
Everyone’s going to figure it out in two seconds if I walk out wearing this.”
The air is stifling as everyone does not say the obvious- Everyone is going to
know, regardless.
“They’re on their way,” Tokoyami says, turning back to them and pocketing his
phone. “The approximate arrival time is less than five minutes.” He looks
towards the still unconscious villain. “He should be taken outside. At least
then if he wakes before they arrive, we may be able to keep any potential
weapons away from him.”
Izuku nods.
“I’ll go with him,” Kirishima says, speaking up for the first time, as he
slowly rises to his feet. His voice is quiet, but carries a weight that echoes
throughout the building.
Izuku feels Kacchan go still next to him.
Momo eyes Kirishima with uncertainty. “I don’t know if that’s-”
“I’m fine now,” Kirishima cuts in, his voice strained. “I’m-… I’m good. I’m not
going to do anything stupid.”
Izuku glances at Tokoyami and Momo, internally debating whether or not that
would be for the best.
Finally Tokoyami says, “Fine,” and Kirishima follows him as Dark Shadow scoops
up one end of the villain trapped in the net.
Between the two of them, they’re able to carry the villain away from the scene
easily.
Kirishima throws one last, pained look over his shoulder, towards Bakugou.
Kacchan does not look up from where he is still staring down at the clothing,
his red eyes wide and unseeing. He looks far too tense- like he might just
collapse at the slightest press of finger tips.
Which, for all Izuku knows right now, may very well be the case.
Kirishima looks away, with something discouraged and hollow in his gaze.
Izuku bites his lip, and turns his full attention back to his childhood friend.
“Do you need help?” he asks, hesitant.
That seems to kick start Kacchan once again, and he whirls on Izuku, expression
pulling back into a snarl.
“Do I look like I need your fucking help, you worthless loser?” Kacchan
demands.
Izuku doesn’t rise to the bait. It’s been a while since Kacchan’s called him
anything degrading. But he knows that this is just him lashing out.
“Kind of,” Izuku says honestly. “Your shoulder’s pretty busted.”
“I don’t,” Kacchan spits. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Momo stands on the sidelines, watching, too uncertain of what lines she is
allowed to cross to try anything else.
Izuku watches as Kacchan uncrumples the shirt in his grasp, and tries to force
his arms through the sleeves. But he’s immediately be thwarted by his
dislocated shoulder, sending him reeling, and hissing in pain.
Izuku reaches out a hand to steady him, but Kacchan pulls away abruptly. “Don’t
fucking touch me.”
Izuku drops his hands, and tries to steady himself. Tries to act like there
isn’t a vice around his chest.
Kacchan’s never liked being touched- not even when they were kids. But he’s
never looked at Izuku like that before.
Like he’s afraid of him.
Kacchan tries again, forcing his head through the opening first, and then his
good arm. But he still gets tripped up when he tries to force his other arm
through the sleeve.
“Fuck!”
Izuku and Momo flinch at the yell.
“Here,” Izuku says, reaching out a careful hand.
But Kacchan actually flinches away, rocking back violently in an attempt to
keep out of Izuku’s reach.
“I said don’t touch me, you fucking-”
“Kacchan,” Izuku snaps, feeling his own anger and frustration swell, “you’re
hurt, and you need to accept that. You can either let me help you, or you can
wait for the ambulance to pick you up wearing nothing but a glorified blanket.”
It’s a low blow, and likely not what his childhood friend needs to hear right
now, but Izuku’s already at the end of his rope.
Kacchan’s breathing is labored, and he stares at Izuku, his red eyes
practically boring holes into his skull. Izuku swallows thickly, but doesn’t
say anything further.
Finally, Kaccan snarls, “Fine,” and holds out the other sleeve of the shirt.
Izuku moves quickly and efficiently, trying to minimize the amount of contact
he and Kacchan share. But that doesn’t stop him from noticing how his former
childhood friend flinches at each brush of his hands. He manages to maneuver
Kacchan’s dislocated arm through the shirt, and helps tug it down.
He does his best to ignore the wounds- the cuts and telling bruises he sees
across his friend’s back and chest. They’re not life threatening. They’re not
important right now.
But then Kacchan is left with the plain pair of black bottoms in his hands,
staring at them with something akin to dread. His gaze flicks towards Izuku for
a brief moment.
Izuku’s throat feels far too dry.
“Kacchan..,” he starts, trying to find the right words. “I promise, I won’t-”
“I don’t fucking care,” Kacchan cuts in, his back straightening. “Are you going
to help me or not?”
Izuku pauses, taking a moment to process, and then nods slowly. “Yeah… yeah
sure.”
It’s infinitely harder- Kacchan can’t bend one of his legs properly, so Izuku
is forced to resituate himself at Kacchan’s feet and work his leg into the
pants. And with Kacchan only having one arm available to him, Izuku is forced
to help him drag the material up to his legs.
But the worst- the worst is when Kacchan is forced to finally pull Tokoyami’s
cape off of his lap entirely, and tries to pull the pants up to his waist. He’s
forced to let Izuku steady him with one hand, and help him pull with the other.
But when he lifts his hips in order to pull them on Kacchan freezes for a
moment, nearly losing his balance, as he lets out a low whimper of pain.
It’s a quiet, defeated, and pitiful sound, and it sounds wrong- so very, very
wrong- coming from Kacchan.
Izuku hurries to help him finish pulling the pants all the way up, and gently
sets Kacchan back on the ground. But even that earns him a low groan.
Going against every instinct in his body, Izuku pulls away from Kacchan,
raising his hands once more to give him space.
He can’t stop the question this time- “Are you alright?”
A pause. Then-
“Do I look fucking alright to you?!” Kacchan spits, glaring at Izuku. “Don’t
ask stupid questions. Fucking Deku.”
Izuku forces he shoulders to drop, and he looks away from Kacchan. “Sorry… I
just meant…. Never mind.” He turns back, his green eyes wide, but sharp. “Can
you stand?”
“Of course I can stand, you fuck,” Kacchan says, and then pushes up with his
good hand, wincing as he slowly starts to wobble to his feet.
As soon as he puts pressure on his bad leg, Kacchan immediately loses his
balance, and nearly collapses back onto the ground.
Izuku reacts on instinct, and catches him before he can land painfully back on
the ground.
Kacchan goes still, and for a second, Izuku prepares to be hit with one of
Bakugou’s explosions.
Instead, Kacchan just lets out a frustrated huff, and lets Izuku slowly pull
him to his feet.
Kacchan wavers, unsteady, as he’s finally put on his feet, and keeps his gaze
directed at the ground.
There’s a tense pause, and Izuku draws his arm away somewhat. Kacchan remains
standing.
“Do I… do you need help walking?” Izuku asks.
Kacchan’s breathing speeds up, and for a moment, Izuku is afraid he might start
hyperventilating. But instead, after a harsh exhale, he grits out, “Yes.”
Izuku would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little relieved. He doesn’t know if
he could have watched Bakugou limp across the warehouse by himself.
“Okay,” Izuku says, bringing his arm around Kacchan’s back, supporting him as
best he can. “I can do that. Is this okay?”
“It’s whatever,” Bakugou growls.
Momo has finally turned around and is watching the two of them, something
unreadable in her eyes as she stares at Kacchan.
Izuku imagines she is debating what she can do to help- whether it’d be better
to offer her own assistance on the other side, or perhaps create a crutch of
some sort of crutch for Bakugou to walk with on his own.
But honestly, given what had happened, Izuku imagined that walking on his own
would be near impossible for Bakugou right now. Crutch or no.
She must be thinking the same thing, because she stays quiet.
“Hey!”
Both Izuku and Kacchan snap their attention towards the far end of the room at
the sound of Kirishima’s voice.
He looks… well, he would probably look normal to most everyone else. He isn’t
smiling, but his posture is lax as he jogs towards them from across the
warehouse. But Izuku can see how forced it is. How tense Kirishima’s shoulders
are. The lines between his brow. The sheen to his eyes.
The specks of blood still dotting his face and neck.
Still though- he looks more put together.
“Here,” Kirishima says as he pulls to a stop a few feet from them, already
reaching out a hand. “I can help you to-”
But Kacchan recoils at even the suggestion of touch. “Do not. Fucking. Touch
me.”
Kirishima’s hand immediately drops, shock, then hurt flashing across his
expression momentarily. He glances between Izuku and Bakugou.
Izuku grimaces.
He really, really does not want to be caught between this.
He wishes Kacchan would rather Kirishima help him right now.
Izuku doesn’t know what to do with the tentative and begrudging trust Kacchan’s
given him.
But the moment is gone as soon as it arrived, and Kirishima gives a plastic,
unconvincing grin.
“Right. Sure thing dude. You need us to grab anything from here before the
police show up?”
Kacchan’s eyes dart over his shoulder for a moment, towards the place where his
shredded clothing still lay.
“No,” he says, his voice ringing hollow in the large warehouse. Then he looks
at Izuku. “Are you actually going to help me or what?”
Izuku blinks in surprise.
“O-oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Between the two of them, Kacchan finally manages to limp out of the warehouse.
The last dying rays of sunlight shine in their eyes, forcing them to duck their
heads.
The villain is not far off, still unconscious, still trapped in Momo’s net.
Izuku discreetly tries to maneuver Kacchan away from the man.
If Kacchan notices, he doesn’t comment on it.
The wail of sirens can be heard in the distance.
Momo steps out behind them, and immediately moves to resecure the villain in
more sophisticated bindings.
Kacchan stands still as a stone at his side, and refuses Izuku’s offer to let
him sit and rest somewhere.
“Are you sure-” Izuku begins.
“My ass burns like hell right now,” Kacchan finally snaps, his jaw tightening.
“So yeah. I’m sure.”
Izuku feels his own face heat slightly, and he looks away. “Right, sorry.”
Tokoyami stands guard over the villain, alongside Momo.
Kirishima stands between both groups, hovering awkwardly, unsure.
It stays like that until their relief arrives.
And when the medics finally take Kacchan from him, Izuku finds his gaze drawn
back to the villain, now being manhandled as some officers lock him into heavy
duty cuffs, and maneuver his unconscious body into the back of a police van.
And, for the second time in his life, as Izuku stares at Katsuki’s rapist- he
hates.
And the worst part is- he knows this is just the beginning of the nightmare.
Not just for Katsuki, but for all of them.
Chapter End Notes
     This story was created mostly out of spite- I just really wanted to
     see a decent rape recovery fic that dealt with the issue respectfully
     (and didn't, you know, portray the victim as borderline catatonic).
     Katsuki just ended up being the one to get the short end of the stick
     because it felt like he had the most potential story-wise with a
     narrative like this.
     I have the whole thing written, it's just a matter of editing right
     now. The following chapters will be pretty long.
     I hope you enjoyed the story, despite the topic, and I'm more than
     happy to hear any constructive criticism you have to offer.
     The titles are taken from Icarus by Bastille. It felt apt for some
     reason.
***** Wrap Your Teeth Around the Pavement *****
Chapter Notes
     Author Warning: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF RAPE AND
     SEXUAL ASSAULT. The scenes are portrayed as flashbacks, and are
     stylized in italics. If anyone wishes to skip them, then there is a
     definitive line break between the sections portraying the assault and
     the rest of the story. Once again, rape is heavily discussed outside
     of the act itself. Other warnings include: violence, minor sexual
     torture, mentioned self-harm, and disassociation. If I missed
     anything you'd like to me warn or tag for, please let me know. Please
     proceed with your own well-being in mind.
     Also, I feel I should forewarn that I am still reading the manga. I
     know the major events that take place, but if I get details wrong,
     please feel free to let me know!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
Bakugou steels himself, assuming he knows what’s coming next.
But if Steel thinks torturing him will get Bakugou to crack, he has another
thing coming.
It’s just a bit of pain. A bit of pain, for what? An hour? So what.
That’s nothing in the long run. An hour of his life is pretty damn small in the
grand scheme of things. He’ll be fine. He will.
Bakugou isn’t fragile.
And the worst thing Steel can do is hurt him.
In hindsight that thought is perhaps a bit naïve.
And it takes Bakugou far too long to catch on.
The pain of Steel’s claws raking down is chest is crisp, but nowhere close to
overwhelming. It leaves his shirt shredded, but Bakugou doesn’t think much of
it. This is all just a show.
Even as Steel begins to peel off the shreds of his shirt Bakugou doesn’t get
it. It’s just another intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel helpless.
Well, Bakugou isn’t going to give him the fucking pleasure.
Bakugou curses, roaring threats as he bucks, trying desperately to throw Steel
off of him. But the bastard is too damn heavy, and Bakugou can’t get any
leverage with his knee fucked the way it is.
“Damn it! Get the fuck off me, you jackass!”
Steel just looks vaguely amused. “You certainly are a hell blazer,” Steel says,
shaking his head. “Not that I’m complaining, I suppose. It makes you more fun.”
The hand fisted in Bakugou’s hair finally releases, and now both hands are
grabbing at the material bunching around Bakugou’s shoulders, eight steel claws
dragging through his flesh, ripping off his shirt entirely. Bakugou thrashes
beneath him, but Steel manages to sneak a hand behind the young hero’s back,
gripping the small bit of fabric that remained and ripping it out from under
him, leaving thin grazes behind in the process.
Bakugou roars, and tries to repress the humiliation that wells up from
somewhere deep within him.
And the warning sirens that come with it.
This is just part of the game. A tactic to humiliate him. He won’t give Steel
the satisfaction. He won’t.
Steel sits up, staring down as Bakugou practically froths at the mouth beneath
him. His smile is sharp as his tongue darts out of his mouth, licking his lips.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” Bakugou tries to sneer. But it comes out
far too breathy and desperate.
The metal around Steel’s hand warps again, moving away from his fingertips, up
and up, wrapping around his wrist, like sloppily formed gauntlets.
Talon free fingers dig into the three long lacerations that trail down his
chest, forcing them wider, then slowly tracing their path. Bakugou lets out a
choked off scream of pain and rage, and writhers, trying to pull away.
The pain is not unbearable, but the touch feels wrong, wrong, wrong-
Bakugou tries to buck Steel off once more, kicking and twisting. But the
villain’s weight and grip are too strong. Bakugou is powerless beneath him.
Trapped.
Bakugou’s usually reassuring pride burns hot and heavy in his stomach.
Something rotten and heavy sinks to the bottom of his stomach.
When Steel’s fingers finally reach the bottom of the wounds he curls his
fingers, pushing them just a bit deeper. Bakugou tries to hold back a groan of
pain.
Steel brings his hand to eye level, examining his bloodied fingers intently,
like he’s back in a fucking high school science class.
Then he places those three fingers in his mouth, and his eyes drift closed as
he licks Bakugou’s blood from his digits.
Bakugou can’t quite stop himself from gagging as disgust surges up his throat,
tasting a lot like bile.
“What the fuck are you doing, you sick freak?!” Bakugou instinctively tries to
press away from the psychopath on top of him, pushing his back flatter against
the cold floor. But there’s nowhere to go.
Steel’s eyes snap open, and he smirks down at Bakugou with that same,
unreadable look in his eye.
Then, the villain is moving, his hands coming to brace themselves next to
Bakugou’s stomach, as he slides down, then-
The hot, wet sensation of a tongue, Steel’s tongue, suddenly lapping up the
lines of blood he had created.
Bakugou’s breath comes to a stuttering halt in his chest, and he freezes.
Then he’s screaming, roaring with fury as he struggles under Steel, withering,
thrashing from left to right, trying to throw Steel off fervently.
Steel just presses a hand to his chest, further restricting his movement, and
licks up to his collarbone.
Bakugou does not stop screaming, even as Steel rises again.
“Get the fuck off me, you fucking freak!” Bakugou yells. “Get off!”
Steel stays, hovering over Bakugou, face mere inches from his. “I plan to,”
Steel says simply, and Bakugou still doesn’t get it-
He still thinks this is just a part of the game.
“I’ll kill you,” Bakugou says.
Steel tilts his head, amused. “You know, I think you still don’t understand
your position here.”
“I understand that you’re a-”
A clawed hand grips Bakugou’s jaw, reformed talons biting into his skin, and
Steel’s lips suddenly cover his own.
The kiss is bruising; Steel’s mouth moves insistently, harsh and unforgiving.
Steel is kissing him.
And for a second, Bakugou is certain that this is not real. He’s certain that
he was knocked out some time during his fight, and that this is some fucked up
nightmarish fever dream.
But then, Steel’s tongue is trying to lick into his mouth, and Bakugou screams.
It’s a mistake.
Steel swallows his screams hungrily, his tongue forcing its way into Bakugou’s
mouth, swiping across his tongue, and teeth.
Bakugou realizes what’s happening, and tries to pull back, revulsion filling
him, and tries to snap his jaw closed- he’ll bite the bastard’s tongue off for
his effort.
But Steel’s grip on his jaw is too strong- and he can’t, he can’t-
Steel’s tongue feels slimy, and disgusting, and wrong, and Bakugou tries
desperately to thrash and kick to push Steel off of him. But he barely so much
as jars the villain; his mobility too limited by his injuries.
He’s powerless to do anything but feel this.
Steel’s tongue sweeps across his lips once more before his teeth sink down on
Bakugou’s bottom lip, tugging as Steel pulls away. Blood wells up from the
bite, and Bakugou can see Steel, staring down at him with amused and
unforgiving gray eyes, when he finally breaks the kiss.
Bakugou immediately snaps his head to the side, trying to get away, to get some
distance, to-
He wants to scream. Wants to shout the fucker down for being a pervert and
molester, a sick fuck, and screech that he’s signed his own death warrant, and-
But he can’t. Because he’s shaking, and gagging on bile, and Bakugou can’t stop
his head from spinning, and it feels like he can’t get enough air, because, he
kissed me, he kissed me, he kissed-
His first kiss, and it comes from some psychopath forcing himself on him.
For a moment, Bakugou is convinced that this isn’t real. That it can’t be real.
This doesn’t happen- doesn’t happen to heroes, doesn’t happen to him-
A dark chuckle breaks through his thoughts, and Steel’s talons press against
his chin again, and unwillingly drag Bakugou’s attention back towards him.
“Look at you,” Steel says, staring down at Bakugou with something like hunger.
“So worked up over a measly little kiss.”
Steel slowly leans closer and closer into Bakugou’s personal space, his mouth
once again just barely hovering above Bakugou’s own. Bakugou tries to jerk his
head away, tries to regain some distance. But the only thing he gets for his
trouble is the sharp press of talons against his chin.
Steel’s voice is barely a heady whisper when he says, “And we’ve only just
begun.”
And suddenly, cold terror floods Bakugou’s lungs, and dread curdles in his
stomach, as he finally recognizes the gleam and hunger that he sees in Steel’s
eyes as desire.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Aizawa does not consider himself an angry or violent man.
He is impatient perhaps, annoyed often by people’s irrationality. But he’s
simply never seen much point in getting needlessly angry.
And yet, Aizawa finds himself here, surrounded by his colleagues and several
police officers, contemplating premeditated murder.
His hands are shaking, and his eyes itch with the need to strip the monster in
front of him of any power, and then beat him senseless-
It’s completely irrational- the villain’s quirk has already been suppressed. He
is going to jail- there is no question about that. And Aizawa would likely only
get himself in trouble.
And yet. He still thinks about wringing the man’s neck, slamming his head into
the desk, repeatedly, about hitting, and kicking until there’s just nothing
left-
“Hirota Masaji,” The chancellor’s voice rings out.
The villain smirks. “Present? You’ll have to forgive me- I’d raise my hand if I
could.”
“You’ve confessed guilt to a very serious crime,” Midnight says, her voice
sharper than any whip or knife she’s ever carried. “I wouldn’t advise levity in
this situation.”
“I apologize,” Hirota says, leaning back as far as his restraints allow. “I was
under the impression that I was back in school with all of the teachers around.
I was simply attempting to follow protocol.”
Aizawa’s fingers twitch.
When he had received Tokoyami’s alert- that Bakugou had not been responding
after going after a villain, Aizawa had tried to tamp down on the instinctual
panic he felt.
Even with all that his students had been through it was still far more likely
that Bakugou had simply forgone responding to a text than anything necessarily
nefarious.
And then he had received the call-
“Do you need back up?” Aizawa had asked, picking up on the first ring.
There was a pause, and for a moment, Aizawa was almost certain it wasn’t not
going to be Tokoyami that replied.
But then, his student answered, “I… I am unsure.” And he certainly sounded
unsure.
“There was a villain,” Tokoyami continued, and Aizawa noted the use of past
tense. “We have apprehended him. We… we have contacted the authorities, and we
believe he will be taken into custody without further issue, but…”
“Tokoyami,” Aizawa said sharply, his tone commanding, “Give me a full report.”
There was still hesitance however, as if Tokoyami was still deciding what he
should be told. “An ambulance has been called for Bakugou.”
Aizawa’s breath hitched.
“We… don’t believe his injuries are life threatening,” Tokoyami said, “but they
are grave.”
Aizawa had not pushed further, and given simple instructions before heading
towards the location Tokoyami had given.
When he arrived, Bakugou had already been carted off, as well as the villain,
and four of his students-Tokoyami, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, and (of course)
Midoriya were being questioned by an officer.
“Mr. Aizawa,” Midoriya had said, jumping to his feet, looking relieved, and
close to tears (though that wasn’t exactly uncommon).
“What happened?” Aizawa demanded, eyes moving between the officer and his
students.
The officer seemed uncertain. “I am not at liberty to disclose sensitive case
information-”
“Please,” Yaoyorozu said. “We’d like him here for our testimony.”
The officer glanced between them. “You’re their teacher?”
“Yes,” Aizawa said, impatient.
The officer nodded. “Given your guardianship over them, I suppose I can allow
it.”
“Good, now someone tell me what the hell’s going on,” Aizawa said, looking to
his four students.
But they were all uncharacteristically silent. Kirishima stared straight ahead,
his eyes vacant and pained, and Aizawa only then noticed the blood dotting his
face. Midoriya didn’t appear much better- he was more present, but his eyes are
wide and horrified, and he was clearly shaken. Yaoyorozu and Tokoyami are less
obvious, but there is something haunted in their expressions.
Aizawa had spent the past nearly twenty minutes trying not the panic as he
carefully shifted through every possible meaning of Tokoyami’s sparse report.
Gravely injured, without his wounds being life threatening.
It could mean anything- an injury treated in time would be the most likely
But if that were the case, Tokoyami would not be so hesitant. He was not
someone who minced words.
And Aizawa can’t stop the possibilities all piling on top of each other- had
someone attempted to severe his link to his quirk permanently? Tortured him?
Some irrational part of Aizawa’s mind wondered if perhaps Bakugou had finally
gotten too mouthy with a villain, and ended up with a missing tongue.
None of the explanations seem right though. He just- he needed to know-
It is the officer who finally replied to him.
The word rape echoes in Aizawa’s head even hours after.
Every second that he is in this room, Aizawa is acutely aware that he is
breathing the same air as Bakugou Katsuki’s rapist.
“Mr. Hirota,” the chancellor says, sounding slightly annoyed at the
interruptions, “you are being charged with rape and sexual battery of a minor.
You have plead guilty to these charges. Your crimes will be taken in front of a
court judge, and you will be sentenced accordingly. You understand the position
you are in, correct?”
“Is this the speech I’m going to have to hear every time someone wants to talk
to me?” Hirota asks. “Feels like a waste of valuable time if you ask me.”
The chancellor ignores him. “These representatives from the UA staff wish to
question you on your actions. I have been asked to mediate. You understand that
anything you say here can be used in a court of law, correct?”
Aizawa imagines that if the villain could do so, he’d be waving the chancellor
off. “Yeah, yeah, just let them ask their questions.”
The chancellor lets out a long sigh through his nose, then nods to Midnight.
She barely acknowledges the mediator, instead jumping straight to, “We wish to
know why you targeted Bakugou Katsuki.”
“Hmm?” Hirota raises a brow. “Target him? I think you’ve got this backwards- he
was chasing me. I usually try to avoid heroes- training or otherwise.”
Midnight’s gaze narrows. “You knew who he was. How to incapacitate him. Your…
actions hold the slant of someone with a personal grudge and distinct goal.”
Hirota still seems undisturbed. “If you think I wouldn’t know who he was, after
you morons blasted his face and the face of every hero kid in this generation
across television screens everywhere, then, you’ll have to forgive me for
saying, but you’re stupider than I thought. Besides, even if I didn’t remember
him from that and the Kamino Ward incident, villains talk. He’s an interesting
kid- I asked about him in conversation. But that’s about it. I’ve got better
things to do with my time than obsess over a brat.” An unsettling smile spreads
across the man’s features. “It wasn’t anything premeditated- I’m just an
opportunist.”
Something darkens in Midnight’s expression, and Aizawa wonders if perhaps he
isn’t the only one wishing there weren’t so many witnesses around.
“You expect us to just accept-”
“Hardly,” Hirota says easily. “But I’m afraid that one way or another you’re
going to have to accept it. This wasn’t part of some grand scheme on my part.
The kid just went after the wrong person, and had the wrong fight.”
He cocks his head, and his slate gray eyes glint against the stark lights of
the room. “You’re asking because you want to know if your school is facing
another threat, right? If someone else is maybe planning on swiping little
Katsuki, or any of the others, right from under your noses again?”
Midnight clenches her jaw, her lips pulling back into an uncharacteristic
snarl.
“You have nothing to worry about from me,” Hirota continues, still smirking up
at them. “But if you really want to know what’s putting your poor baby heroes
in danger, I might recommend you take a good look inwards.”
Aizawa feels his breath freeze in his chest- can see Midnight, Hizashi, and
Blood King tense alongside him.
Was this… did this villain know about the possibility of a traitor…?
“You dangle them out into the world, like little fishes baited on a hook. With
your festivals, press coverage, and self-promotion.” Hirota leans forward,
bracing his arms against the table. “You shouldn’t be so surprised when sharks
decide to take a bite.” He snaps his teeth for emphasis.
The emotions in the room are tangible- momentary relief, then surprise, then
anger and indignation.
“Are you suggesting,” Blood King rumbles, “that we’re the ones endangering our
students?”
Hirota shrugs. “Sure. You’re so concerned with shoving them into the spotlight
that you don’t care who you put in danger while doing it. You could just focus
on teaching them how to fight, but nah. You want the attention. Even if they
might not.”
“Now listen here-” Blood King starts, taking a step forward.
“Shigaraki wouldn’t have bothered with him if not for the Sports Festival,”
Hirota says. “And I wouldn’t have known about him if it weren’t for that. Even
if I didn’t know other villains, it was all over the news. You didn’t once
think that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t only civilians watching?”
Aizawa can see Blood King shaking with rage.
But the room is silent.
There’s a long, drawn out pause, before Hirota finally just shrugs his
shoulders, leaning back in his chair. “Was that it then?”
Midnight is glaring at him.
“Because if we’re done here, then I’d like to-”
“Why did you do it?”
Aizawa’s voice cuts through the tension in the air, cold and blunt. Everyone in
the room turns to him in surprise. Even Hirota seems a bit thrown off by his
sudden interjection, and examines Aizawa for a moment, his expression
contemplative.
But then, that same, glinting shark-like smile is spreading across his features
again.
“Why?” he asks with an incredulous laugh. “Because I wanted to. Why else?”
Aizawa knows he is trembling, but he doesn’t care as he continues to glare at
the villain. “You’ve been baiting us this whole time,” Aizawa says, and he
tries to keep his voice level, iron clad, but he can’t stop the slightest bit
of hiss that comes through in his words. “You don’t exactly strike me as the
type of person to do something like this just to get off.”
He sees Blood King flinch from the corner of his eye.
“I said I wanted to,” Hirota says, but it almost sounds like gloating, “not
that I was doing it to get my rocks off. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s a
definite bonus. But I could do that just about anywhere.”
Aizawa struggles to control the blood pumping through his veins, urging him to
rip, hurt, break-
“Then. Why?” he grits out.
“I would have thought it’d be obvious,” Hirota says. “I did it, because I
wanted to ruin him.”
Aizawa feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.
“Because I wanted to teach him, and all those baby heroes you’ve got stashed
away here, suckling at you teet, that training, and quirks, and pride don’t
give them power in the real world.”
His lungs are not moving properly. They are expanding too slow; contracting too
fast.
Hirota continues, unprompted now, clearly relishing in the chance to pull them
into his twisted perspective. “Sex is power. The most honest and primal kind of
power there is. Heroes forget that. You think that being held down and fucked
is somehow outside the realm of possibility- that it can’t happen to powerful
people like you.” Hirota says it like a chess player declaring ‘checkmate.’
“But quirks and status don’t mean a thing when you’ve forced someone on their
back, or their mouth around your cock. That is how you take power.”
Aizawa’s ears are ringing, and everything but Hirota’s voice sounds too
muffled, too far way.
Hirota’s eyes bore into his, and Aizawa’s vision tunnels, narrowing to just
that awful gray. “It hurt Katsuki very much to learn that lesson,” Hirota says.
“I loved watching it. I loved that Iwas the one to do it. To strip him of his
power, and fuck him bloody-”
Aizawa does not even register that he’s moved, until he hears the crack! of the
villain’s head slamming into the metal table.
The sound shocks him back into himself, and Aizawa immediately releases the
hold he has on Hirota’s hair. But Blood King and Hizashi are already on him,
shouting, alongside Midnight and the chancellor, pulling him away.
Hirota groans, bringing one of his cuffed hands to his face, and stares at the
blood that drips onto his hand.
Then he throws his head back, and cackles.
The villain’s peals of laughter add to the cacophony of the room, manic and
unhinged, as he lifts his gaze back to Aizawa, heedless of how the blood drips
from his nose into his mouth, staining his teeth.
“It was beautiful, you know!” Hirota shouts over the commotion as Aizawa is
dragged away. “I ripped away that child’s ridiculous pride, and shoved it back
down his throat, and watched him choke on it!”
Aizawa snarls, and pushes against his colleagues, eyes flashing, and his quirk
activating. But it only barely dims Blood King’s strength.
“I would do it again,” Hirota says, raising his voice higher- louder. “I would
fuck him, or any of your other little brats, any day of the week, just to
ravage them again, and again, and again-”
Aizawa is being forced through the door, but Hirota still isn’t done, landing
one final blow with-
“He felt amazing, you know!” The villain is craning his neck, his smile too
large, too deranged. “Withering on my cock, while I made him scream!”
The door to the interrogation room slams shut, and Hirota’s voice is trapped
behind thick, concrete walls.
Aizawa’s posture drops, and he sags between his two colleagues, panting. His
eyes remain locked on the door, barely daring to blink.
His eyes burn.
Is he using his quirk? He can’t tell.
The only sounds in the hall are his and the others’ ragged breath.
Finally, Hizashi says, “That was stupid, Shouta.”
Aizawa’s eyes lower, his hair falling into his face, and obscuring his vision
as he tried to regain his breath, and some rational form of thought.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit-
“You assaulted a criminal,” Blood King says, his voice iron clad. “They could
charge you for this-”
“I know,” Aizawa snaps, and he finally pulls his arms from his colleagues’
grip. They let him go easily. “I know, okay.”
“Then what were you thinking-”
“I wasn’t,” Aizawa says, cutting Blood King off. “I just- wasn’t.”
Hizashi is staring at him, but Aizawa can’t read what he’s thinking through
those ridiculous glasses of his.
“Kan,” Hizashi says, turning to Blood King, “I can take care of this. You
should probably go help Midnight smooth things over.”
Blood King glances between the two of them, before nodding. “Sure.”
Aizawa is grabbed by the elbow once more, and pulled away, as Blood King turns
back to the door.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Aizawa sighs, even as he follows after
Hizashi.
“You already have,” Hizashi says, his voice tight.
Aizawa grimaces.
They’re right. He knows they are. He’s ashamed that he lost control like that.
He hadn’t meant to, but-
There were no excuses.
He has lectured his students, and his colleagues about their lack of
rationality. And then he goes and does something so completely, and totally
irrational that he just-
And the worst part is- he doesn’t regret it.
Hizashi finally stops after they round a corner. But he doesn’t let go of his
friend’s arm, instead rounding on him, and staring him down once again, through
those damned glasses.
Aizawa meets his gaze, unwavering, but unchallenging. He deserves Hizashi’s
judgement.
Hizashi finally looks away. “Are you okay?”
Aizawa frowns, taken aback by the unexpected question. “What?”
Hizashi drops his grip with a sigh. He slips his glasses off his face and rubs
at the marks left on the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Look- what you did was- it was stupid, okay. We both know that. But-” Hizashi
shakes his head slightly, and finally meets Aizawa’s gaze with earnest and
troubled blue eyes. “The stuff he was saying in there. About Bakugou- your
students. I know that was hard to hear. So,” he gestures towards Aizawa, “are
you okay?”
Aizawa is silent, contemplating the question.
Technically speaking, he’s fine. He had not been the one attacked. He had not
been hurt. All he had done was let the ravings of a lunatic get to him.
That had been his mistake.
But… that doesn’t make the pain in his chest that clouds his head, any less
real.
“I… don’t know,” Aizawa replies honestly. “I don’t know.”
Hizashi’s expression is saddned, but he holds firm. “Even so- you’ve got to
pull yourself together. Not just for the U.A. image, or even for yourself. But
for your students. They’re going to need you. You can’t go around jeopardizing
your position like that.”
Aizawa sighs. “I know, Hizashi. I… I’ll keep that in mind. It won’t happen
again.”
And he wouldn’t. Even if he has to avoid Hirota’s trial altogether.
Besides. It’s like Hizashi had said- his students need him. Now, perhaps, more
than ever.
 
===============================================================================
 
“I wonder,” Steel muses, as he stands above Bakugou, examining his handiwork,
“will I be your first?”
“Shut… the fuck… up,” Bakugou manages to grind out, his chest heaving.
“You don’t really strike me as the type to get around,” Steel continues,
ignoring him. “But then again, these days it seems children lose their
virginity younger and younger. So what do I know.”
Bakugou’s muscles are trembling, still straining against his bindings.
Bakugou had assumed that Steel would be fast and brutal as soon as his
intentions were revealed with his kiss.
But he should have known better. Steel has been trying to draw this out for as
long as he can from the very beginning. So he takes his time taking Bakugou’s
pride apart, humiliating him piece by bloody, disgusting piece.
Bakugou has thrashed, and withered, and kicked, as Steel none too carefully
shredded his uniform, peeling the cloth off his skin, to no avail. His body is
littered with bruises, and scratches, and hickies, and bite marks (the worst of
which lies at the juncture of his neck). The pain and effort have only left him
shaking and exhausted, but he had to try something.
Because-fuck- Bakugou knows exactly where Steel plans on taking this, and it’s
terrifying, and no, he hasn’t done this before.
Which doesn’t really mean much. Bakugou’s never had much use for concepts like
virginity- he hardly cared if he ever even had sex or not. He wasn’t saving
himself for someone or anything stupid like that. He’d just… never cared. He’d
never really even wanted to have sex before. He figured he’d never even bother
with it.
And look, logically, Bakugou knows that this being his first time doesn’t make
what Steel is doing any more or less awful than it would be if it wasn’t.
But it still feels awful. The idea of never getting that back. Of never getting
to choose who he does this with for the first time.
Fuck, even something as simple as a kiss-
And some part of him, some part that he’s indulging far too much, that sounds
far too young, and afraid, is screaming that this can’t be happening. That this
won’t happen. That someone- anyone- will find him before this can go any
further. Before-
Before what?
Before things got worse? As opposed to now where things were just… better than
that?
It’s a stupid thought.
But that childish, desperate voice doesn’t care for logic, and just keeps
screaming that he has be found before Steel does something worse.
And the very fact that that voice exists, screaming to be saved, pisses Bakugou
off. He shouldn’t need saving. Not again. Not after everything.
He feels like he’s choking on his own pride, as well as bile.
Fuck- how far off would a rescue even be? How long has it been?
It feels like hours to him.
Hours spent stripped and helpless, pinned to the cold, hard ground. He’s
vulnerable and humiliated, lying here in front of a villain. Damn it, Bakugou’s
supposed to be a hero. The best hero.
And yet here he is. At the mercy of a madman out to rape him.
Then Bakugou doesn’t get the chance to think on it any further, because Steel’s
suddenly on top of him again, pinning his hips down by sitting atop his thighs.
“Well,” Steel says with that infuriating smirk, “if this is a first, then I’d
better be sure to impress, hmm?”
And before Bakugou has the chance to snap at him, there are hands on him,
burning him, consuming him, and his world narrows down to Steel’s touch.
One hand pinches one of his nipples, distracting him momentarily, before the
other suddenly grabs hold of his genitals, harsh and unforgiving, and twists.
A cry of pain is wrenched from Bakugou’s throat, and his back arches.
Then as quickly as the pain comes, it stops.
And then everything feels so, so much worse.
Steel’s grip on his penis loosens, and his hands feel like they’re burning him,
because he’s so cold, too cold, right down to his joints, and the other hand
finally releases his now sore nipple, and moves further down, and Bakugou jolts
when it squeezes his testicles. He’s screaming, screaming obscenities, and
nonsense, lashing out at nothing over and over again.
And then that awful, unnatural burn is inside him, moving down his chest, and
pooling at his groin, and Bakugou feels his eyes begin to water from
humiliation. It feels like his heart is trying to collapse in on itself, trying
to create a black hole to suck up everything. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t,
he doesn’t, he doesn’t-
A finger presses against his perineum, and a moan actually tries to force its
way out of his throat, and no, no, no, no, no-
The choked off moan turns into a scream of pain as a talon suddenly slices the
skin of his taint, cutting him in one of his most intimate places.
He’s left gasping and shaking from the awful mix of pain and pleasure, and his
eyes feel wet, but he won’t give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing him
cry, he won’t.
Three fingers are abruptly stuffed into his mouth.
Bakugou’s instinct is to bite down on them. Make Steel bleed. Make him pay,
pay, pay-
His teeth are met with metal guards.
Fuck .
“Try that again,” Steel says, as calm as ever, “and I’ll make good on that
threat to saw your hands off, consequences be damned.”
Bakugou can only glare up at the villain, and gag as those fingers hit the back
of his throat, and curl around his mouth, exploring the heat of his tongue
thoroughly.
Steel’s mouth is back to biting and sucking and licking its way across
Bakugou’s now tattered chest. All of the sensations are too much for Bakugou’s
body to keep up with. Everything swings from pleasure, to pain, and back again,
and Bakugou hurts, and it feels like he’s being betrayed by his own damn body
as Steel slowly coaxes him to an erection, and he wants this to stop, stop,
stop-
And for a second, it does. Steel releases his penis, and for a moment, Bakugou
thinks this part might be over.
Then a finger is unceremoniously shoved inside his ass, and Bakugou roars at
the unexpected intrusion, as liquid heat, too hot, too hot against his too cold
skin, runs up his spine. Bakugou thrashes, jerking against his bonds, trying to
get away, get away, get away.
Salivia runs down his face as he rages around the fingers stuffed in his mouth.
Steel just looks amused, just pressing in further, delighting in the jolts and
sounds Bakugou makes as he curls and wiggles his finger.
“Wow.” Steel chuckles. “Well, it’s clear you’ve at least never done this
before.”
Bakugou means to snarl, wants to scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic,
muffled whine.
Fuck , he wants this to stop so badly.
And then there is another finger, and it burns, fuck, it burns, and Bakugou can
feel the flesh of Steels’ fingers, dragging, and rubbing against his inner
walls, and it hurts, it’s wrong, wrong, WRONG-
He’s being stretched, slowly, and surely, by a villains fingers, and Bakugou
feels something rotten and heavy settling in his stomach. He’s being fucked.
He’s… this psychopath is raping him, and there’s nothing he can do.
His vision blurs, but damn it, he won’t cry for this bastard, he won’t.
He’s trapped and the air feels too thin, and Bakugou is gagging around the
fingers in his mouth, and trying to squirm away from the ones in his ass, and-
Suddenly, Steel’s fingers brush up against something inside of him, and Bakugou
stiffens all over, and a low moan reverberates from his throat.
And- no, no, no, no, that’s not- that’s wrong, he doesn’t want this. He
doesn’t, he doesn’t. Why is- he doesn’t-
Steel tilts his head back, his eyes half lidded as he lets out a groan of his
own.
“Fuck, that’s amazing,” Steel gasps out.
And Bakugou- the shame leaves him far too aware of his own organs- his stomach
and chest burn with humiliation, but the rest of him is too cold, too cold, too
cold-
Those fingers fuck him, finding his prostate over and over again, and Bakugou
can’t keep hold of himself, as his groin burns, almost painfully, bringing him
closer and closer to something Bakugou does not want. His back arches off the
ground, and he keeps bucking, and withering, hoping to get away, and-
The orgasm that hits, hurts. It’s painful. It burns.
And it leaves Bakugou shaking, and exhausted, and cold, and no, no, no-
Steel is laughing. “Well aren’t you a sight. Enjoying yourself?”
Steel slips his fingers from Bakugou’s ass, and Bakugou can’t resist the
shudder that racks his body.
He tries to swallow around the fingers in his mouth, but doesn’t get far. It’s
awful. He wants to retch, and purge every impure touch that’s eaten away at his
insides. Bakugou feels betrayed by his own body. Unclean in a way he doesn’t
know how to fix.
Steel laughs, and slowly removes his fingers from Bakugou’s mouth. Bakugou
immediately jolts back, away from the intrusions. But Steel does not even allow
him this small reprieve, as he merely drags his fingers through the remnants of
Bakugou’s orgasm, and then, with a quick twist to his overstimulated penis that
has Bakugou crying out in pain, shoves his fingers back into Bakugou’s mouth,
forcing him to taste himself.
Bakugou chokes at the taste and sensation, humiliation branding itself on his
face.
It’s disgusting. Depraved. Degrading.
Bakugou refuses to sob.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Bakugou Mitsuki is a woman self-aware enough to acknowledge her own impatience.
And usually, most days, she would do her best to grit her teeth, and speak with
some amount of human decency to a poor and overworked hospital staff.
Today is not most days.
“Where. The hell. Is my son,” Mitsuki demands, leaning over the counter,
getting right up in the face of the bored receptionist.
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the man repeats, his tone as flat as
ever. “Please take a seat ma’am, before I contact security.”
“Honey,” Masaru says, his voice soft, as he puts a hand on her elbow and tries
to gently draw her away, “let’s just take a seat and-”
“You said he was recovering,” Mitsuki says, shaking her husband off. “We’re his
parents. If there’s some reason we can’t see him then we at the very least
deserve to know why-”
“I am not at liberty to discuss sensitive information here,” the receptionist
drones, clicking away on his computer. “The doctor will discuss with you
further.”
A growl builds up in Mitsuki’s throat, and she has half a mind to grab this man
by the shirt, and pile drive him into the desk, security be damned.
But Masaru just takes her by the shoulders, firmer than before, and pulls her
away slowly.
He gives the receptionist a strained smile. “Thank you, we’ll be waiting over
here.”
Mitsuki shoots him a look, but he just turns to her, and whispers, “Please,
Honey, not here, okay? Getting angry won’t solve anything.”
Mitsuki frowns, but doesn’t protest as she lets her husband lead her to a
chair.
“What if he really got hurt this time?” she finally asks, after a long moment
of silence.
She remembers what it was like to get the call when Katsuki had been kidnapped
nearly a year ago. She remembers her panic, her anger, her all-encompassing
fear. In the end, she had been so relieved when her son hadn’t needed more than
quick once over to be deemed unhurt beyond a few scrapes and bruises.
But it feels like a nightmare relived when today she picked up her phone to
hear, “Your son has been taken to Hirokiah Hospital.”
Her stomach had plummeted as soon as the word ‘hospital’ registered.
She had demanded to know what happened, but the only information she had been
given was his location and that he was in ‘stable condition.’ It wasn’t much
comfort.
Her heart rate has not slowed since that call. Her son is alive, yes, but she
has no idea if he’s okay. What happened. What will happen.
Even with all the close calls, Katsuki has only ever been in the hospital once-
when he was six and had his tonsils removed. Hero work had never actually
injured him- not like this.
It feels like so many of Mitsuki’s fears come to life.
“They said he isn’t in critical condition,” Masaru says, rubbing his thumb
across her knuckles. “He’s going to be fine. Katsuki is strong.” He gives her a
small, genuine smile. “He takes after his mother, after all.”
Mitsuki scoffs, but she can’t help the slightly watery smile that tugs at her
lips. “Don’t be such as sap.”
It alleviates some of the fear pressing down on her chest, leaves something
almost warm curling at the base of her neck. But still, there is a part of
Mitsuki that whispers, I wish he didn’t.
Her husband takes her hand in his, lifting it and kissing her knuckles. “He’ll
be okay. We’ll be okay. We always are.”
Mitsuki is not a religious person, but she prays that he is right.
It takes the doctor twenty minutes too long to finally find them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bakugou?” the woman asks, looking up from her board.
They both stand abruptly.
“Where is my son?” Mitsuki demands immediately, disregarding all else in that
moment.
The woman examines them for a moment, then says, “Why don’t we find some place
more private to speak.”
 
Mitsuki’s ears feel as if they’ve been stuffed full of cotton. Dr. Mikosa’s
words are barely reaching her.
“His injuries, while unpleasant, are ultimately rather minor,” Mikosa had said
when she first sat them down in the small office. “Cuts, bruises, etc. His
shoulder was dislocated, but has been reset, and should be fine within a week
or two. His knee was the worst of it. We had to perform a minor surgery, and
it’ll take a while before it’s fully functional again, but it should make a
full recovery.”
Mitsuki had glared at her. It sounded… bad. But not awful. Not as bad as she’d
feared. Comparatively, it was all surface level damage. “Why the hell have you
lot been dancing around us then, if those where the only-”
“They weren’t.” The woman’s expression was severe, but there was something like
sympathy there too.
The moment the word ‘rape’ left her mouth, Mitsuki could no longer listen. She
is shaking. Her heart beat is too loud. Everything else felt like it was being
said underwater, garbled, impossible to understand, and her mind wrapped around
the word, again, and again, twisting it, trying to make sense of it.
Mitsuki stood, her hands, her knees, her entire body trembling. “Are you
telling me,” Mitsuki begins, her voice shaking like the rest of her, “that a
villain- some two bit thug- raped my son?”
Usually… usually this would be the point where Masaru reached out to her,
placed a hand on her arm, and grounded her.
But her husband’s hands cover most of his face, and she can only see his eyes,
wide and unblinking, staring down at his lap.
And Mitsuki is spiraling, untethered, and it doesn’t- it doesn’t make sense.
“I don’t believe you,” she snarls. “I don’t- there’s never- Katsuki isn’t- he
isn’t-”
“Mrs. Bakugou,” Dr. Mikosa says, standing as well, “please, I know this is… I
know this must be horrific for you. This is the last thing any parent wants to
hear, but denying it will not do anyone any good. Yourselves, or Katsuki.”
“Fuck you,” Mitsuki snarls, almost on instinct. “Fuck you, you crazy- my son is
fine. Villains don’t go around- they’re not-”
Dr.Mikosa’s no longer seems severe. Just sad. “A rape kit was used to gather
evidence. It’s unlikely it will be necessary, but we performed all necessary
procedures. We are currently testing for any possible STDs. If you would like
to look at-”
“No.” Masura’s voice is quiet compared to Mitsuki’s shaking rage, but it is
firm and uncompromising. “We don’t… Please. We’d just like to see our son.”
“Of course,” Dr. Mikosa says.
 
Reality hits Mitsuki in the hall, several doors away from her son, and she lets
out a choked and horrified sob, her legs giving out on her altogether. Her
husband supports her, wrapping his arms around her as they both lower onto a
bench in the hall. She presses her face into his shoulder, and she can feel how
he is shaking.
She doesn’t know if Dr. Mikosa is paying them any mind, or if she has stepped
away to give them a moment of privacy, but right now she doesn’t care. She and
her husband clutch each other, trembling, as she tries to remember how to
breathe.
It’s better, she tries to reason, that this happens now, rather than in the
middle of Katsuki’s hospital room.
She needs to pull herself together. Her son needs her.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Beg,” Steel commands. “Beg me to stop.”
Bakugou’s chest heaves as he stares up at the man, disgust and dread curdling
and rotting his insides. He has half a mind to snarl and spit right in the
bastard’s face. Wants to tell him exactly what to do with his fucking orders.
But he’s honestly hesitant to open his mouth at the moment- too afraid that
Steel will use it as another opportunity to gag him with his fingers.
So he just glares up at the man for a moment, his mind reeling.
He wants to spit and scream and rage against the idea that he be made to beg
for his rapist to stop. That he somehow has to earn the right to not be
violated by this man.
But then again… what if this is an out? What if Steel really is offering him a
way to make all of this stop? If all Steel wants is to break Bakugou’s pride,
then begging is a small price to pay to stop what could happen next. He could
even tell himself to fake it if he needed to.
The desperate, childish voice that had been firmly denying reality and begging
to be saved, had shut the hell up around the time Steel stuck his fingers
inside of him. The only thing he has left is to detach himself. Tell himself
that this doesn’t matter, that it’s like any other form of torture. This is no
different than physical pain- it isn’t.
(But the thought rings hollow in his own mind, because even as he thinks it, he
knows that Steel is digging beneath his skin in a way that a knife never
could.)
It has to be. Because Bakugou has to be able to endure this. Because rescue
isn’t coming.
But… but if he can somehow find a way to make things stop here… If there’s even
a chance…
Bakugou’s breathing is too uneven, and he’s forced to squeeze his eyes shut and
bite down on his tongue to keep from crying. He has to keep it together. He has
to.
And begging…
Begging would break him.
And it wouldn’t stop Steel.
Bakugou tries to think through everything he knows about the man: Steel is a
psychopath. He seems intent upon raping Bakugou before this encounter is
through. He wants Bakugou to feel helpless, to feel degraded. And forcing
Bakugou to try and beg for him to stop, with the thought that maybe, just maybe
he would, only to keep going… that sound exactly like the kind of thing he
would do.
Bakugou opens his eyes, and glares at the man.
If Steel wants to degrade Bakugou further, he’s going to have to do it himself.
Bakugou’s not going to help him.
“No,” he says, and he’s a bit proud of the fact that his voice comes out clear
and strong, despite how shaken he feels.
Steel just raises a brow, and Bakugou draws on his anger, his frustration, and
what little bit of pride hasn’t slit his throat on its way back up, and finds
strength.
“Fuck you, you sick son of a bitch,” Bakugou snarls. “I’m not going to give you
the pleasure. We both know you’re not about to stop. No matter what I say.”
Steel smirks. “Well, don’t say I didn’t give you an out.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Bakugou is tired, angry, and, most importantly, thirsty.
Fucking and multiple surgeries as it turns out are a surefire way to make you
feel dehydrated as all hell.
Back when the ambulance had arrived, the medics had seen fit to give him a
bottle of water. It had tasted weird (not drugged weird, like Katsuki’s over
active imagination tried to insist, just hospital weird). But after that he
became acutely aware of just how parched he actually was.
To be fair, Bakugou figures that they probably would have given him water after
he woke up from his surgeries. But it likely slipped their minds after he woke
up from the anesthesia and went ballistic.
Bakugou doesn’t pretend to be the most self-aware guy around, but he knows that
his reaction was probably a bit over the top.
There wasn’t even any rational reason for it. But when he woke up, his mind
still foggy from drugs, he somehow completely forgot about the rescue and the
hospital altogether. All he felt were hands on him, and he just knew- knew it
had to be Steel; that he was still with the villain, and had just passed out
from- from…
It didn’t make sense, he knows.
Even when his vision cleared, and he didn’t see Steel, his brain still screamed
that he was there, that there was danger, that he had to fight-
Even when Bakugou’s rationality finally kicked in it didn’t do him any good. It
was like he was trapped inside his own body, running on fear instincts alone.
He thinks he accidently burnt one of the nurse’s arms. He knows he broke an
I.V. off in his arm.
So he can’t really blame them for strapping him down, locking his arms to the
bed in leather cuffs.
But it still made his heart beat too quickly, made him feel trapped, helpless,
pinned against-
Somehow he had managed to calm down after his body had a moment to catch up
with his brain, enough to stop snarling and attempting to blow everyone up.
He’s sensible enough to know that this isn’t nefarious, that he isn’t really
trapped, that steel isn’t’ about to waltz through the door, or slide in through
the window, or suddenly appear looming over him, and-
Besides. Technically Katsuki could still use his Quirk like this. It wasn’t a
great idea- he’d at best be blowing up his own bed, and at worst just shooting
explosions off in unhelpful directions. But it wasn’t like when Steel had
trapped his hands. He- he could still-
He’s fine.
He’s just fucking thirsty is all.
And he can’t do anything about it when he’s still tied down like this.
Whatever. He’ll just make sure he demands that the next nurse that comes in
here bring him some fucking water. And untie him. Hopefully.
(He’s not actually sure if he might be in trouble for the whole ‘accidently
rampaging and maybe burning someone’ thing.)
He hears footsteps and murmuring voices stop outside his door, and Bakugou
tenses, ready to tell whoever the fuck walks through the door to stop being a
shit head and get him some fucking water already.
Then his parents walk in, and Bakugou suddenly feels very very cold again.
Shit.
He had forgotten.
He’d forgotten that being in the hospital, going through all this shit, meant
that his parents would have to be called. That they- that his mom- would find
out.
About Steel.
About-
Shit.
A doctor he vaguely recognizes (he thinks she talked with him when he first
arrived at the hospital) walks in behind them and closes the door.
For a long moment, no one says anything. Bakugou stares at his parents like a
deer in the headlights, and his parents’ eyes roam over him, taking in the cuts
and bruises that are still visible, the- fuck- the fucking hickies and bite
marks all around his neck and jaw. There’s something like horror in their
expressions, and Bakugou knows. He knows they know. That they’ve been told.
That he can’t hide this from them.
The doctor glances between the three of them, clearly unsure.
Then, his mother takes a few, unsteady steps forward.
“Katsuki.” His mother’s voice wavers, and Katsuki hates it, he hates it so
fucking much. She’s supposed to be the strong one, the one who never wavers,
never flinches. He hates that she sounds that way because of him.
She reaches out a hand slowly, and pauses when her son tenses. But when Katsuki
makes no move to pull away, she slowly takes those last few steps forward, and
sets her hand atop his head, gentle and reassuring.
His mother’s lip trembles for a moment. “You brat,” she manages to choke out,
before wrapping her arms around her son, and pulling him to her, cradling his
head under her chin.
The physical contact isn’t as bad as he feared it would be. The concept of
touch still sends his skin crawling, but his mother’s presence is reassuring,
and her familiarity cancels out much of his trepidation. (Familiarity might
also be the only reason Bakugou was capable of tolerating any kind of physical
contact from Deku).
So Bakugou just holds himself incredibly still, feeling hyperaware of every
point of contact on his body, and doesn’t threaten to blow anything up.
Bakugou can feel it as quiet sobs wrack his mother’s body, and fuck, he cannot
deal with this right now, he really, really can’t. His mother doesn’t cry,
okay. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her do it, and
each and every time, it’s been angry and loud, and unapologetic.
But this is quiet, and grief stricken, and it’s so so wrong coming from her,
and Bakugou hates it.
But he lets her have this moment, and takes one for himself, drawing in a deep
breath, trying to find relief in her presence.
Then the moment’s over, and he’s got a reputation to protect.
“Alright, alright, enough already. Tet the hell off me, you old hag!” Bakugou
yells, pulling back from her as well as he can with his arms restrained.
“Shut up, you little shit,” she croaks, momentarily tightening her hold.
Bakugou stiffens, but she releases him quickly. “I’m allowed to hug my own
son.”
It’s familiar, rote for the two of them. But it still feels a bit dull, a bit
too subdued for their normal.
Bakugou doesn’t comment on it.
His mother’s gaze sharpens as she notices the cuffs binding Bakugou to the bed.
“What the hell?” she demands, whirling on the doctor. “My son was just
assaulted, why the hell is he the one locked up?!”
“My apologies,” the doctor says, her tone patient and placating as she moves
towards Bakugou’s hospital bed. “He had a bit of an episode when he first woke
up. We feared he was a danger to himself and the staff, so we had him
restrained for the time being. I’m sorry we didn’t release him sooner.”
Bakugou’s mother turns back to him at that, some of her normal spark back in
her eyes as she yells, “Katsuki, what the hell? You can’t go around attacking
hospital staff, you brat!”
It’s not the same, but it’s familiar. A shred of normalcy for Bakugou to latch
onto.
So he rolls his eyes, and plays his part. “Oh, shaddup, would ya? It’s not like
I was doing it on purpose!”
He turns to the doctor, who is currently undoing the buckles on his restraints.
“Hey! Would one of you or your fucking staff go find me some water or
something? I’ve been parched since I woke up in this hell hole!”
“Don’t curse at hospital staff!” his mom yells (the hypocrite).
The doctor doesn’t seem phased however, simply replying, “I’ll page one of the
nurses.”
For a moment the only sounds are the clicking of metal buckles.
Bakugou catches his father’s eye, before they both immediately look away.
Shit.
What are they supposed to say?
 
He gets his water, and the doctor finally decides to break the God Awful
Silence that had been hanging in the air by listing out his injuries and
approximated recovery time.
The bruises and cuts will heal in their own time- one of the ones down his
chest needed stitches, but that was the worst of it. His shoulder and knee took
more work, and will likely cause him more trouble.
“Recovery Girl informed the hospital that she will be coming by tomorrow to
make sure your injuries are healed,” the doctor says, not putting her clipboard
down. Her eyes do move up to him however, assessing. “A U.A. student first and
a civilian second, I suppose.”
There’s no malice in her voice, but Bakugou still glares at her.
He flinches, along with both his parents, at the term ‘rectal tearing,’ and
tunes out most of her recount of his treatment. Until-
“We’re testing for Sexually Transmitted Diseases, but there are some we can’t
rule out just yet. We were able to give you medication that should work against
the possibility of HIV developing, but we can’t know for sure. Some STD’s can
take up to three months to make themselves known, so we recommend you come in
at least twice a month for additional testing until then,” the doctor says, and
Bakugou snaps to attention.
“What the fuck?” he growls, “What the fuck do you mean- that bastard might have
gotten me sick on top of everything else?”
She lifts her gaze, meeting his glare steadily. “It’s possible, yes. We
requested a blood sample from your assailant as well- if he comes back clean
then we can rest a bit easier. But it’s still a good idea to keep an eye out
just in case. You don’t want to take risks with things such as this.”
Bakugoku exhales sharply, and he tries to ignore how his shoulders shake.
Fucking- This was supposed to be over. Steel got his stupid fucking hour, and
was paying for it, and it was supposed to be over.
Fury leaves Bakugou’s hands shaking.
But somehow, Steel might still not be done wreaking havoc on his body, might
never be done. Katsuki doesn’t pretend to know a lot about STD’s, but he knows
that shit like HIV fucks up a person’s life, that it’d probably never fully
leave him.
Fuck.
Steel would be in his veins for the rest of his fucking life.
Bakugou’s glad that all he’s had recently is water. Because otherwise, he’s
certain he would be violently ill at this very moment otherwise.
Instead, he just lowers his glare down to his lap, where his hands clutch at
the stiff hospital sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
He’ll wring that bastard’s neck if he ever sees him again.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Izuku feels like most of the day has gone by as if he were underwater. Words
seem garbled, drifting, his vision never really snaps into focus, and he feels
sick, like he’s swallowed too much seawater. He feels off balance.
He feels like he can’t breathe properly.
“Izuku, my boy,” All Might’s voice takes a few too many seconds to reach him,
just like everything else.
Izuku blinks, and slowly his head to stare up at his mentor and idol.
All Might’s bright gaze holds so much, far too much, and Izuku can see the
pain, the fear, and it’s all too naked, and too much-
“I’m so sorry,” All Might says, and he knows, because of course he knows, of
course, it’s just-
Izuku’s bottom lip trembles, and he tries to force words out.
It… it doesn’t really work.
All Might’s eyes are colored with worry, and he reaches out an emancipated
hand, but then pauses, hesitating, and Izuku swears he sees that hand
trembling.
All Might sets his hand on Izuku’s shoulder, seeming unsure, but relieved when
Izuku does not pull away from the contact.
“Are you alright?” All Might asks, his voice quiet, far too quiet.
Izuku tries to reply, tries to say, “I don’t know,” but the only sound to come
out of him is a broken, grieving sob. He wants to stop, to stem the tears that
are already spilling from his eyes and leaving tracks across his cheeks,
because damn it, damn it, he doesn’t have the right to cry about this. Not when
he wasn’t the one hurt, not when-
“Oh, my boy,” All Might says, and slowly, surely, curls his arms around Izuku,
pulling him closer. “I’m so, so sorry.” He cradles Izuku against his chest, his
arms gentle but secure. “I’m so sorry.”
Izuku can’t catch his breath, he feels like he’s hyperventilating. But somehow,
between his sobs, the word slips out-
“Why?”
And it sounds so broken, and childish, and silly, but-
“Why?” Izuku repeats through gasped breaths. “I don’t- I don’t understand. Why-
why would anyone-?”
All Might’s arms tighten around him, and a hand comes up to stroke through his
hair, a small act of comfort.
“Why?”
It seems like the only thing he can say.
“I don’t know, my boy,” All Might admits, and he sounds so sad, and lost, and
if All Might’s lost, then how’s Izuku ever supposed to figure it out, how- “I
don’t know.”
Izuku just clutches his mentor and sobs.
 
“We can’t be certain that this was an isolated incident,” Nedzu says to the
four of them, his expression unreadable, but his tone severe. “We’ve decided to
increase security precautions. Students must stay at the dorms for the
weekend.” He tilts his head, seeming almost apologetic when he says, “I know
that seeing your parents-”
“It’s fine,” Momo says, and she sounds so tired. Just like the rest of them.
“We… we understand it’s for the best.”
The rest of them nod.
Izuku had considered requesting that he be allowed to go home- had considered
spending the night curled up in his mother’s lap, and clinging to her like a
child again.
He certainly feels like a child.
But at the same time… he doesn’t want to leave his classmates. Not with the
raw, open wound that is Kacchan’s assault. It’s like a dog gnawing on his
bones- the thought that something might happen to one of them, any of them, any
time. Something so awful-
He doesn’t want to be away from them right now.
Izuku doesn’t know if the school truly is concerned for their safety, or if
perhaps, like him, they simply want the security of knowing their students are
safe within UA’s walls.
They spend the night curled on top of Momo’s comforter; her bed is big enough
to accommodate them all, even if just barely.
Izuku is curled on his side at the foot of the bed, his knees drawn close to
his chest. Kirishima’s lying at the right edge of the bed, staring out at the
rest of them. Momo is on the other side, closer to the middle, but mirroring
Kirishima’s position. Tokoyami sits not far from Izuku, propped up by the bed’s
post with a pillow at his back. His chin dips towards his chest.
None of them had been able to find it in themselves to talk with their
classmates. Most of them weren’t even up this late anyways.
They hadn’t planned ending up in the same bed. But after all showering and
changing clothes, the boys had not wanted to part. So instead of finding any of
their rooms, they simply knocked on Momo’s door. She let them in without
question.
They had talked, quietly, in veiled terms, but really hadn’t spoken about
anything.
None of them could bring themselves to leave.
And now, they’re here, curled up, and pretending to fall asleep.
As if they could.
For Izuku it’s a long, awful night, full of a few fitful spells of sleep.
But it’s made the slightest bit more bearable by his friend’s presence.
 
===============================================================================
 
It’s ridiculous, Bakugou knows it is, but the second Recovery Girl walks
through the door, some childish, irrational fear grips him.
Waking up this morning in the hospital was surreal. It hadn’t been like waking
up from surgery. Bakugou woke up with a pit in his stomach, and an ache in his
bones, particularly his lower back, covered in sweat, and he just-
Knew.
Knew that another person’s hands had been on him, knew that he’d been stripped
of his clothes and his power, knew that he’d been raped.
But it feels a bit disconnected. Like it’s a fact floating out in the distance.
Then again, his entire body feels a bit disconnected as well, like it’s washing
back and forth in waves, while Bakugou remains stationary. Or maybe he has that
reversed.
Either way it makes his entire body feel alien, foreign in a way it shouldn’t.
The only real connection he feels he has to himself and what happened is the
stinging pain of his injuries.
Which is why, as soon as he sees Recovery Girl, some part of him panics.
No.
“Hello Bakugou,” she says, and she sounds like her normal self, except tired,
so very, very tired. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Sore,” Bakugou snaps. “How else would I be feeling?”
Recovery Girl hums in thought. “I’ve been over your charts with your doctors.
Given that you’ve had a good night’s rest, you should have enough stamina for
me to heal most of your injuries. Your shoulder and knee might still need
another day or so if we don’t want to overdo it, but I can take care of
everything else.”
It’s completely irrational, Bakugou knows that. He wants to get better, he
does. He wants to get out of this fucking bed, out of this fucking hospital,
and just get back to school, where he should be.
But some illogical part of him tenses and lashes out at the thought of being
healed. The scratches and bruises across his hips and back, the bite marks on
his neck and shoulders, the cuts across his stomach and shoulders, the pain of-
it’s all proof. Proof that what happened to him was real. Was tangible.
He doesn’t want to be left with what’s just in his head.
Because then how is Bakugou to deal with this? If it’s not physical pain that
can be healed slowly, then how is he supposed to-
Bakugou takes a deep shuddering breath.
He’s being irrational. He knows that.
So he’s going to suck it up, and let the old lady heal him.
He can do this.
It’s fine.
It doesn’t mean a thing.
He’s fine.
 
===============================================================================
 
Bakugou wishes that Steel would be fast and brutal. He wishes that this would
be over quickly. And maybe, maybe if it’s painful, only painful, he can
convince himself this isn’t too awful to handle.
Steel doesn’t seem interested in obliging.
This time, when he leans down and kisses Bakugou, Bakugou refuses to open his
mouth. The bastard still slips his tongue past the seal of his lips, but is
forced to stop at the barrier of his teeth. Steel just laughs, undeterred,
before slowly kissing down his face, neck, and shoulders, biting and sucking
along the way.
“Get your mouth off me, you disgusting, little-” Bakugou cuts himself off with
a scream of frustration.
The metal around Steel’s fingers keeps warping and unwarping, back into sharp
tipped talons, then back to blunt fingernails. A talon leaves a shallow scratch
along the inside of Bakugou’s thigh.
Bakugou’s starting to feel light headed.
He doesn’t know if it’s from the pain, or blood loss, or from the fact that he
can’t seem to fucking breathe.
When Steel’s cock finally presses against his entrance, Bakugou isn’t expecting
it- too consumed by trying to push away from Steel’s mouth and fingers. He
jerks, trying to dislodge Steel, but the man’s grip on him is too secure.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bakugou screams, heedless of his near hysterics.
Steel just grins down at him, and slowly pushes in. Bakugou feels every fucking
second of it. Skin catching on skin, dragging, and burning, and Bakugou thinks
for a horrible moment that it’s going to be this slow the whole fucking time.
Then, Steel slams forward fully seating himself inside of Bakugou, and Bakugou
screams as pain laces up his lower back. It is too large of an insertion too
quickly, even with the preparation Steel had technically done.
Bakugou’s scream of pain turns into another, “I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Steel just stares down at him, that amused smirk, and those awful gray eyes
pinning him down as much as his binds. Bakugou can’t do anything except lay
there and feel Steel’s cock fully seated inside of him, and the trickle of
blood down his thighs.
Steel draws back, slow, so unnaturally, awfully slow, before slamming forward
again. Bakugou’s jarred by the movement, his wrists twisting painfully.
“Damn it!” he yells, screwing his eyes shut so that the tears will not fall.
“Get off of me!”
He tries to thrash, buck away from Steel, but he can feel that villain’s penis
shifting inside of him, and it feels so so wrong, and disgusting, and it hurts-
Steel leans his head back and lets out a long, low moan, and no.
No . Bakugou is not letting this happen, he’s not-
He tries desperately to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Tries to detach
himself from what’s happening and think about something else. Anything else.
About school, about heroics. About sunlight, and laughter, the smell of laundry
detergent, and red hair.
But Steel does not let him. Steel keeps his rhythm irregular, and refuses to
let Bakugou grow accustomed to any one speed or angle. He grips Bakugou’s hips
hard enough to bruise, then sinks talons into his skin. He scratches across his
back, grabs ahold of his thighs, and pinches at Bakugou’s skin. He keeps
Bakugou on edge with pain and uncertainty.
A few times Bakugou feels his prostate being hit once again, and he panics,
thinking that Steel will try to force another orgasm from him again. But Steel
doesn’t ever stay in a position for long, and seems uninterested in any
pleasure on Bakugou’s behalf.
It’s the only silver lining Bakugou can really find at the moment.
Since drifting does not work, Bakugou dedicates himself to holding on to the
anger inside of him, ignoring the pit of shame and ugliness in his stomach, and
lobs every curse and insult he knows at Steel, threatening him with every
creative death he can imagine. He barely knows what he’s saying.
It’s not like it matters much anyway.
Because at the end of it all, Bakugou is still there, being raped by a
psychopath, and no one is coming to save him.
He’s not even sure it would matter anymore if they did.
He wants to vomit up his own organs, every stretch and thrust feels so
disgusting- degrading. It makes his stomach turn to feel this psychopath moving
inside of him, his way eased by Bakugou’s blood.
Bakugou knows, instinctively somehow, that he’ll never be clean after this.
He’ll never be able to wash away Steel’s touch.
One of Steel’s hands slowly begins to slide up his chest, and his thrusts slow,
becoming more languid for a moment, as he stops at Bakugou’s neck, cupping it
gently.
Bakugou tenses, then flinches as it only makes the feeling of Steel inside him
more obtrusive.
“Imagine,” Steel says, his voice silky and sweet, like whispering sweet
nothings in a lover’s ear, “what it’ll be like when your fellow heroes learn
what happened here.” The sound Bakugou makes is choked and pained. “Imagine
what it’ll be like for them to learn that the brightest student of the
brightest school was stripped of his pride, and raped by some low level
villain. I wonder what they’ll think of you then?”
Bakugou thinks he’s choking on slime again. All he can choke out is a meet,
“Shut up.”
Steel continues as if he hadn’t heard him. “I wonder what they’ll think of
themselves when they learn? Do you think they’ll be afraid?”
Anger flares in Bakugou, bright and familiar, and he latches onto it before it
can slip away with the rest of his dignity. He glares up at Steel, eyes
defiant. “If you think that,” he sneers, “then you’re an idiot.”
Steel seems unaffected though, and just continues to grin, as his movements
suddenly pick up in speed. “I suppose we’ll see.”
He tries to hold onto that thread of anger, he tries. But in the end it slips
from his grasp along with any sense of control and self-worth. And slowly,
Bakugou starts feeling exhaustion and helplessness consume him, and all he can
do is turn his head, and try to keep breathing (to little avail) as Steel keeps
fucking him.
“What’s wrong?” the villain asks, laughter in his voice, as he reaches down a
hand, and pulls Bakugou’s chin towards him. “You’ve gotten quiet. Don’t tell me
you’re getting bored?”
Bakuogu snarls up at him, but it’s half-hearted. He just wants this to be over
and done with.
And soon enough, with a few more cuts, and bruises, and the awful, disturbing
feeling of Steel thrusting inside him, Steel stills with a final thrust, and
shudders. Bakugou barely has a second to prepare himself before warmth floods
inside of him.
The sensation is grotesque. Disgust overwhelms him for a second, and he’s sure-
so sure- that he’s going to break his promise to himself and start sobbing
right there, because this feels so, so wrong. Like he’s been hollowed out and
the only thing left is Steel.
Steel leans down and presses his mouth to Bakugou’s once more, and the kiss is
hard, and slow, and dirty, and Bakugou thinks he might gag.
The villain breaks the kiss with an almost regretful sigh. “A shame we don’t
have more time,” Steel says, and Bakugou’s stomach swoops as panic seizes him.
No, it’s over right? It has to be. It has to be-
“Imagine what I could have done with you in a week or two. I bet I could have
made you beg so beautifully.”
Bakugou just squeezes his eyes shut, and keeps his head turned away. It’s over.
It has to be.
Steel just has to stand and leave now. And he will- he will.
And Bakugou… Bakugou will be left to be found by someone.
He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He’s too tired to think about it.
It doesn’t feel like anything else can exist outside of these moments. Outside
of feeling Steel’s semen in his ass; outside of feeling used and small. It
feels like someone took steel wool to his internal organs and scrubbed at them
until they were nothing but bloody stumps.
He’s shaking.
He can’t look at Steel any more. He can’t.
A hand brushes through his hair, and Bakugou flinches.
Please, please, just let it be over-
Pain suddenly jars Bakugou, and a half shout is heard above him, and suddenly
Steel is gone.
Bakugou snaps his eyes open, because he has to be sure, he has to know-
Deku stands in front of him. Fucking Deku of all people, facing Steel, who is
off of him, out of him, and standing slowly.
Bakugou lets his head drop back, even as he hears others approaching him.
It’s over.
 
===============================================================================
 
He was supposed to be out of this hell hole by the afternoon. With Recovery
Girl healing his injuries, they had said, it was really just a matter of
recovery time and keeping an eye out for any possible infections.
And then Bakugou had to go and be an idiot and have a mini freak out in the
fucking shower of all places.
It was- it wasn’t like he had meant to hurt himself. He wasn’t- he’s not like
that-
Fuck. It was just- It was the first real shower he’d had since the attack, and
he’d just been scrubbing, trying to get the feeling of Steel off his skin. But
it wasn’t working. Because even as he was scrubbing his skin raw, he could
still feel Steel there, like a phantom touch, underneath his flesh, and he just
wanted him out, out, out.
The whole ‘tearing his arms to shreds with his fingernails’ thing hadn’t been
intentional.
He hadn’t even realized it was a problem until he actually looked down at his
arms and saw just how much blood there was.
It hadn’t exactly been the easiest thing to hide.
The doctor checked his wounds, wrapped them, and then told Bakugou he’d be
staying overnight for observation.
Bakugou almost howled with anguish, and anger, because no, no, no, no, no, he
does nto need to be here, this is just making everything worse!
He just barely manages to pull off sounding like a real person instead of a
wounded animal, but his dumbass doctor didn’t seem to care. She just gave him
medication for the pain that had him drifting in and out of sleep for the next
few hours.
The late afternoon is a bleary blur. He knows his parents have returned, and
that they’re worried, but he can’t remember if he actually said anything to
them.
But it’s during this time that the world keeps sharpening and dimming over and
over again, and he is drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, that
he hears-
“Fuck you!”
Well that’s definitely his mom.
“Mrs. Bakugou, please,” the doctor (and Bakugou has no idea when she got here)
says, her tone no longer so bored and clinical. “I’m just saying it would be
prudent to consider-”
“My son doesn’t need a fucking psychiatric ward!” his mother spits.
Bakugou’s sluggish mind freezes for a moment, then, as the words register, a
foggy kind of panic grips him.
Psychiatric ward… they want to put him in a nut house?
“He needs support, and his family!” his mother continues. “And you’re going to
suggest we lock him away like a fucking psychopath? Because of what someone
else did to him?! No, I’m not going to consider shit!”
“Mitsuki, please, calm down,” his father says, voice barely a murmur next to
his mother’s bombastic shouting.
“You’re son harmed himself,” the doctor says, and she actually sounds
frustrated. “He’s dealing with something very difficult and emotionally
damaging. This… if this is an indication of what is to come, then he may be a
danger to himself. A ward could provide better security, and-”
“I. Don’t. Care,” his mother hisses. “We’re not throwing out son in the looney
bin just because he’s recovering from-”
She cuts herself off with a sharp inhale.
“Just fix his physical wounds. That’s your fucking job,” she spits. “Let us
worry about the rest of it.”
The doctor is silent for a moment, then-
“It’s your decision,” she says. “I’d just advise caution in making it. Because
things are going to be a hell of a lot worse if that boy does irreparable
damage to himself for someone else.”
“We’ll take care of it,” his father says, his voice much steelier than usual.
“Thank you for your advice, Dr. Mikosa.”
Bakugou wants to wake up fully, wants to tell them that he doesn’t need a
fucking psychiatric ward, that he’s fine, and he can fight his own fucking
battles. But he can already feel himself drifting back towards unawareness, and
he can’t find the physical strength to fight it.
But he thinks, as the door closes, and sounds begin to warp and muffle once
more, that he hears a man crying.
But he can’t be sure.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Izuku cannot sleep.
It had been such a long day, and he was so incredibly tired, but he still could
not sleep.
He and Kirishima had chosen to visit the hospital early this morning, trying to
sneak out before anyone else woke up. Tokoyami and Momo had both declined to
come along, and Izuku hadn’t pressed for why.
Hound Dog had accompanied them to the hospital. Izuku assumed that Aizawa and
All Might must have still been asleep, otherwise they likely would have wanted
to check up on Kacchan themselves.
The trip turned out to be fruitless however, as the receptionist told them that
Kacchan was not accepting any visitors outside of family. It was upsetting, but
Izuku can’t say he was surprised. Kirishima had fought a bit harder, pleading
that the receptionist at least have someone tell Bakugou that they were there.
In the end, Hound Dog escorted them out, his expression sympathetic.
The trip was tedious and disappointing, but the real ordeal began when they
arrived back at the dorms to find their classmates all huddled together in the
common room with haunted eyes.
Izuku had been alarmed when, as soon as they walked in, Uraraka broke down in
tears. Tokoyami had responded to his bewildered questions by informing them
that Principal Nedzu and Aizawa had explained what happened to their class.
Apparently the school preferred they learn what happen to Kacchan from them
than risk the information coming from a more nefarious source.
The room was thick with misery, but no one was willing to leave the common
room. Everyone seemed to be of a similar mind as Izuku yesterday- they wanted
the security of knowing they and their classmates were still safe. But
everyone’s combined grief makes the atmosphere oppressive.
Izuku had expected there to be a lot of questions, was anticipating having to
fend off countless questions about what had happened, about Kacchan, or about
themselves.
But instead, the only thing that’s asked is-
“Is he going to be okay?”
It came from Kaminari, who stared down at the dining table, shaken and
despondant, not even bothering to look up.
“They say he’ll make a full recovery,” Izuku had managed to admit. “But that’s
all we know. We couldn’t’ see him.”
Kaminari had just nodded.
No one pressed further. Everyone seemed to be in unspoken agreement not to talk
about it any further. It’s as if they’re walking on eggshells, both for Izuku,
Kirishima, Momo, and Tokoyami, and for themselves.
They try to entertain themselves, try to act like it’s a normal day while holed
up in the common room. They try to talk about things that don’t matter, or
cook, or play games, or watch movies. But it all feels hollow.
The atmosphere is too tense, and everyone is too unsettled to work up the
energy to make the act convincing.
Despair, fear, and unanswered questions hang in the air, unvoiced.
It feels like some unknown, unspoken safety net that’s always been there has
suddenly been irrevocably shaken.
You can’t unknow something, Izuku realized.
And, at the end of the day, they will all still know that this happened to
Kacchan. At the end of the day, they’ll all still know that it could happen
again.
Pretending doesn’t change that.
But they do it anyway. Because what else can they do?
By the time everyone has finally fallen asleep, Izuku is exhausted from
pretending, and trying to keep his head above water all day. But he still can’t
sleep.
Uraraka’s head is resting on his shoulder, and Izuku is pressed against the
side of the couch. No one had bothered going back to their rooms for the night.
Instead, they all squeezed together around the television and watched a few
movies.
By movie three everyone had more or less fallen asleep, either on the couch, or
curled up somewhere on the floor.
Izuku assumes he’s probably the only one still awake as he stares blankly at
the now black T.V. screen. But then he hears shifting and catches movement form
the corner of his eye.
He can’t turn his head much with Uraraka positioned the way she is, but he
manages to crane his neck just enough to see Kirishima, sitting on the opposite
end of the couch with Sero half resting on top of him, looking back at Izuku.
Izuku pauses when he’s met with tired red eyes, biting his lip, considering.
Clearly neither of them are getting any sleep at the moment.
Izuku jerks his chin over his shoulder, towards the kitchen, trying to make his
intent clear.
Kirishima’s eyes follow Izuku’s indication, and he nods.
They both move slowly, trying to extract themselves from their sleeping friends
as gently as possible.. Kirishima is able to set Sero back on the couch with
little difficulty, but Izuku has a bit more trouble, as he has to slowly lower
Uraraka until her head rests on a pillow he sets on the arm of the couch, while
trying not to wake her.
They have to step over several classmates on their way to the kitchen,
tiptoeing as to not wake anyone up.
Izuku nearly steps on Hakagure.
But as soon as they’ve disentangled themselves from their class, both of their
shoulders drop, easing some of the tension that’s been held between them all
day. Izuku glances at Kirishima who gives him a small, tired smile.
“Tea?” Izuku asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” Kirishima replies, and despite not talking nearly as much as usual, his
voice sounds hoarse and cracking.
They still try to be quiet, the kitchen isn’t separated by any walls after all,
only distance.
For a long moment the only sound between them is the slight clang of the kettle
being filled and cups being pulled from the cabinets.
Kirishima stares down at the counter, braced on his forearms.
When there’s no longer anything to distract himself with Izuku finally asks,
“Are you okay?”
Kirishima laughs, quiet and hollow.
“Honestly? I don’t think any of us are okay right now,” Kirishima admits,
glancing over at their classmates.
Izuku grimaces. “Yeah… I guess not.”
It had hurt, to look into his friends’ eyes today and see fear and grief so
raw.
How could any of them be okay right now?
“But still,” Izuku says, “I know you and Kacchan were kind o-”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Kirishima cuts in quickly. And he just sound so
defeated- Izuku’s heart aches for him. “I… it’s not important. Bakugou needs
friends, now more than ever. Anything else..,” he shakes his head. “Anything
else isn’t important right now.”
It isn’t really a secret, how Kirishima feels about Kacchan.
Kirishima and Bakugou’s ‘Kinda Sorta Maybe But Not Quite’ relationship is
actually rather infamous in their class. It was almost like a sport to watch
them dance around each other, to see them dip just past the bounds of typical
friendliness before pulling back.
Izuku never really knew why they didn’t just confess to each other, as it
seemed clear, to him at least, that Kacchan returned Kirishima’s interest.
But now, the dark, decrepit tendrils of what that villain had done has wrapped
itself around that as well, poisoning something that had been positive and
hopeful.
It was clear Kirishima deeply cared for, and perhaps even loved, Kacchan, if
only by his reaction to what had happened yesterday.
But they could hardly pick right back up where they left off after everything.
Izuku doesn’t really know what to say to reassure him, so he doesn’t say
anything, and when the kettle whistles, he just busies himself with making
their tea.
He hands Kirishima a cup, and brings his own up to his lips, leaning against
the counter, opposite Kirishima.
But Kirishima just stares down at his cup, seeming lost in thought once more.
Izuku really wishes that he had any words of encouragement to offer. But they
all ring false in his own mind.
It’ll be okay- Would it? Izuku doesn’t know. It certainly doesn’t feel like it
will be.
He’s safe now- Technically, sure. But that wasn’t really the concern anymore,
was it?
The villain will face justice- So? Nothing would ever be enough. Not really.
So Izuku doesn’t say anything.
Someone shifts in the living room, murmuring in their sleep. Izuku glances over
at them, but when no one seems to wake, he lets out a small breath of relief.
He loves his friends, he does. But right now, having to constantly act around
them feels a bit unbearable.
“I’ve never wanted to kill someone before,” Kirishima says, startling Izuku out
of his reprieve.
Izuku looks up, eyes wide. “What?”
Kirishima is trembling, and he does not look up from his tea. “Yesterday. In
the warehouse. With the villain. I-… I’ve never wanted to kill someone before
then. I never-” his voice cracks. “I never thought I was capable of something
like that.”
Izuku’s mind blanks, as he just stares at Kirishima, his over exhausted brain
trying desperately to play catch up, and failing spectacularly.
“But I- I was just so angry, and I just-” he cuts himself off, and takes a
deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t think I would have stopped if you guys hadn’t
been there.”
Izuku swallows thickly.
“And, I know it was wrong, I know that.” Kirishima’s hands begin hardening, but
he doesn’t seem to notice. “But I… I still wish I had.”
The cup cracks.
Kirishima goes quiet, his eyes lowered in shame, and Izuku barely dares to
breathe.
For a long moment, they sit in tense silence.
Izuku doesn’t know what to think of a confession like that.
He… It’s wrong. To wish someone dead like that.
But at the same time, he almost agrees.
Every time his mind so much as brushes against the thought of the villain that
had attacked Kacchan, his vision goes red, and he knows that no punishment ever
given to the man will satisfy him.
And that’s not something he’s ever wanted to know about himself. That he could
feel that much rage and hatred towards someone.
He can’t imagine how Kirishima feels.
“That doesn’t make you a bad person,” Izuku finally settles on saying.
Kirishima looks up at him slowly, blinking rapidly as his eyes shine with
unshed tears.
“I… it’s not right,” Izuku says, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “But… but I
think maybe it’s… understandable. To feel that way.”
Some of the tension in Kirishima’s shoulders melts away, and his hands grip on
the cup, and his quirk, softens.
Izuku finally meets his gaze. “It doesn’t make you less of a hero.”
Kirishima gives him a wobbly, uncertain smile. “Maybe.”
 
In the end, Kirishima is forced to pour out most of his tea, and throw away the
now cracked cup.
“Sorry,” Kirishima mutters, but Izuku just waves off his apology.
They tiptoe back to the living room, and Kirishima resituates himself onto the
couch, careful not to jostle anyone.
Izuku however, just finds an empty spot on the wall beside the television and
slides down.
Kirishima lets his eyes drift close, but Izuku finds he can’t do the same. He’s
still both too keyed up and too exhausted.
He wants to sleep, more than anything, but he finds that the thought leaves him
panicky and agitated.
So he gives up on getting any rest tonight, and instead figures he can at least
give himself some peace of mind in guarding his classmates. It’s not necessary-
there’s no reason to believe they’ll be attacked, or that their teachers
wouldn’t be the best first line of defense if they were. But it still does
something to ease the panic that eats away at his chest.
(He can’t help but think that he’d feel much better if Kacchan was here too).
However it seems that nearly forty-eight hours with only a few hours of sleep
is finally catching up to him, as he feels the world slowly becoming a static
buzz, and he has to force his eyes to stay open. But after a while, nothing in
front of him really registers, and he starts to feel himself listing to the
side, and-
A hand settles in his hair, and Izuku startles, whipping around, his fist
already half raised as he begins drawing on One for All.
But the power isn’t there, something’s blocking it, something’s-
Izuku finds himself staring into tired red eyes, partially obscured by long
black hair.
Oh.
“Calm down,” Aizawa says, his quiet voice still too loud in the silent common
room. He’s crouched beside Izuku, one hand settled on top of his head. “It’s
just me.”
Izuku blinks blearily, and rubs at his eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Aizawa. I didn’t hear
you.”
Wow. He must be the worst guard.
Aizawa almost looks vaguely amused at that.
“Clearly. You shouldn’t still be up,” Aizawa says, taking his hand off of Izuku
to brace against the floor.
Izuku chews his bottom lip, trying to think of what to tell his teacher, what
excuse to make. But he must take too long because Aizawa just sighs, and
stands, straightening to his full height.
“You can quit playing guard dog and get some sleep,” he says, leaning back
against the wall, next to Izuku. “I’ll keep watch for you.”
Izuku stares up at him, a bit too disoriented to fully process everything. But
he feels his eyes burn with tears anyway.
“But I,” he starts, and he isn’t even really sure what he’s protesting.
Aizawa just brushes his fingers through Izuku’s hair again, a small
reassurance. But his voice is still it’s typical bored monotone when he says,
“I said get some rest, problem child. I can handle everything else, alright?”
Izuku lets his mouth fall closed, and swallows thickly, before nodding.
Okay.
His heart seems to calm slightly in his chest somewhat, and his skin feels less
jumpy.
With Aizawa standing guard next to him, brushing a hand through his hair
softly, Izuku finds himself finally lulled to sleep.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Aizawa is usually tired. Today is not particularly different.
And yet, he’s found since yesterday that he cannot sleep. He’s tried, but every
time he closes his eyes, that bastard’s face flashes in his mind’s eye, and he
finds himself surging with anger.
Even weary with bone deep exhaustion, Aizawa cannot find it within himself to
actually sleep.
He’s been… restless since yesterday. Agitated.
The school has been smart enough to keep him out of the legal proceedings since
his outburst. Aizawa tries not to let that bother him- he would have done the
same thing in their position. But it hasn’t helped at all to set his mind at
ease. Even though he has been told that Hirota has been secured- couldn’t use
his quirk even if he tried- Aizawa can’t stop fear from slicing down his spine
every time the man’s face is called to mind.
He’s tried to give his students their space, he’s no counselor after all, but
he couldn’t stop himself from checking in on them tonight, just to be sure.
He should maybe be more surprised than he is to see them all curled up together
in their common area. But then again, Aizawa’s class has always been closer
than most. It makes sense that they’d find comfort in each other at a time like
this.
Midoriya seemed to be the only one awake- staring vacantly in front of him, his
shoulders tense. Aizawa felt whatever shriveled thing in his chest counted as a
heart squeeze at the sight.
The least he could do is give his students a safe night’s rest.
The common room is quiet, with only the sound of soft snores from a few to fill
the void. Aizawa lets his head tip back against the wall, his fingers still
lingering in Midoriya’s hair, even after he had fallen asleep, and just
watches.
There’s an undeniable contentedness that washes over him at seeing his students
in front of him, safe, unharmed, and supporting one another in whatever way
they can. Just that small bit of relief casts a stark contrast to just how
wound up he’s been this past day or so.
However, Aizawa stiffens all over again when he hears a door creak open, and he
turns towards the dorm entrance, readying for a fight.
But then a shaggy blond head pokes through the door, and Aizawa immediately
lets out a breath of relief, collapsing against the wall once more. Hizashi
gives him a tight, but apologetic smile, and closes the door softly behind him,
and locking it, before approaching the sleeping mass of students.
Hizashi takes a moment, observing the splayed out class with something that
lingers between melancholy and amusement. Finally, he meets Aizawa’s gaze.
“Hey,” he greets, and for once he’s quiet.
He always looks so different with that stupid speaker off his neck and his hair
down. More subdued.
Aizawa just jerks his chin in acknowledgement.
“Seems like they all managed to tire themselves out,” Hizashi says, stepping
around a few kids, and pausing to bend down and pull Hakagure’s blanket back up
to her chin. “I’m kind of surprised.”
“Technically,” Aizawa says, grateful for the distraction, “they’re not supposed
to be outside of their dorm rooms after curfew.
“Can you really blame them?” Hizashi settles on leaning against an empty wall
across from Aizawa. “Besides,” he chuckles, “you’re too much of a softie to
wake them all up and separate them.”
Aizawa just gives a noncommittal hum.
“Don’t worry,” Hizashi says, “I’ll keep your secret.”
Aizawa doesn’t bother to reply.
There’s a lull of silence as they both stand there, arms crossed, and posture
relaxed as they watch over Aizawa’s students.
“I feel like I should know what to do,” Hizashi says after a long moment.
“We’re supposed to be their teachers. Guide them, show them how to deal with
being a hero, and what not. But if I’m honest, I… I genuinely don’t know how to
deal with any of this.”
Aizawa purses his lips, biting down on the inside of his cheek for a moment,
before he admits, “I don’t think any of us do.”
Hizashi shakes his head. “I mean… I’m sure it’s happened before. It has to
have. But I just- this isn’t normal. The way villains have been going after
these kids since day one. The way everything’s been so turned around since…
since Kamino. It feels like every time we think we’ve seen the worst of it the
rabbit hole just gets deeper.”
That’s because it’s not a rabbit hole, Aizawa wants to say. It’s a pit.
A pit that opened up under them the second that All Might had fallen. A pit
that has no bottom, that knows no bounds.
But Aizawa hardly needs to tell Hizashi that.
“It wasn’t like this for us,” Aizawa says. “The world we live in now is
different.”
They had had All Might in their generation after all.
“Different,” Hizashi scoffs, half-hearted and uncharacteristically despondent.
“Crueler, is what I’d say. Where do these bastards keep coming from?”
“They’ve likely always been there,” Aizawa says. “They’re just crawling out of
the woodwork, getting braver since All Might’s retirement.”
He looks down at Midoriya, his brow creasing.
“Hirota-” Aizawa spits the name out like venom, “-said himself that he was just
being opportunistic. He’s typically a low level crook- someone police or minor
heroes would be more likely to handle. But now… villains like him have gotten
bold. They think they can tear down heroes, where before they would have
avoided us entirely.”
“They’re kids,” Hizashi says, like he’s trying to make some kind of argument.
“They’re important,” Aizawa retort, even as the reply sickens him. “To the hero
community. And to society at large. The next generation of heroes.”
He knows he’s playing devil’s advocate here, that it’s important to try and
understand this new breed of villains if they’re going to fight them. But it
still feels disgusting voice.
Hizashi is quiet for a long moment, before saying, “That man deserves worse.”
Aizawa inclines his head towards him. “Are you expecting me to argue with you?”
“How are we supposed to protect them from things like this?” In over fifteen
years of knowing him, Aizawa is not sure he’s ever heard Hizashi sound so lost.
       
Aizawa closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, and it feels raw, and hurt,
and he wishes- he wishes more than anything he had a better answer.
Because that’s what honestly scares him the most.
Silence reigns once more as his answer hangs in the air.
“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Hizashi finally asks.
Aizawa’s eyes roam over his students, landing on Kirishima, who, even while
asleep, looks discontented.
“They’re strong,” Aizawa says, and even as he says it, he knows he believes it.
“I doubt they’ll ever forget this, but I also doubt it will hold them back… It
may just take time.”
Hizashi smiles, and it’s one of the rare few that really reaches his eyes.
“It’s always reassuring to know how much you believe in them.”
Aizawa’s eyes trail back down to Midoriya. “They give me reason to.”
“And Bakugou?” Hizashi asks.
Aizawa feels that same, cold fear shoot down his spine.
Bakugou.
Grief twists his heart.
Aizawa has not seen him after the attack. Bakugou had already been on his way
to the hospital when he arrived on the scene. And, as they found out today, he
was not accepting visitors.
In truth, Aizawa doesn’t really know what to expect from Bakugou. The kid was
confident- prideful. But it’d likely be difficult for those things to go
unshaken after what had happened. Even after Kamino Ward he had been different.
Would he be quiet, like he had then? Or would he be loud, spitting fire
everywhere he could reach?
Either way, there’s one thing Aizawa feels confident in: Bakugou Katsuki is not
the kind of kid that breaks.
“You’ve met the kid,” Aizawa says. “This might rattle him, but he won’t let it
keep him down. He’ll get back up. He’ll keep going.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Hizashi’s quiet voice is almost swallowed up by the
silence of the room.
“I’m not,” Aizawa says.
And that, is that.
 
===============================================================================
 
Momo peers through her lashes, and holds still where she sits with her knees
drawn to her chest. She tries to fake sleep with her arms pillowing her head
atop her knees as she listens in to her teachers’ conversation.
She can just barely see Present Mic from this angle. The T.V. and its stand
block her view of Aizawa and Midoriya.
She had been awoken by Midoriya and Kirishima’s conversation in the kitchen,
and had listened with an ache in her chest as Kirishima spoke. She had been on
the verge of falling back asleep when Aizawa slipped in.
She knows it’s rude to eavesdrop, but she can’t help her morbid curiosity.
Her heart had felt warmed by Aizawa promising to watch over them, and urging
Midoriya to get some sleep.
But that feeling had slowly dissipated as he and Present Mic spoke.
It’s hard to hear that their teachers feel just as lost as they do. It feels
like learning that the rock you’ve used to stay standing is sinking as well.
“How are we supposed to protect them?”
“…I don’t know.”
Her chest tightens.
She has felt sick, sick with horror and misery and uncertainty since yesterday.
What happened to Bakugou feels unspeakable, even in her own mind. But it
doesn’t really need to be spoken to be understood. She sees it. Every time she
closes her eyes.
Somehow, Momo feels as if her own thoughts have turned against her.
She repeats Aizawa’s words to herself. They’re strong. They’re strong. They’re
strong.
They will get through this.
Bakugou will get through this.
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
Momo closes her eyes, and hopes that they can’t see the tears that stream down
her cheeks.
She hopes Aizawa’s right.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The name, Hirota Masaji will forever be burned into Bakugou’s brain, like a
brand.
But even so, it feels distant. Too far away. Disconnected from Steel- the man
who had raped him.
They tell him the name in his briefing before he is finally allowed to leave
the hospital the next morning. They explain that Hirota is being charged. That
he’s plead guilty. That he is secured.
Bakugou wants to shout that he doesn’t care.
He wants the man dead, not locked away in a cell for- What? A few years? A
decade, max?
No platitudes from them will ever convince him that he’s truly safe.
Then, he is finally allowed to go home, and Bakugou nearly cries with relief.
Home, however, is just as boring as the hospital. He stays in his room,
catching up on some homework, and only comes out to shower and eat. And worst
of all, his parents hover, breathing down his neck, and all of it, the whole
thing, is absolutely unbearable.
When he curls up in his bed that night, grinding his teeth, trying to ignore
the phantom feeling of fingers on his skin, and pain in his rectum, Bakugou
knows that he cannot stay in this house a day longer.
So the next morning, he does the only thing he can.
He dresses for school, like it’s any normal day.
Most of his clothes are in the dorm, but he still has a spare uniform- barring
the tie that he never wears- around his home.
Recovery Girl is supposed to come by his house today to hopefully finish
healing his leg and shoulder (they had wanted to give him a day’s rest between
healing sessions), but not until later in the afternoon.
When he walks into the kitchen where his parents are cooking, and speaking with
each other in unusually soft tones (well, unusual for his mom anyway), they
both look up at him and freeze, staring.
Bakugou ignores them, going to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of
juice.
“Katsuki,” his mother says, her voice low and dangerous, “just what the hell do
you think you’re doing?”
Bakugou closes the fridge door, and challenges his mother’s glare with his own.
“Eating breakfast.”
“Don’t get smart with me, brat,” she snaps.
“I’m not staying in this fucking house all day just to whine about my
feelings.” Bakugou sets the carton of orange juice down on the counter harder
than he perhaps should. “I’m fine. My injuries are mostly healed. I’ve got no
reason to fall back in school.”
“Katsuki-” his father begins, concern coloring his voice, but his mother cuts
him off.
“No reason?!” his mother demands. “Katsuki, are you fucking kidding me? After
what happened-”
“Who the fuck cares,” Bakugou grinds out. “I’m fine. It’s over. That bastard
doesn’t get to slow me down just because- he doesn’t get to win, okay?”
He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki, and it’s time for him to get the fuck over it and
move on.
His mother pulls back, her hand dropping from her waist, and her eyes softening
for a moment as she stares at her son.
“Katsuki,” she tries to start again, and her voice is too quiet, too low, and
Bakugou can’t hear this, he can’t-
“I’m going to school,” he says, his tone final. “Staying cooped up in here
isn’t helping. I’m just going stir crazy.”
His mother sighs, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.
“You’re honestly impossible,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Fine.”
She looks back to him, frowning. “But I better not get a call from your school
halfway through the day telling me you had another freak out, got it? That
happens again, and I’ll march you right back home for the next month.”
Bakugou sneers, and finally breaks her gaze, turning to open the cabinet door
and rummage for a glass. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
 
It hurts to bend his knee. It’s not impossible, but it does make hiding his
limp a bit difficult. His shoulder is really just sore at this point. It kinks
when he tries to roll it, but that’s about it.
Another healing session from Recovery Girl should be all he needs before he’s
back in fighting shape.
Bakugou doesn’t stop by the dorms when he gets to school, instead choosing to
head straight to the nurse’s office.
When he walks in, Recovery Girl stops what she’s doing, and stares for a long
moment.
Just when Bakugou’s about to snap at her that it’s impolite to gawk, she shuts
her mouth, and shakes her head.
“Oh dear,” she says, sounding tired. “What are we going to do with you,
Bakugou?”
“You could finish healing me for start,” Bakugou grouses, closing the door
behind him and plopping down on the bed.
Her gaze follows him, sharp and assessing. “I’m not certain it’s wise for you
to be back here already.”
“Why?” Bakuogu challenges.
She’s silent for a moment, clearly thinking through her response.
“You’ve experienced a great trauma,” she says, not unkindly, but Bakugou still
tenses. “That is not something one just gets over in a few days’ time. It can
be difficult to operate in normal life while still struggling with something
like that. At least right off the bat.”
Bakugou feels sick to his stomach, feels like retching, but he keeps expression
stony. “Except I’m fine. What’s done is done. After this, I’ll be healed, and
whatever that bastard did won’t matter anymore.”
“Bakugou,” she says, and she sound so pitying, and sympathetic, and Bakugou
can’t stand it- “it will always matter.”
Bakugou doesn’t reply.
Because no. It won’t. It doesn’t. Steel doesn’t get to fucking matter.
“It’s not weak to be hurting,” she says when she doesn’t receive a reply. “No
one is going to think less of you if you take time to recover emotionally as
well as physically.”
“Are you even listening to me?” Bakugou snarls. “I’m telling you that there
isn’t anything for me to ‘emotionally’ recover from, got it? I was fine after
that sludge monster incident, I was fine after Kamino Ward, and I’ll be fine
now.”
Recovery Girl meets his glare with a steady gaze.
Finally, she says, “After you head to class, I’ll inform the principal that
you’re here. He’ll likely want to speak with you.”
“Got it,” Bakugou says, shrugging out of his uniform jacket.
It does not take long for Recovery Girl to do her work.
When he stands, his shoulder feels good as new, and his leg only feels a bit
stiff. The wounds on his arms are now just small, shallow scabs that can heal
just fine on their own.
He nods to himself.
Good enough.
“Bakugou,” Recovery Girl calls, just as he’s shrugging his jacket back on.
Bakugou groans. “I’m already late to class. I don’t need another lecture.”
Recovery Girl ignores him. “Take care of yourself.”
Bakugou doesn’t meet her eyes as he steps out of the clinic. “Yeah. Sure.”
He feels her eyes on him, even after the door has closed.
 
He’d deliberately gotten here after school had started. He didn’t want people
staring and shit when he walked into the building. Knowing his classmates,
they’d be about as unsubtle as an elephant about it too.
But now it’s time to face the music, and Bakugou feels every muscle in his body
tense, like a rubber band about to be snapped, as door 2-A comes into view. For
half a second he almost considers turning around, running back out of the
school, not facing-
But he shakes himself as soon as the thought occurs.
He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki goddamn it and he’s not a fucking coward.
He doesn’t pause at the doorway, just wrenches the door open, uncaring of any
lessons that might be occurring at the moment, and steps into the room.
Everyone’s eyes turn to him at once.
Aizawa stops midsentence, looking annoyed for half of a second at the
interruption, before he realizes who’s standing in the doorway.
His eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, Bakugou almost feels a bit
satisfied at that. It’s not often he can catch his homeroom teacher off guard.
But surprise is gone in a blink, replaced by something assessing and uncertain.
Everyone in the class is staring at him, wide-eyed, almost seeming to
collectively hold their breath.
Bakugou grits his teeth. “What the hell are you bastards staring at, huh?”
And it’s like a spell has been broken, as most of the class suddenly seems to
snap back to reality, and sound comes rushing back to the room all at once.
“Bakugou, man, you’re back!” Kaminari calls, and his smile looks too forced,
too friendly even for him, but fuck, at least it resembles normalcy.
“We missed having your grumpy face around!” Mina says, leaning back in her
chair, and she sounds a bit more natural, but her eyes are too shifty.
Bakugou’s met with several other choruses of ‘I’m glad you’re doing well’ and
‘Good to have you back,’ as he makes his way towards his desk.
It’s… On the one hand, Bakugou almost finds it relieving.
They’re not staring, or acting weird, or asking him intrusive questions, even
though Bakugou knows they must know, even if they only know part of it. It’s
relieving to see them acting, or at least trying to act, like everything’s
normal.
On the other hand, it feels almost unbearable, because it’s not normal. It’s
all forced, and faked, and Bakugou can see and feel everything that’s not being
said beneath the shallow surface. It makes his skin itch, and his fingers
twitch. It’s supposed to be normal, but it’s just wrong, wrong, wrong-
It’s fine though.
He can deal with this.
“You all healed up then, dude?” Kirishima asks when Bakugou takes the seat
across from him.
Bakugou snorts. “Duh.”
He can see Mineta still staring from the corner of his eye, gaping, but Shouji
reaches an arm forward and forcibly turns his head towards the front, the
message clear- Don’t stare.
Aizawa, apparently, has no such qualms however, and still has not said
anything- simply following Bakugou with his eyes.
Bakugou has half a mind to flip him off.
Aizawa’s gaze narrows, and for a moment, Bakugou thinks he’s going to be called
out, that Aizawa is going to demand why he’s here, that he go home, or go to
the principal, or-
“Alright, quiet down,” Aizawa says as he finally turns back to the blackboard.
“This is still class time.”
There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, Mr.Aizawa’ throughout the class, and Bakugou feels
some of the tension in his shoulders melt in relief.
Aizawa throws himself back into teaching, and it’s like nothing had even
happened.
Or it would be, if it weren’t for the palpable air of discontent in the room.
But no one addresses it, and Bakugou, for his part, is able to ignore it just
enough, to almost feel normal for a few hours.
 
Midnight is waiting outside his classroom when they are dismissed for lunch to
escort him to the principal’s office. Bakugou isn’t surprised, but still jerks
away from her when she attempts to reach out a hand, snapping his teeth.
Midnight looks disconcerted after that, but doesn’t say anything as she leads
him down the halls, keeping a respectable distance.
Most of his conversation with Principal Nedzu is a dull buzz in the back of his
head.
Their sorry, yada yada, safety precautions, whatever- Oh. And apparently they
hired a therapist. Just on his account.
Yippee.
“Are you seriously going to require me to see a fucking shrink?” Bakugou
snarls, and even as he says it, something like panic sparks in his chest.
What if they said yes? What if the school really thought he was broken over
this? That he couldn’t be a hero anymore because of what Steel had done?
That bastard had taken so much already, the prospect of him having stolen
Bakugou’s chance to succeed at U.A. is nearly enough to make him upend his
nonexistent lunch.
Nedzu looks troubled. “No. We can’t require something like that of you. But we
would recommend it. We… we would like to be able to help you move past this as
best you can.”
“Already have,” Bakugou grunts, bracing his foot against the front panel of
Nedzu’s desk.
“We’ve recommended your classmates, the ones that... apprehended-” Nedzu
clearly seems hesitant to use the word ‘rescued’-“Hirota visit her as well. But
she’s open to all students as a resource now. We built a time into your
schedule for you to visit with her. It’s not required, but we would like you to
at least try.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrow. He feels like he’s walking a thin line. A thin line
between being forced into doing something as weak and pathetic as going to
‘happy-sharey-feely time’ and possibly being considered unfit for U.A.
“Whatever,” Bakugou finally settles on.
He’ll attend a session or two, make it clear to this shrink that he’s fine and
dandy, and it’ll be a thing of the past.
There’s something about ‘not judging him’ if he has ‘unforeseen difficulties in
battle simulations,’ and Bakugou purposely does not listen for the rest of
Nedzu’s speech.
He’s fine.
And he’s going to damn well prove it.
Chapter End Notes
     I went back and forth on including the scenes with Steel a lot. I
     debated cutting them out entirely. I debated cutting them down and
     summarizing them. I didn't want to risk the scenes seeming
     exploitative. But given that this is a story primarily about Bakugou
     trying to deal with the psychological impact of what happened to him,
     it felt cheap to try to leave out or gloss over what actually
     happened. I'm still not sure I struck the right balance in the final
     draft, but quite frankly, I was never going to be fully happy with
     it.
     I also feel I should point out that just because a character THINKS
     something, doesn't mean that it is correct, or that I am endorsing
     that standpoint. (Bakugou's stance on mental health being a good
     example.)
     This chapter in general took a lot of editing. So, we'll see how fast
     I can have the rest out.
     Chapter title is again from Bastille. This time from the song Blame.
     Thanks for reading, and any constructive criticism is welcome!
***** The Worm and The Bird *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: Amputation, minor disassociation, minor self-harm, rape/
     non-con, violence, suicidal ideation. Please jump down to the notes
     at the end for further elaboration, and keep your own well-being in
     mind before moving forward!
     Title taken from The Used song "The Bird and the Worm," because I
     still cannot title. But at least it's not Bastille again?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
Bakugou is fine, and so he does everything that he would normally do when he’s
fine.
Because he is.
Except, for some reason, he’s having trouble remembering what exactly is normal
for him anyway. How often does he shut himself away in his room vs. stay out in
the common area with his class? How often does he eat in the community kitchen?
About how many minutes or hours does he usually hang out with Kirishima, or
Kaminari, or any of the people he might, tentatively, call friends in the
privacy of his own mind?
What looks like normal for him?
(And some part of him, some loud, and obnoxious part, that sounds far too much
like stupid fucking Deku, that Katsuki keeps pushing down, is telling him that
if he’s having to try so hard to figure out how to act fine, then maybe, just
maybe, he isn’t.)
Lucky him, he doesn’t get much of a chance to overanalyze for long. Mainly,
because his classmates don’t give him the chance.
It doesn’t matter where he goes or what he’s doing, one of them, usually
several of them, is always there to stick by his side.
“Hey, Bakugou, you’re falling behind on the leader boards, better catch up!”
Kaminari calls, dragging him into a session of Mario Kart.
“I need help cooking!” Uraraka says, crowding him into the kitchen (but never
touching him).
“Bakugou,” Mina whines, holding out a math book, Sero at her side, “We’re
dying, please hellllpppp.”
And then there’s Kirishima, who laughs, and jokes, and, most notably, never
leaves his side.
(In the moments when Kirishima believes Bakugou cannot see, his gaze becomes
uncertain and sad, and Bakugou, truly, truly hates it and himself.)
It’s… tiring.
It’s tiring to be dragged around from one place to another. To never be left
alone. To force himself to act normal, instead of curling up in his bed, or
scratching at his arms until they bleed again, or blow something up, like he
wants to. To watch his classmates pretend that everything is fine.
But it is nearly midnight, and he still can’t catch a fucking break. People
have continually piled into his room for “study sessions,” since curfew, and
still have not left yet.
It’s bullshit. Fucking Deku and Ponytail are here as well, and Bakuogu knows
they don’t need help. Not to mention, they don’t fucking hang out to begin
with.
But it’s nearly midnight, and Kaminari yawns and says, “Man, I’m getting
tired,” and Bakuogu thinks, About Fucking Time.
Then- then-
The fucker just lays down. On the floor. Splayed out on his stomach, and
pillowing his head with his arms like it’s fucking nap time.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bakugou growls.
“Shhh,” Kaminari says as he turns his face into the crook of his elbow, and
Bakugou swears he’s trying to hide his shit-eating grin. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Go to your own fucking room,” Bakuogu snaps.
“But Bakugou,” Mina whines (always fucking whining), “we’re tired. And our
rooms are so far.”
“No, they’re fucking not!”
“Just let us chill here dude,” Sero says with a yawn of his own. “What’s the
harm?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Bakugou explodes, figuratively and literally, as
small pops and tiny flashes of light dance across his palms.
“Just go to sleep, dude,” Kirishima says, rolling onto the ground with the
others. “We’re good here.”
“I’m not good with you here!”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Kacchan,” Deku says from his place tucked against
the wall, and Bakugou actually snarls at him, baring his teeth like a feral
animal.
“Shhhhhh,” Kaminari hushes them again, louder this time. “Sleepy time.”
Bakuogu gapes. “You have got to be shitting me.”
He doesn’t receive a response.
All of them are now curled up on the floor, eyes closed, pretending like
they’re actually trying to fucking sleep.
Are they… are they being serious?
They’re actually sleeping here. Like some kind of protection squad.
Fucking- Bakugou does not need-
“We can stay here right?”
Bakugou looks down to see Kirishima staring up at him, red eyes wide and
uncertain, and Bakugou doesn’t care, and fully intends to tell him that no, no
they cannot, and to fuck off. But instead what comes out, is-
“Fine. Fucking… fucking whatever. What do I care. You want to mess up your
backs? Fine. But none of you better fucking complain if I step on you on the
morning.”
Everyone else is busy pretending to somehow still magically be asleep. But a
smile tugs at Kirishima’s lips.
“Thanks, dude. We owe you one.”
Bakugou grumbles, and turns over in his bed, shoving one of his books onto the
floor, heedless of if it hits Deku on its way down.
But as he closes his eyes, and tries to demand his nerves settle down enough to
actually fucking get some sleep, Katsuki can’t help but feel some kind of muted
gratitude warm his chest.
He chooses not to examine it.
 
It continues like that for over a week. People rotate sleeping in his room like
they’re on a fucking roster. Ponytail girl, Tokoyami, Sero, Mina, Jirou, the
Tail Guy, Uraraka, even fucking Glasses and Icy Hot end up on his floor at some
point.
Kaminari is there more nights than he’s not. But every few days he crashes in
his own damn room.
Kirishima and Deku are the only absolute constants.
Kirishima Bakugou isn’t too surprised about. Annoyed, definitely. But not
surprised.
But Deku, the fact that fucking Deku is there, every fucking night, with his
back against the balcony door, and his fucking knees curled to his chest,
infuriates him.
Why the fuck is Deku bothering to hang around now?
Some angry, irrational part of Katsuki sees him that third night, along with
Kirishima and rages.
If that bastard cared so much about ‘being there for him’ then where the fuck
was he after Kamino Ward? Hell, where the fuck was he after the sludge monster
incident?
What, now that ‘poor Kacchan’ gets raped he wants to be there?
Fuck that.
Katsuki didn’t need him then, and he sure as fuck doesn’t need him now.
If he thought it was worth the effort he’d tell Deku to get the fuck out of his
room and never come back.
(He doesn’t find a lot of things to be worth the effort recently).
But eventually the anger fades, and Bakugou acknowledges that that thought
perhaps isn’t totally fair.
Literally hours before the whole sludge monster fiasco Bakugou had told Deku to
off himself. And he’d basically made sure that Deku stayed as far away from him
as possible after everything went down. It’s not like Bakugou ever gave the
shit-nerd any reason to think he could help.
And Deku had tried to do things, little things after Kamino Ward. But Bakugou’s
self-aware enough to admit that he had barely so much as tolerated Deku’s
presence- he didn’t exactly want him around. And Deku isn’t stupid enough to
not know that. So in all likelihood Deku had deliberately left helping him in
the hands of others.
(Not that he needed help to begin with. He was over all of that shit as soon as
it was done with. It’s just… the principle of the thing.)
So what was different now?
Bakugou supposes that they’ve been… better around each other. Less volatile.
They still butted heads, and Izuku sometimes still flinched away from him, and
Katsuki sometimes took things too far still, but- it was better. It wasn’t a
friendship, not by a long shot. But it was an understanding of some kind.
But still, that doesn’t exactly make him the most obvious choice for
‘protecting and comforting’ Bakugou in his time of need.
Then Bakugou remembers- he had forgotten so much had happened after Steel, he
hadn’t even thought about it- that he had allowed Deku to help him in that
warehouse. Allowed Deku to see him at his lowest. To help him. Support him.
And he had not allowed Kirishima the same right.
In all likelihood the nerd had gotten it into his head that that meant he has
some obligation to help Bakugou overcome his shit or whatever.
It’s stupid as shit.
But whatever. If fucking Deku wants to waste his time getting a crick in his
neck every night, who’s Bakuogu to stop him.
 
It’s not just at night though. During the day, Bakugou can never seem to find a
single fucking second to himself.
There’s always someone at his side, someone cracking a joke, pulling him along,
asking for his help, or just making a nuisance of themselves by tagging along,
even in silence. If Bakugou wants so much as a second to himself, to fucking
think, then he basically has to escape to the bathroom.
He- he can’t stand to be around them when he starts to feel phantom fingers
dancing across his skin- or when he can’t stop grinding his teeth because it
feels like there’s something pressing on his tongue, forcing his jaw open,
violating his mouth- or when he suddenly no longer feels as if he’s in the
moment, and Steel is right in front of him, on top of him, fucking him- or when
he suddenly can’t stop sweating, or shaking, and feeling as if the whole world
is crashing around him, and wrong, wrong, wrong, even though there’s nothing
wrong-
He can’t show any of it. He refuses to let them see. He feels trapped by them.
Alone in his own head, even when he’s surrounded by people.
And when it gets unbearable, he has to escape, to curl up in a bathroom stall,
and try to breathe.
Except, apparently the only thing worse than being alone in his own head when
he’s surrounded by people, is being alone in his own head when he’s actually
fucking alone.
Because then- then there’s nothing to stop him from dragging his own nails down
his arms in an attempt to get the feeling out, out, out- or to just sit,
frozen, with his own hands squeezing bruises into his thighs as everything
feels too fuzzy and unfocused, and Steel’s face, and hands keep coming into
view- or setting off small explosions, and burning himself back to reality.
The only thing that prevents Bakugou from doing anything too severe is the fear
of getting caught, of someone noticing the wounds and finding out, and then
shipping him off to a fucking nut house.
So he learns to tolerate his classmate’s presence.
It’s better than the alternative.
 
It’s better than the fucking shrink.
Bakuogou meets with her on his third day back to school.
She’s a younger woman than he would have expected- likely in her late twenties
or early thirties, with dark hair, calm eyes, and a serene air about her.
Bakugou immediately hates her.
When he gets there, she asks him to fill out forms- fucking forms. Like this is
a fucking inventory check or something.
“I’d just like to know where we might be starting from,” the therapist says in
lieu of an actual explanation.
Whatever. The forms are annoying, but doable.
Bakugou taps away angrily at the tablet as he answers the stupid fucking
questions testing him for depression. He doesn’t even think about them, just
taps whatever seems the most correct immediately.
Is he feeling more sad than usual? Nope.
Irritable? No.
Unsure? No.
No, no, no, yes, no, yes, no- whatever the ‘not fucking depressed’ answers are,
Bakugou is certain to check all of them.
He’s not fucking depressed, and he doesn’t need a fucking shrink, and if all he
needs is one stupid form to prove that, then he’s golden.
Then he gets to the next page, full of those stupid fucking ‘rate how true each
statement is’ forms, and-
Someone else would have been able to stop the event from happening.
Bakugou’s grip tightens dangerously.
My reactions since the event show that I am weak
The tablet creaks beneath his fingertips.
I caused the event to happen-
Bakugou stands abruptly, and throws the tablet on the table- or he means to at
least. Instead an explosion propels it through the table entirely, shattering
both it, and the cheap coffee table.
Bakugou feels too warm all over, and he can’t- he can’t deal with this for
another second. He refuses to look at the therapist.
He storms out before the stupid fucking bitch can ask any questions.
Fuck her and her stupid questions. He doesn’t need this shit.
 
It doesn’t stop echoing in head.
Someone else would have stopped- weak- my reactions since- weak- caused the
event- weak, weak, weak-
He’s… he’s done his best to leave those thoughts in the dark, in his memories,
where they belong, tied down under Steel’s thighs and awful, chilling gaze. It
doesn’t matter.
Every time his mind has dared to slip back there, Katsuki forces himself back
to reality- it doesn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
But his stupid fucking brain doesn’t care.
He hopes to escape it in sleep, to forget the words burning their way into his
skull.
Instead-
 
Bakugou has not had a decent night’s sleep since-
… Since.
Even in days when it is better his dreams follow him, torment him, refuse to
leave the past in the past as he’s so desperate to do.
Most nights it’s just Steel. Steel, holding him down, raping him. Sometimes
it’s just the memory, heightening certain things, becoming more fluid. Other
times it’s the same, but worse- no one comes, Steel doesn’t stop.
Occasionally… occasionally in his dreams, Bakugou stops fighting. He likes it.
And Steel laughs, and laughs, and monologues about owning him, and Bakugou is
too broken to fight back anymore and-
He wakes up angrier on those days, with a sick, disgusted feeling in his
stomach.
And some nights Steel’s face melts away. Some nights, it is someone else who
holds him down. It has been Shigaraki. It has been that stupid fucking sludge
monster. And, stranger still, it has been Best Jeanist, and Kirishima.
(The day that it is Kirishima, Bakugou admittedly loses some of his cool.
Because it’s Kirishima, Kirishima who has stayed by his side, who has made
himself Katsuki’s equal, who has always been there- baring sharp teeth above
him, and-)
But they never say anything. There’s no part of his subconscious that demands
they speak to be understood. They are just there to remind Bakuogu of his
inadequacies, his fears.
However, the most common face besides Steel isn’t any of those.
“Come on, Kacchan,” Deku says, and sometimes he is crouched next to Katsuki’s
head, drawing his attention as Steel fucks him, and sometimes he is Steel, his
body all wrong, and his voice too high, and everything’s just too fucked up-
“I thought you were supposed to be above me,” Deku says, and his voice is high
and annoying, some awful combination between his voice as Katsuki remembers it
when they were kids and his voice now,  and Katsuki hates him, hates him so, so
much-
“Aren’t you supposed to be better than this?”
Katsuki can’t reply, can’t think of anything to say, can’t focus, can’t-
“Or maybe you’re letting this happen,” Deku says, almost as if he’s pondering
out loud.
“No-” Bakugou chokes out. He isn’t- he doesn’t-
“No?” Deku echoes, and Bakuogu realizes that his eyes are pupiless, glazed
over, empty, so fucking empty, like a fucking corpse, like-
“Poor Kacchan,” Izuku coos, and Katsuki tries to throw his head to the side,
tries to look anywhere else, but he can’t- he can’t-
“Finally getting a taste of his own medicine,” Deku’s hand grips his face,
nails that he shouldn’t have, doesn’t have, digging into Bakugou’s jaw. “You’ve
made people miserable for so long- gotten away with it all your life. And now-
now you get to feel what it’s like to be the rest of us. To be like everyone
you stepped on.”
Deku’s skin is cold, too cold, and Bakugou is suddenly struck by the notion
that he is being fucked by the reanimated corpse of his childhood friend.
(Bakugou, for some reason, already knows that if Deku is dead it must somehow
be his fault.)
“No-” The word is a sob.
“Shhh,” Izuku hushes him, running a falsely tender hand through his hair. “It’s
okay, Kacchan, it’s okay. You’re getting exactly what you deserve.”
“Izuku-” Bakugou chokes out, and it’s been years since he said that name- so
many years, he doesn’t even know-
“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku sighs, and he’s crouched above him now, leaning down so
close that their lips almost touch when he says, “It’s too late to atone. You
know that.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Izuku awakes to the sound of a strangled sob, and then the slightest crackling
of fireworks, like-
Izuku straightens abruptly, eyes snapping open.
Kacchan.
Kacchan is still asleep in his bed, curled into a fetal position. Half-
strangled noises keep coming from his chest, and Izuku’s heart sinks into his
stomach.
Izuku clambers to his knees, careful not to step on Kirishima, who is sleeping
not far from him.
He knows a nightmare when he sees one, but Izuku doesn’t know what he should
do. Should he wake Kacchan? Would that make things worse? Should he try to
comfort him in his sleep?
Izuku reaches out a hand, hesitant, and trembling. But before his fingertips
can brush Kacchan’s shoulder-
“No.” The word is strangled past Kacchan’s lips, and Izuku’s chest tightens
painfully.
It’s only logical to assume that Kacchan must be dreaming about his attack. And
it hurts so much to think about that; a hurt only made worse at hearing his
once childhood friend sound so vulnerable. It feels unnatural.
“Kacchan,” Izuku calls quietly, trying his best not to wake the others as well.
Izuku imagines Kacchan doesn’t want people to see him like this. “Kacchan, wake
up.”
Kacchan’s muscles tense, as if expecting an attack. But he does not stir.
Something- something desperate, and half whispered, so low that Izuku nearly
misses it, hisses through Kacchan’s teeth. But he’s close enough that he can
just barely catch the last few syllables.
“-zuku.”
Izuku’s heart stops. That- that almost sounded like his name. Like his real
name.
But no, no, that has to be wrong. Kacchan does not call him that name. Has not
called him by that name since they were four. Since before Izuku found out
about his own quirkless diagnosis. And Kacchan certainly does not whisper it
like a broken plea in the middle of the night.
Izuku’s stomach churns, and it’s the final motivation he needs to finally place
his hand on Kacchan’s shoulder, and shake him gently. “Kacchan,” Izuku calls
again.
The response is immediate- Kacchan shoots up in bed, small explosions crackling
from his palms, and his eyes wild.
Izuku immediately snatches his hand back, staying clear of any immediate
danger, as Kacchan’s eyes dart around the room, looking, but not seeing right
away.
It takes a moment, but then his eyes land on Izuku, and stop. Kacchan stares at
him for a long moment, his chest heaving.
Looking into those red eyes, Izuku is suddenly reminded of seeing Kacchan in
the grip of that sludge monster.
It’s… it’s scary.
“Kacchan?” Izuku asks, unvoiced concern lacing the word.
Kacchan’s teeth snap closed suddenly, and his shoulders straighten as he takes
a deep breath in through his nose. His eyes clear- like he’s just now truly
waking up.
A moment, a brief, quiet beat, then-
“Deku,” Kacchan snarls.
Izuku watches him, frowning. “Yeah. Sorry I woke you, I just- It seemed like
you were having a bad dream.”
Kacchan scoffs. “Fucking, Deku,” is all he says though, before averting his
eyes, and examining the room.
Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders.
“If- if you need to talk,” Izuku starts hesitantly, “I know I might not be your
first choice, but… I’m willing to listen.”
A scowl pulls at Kacchan’s lips. “Idiot.”
And yeah, that’s more or less what Izuku expected. Then-
But then, Kacchan sighs, rolling his eyes in exasperation, and demands, “Get
the fuck up here already, shit head.”
The offer surprises Izuku, but he only hesitates for a brief moment before
slowly clambering onto the bed, careful not to step on any of his still
sleeping friends.
Kacchan scoots back as Izuku enters his space, pressing his back against the
wall at the top corner of his bed, and curls his knees to his chest.
Izuku settles on the wall as well, cringing as the springs of the bed creaks
ever so slightly, and mimics Kacchan’s position.
There’s several feet of space between them, and even though Izuku could likely
reach out and brush Kacchan’s shoulders with his fingertips, the distance feels
insurmountable.
They haven’t exactly reconciled- assuming there was ever anything there to
reconcile to begin with. There’s still so much animosity and bitterness that
lingers between the two of them. And honestly, Izuku cannot ever even begin to
comprehend what Kacchan has gone through.
So what is he supposed to say here?
Silence sits between them for a long moment, and Izuku doesn’t dare speak up.
If Kacchan wants to talk, then he will. Izuku’s not about to press his luck.
It’s silent for so long, that, for a moment, Izuku wonders if maybe Kacchan has
fallen back asleep. But when he dares to glance at him from the corner of his
eye, he finds Kacchan perfectly awake and staring at him. Izuku has to resist
the urge to flinch on instinct (something that’s gotten easier over the past
year), but he finds that Kacchan’s red gaze is strangely muted, his chin only
barely angled in Izuku’s direction. It’s not challenging.
Izuku can count on one hand the number of times that Kacchan has looked at him
like this: In those first few minutes after the sludge villain fiasco, when the
pro heroes had swarmed them. And that night Kacchan had called him out of the
dorms after the provisional license exam.
Even then though, Izuku could still see the resentment in his gaze as clear as
day.
But now, it’s nowhere to be found.
Kacchan does not look away when Izuku notices him staring.
Instead, he says, voice cracking and hoarse, “Sometimes I wonder if this is the
universe’s way of punishing me.”
Izuku sits up a little straighter at that, the gears of his brain grinding to a
halt. Wait-
“What?” Izuku chokes out.
Kacchan peels his gaze away, and stares at the wall behind where Uraraka is
slumped down in his desk chair. “First the sludge villain’s attack. Then Kamino
Ward… now this. It’s like the universe’s got its own ‘Kick Me’ sign pinned to
my back.”
The air in Kacchan’s room suddenly seems too thick- stifling- heavy with the
scent of smoke.
“Why-” Izuku forces out, “Why would you think that?”
Kacchan’s lips curl back into a sneer. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not an
idiot. I know how I’ve treated people- how I treated you. I was awful to you. I
was awful, and I knew it, and I just didn’t care.”
“What does that have to do with-”
“And I got away with it,” Kacchan says, heat building behind his words.
“Teachers, my parents- everyone-” Kacchan chokes on a bitter laugh. “No one
ever gave me so much as a fucking detention for it. And now-”
Kacchan cuts himself off, his voice strangled, and Izuku feels his heart twist
painfully.
“It’s like the universe is cashing in on all those missed punishments- with
interest,” he spits.
Izuku’s ears ring somewhat as Kacchan’s voice fades, even though he had not
been particularly loud. It’s like his head’s been stuffed full of cotton.
“I-” he shakes his head, trying to understand the broken, jagged puzzle pieces
that Kacchan’s tossed down at his feet, trying to understand. “The universe
doesn’t work like that. It’s… rape isn’t a punishment, Kacchan.”
Kacchan flinches at the word ‘rape,’ and it doesn’t escape Izuku’s notice. None
of them have said the word, not even amongst themselves. Not since the day they
found Kacchan in that warehouse. And certainly no one’s been brave enough to
use the word around Kacchan. Not even Tsuyu.
But Izuku doesn’t let himself falter, doesn’t let his conviction drop. “This…
this wasn’t the universe punishing you. It was just a person. An awful,
twisted, sick person who… who did what he did just- just because. No one else
is responsible for what he did but himself.”
Izuku is not shouting, but he still feels short of breath after he has said his
piece.
Kacchan is eerily quiet and still, his gaze just sliding to stare at the wall
in front of him blankly.
Then, so quietly, that Izuku isn’t even entirely certain it was meant for his
ears, Kacchan asks, “Do you think I deserved it?”
Izuku blanches, and he swears he feels his heart stop. “What?” The word is
almost reflexive, quiet horrified. “No,” he says, forgetting for a moment that
he is surrounding by his sleeping classmates, and raising his voice. Something
he cannot name wraps around his throat and chest and constricts. “No! Of course
I don’t. How could you even ask that?”
Kacchan looks back to Izuku, his eyes dull, and does not say anything.
Izuku is shaking, trembling all over. Did Kacchan really think that? That Izuku
would be so bitter, or hate him so much, that he’d find satisfaction in him
being hurt like that?
The very concept is sickening.
“I’ve-” Izuku tries to work through his nausea and desire to scream. “Listen,
I’m not going to lie, I’ve thought you deserved some things. Things like- like
failing the provisional license exam, or- or having a bad internship. Or
detention. Or even a punch to the face. But I-” Izuku shakes his head, harder
this time, with as much conviction as he can put behind the movement. “I would
never believe you deserved the- the attacks, or the kidnapping, or… or this.”
Kacchan inhales sharply, closing his eyes for a moment, and Izuku watches him
carefully.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
The words are like a punch to the gut, pushing the air from his lungs. Izuku
gapes at his once childhood friend, and despair and horror slowly curl around
his chest, throat, and tongue as Kacchan’s words fully register.
When Izuku tries to say something, nothing comes out, and as he tries again, he
feels the hot trail of tears run down his face.
“That’s awful.” His vision is too blurred to fully make out Kacchan’s
expression. His words come out as little more than a horrified whisper, his
voice cracking. “Kacchan that’s- that would be an awful thing to think.”
It’s not quite a sob that bubbles out of him, but it’s too close for Izuku’s
liking.
He shouldn’t be the one crying, not right now. Not when Kacchan-
Kacchan doesn’t say anything. Izuku rubs the hell of his palm across his eyes
furiously, trying to clear his vision. When he can see clearly again, Kacchan’s
expression hasn’t changed. He’s opened his eyes, and he’s still staring
straight ahead, and he looks so unlike himself, so tired, and resigned, and-
An awful thought occurs to Izuku.
“Kacchan,” Izuku begins hesitantly. “You… you don’t-” he bites his bottom lip.
“Do you think you deserved it?”
The words feel like bile in his mouth, like acid, they hurt, and burn, because
no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous-
But Kacchan stays silent, his expression pained.
Izuku can’t look away, he can’t stop searching for something, anything, that
tells him he’s wrong, that it’s stupid to so much as think-
Izuku wants to beg him to deny it. He has to deny it.
“Ka- Kacchan…?”
“I’m tired,” Kacchan says, and his voice sounds so hollow- devoid of anger, of
conviction, of pride, of- of anything. Of everything Izuku’s ever associated
with him. “Just go the fuck to sleep, Deku.”
Izuku’s mouth opens and closes as he tries to force words out. But none come.
What can he possibly say to something like that? To such a bland acceptance.
Kacchan had not even tried to deny it.
It feels like his own heart has turned into a brand, searing him with how fast
and loud it is beating, and his chest burns.
In that moment, Izuku knows that he would have done anything to take Kacchan’s
place. To shoulder the pain and uncertainty of it all, to take away whatever
blame he’s set upon himself.
But he also knows that if he were to say that, whatever tentative peace has
passed between them would surely be broken.
And so Izuku stays quiet, and simply lays down at the end of Kacchan’s bed,
curling up to take up as little space as possible. But Kacchan remains tucked
into the top corner of his bed, his back to the wall, his eyes closed, and his
breathing uneven.
Izuku doesn’t really sleep that night. He simply drifts between fits of
wakefulness every few minutes. And when the sun comes streaming in through the
blinds, Kacchan has not moved.
 
The therapist looks nice. She has long black hair tied up in a slightly messy
bun. She’s wearing slacks and a sweater. Her eyes are dark, but sincere, and
her face is slightly rounded and kind. She looks remarkably normal, especially
for someone hired by U.A.
She says her name is Dr. Hano Akina, and requests that he call her by her given
name if it makes him comfortable. Izuku says he does not feel right not using a
title that she earned. She calls him sweet, and tells him she’ll happily take
‘Dr. Akina.’
Izuku thinks that she seems like the type of person anyone could trust.
Maybe that’s her quirk.
“I imagine this has to have been pretty upsetting,” she says, and Izuku
shuffles in his seat, bringing his legs up to rest under him on the small
couch. “To see your classmate be hurt like that.”
“Yeah,” Izuku says, wringing his hands in his lap. “It… Upsetting feels like an
understatement. But I’m- I’m not sure I can find the words to express it.
Sorry.”
She tilts her head. “Emotions, especially powerful emotions, can be difficult
to put into words a lot of the time. But can you try?”
Could he? It feels so overwhelming, like he’s drowning in his own terror, and
horror, and confusion, and all the things he cannot name. How is he even
supposed to try and pick apart something like that and find a way to voice it?
Izuku closes his eyes, trying to think, trying to find the frayed end of an
emotional thread that he could follow.
“I… I’ve just… I never thought I’d see Kacchan like that,” Izuku says, his
voice barely above a whisper. It feels like a stupid way to start, but it’s
something. “It felt so… so wrong. I just- I wanted to- to protect him. To hurt
the person responsible-” his voice cracks, and Izuku ducks his head in shame.
“It just… I was so angry, and scared, and it felt like I was going to throw up,
but also like I needed to punch something until it just didn’t exist anymore,
and I wanted to hug Kacchan, but I couldn’t, of course I couldn’t, I just-”
Izuku shakes his head. “Sorry. I think I just… felt too much.”
Thanks brain, he adds mentally in a tone that would be acerbic if it wasn’t so
tired.
Dr. Akina gives him a soft, sad smile. “That’s normal. And don’t worry- there’s
no wrong answer. You did a great job.”
Izuku tries to return the smile, but it’s strained and weak.
“In your survey, you mentioned that you and Bakugou have known each other for
some time,” she says, sitting back in her chair. “That you grew up together.”
“Yeah,” Izuku says, nodding. “We lived in the same neighborhood. Went to the
same schools since… forever, basically.”
“You also mentioned that you haven’t exactly had the best relationship,” Akina
says gently.
Izuku gives a bitter laugh. “Yeah. We uh… in hindsight, Kacchan was always kind
of mean. To everyone, but uh, to me, especially. I guess he just liked having
people follow him around. People that made him feel better about himself- made
him feel special.”
And oh… oh, Izuku needs to stop that train of thought now, because he’s
starting to feel vitriol bubbling inside him, and that is not what this is
supposed to be about. He should not be talking about this now, of all times,
after everything that happened to Kacchan. It’s… It’s not right.
But-
“And after he developed his quirk, and I… didn’t… he got kind of nasty after
that. I don’t remember when exactly we stopped hanging out. But-” Izuku gives a
helpless shrug.
Akina hums, leaning forward. “Your quirk?” she prompts. “If you do have one-”
“Oh!” Izuku says, sitting up straight very quickly. Damn it, he’d almost
forgotten. “Oh, yeah, I was, uh… a pretty late bloomer actually. They… we all
thought I was quirkless until the year before high school actually.”
“I see,” she says. “And did that change your relationship with Bakugou at all?”
Izuku grimaces. “No, not really. It kind of… got worse, actually? I don’t think
he liked it much- that I could suddenly compete with him. We… we’re still
working through some of it.” Izuku shakes his head. “It’s all kind of messy, if
I’m honest. Kacchan isn’t the easiest person to get along with in general. Our
history just kinda makes things more complicated.”
“But you were still the one to try and save him when he was attacked by a
villain,” Dr. Akina says, glancing at her notes (Izuku assumes U.A. must have
provided a file of some sort on them, unless this is a quirk at work). “And one
of the ones that went to help rescue him when he was kidnapped.”
“Of course,” Izuku says, and his voice is too thin, too unsteady. “I- I may not
know if we were ever actually friends, but Kacchan… he’s still important to me.
I could never leave him behind.”
“I imagine,” she says, leaning back once more, and setting her notes off to the
side, “that, given your history together, this situation must feel that much
more complicated.”
Izuku bites his lip. Did it?
“Do you think I deserved it?” He has to suppress a shudder at the memory of
Kacchan’s words.
He knows Kacchan, arguably better than anyone else. To see him like that… it
hurt. Izuku can’t imagine feeling any more disgust and horror is possible. But
their history does make trying to be there for him a bit more complicated.
“I’m not sure,” Izuku finally admits.
“We can talk about it, if you’d like,” Dr. Akina offers.
Izuku takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and trying to find his
center, trying to find a rock to cling to even as his emotions whirl around him
like hurricane force winds.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Tokoyami has not stopped glaring at the woman since he sat down, but she seems
unbothered by it.
He keeps his answers short, succinct. He has no intention in indulging in their
school’s sudden show of pity. It is both unwanted and excessive in his mind.
“You seem unhappy to be here,” the therapist finally says, cutting to the
point. She sets her clipboard down on the side table and sets her elbows on her
knees.
“This is a waste of time,” Tokoyami replies, not bothering with niceties.
She hums, as if considering that thought for a moment. “If you believe that,
then why come at all?”
“The school recommended it.” Tokoyami’s eyes narrow. “I am simply completing
this meeting to fulfill their wishes.”
“I suppose that’s a fair enough reason,” she says. “But I can’t help but wonder
how true it is. Your teachers sent me brief reports on how you and your
classmates seem to be doing since the attack. They mentioned that you’ve seemed
withdrawn recently.”
Tokoyami scoffs. Of course they had.
“I’m a withdrawn person, generally speaking,” he says, trying not to snap at
the woman. She is only doing her job after all.
“Then perhaps it’s telling that they felt your behavior these past few days was
worthy of note,” the therapist suggests.
Tokoyami works not to grind his teeth.
“Of course,” Tokoyami grits out. “If you expect me to tell you that I am not
upset by what happened, then you are gravely mistaken. Of course I’m upset. I
was witness to something incredibly disturbing. I live with the knowledge of
what happened every day. It is impossible to not be upset.”
The therapist simply tilts her head, her unspoken question clear.
“I simply don’t believe that talking about it,” Tokoyami says, his tone far too
forceful and angry for his own liking, “especially to a stranger, will be
helpful.”
“And why do you believe that?” she asks, lifting off her elbows. Her voice
holds no accusation, just simple curiosity.
“Talking,” Tokoyami says, “will not make the reality of the situation go away.
It simply picks at the scabs- it can only prolong healing, not help it.”
“Has that been your experience?” the therapist probes, still as patient as
ever.
Tokoyami pauses. His experience…?
He tries to think back on the things that have disturbed him over his life.
They are plentiful, but perhaps trivial in comparison to situations such as
these. He thinks of Dark Shadow, and the fear lurking in his chest at all
times- the fear of being overtaken. He thinks of the Quirk Councilor in his
elementary schooling, how he had spoken with the man about his fear.
Had it been helpful? He still struggles with those fears today, doesn’t he?
“Yes,” Tokoyami replies, keeping his head held high. Dark Shadow stirs within
him, as if sensing his thoughts.
(But some part of him, that he doesn’t acknowledge, wonders what he would have
been without that council, however unsatisfied he may be now.)
“I’m very sorry for that,” she says, and she sounds sincere. “I’m wondering
though- would you be willing to try again? Just for a session or two? Just to
see if perhaps there is something I can do to help. Even if talking does not.”
Tokoyami sighs, annoyed. “What would be the point?”
The therapist shrugs. “What’s the harm?” she counters.
And, well, Tokoyami doesn’t really have a good response to that.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“I don’t really know what to say,” Momo says. Her shoulders are hunched
forward, her hands clasped between her legs, and she avoids looking at the
therapist. “What can I say?”
Akina smiles, kind and reassuring. “It’s not a test, Momo. There are no right
or wrong answers.”
Momo shakes her head. “No, I know, I just mean… I don’t even know how to start.
I- we’re trained on how to fight villains and rescue people, but… but not
this.” She hates how lost and defeated she sounds. “How are we supposed to
overcome something like this?”
Akina is quite for a moment, contemplative, then asks, “Why do you think it’s
difficult to talk about?”
Momo chews on her bottom lip for a moment, and tries to think around the lead
weight in her chest that is sinking into the violent sea that is her stomach.
“It just feels… too big.”
“How so?”
Momo can feel her frustration mounting, and she wants to scream that she
doesn’t know- she just doesn’t-
“Because,” Momo finally manages to say, regaining what little control she still
has of herself, “there’s nothing we can do. There’s nothing we can do to- to
fight or change what happened. It just- is.” She bows her head, pushing back
the tears that sting her eyes. “And how can we overcome something when we can’t
change anything about it?”
“There are a lot of things we can’t change,” Akina points out, gently.
Momo shakes her head again. “No it’s different. This is… it’s insurmountable.”
“Why?”
Momo’s annoyance flares, and she straightens, shooting Akina a halfhearted
glare.
But the therapist just gives a wry smile. “I know, the questions are annoying.
I’m sorry. But it’s kind of in my job description. If we want to somewhere to
start, then it’s important to understand why it’s difficult to start to begin
with,” she explains.
Momo relents, sighing, and glancing towards the ground again. How is she
supposed to look someone in the eyes when she speaks of this? It just feels so
indecent. So… wrong.
“I just… I can’t understand it,” she admits, and she can’t force her voice
above a whisper. “I can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t understand how
someone could do something so awful to another person. I- I saw it.” She
squeezes her eyes shut, and tries not to let the horror she feels rising like
bile choke her. “At least- at least part of it. And I can’t understand- Why? I-
I close my eyes and I see it, and every time I look at Bakugou-” She cuts
herself off, and she realizes, a bit belatedly, that she is crying. “It just
feels like it’s so much bigger than us.”
“Most people feel that way whenever something traumatic occurs,” Akina says,
and while the words are very technical, her voice is warm and empathetic. “That
is, essentially, what causes trauma to begin with- your brain and body telling
you that something is too much to deal with- too much to process. It’s natural
for us to look at things like death, natural disasters, and yes, even sexual
assault and rape,” Momo suppresses a cringe at the word, “and feel like they’re
too big for us to handle.”
Momo allows herself to open her eyes, and even through her tears, meets Akina’s
gaze. Akina gives her a small, encouraging smile.
“But people are always so much more resilient, so much stronger, than they
think,” Dr. Akina says, and Momo takes a deep shuddering breath, silencing the
part of her that screams no, no she is not- “We can deal with trauma. We can
break something down, wear away at it, put it in its place. It doesn’t have to
linger over you for the rest of your life. Even if it feels insurmountable now,
I promise- this is not bigger than you.”
Momo takes another long, shuddering breath, trying to calm her riotous thoughts
and emotions, trying to wrap her mind around what Akina is saying.
And when she exhales, slow, and steady, eyes clearing, she finds that she
believes her.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Kirishima gives a hollow laugh. “I- uh, I know you’re here for us to talk to,
and tell our problems and stuff like that, but I-” He breaks off, licking his
chapped lips. His mouth has gone dry. “I still feel kind of dumb- coming here
and all.”
Akina frowns, a touch of sadness to her gaze as she asks, “Why do you feel that
way?”
Kirishima shrugs. “I don’t know, I just- I can’t help feeling like I don’t have
any right to be upset, you know?”
Akina gives him an inquisitive look, and Kirishima suddenly does not want to
keep her gaze, and directs his attention to the top of her left ear.
“I mean-” he pauses, swallowing thickly. “It’s not like I was the one who got
hurt, right? It- Bakugou’s the one who was attacked. It feels kind of cheap to
come here and vent about how I felt when I only saw the aftermath of what had
happened.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “It- it wasn’t really my
experience to be traumatized over, you know?”
Akina shakes her head. “Kirishima, it’s not a competition. Yes, Bakugou went
through something incredibly traumatic. But that doesn’t mean that your own
experience and emotions aren’t valid. Framing it like it’s some kind of
competition- that just invalidates everyone’s experiences.”
Kirishima frowns, his shoulders hunching. Does it? That’s not what he wanted?
It’s just…
“I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining,” Kirishima admits quietly.
Dr. Akina just gives him a gentle smile. “In a way, complaining is what I’m
here for.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Bakugou has torn his fingernails down to nubs. His nail beds bleed at the top,
and they look awful, and his mother will likely throw a fit if she ever sees
them, but it’s better this way. Most of his classmates don’t even notice- or if
they do they’re smart enough to keep their damned mouths shut- and this way he
can’t claw himself bloody in those moments where he doesn’t feel quite right in
his body. In those moments where he still feels Steel under his skin.
He’s also dug up an old pair of half gloves that he can count on one hand the
number of times he’s worn before now. They’re not a perfect solution, but
they’re one more layer of protection between himself and his quirk in moments
of weakness.
Kirishima is the only one who comments on them- “Woah, Bakugou, man, those look
badass!”
But Bakugou sees Aizawa’s gaze linger on his hands for a moment longer in class
the next day.
Everything else he can deal with.
People have been crowding him a bit less since the week’s passed. They still
linger around him as the day goes, but Bakuogu can actually manage to walk down
a hallway without having an entire entourage shadowing him.
And he’s slowly regaining ownership of his dorm room. People gradually begin to
sleep in there less. Kaminari, Kirishima, Mina, and, of fucking course, Deku,
all invite him to their rooms, or invite themselves into his still, but it’s
not the monopoly it once was. Now, he usually only has one or two people
sleeping on his floor (because fuck no, he’s not sleeping on someone
else’sfloor, thank you very fucking much).
Bakugou doesn’t know if he ‘feels better,’ or fucking whatever. It still feels
like his skin is too tight for his body, and his limbs don’t move quite right,
and it’s far more difficult to focus than usual, but- but it’s easier. Here. To
ignore those feelings, squash them done, and wait for them to pass.
It’s in one of these moments of regained freedom, that Bakugou wanders out of
the class room during the lunch period, leaving Kirishima and the rest of them
still in the class, talking about who knows what. He’s not all that sure where
he’s planning on going (He’s considering lunch, but he hasn’t really been
hungry recently), but he just needs a few moments to himself. Just a few
moments to try and straighten out the thoughts that can’t seem to keep still
inside his own stupid head.
So, of course, because the universe fucking hates him, he finds nearly half of
Class B loitering out in the hall, taking up the entire fucking walkway.
Great.
Bakugou grinds his teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching as he continues
striding forward.
Ignore them. Get to the other side. It’s just people- people he’s seen for
nearly two years now. Get over it.
However, when he gets closer to the group he realizes that it seems to only be
the girls from the class that are hanging about, their shoulders tense, and a
few of their voices raised.
Bakugou only gets half a second to wonder why the fuck the hallway turned into
the girl’s locker room when he hears-
“Hey, hey! It- it was an accident, I swear! There’s no need for violence!”
Mineta.
Bakugou’s expression twists in distaste. He should have known.
“Then hand over the phone,” one of the girl’s is saying, her tone dangerous,
“and there won’t be a problem.”
And oh, Bakugou so cannot deal with this bullshit right now.
His skin itches, and his fingers keep furling and unfurling, and right now, he
just needs to get away from here, and everyone, before he sets something on
fire.
“Move,” he barks, and the girls in front of him startle, and move away almost
by instinct.
The hall suddenly falls silent as they turn to see who’s behind them, and their
expressions shifting as they recognize Bakugou.
Katsuki feels his skin crawl under their gaze.
A snarl pulls at his lips, and Bakugou does not bother telling them to get out
of the way again before pushing forward, and just hoping- hoping that none of
them brush up against him.
The bravado seems to work, as the girls part, moving out of his path, and
revealing a red headed girl (Bakugou doesn’t know who she is, but he thinks
he’s seen her hanging around that copycat fucker) standing over Grape Head, her
hand forming a giant fist. Mineta holds his phone clutched to his chest.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the perverted little fucker
probably took an up skirt picture of one of the Class-B girls or something and
got caught.
They both stand frozen, staring Bakugou as he approaches. He stops in front of
them, annoyance chafing at the skin of his palms as they don’t fucking move-
Bakuogu makes a low, angry sound, and both snap out of their stand-off. The red
headed girl straightens, and eyes Bakugou uncertainly, while all color seems to
drain from Mineta’s face as he takes a step back.
“Ba-Bakugou-” Mineta starts to stutter out.
But that’s literally all it takes before Bakugou’s patience goes out the window
altogether.
He’s never liked the pervy little bastard- always thought he was weak and
annoying at his best, and a downright disgusting piece of shit at his worst. To
say he’s one of the classmates Bakugou hates most would be an understatement.
He might actually hate his presence more than Deku’s in their class. And that’s
saying something.
His friends and classmates have been wise enough to make sure Mineta stayed
far, far away from him since he returned to school. Which, now that he’s here,
Bakugou can definitely acknowledge was for the best, as even the slightest hint
of Mineta’s usual harassment sends Bakugou’s nerves snapping like an over-
stretched rubber band.
“I said move,” Bakugou snarls, and snatches the phone from Mineta, activating
his quirk, heedless of how it burns up his gloves, and exploding the phone in
his fist.
Mineta lets out a cry, reaching a hand up instinctively, as if to grab back the
device. Bakugou throws the remnants of the cellphone back in his face, sending
him tumbling back.
Bakugou just barely has a moment to acknowledge the surprised look on the red
headed girl’s face before pushing past the group altogether, ignoring Mineta’s
wails.
Serves him right. The bastard.
He marches down the hall, and turns the corner quickly, eager to leave the
group behind.
Damnit, his head’s too jumbled right now, and his heart is beating too fast,
and he can feel the charred material of his gloves against his hand, and his
fingers are aching, and he can’t remember where he was going- where was he
going?
The world feels a bit too off kilter, like a color filter had been placed over
his vision, and the pictures had been tilted just a few degrees- just enough to
throw him off balance.
He doesn’t know where he wants to go, but fuck, he can’t bear the thought of
stopping to try and sort through his head at the moment, so he just keeps
striding forward, shaking, and sweating, and trying to keep air pumping through
his lungs, and-
Bakugou startles as he feels at tap on his shoulder, and he whirls around,
twitching palm already sparking with a new explosion.
He sees a flash of green out of the corner of his eye retreating, and for some,
illogical reason, the first thing that comes to mind is fucking Deku.
But no. As Bakugou’s brain catches up, he realizes that it’s not Deku, or-
It’s the plant girl from Class B, standing several feet behind him (out of
range, Bakugou notes somewhere in the back of his mind), pulling the vine she’d
used to gain his attention back to her.
Bakugou’s lips curl in a sneer, but his palm stops sparking, and he drops his
defensive posture.
“The fuck do you want?” he demands, shoving his hands in his pockets. (He
pretends it isn’t to hide the fact that he’s trembling).
Bakugou doesn’t know this girl. He’s only seen her in passing, and he certainly
doesn’t know her name. He only knows the bare minimum about her quirk, and that
was only because he knew he might have to face her in the Sports Festival.
The Plant Girl clasps her hands in front of her, and gives a very slight bow.
Bakugou’s anger melts into confusion.
“I apologize for startling you,” she says, and her voice is soft and melodic,
and it rubs Bakugou in all the wrong ways. “I simply wanted to thank you for
stepping in back there.”
Bakugou scoffs. “I didn’t do it for any of you fuckwits. That grape headed
bastard was just in my way, and pissing me off.”
“Still,” she says, straightening out of her bow, “it’s appreciated.”
“Great,” Bakugou says. “If that’s all you want to waste my time with, then-”
“No,” she cuts in, surprisingly firm. “I also felt… compelled to speak with
you.”
Bakugou groans. “What is it then?”
“I wanted to offer my support,” she says, and Bakugou feels his body tense all
over, already knowing where this is going, and hating it. “If you ever desire
to talk to someone, I would gladly listen.”
The hairs on the back of Bakugou’s neck rise, and his palms feel too hot in his
pocket.
“Fucking hell,” he spits. “Does everyone in this fucking school know about what
happened?!”
The thought sends his heart racing, and his mind reeling, because, shit, shit,
shit, it’s one thing for his class to know, but everyone else-
“No,” Plant Girl says. “We only know that you were involved in another villain
attack that went awry.” She pauses, and Bakugou feels his heart slowly descend
from his throat once more. “Or at least, that’s all our class knows.”
Bakugou lets out a small, hopefully inaudible, sigh. They don’t all know. It
isn’t too late. He can still salvage this.
“Then why the hell,” he says, trying to regain some ounce of composure and
bravado, “do you think I’d want to sit down and talk to you about shit?”
The girl’s gaze is cool, and collected, but somehow unbearably sad, and Bakugou
hates it.
“It’s just that,” the girl begins, her words heavy, “the look in your eyes is
very familiar to me.”
Bakugou blinks at that, her words lodging in his brain, but refusing to
process.
“Huh?” he manages to articulate.
Familiar?
“I know we are strangers,” Plant Girl says. “If you are uncomfortable speaking
with me about such things, I understand. But I felt it was only right that I
make the offer.”
Bakugou just continues to stare, his jaw working, but no real sounds coming
out.
She bows once more, a bit lower this time, and when she speaks again, she meets
his gaze unflinchingly. “It stands for as long as you’d like.”
And with that, she turns, and walks away.
Bakugou stands there, gaping, staring after her for a long moment, trying to
process the implications in her offer.
And slowly, ever so slowly, it sinks in, and Bakugou’s posture straightens, his
mouth closing, and the world suddenly seems to righten itself- snapping back
into sharp color and proper angles.
“Hey, Plant Girl,” he barks, and the girl stops, and glances back at him, and
damnit, Bakugou now really wish he knew her name. Now that he’s got her
attention, Bakugou’s tongue feels leaden, and his mouth is dry. “I’ll… I’ll
keep that offer in mind,” he says, and gives the smallest of bows, simply
inclining his head, and keeping his eyes to the ground respectfully.
When he looks up again, the girl is smiling ever so slightly. “It’s Shiozaki,”
she corrects, but she does not sound annoyed or angry at Bakugou’s ignorance.
“And I’m glad. Feel free to find me any time.”
Then she is gone, and Bakugou is left, staring after her, feeling something
indescribable constrict within his chest.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Personally, Aizawa thinks this is a terrible idea.
Scratch that, terrible ideas.
“You want me there?” Aizawa asks, his brows practically touching his hairline.
Kayama keeps her stern glare level. “Yes. You’re his teacher. Of those among
us, he trusts you the most.” Her eyes dart to the side. “Perhaps even more than
All Might,” she says, more to herself than to him.
But Aizawa doesn’t get the chance to press her on that (because, no, he does
not think that he’s the better choice than Bakugou’s childhood hero), before
she snaps her attention back to him, and continues, “And we need someone there
to ground him. Someone familiar. Just in case.”
Then it dawns on Aizawa. “Just in case you need to make sure his quirk doesn’t
get out of hand.”
Kayama grimaces.
Because of course- that’s the only rational possible reason she could have for
asking him to be Bakugou’s escort to the precinct.
Because the idea of choosing him simply for moral support is completely and
totally irrational.
“I nearly attacked that man the last time I saw him,” Aizawa points out.
“You did attack him,” Kayama snaps. “And trust me, I remember. I would hope
that you have regained some of your self-control.”
Aizawa crosses his arms, ducking his head so that his expression is obscured by
his scarf. He’s in a bit of a bind.
The honest answer is that he doesn’t know. He would like to think that he
wouldn’t let that villain goad him again, but he isn’t sure. Just the thought
of Hirota Masaji makes his blood boil, and the very concept of even putting him
within Bakugou Katsuki’s general vicinity makes Aizawa want to be sure that
Hirota never so much as lays eyes on his student again. Even if he can keep his
cool, the idea of listening to him again, of hearing him gloat about raping a
child, and being able to do nothing, leaves his skin feeling too tight and too
hot, and his eye twitching.
Kayama’s expression softens somewhat. “There will be members of the police
force escorting you at all times. Bakugou and Hirota will never be in the same
room together. Just… closure is important. We want to at least give Bakugou a
proper chance at it, don’t we?”
Do they?
Aizawa isn’t sure closure would mean the same thing to Bakugou as it does to
Kayama.
But still…
He tries to imagine Kayama there in his stead. Or Hizashi, or Kan, or All
Might, and… it just feels wrong. None of them know Katsuki like he does, except
for perhaps All Might. And he tries to imagine the man standing next to Bakugou
as he faces his rapist, tries to imagine him giving comfort that isn’t asked
for, trying to be a reassuring presence. For Bakugou, it would probably be
suffocating.
Aizawa sighs, and lifts his head again. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. But just
for the record- I still think this is a terrible idea.”
Kayama smirks, but it lacks its usual edge. “That’s fine. Just try to act like
a representative befitting of the school, would you, Shouta?”
“As long as it doesn’t require me to wear a suit, I think I’ll manage.”
 
Bakugou is silent next to Aizawa on the ride to the precinct. His student sits,
slouched down in the chair, one foot braced against the back of the empty
passenger’s seat. He seems more subdued than normal. His glare lacking its
usual bite as he stares at the back of the seat, and his mouth pulled into
something almost like a pout. He’s hunching in on himself, as if to limit any
possible contact as much as possible.
Aizawa already feels a headache coming on.
Most of this is supposed to be very simple. The police simply want to speak
with Bakugou, tell him how everything is progressing, question him on any
missing details, ask about any preferences he may have for the trial- whether
he’d prefer to be there for example- any statements he’d like to make, and, of
course, offer to let him speak to his attacker.
For closure.
Aizawa is simply here as his escort.
But Bakugou seems about enthusiastic about it all as he does.
It’s Tsukauchi that greets and briefs them, and it’s him who sits down with
Bakugou, across the table, and starts the proceedings.
Most of it is boring formalities. They ask for Bakugou to clarify the events
leading up to his and Hirota’s fight, ask if Hirota gave any indication of this
being a part of any larger plan, and ignore Bakugou when he gets a bit
snappish.
Most everything they need they got from Bakugou already, after his first
questioning. This is simply to double check and clarify any details left fuzzy.
But Aizawa can see how that could be irksome.
Bakugou clearly wants to acknowledge the attack as little as he feasibly can.
Tsukauchi then begins detailing how the trial will proceed.
“There isn’t much to it,” Tsukauchi admits. “It’s just a sentencing. One person
argues that he should have a harsher sentence, another argues he shouldn’t, a
few people speak to give their opinions, and the judge chooses how long he’ll
be in prison for, and where.”
“Great,” Bakugou says, staring up at the ceiling, faking boredom. “Why the fuck
do I care?”
Aizawa will give him this much- Tsukauchi has a great poker face. “You are
invited to speak at the hearing.”
Bakugou freezes, his glare shifting into wide-eyed shock, an expression that
looks far too vulnerable on him, and Aizawa has to resist the urge to turn
away.
“What?”
Tsukauchi frowns, looking a bit disconcerted as well. “Yes. As the injured
party, you are invited to attend. You can give a statement while there, or
simply give a written statement to be read on your behalf. In fact, you could
do the latter without attending as well, if you wish.”
Bakugou continues to stare, and Aizawa tries to guess what has to be running
through his head right now.
But he comes up blank. He truly has no idea what it must be like to be in such
a position. To be given the opportunity to have a say in your attacker’s fate,
but only at the expense of barring your soul about one of the most awful things
that’s ever been done to you to a room of strangers.
Bakugou swallows audibly. “And if I decline to attend or make a statement?”
Tsukauchi looks saddened, but unsurprised. “That’s entirely up to you. Though I
will say that personal testimony can influence juries enough to end in longer
sentences.”
Bakugou’s expression closes off again. “Then I won’t be going. Or making any
fucking statement. The court can do whatever they want with that fucker.”
Tsukauchi nods. “I figured as much.” He marks something down in a folder, then
looks up at Bakugou with renewed apprehension. “You also are given the option
to speak with him now.”
Aizawa watches Bakugou carefully. He stiffens, and it hardly seems like he’s
breathing at all. But he knew about this offer even before coming here today,
so the action is more reflexive than genuine surprise.
“You’ll have the chance to say whatever you’d like to him,” Tsukauchi
continues. “It goes on record, but unless either of you reveal anything
particularly pertinent to the case that was otherwise unknown, it will not be
used in the sentencing hearing.” He shuffles the papers in front of him, and
closes the folder. “It’s a chance for closure, if that’s what you’d like.”
Bakugou takes a few, deep, shuddering breaths, his expression remaining closed
off as he clearly works up the nerve to make his decision.
“Can I see him?” Bakugou finally asks. “Before deciding if I want to talk to
him? Can I just…”
“Certainly,” Tsukauchi says, standing. “If you’ll follow me.”
 
The quirk resistant glass separating them operates as a one way mirror-
allowing them to see in, but only showing Hirota’s reflection back.
The villain is led in a few minutes after they arrive. Aizawa has no doubt that
he knows they’re here, but Hirota doesn’t say anything. He simply smirks at the
glass, and sits casually in his chair- well, as casually as someone chained to
a table can sit, Aizawa supposes.
He reeks of arrogance, just like before, and it rubs against Aizawa’s already
frayed nerves in all the wrong ways.
He can’t imagine what Bakugou must be feeling.
Bakugou’s eyes have not left Hirota since he was escorted into the room. He is
unnaturally still. If it were not for the harsh exhales that Aizawa could
occasionally hear from him, he’d be afraid that Bakugou had stopped breathing
altogether.
No one speaks for several minutes as Bakugou stands at the window, staring at
his rapist smirking back at him
Finally, Bakugou asks, “When is the sentencing hearing?”
“A little over two weeks from today,” Tsukauchi says.
Bakugou frowns, and he drops his arms to his sides. “What about his quirk? Most
jail cells were made of metal the last time I checked.”
“We’ve got a quirk suppression collar on him,” Tsukauchi assures him. “On top
of that we’ve been limiting his access to metals. The cuffs are carbon fiber,
and we’re keeping him in one of the few Plexiglas cells we have here.”
Bakugou nods, but doesn’t say anything further- just continues to stare down
Hirota.
“Have I been called upon by ghosts?” Hirota suddenly asks from behind the
glass, startling everyone.
Aizawa reflexively falls into a defensive stance, and he can see Bakugou tense
all over and his palms twitch.
“Or maybe,” the villain says, his voice muffled by static through the room’s
intercom, “I’m being visited by a little kitten.”
There’s a spark in Hirota’s eyes as he leans forward, bracing himself on the
table. “And well, you know how easy they are to frighten.”
It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.
Aizawa does not know if the police informed Hirota that Bakugou would be here
or not. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
“What’s the matter?” Hirota taunts when he doesn’t receive a reply. “I hope I
didn’t spook you too badly, Katsuki.”
A snarl warps Bakugou’s expression, and Aizawa readies himself to call upon his
quirk. If Bakugou tries to use his explosions to get to Hirota, there may be
nothing quirk resistant glass and concrete walls can do.
But then-
“Let’s go,” Bakugou snarls, whirling around, away from the interrogation room.
“I don’t have anything to say to this bastard.”
Tsukauchi looks a bit uncertain, but Aizawa shakes his head at the detective
before he can protest. Tsukauchi’s mouth curves down, clearly displeased, but
he doesn’t speak up.
They need to get out of this damned room- both of them.
But Bakugou especially.
No good was ever going to come of this.
Tsukaiuchi glances between the two of them, then nods slowly.
“Alright, if you’re sure.”
Aizawa swears that he can feel Hirota’s eyes following them, even after the
door slams shut.
 
When they are in the car once more, Aizawa can feel the hostility rolling off
Bakugou in waves, and he knows now, even if he does not know why, that this
meeting will have far reaching consequences.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Katsuki.
The bastard’s voice rings in his head, repeating his name in that stupid voice,
all too familiar, all too personal, over and over and over again.
Bakugou hates it. Hates him.
Closure?
Yeah fucking right.
The bastard’s been thrown into a cell, stripped of his quirk, and plead guilty
to a crime that will get him sentenced to years of prison. And somehow he still
knows that he’s the one with the power between the two of them.
Standing in that room, looking at Steel… Katsuki might has well have been
underneath him on the dirty metal floor again.
The cuffs, the cells, the sentencing- they all meant nothing.
Steel had already gotten what he’d wanted- power over Bakugou. And none of that
shit was going to take it back.
But Katsuki could.
The plan is already half formed before he’s left the precinct.
All he really needs is the right people.
He considers Kirishima, or Kaminari, or, fuck, even fucking Deku and Uraraka.
But no, at the end of the day they’ll only try to stop him, no matter how much
they may hate Steel.
In fact, there aren’t a lot of people Bakugou can think of that won’t
immediately shut him down, or report his plans to a teacher.
Which means that he needs to be damn careful who he chooses. If he judges
someone wrong, then this is over before it starts- his plan, and his hero
career.
“What do you want?” Tokoyami asks, curious, but not unkind.
They are outside the dorms, away from prying ears.
“I want revenge on Steel,” Bakugou says, cutting straight to the chase. “Will
you help me or not?”
Tokoyami blinks, clearly startled by Bakugou’s bluntness. “Steel?”
Bakugou’s expression twists. “Hirota,” he spits the name like venom.
“Your attacker,” Tokoyami verifies.
Bakugou’s expression warps more. Attacker. He hates that people keep doing
that. Saying assault, or attack, dancing around the actual word.
Steel is his fucking rapist. And no one wants to say the fucking word in front
of him.
Then again, Katsuki isn’t sure he wants people to say it either. The few times
it has been said makes it suddenly feel too real, too raw, and he can just hear
the pity in their voices, and he hates it.
At the end of the day, Bakugou just hates everything about this fucking
scenario.
“Yes,” he says, terse. “Are you in or not?”
Tokoyami is quiet for a moment.
“Why ask me?” he finally asks.
Bakugou scoffs, hunching his shoulders against the wind. “Would have figured
that’d be obvious- You were there. I may have been a fucking mess when you
fucks found me, but I know you were there. And you may not be as much a fuckin’
open book as the rest of those idiots, but I know you’re screwy over it too.
All of you have been. But you haven’t been doing anything about it; not like
the rest of those fucks who can’t seem to give me any fucking space.” He steps
forward, red eyes meeting red. “And I’m going to go out on a limb and say that
you want to fucking do something about it.”
Tokoyami seems slightly surprised, then perturbed, by his reasoning. “You are
not wrong,” he admits. “… Will this help you?”
Bakugou’s expression warps, the corners of his lips pulling into an unnatural
smile. “Trust me, nothing would help me more.”
 
With Tokoyami’s apparent agreement, Bakugou only needs one other pawn. He waits
until the next day before approaching them, mainly because he does not belong
to their class. And because, admittedly, Bakugou had to spend the morning
trying to figure out what his name actually was.
But during lunch that next day, Bakugou calls out to Shinsou Hitoshi, and is
met with tired, darkly shadowed, eyes.
Bakugou meets his gaze, unflinching. “I want your help.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Shinsou Hitoshi knew he would agree to Bakugou Katsuki’s request the moment he
approached him.
“Fine,” Hitoshi had said, before Bakugou could even clarify what he meant.
Bakugou’s brows had drown down, suspicion suddenly clouding his expression.
“You don’t even know-”
“There aren’t a lot of things a person like you would need my help for,”
Hitoshi said. “And I’m not stupid. You want my help, you’ve got it.”
A part of him wonders if he had perhaps agreed too quickly. He hadn’t exactly
given it much thought.
But then again, even now, several days later, with plenty of time to think
about it and back out, Hitoshi hasn’t changed his mind.
Most of the kids in the General Studies Department didn’t have a clue what had
happened. All they had heard was that a villain had been arrested after a fight
with a kid from the heroics department.
But Hitoshi actually has several friends in classes A and B, and between both
groups, and a bit of his own research into current police proceedings, he’d
been able to put two and two together pretty easily.
Hitoshi does not know Bakugou Katsuki; not really. They have never talked,
interacted, or had really even given each other so much as a passing glance in
the hallway. Hitoshi had been to the 1(now 2)-A dorms on several occasions, but
the few times he had even seen Bakugou the other hadn’t acknowledged his
presence.
(Hitoshi would have been insulted, but it seemed as if he ignored just about
everyone else down there as well, only acknowledging the electricity idiot at
one point.)
What he knows is limited to this- Bakugou Katsuki is the top of the Heroics
Department, and not without reason. He powerful, prideful, talented, and a
violent jackass with an explosive temper. Hitoshi also knows most of Class A,
for some reason beyond him, actually find Bakugou somewhat endearing.
But when he hears Midoryia stutter out a vague answer as to why a bunch of his
classmates were following Bakugou around, like the world’s most ridiculous
protection squad, and when he reads the charges listed against the villain in
the police database (that he may or may not have hacked into), he still feels
his blood turn to ice in his veins.
Hitoshi… Look, he knows what is quirk is. He knows what it can seem like to
some people. He has watched the girls in his classes over the years, especially
since middle school, flinch away from him, keep their eyes downcast, refuse to
so much as speak in his presence. And he knows why- knows what they fear from
him.
And the worst part is- He can’t even blame them.
Because people like Hirota Masaji exist.
It makes Hitoshi sick to think about the types of people who would violate
another person like that, who would try to steal their agency away to force
what’s supposed to be an act of intimacy on them.
If you want his opinion?
The world would be better off without people like that.
So he agreed before Bakugou so much as tried to explain himself. He doesn’t
need an explanation. He was already on board.
Which, he supposes, is how he ends up here, hanging in the shadows of the
precinct’s holding center, standing between Bakugou and the bird, Tokoyami,
dressed in all black.
“You’re sure bird brain there will be able to find and take out the cameras
before they catch anything?” Bakugou asks, indicating to Dark Shadow.
“Yes,” Tokoyami says with complete confidence. “Cameras have blind spots. It
will be slow going for a small time, but there should be no problem.”
“And if they notice the cameras going out before we reach the surveillance
monitor?” Hitoshi asks.
“I was under the impression that that was why you are here,” Tokoyami says
coldly.
Hitoshi’s eyes narrow.
Even though he’s made friends with a decent number of heroics students, some
still approach him with caution- especially those that seem to be friends with
the Tail Guy.
(Ojiro, Hitoshi has to remind himself. Midoriya has demanded that Hitoshi
acknowledge him by name.)
It’s been clear when they’ve met up to discuss Bakugou’s plan that Tokoyami
isn’t exactly thrilled with Hitoshi’s involvement.
“Just be prepared,” Bakugou snaps at the two of them.
They don’t waste time after that.
Hitoshi and Bakuogu pull on their masks. Their faces are completely obscured by
black fabric and mesh. It’s breathable enough for them to be able to see and
speak properly, but remain unidentifiable unless someone were to get
particularly close.
Tokoyami had denied any need for something similar.
“If they see me, it won’t matter what I’m wearing,” he had pointed out. “My
form is too distinct to cover up.”
As much as Hitoshi may not be Tokoyami’s biggest fan, he has to respect that
the bird is still willing to do this, even with the risk of being recognized.
It shows a certain type of commitment.
He also has to admit that Dark Shadow is pretty useful. The creature is able to
flatten itself, slide under the side door, and unlock it from inside.
Much like Hitoshi himself, it’s likely a damned good thing that Tokoyami has
little interest in becoming a villain.
Before they even step into the building, Dark Shadow darts forward, taking out
the first camera.
Tokoyami nods to Bakugou and Hitoshi, indicating for them to follow.
They move slowly, hiding around corners, and waiting for Dark Shadow to go
ahead and take out each of the cameras that could catch so much as their
shadow. But they must still be moving quickly enough, as no alarm has sounded,
and no one has come to check in the halls they have traversed.
Then they see it- the surveillance room. Tokoyami takes out one last camera,
then Bakugou motions to Hitoshi.
Hitoshi sighs, squaring his shoulders. This is where things could really get
tricky.
Here’s hoping what little bit of research he could manage to scrounge up for
this mission would come in handy.
Hitoshi walks right up to the door, and knocks quickly, frantically.
“Amari!” he says, trying to pitch his voice somewhat. “Amari, we need you in
the break room, stat!”
He really, really hopes that the schedule he’d managed to get his hands on was
correct. Otherwise, they might be about to meet the blunt end of a gun.
There’s a loud bang from the other side of the door- nothing like a gun, and
more like someone falling out of a chair.
Well, Hitoshi thinks wryly, that explains why no one noticed the cameras going
out. The bastard was asleep on the job.
He bangs on the door again. “Amari!”
He hears scrambling footsteps, and slight cursing behind the door, and readies
himself, drawing on his quirk.
The door flies open to reveal a middle aged man with one milky eye and
practically translucent hair panting on the other side.
“What? What’s wron-”
The man does not even get a chance to blink. As soon as the first word is out
of his mouth, Hitoshi’s mind reaches out, and wraps itself around Amari’s with
ease. The man stops all at once, going still, and his expression turning blank.
Hitoshi nods. Good. This one was easy.
(Now here’s hoping no one else heard all of that.)
“God that’s fucking creepy,” Bakugou says, distaste coloring his slightly
muffled voice.
Tokoyami makes a sound of agreement.
Hitoshi doesn’t bother to look back at them. “You were the one who wanted me
for my quirk,” he says easily, then turns his attention to puppeteering Amari.
“Go turn off the cameras,” Hitoshi commands, and Amari obeys, shuffling back
into his office, towards the center console.
He watches for a moment for any stilted or irregular movements. The man moves
slow, but not unreasonably so. People with strong wills, like Midoryia for
example, often move more unnaturally, their movements seeming forced and jerky,
unlike those who fall under his control more neatly.
Here, they seem mostly safe.
The guard switches off the cameras without any further preamble, then stands
back, staring blankly at his hands.
“Sit down in your chair, and do not touch anything,” Hitoshi says, walking into
the room. Then, for good measure, “And do not call anyone. Stay as still and
quiet as possible. And if any of your colleagues come by or call to you over
the radio, report to them like normal. Do not mention we are here.”
Commands like that are trickier. ‘Normal’ can be subjective, and may not be a
specific enough if Hitoshi is not there to actively control what Amari says and
does. But it’s a risk they’ll have to take.
Hitoshi glances around the surveillance room, and feels Bakugou’s presence at
his back. Tokoyami keeps watch outside.
“How long will that hold?” Bakugou asks, as he moves to a locked key rack on
the wall.
“Hard to say for sure,” Hitoshi answers honestly. “But if nothing jars him out
of it, and I don’t go too far from the vicinity? Several hours at least. I’ve
never tried to hold anyone longer than that though.”
Bakugou glances back at Amari. “That should be enough.” He pauses, clearly
thinking. “You think this thing’s alarmed?” He indicates to the locked key box.
“Could be,” Hitoshi says, shrugging. “He might have the key though.” He jerks
his chin in Amari’s direction.
Bakugou sighs, annoyed. “Gonna have to fucking search-”
“Hold out the key to the key box on the wall,” Hitoshi commands of Amari, and
the man roots around in his pocket for a moment, before holding out a small key
on a crowded key ring.
Hitoshi glances back to Bakugou. “There you go.”
Bakugou hesitates for a moment, watching Hitoshi carefully, as if reassessing
him once more.
Then he snorts. “Well, you really are pretty fucking useful, aren’t you.”
Hitoshi smirks. “I do my best.”
Bakugou takes the key, and unlocks the box. He frowns, examining the variety
for a moment, clearly trying to decipher the labels for each.
“Amari, tell us which key is the master key to the holding cells,” Hitoshi
commands.
There’s a pause- getting people to speak while under his control is actually
much more difficult than getting them to act. Speech is more personal, requires
more thought on the part of the person being controlled. But Hitoshi’s been
working on it for the past year or so with decent results.
Finally, Amari responds, his voice drifty and far away. “The one on the top
right.”
Bakugou snatches it, then closes and locks the key box again.
“Good, now let’s go,” Bakugou demands, moving past Hitoshi, and back out into
the hall.
Hitoshi glances back at Amari, who’s still staring out into nothingness, one
last time before following.
A few winding hallways, and one easily opened locked door later, they find
themselves exactly where they need to be.
The precinct holding cells.
Someone startles at the end of the long hall, and a guard stands up,
immediately on high alert.
“Hey!” the guard is shouting, but they don’t even get the chance to reach for a
weapon before Dark Shadow is surging forward.
This part of the plan is likely the trickiest. They have no idea what this
guard’s quirk might be, and if they don’t time this properly then they could
have all the guards in the precinct coming down on them at once.
The darkness disorients the guard, and Hitoshi seizes the moment.
“Please, help!” he cries, trying to use the guard’s distraction to allow him an
opening.
“Wait- what- Who’s-”
There.
Hitoshi latches on to the guard’s frazzled response, and worms his way into
their mind.
“Stand still,” Hitoshi commands, trying to force every ounce of authority he
can into his voice. This hold is more tentative, the ‘entry point,’ so to
speak, smaller. It takes up more concentration to command them.
But the guard still freezes in place, staring blankly forward.
Dark Shadow circles around the guard once before coming back to Tokoyami.
Hitoshi’s shoulders slump with relief. Good. That shouldn’t have been enough
commotion to alert anyone else on duty.
Bakugou pushes forward, past Hitoshi and Tokoyami, and does not hesitate to hit
the guard over the back of the heard, knocking them unconscious, and catching
them before they slump to the ground.
“Fucking finally,” Bakugou mutters as he lays the guard down. “We’ll have to
keep an eye out. Just in case they wake up or someone comes by. But we should
be gone before that happens.”
Hitoshi and Tokoyami nod.
“Now,” Bakugou says, jerking his chin towards the row of holding cells, “let’s
get on with this.”
Hitoshi moves forward, keeping a sharp eye out.
There are only two other occupied cells, and, between Dark Shadow’s precise
attacks and Hitoshi’s commands, both criminals are easily knocked out before
they can get a good look at any of them.
Then, towards the back of the precinct, Hitoshi finds what they’re looking for.
An almost plastic looking cell with small holes, like an old fashioned bug
catcher.
A man lies on the bed inside, propping himself up on his elbows.
Seeing Hirota Masaji in real life is an odd experience for Hitoshi. He had seen
the man’s mug shot, briefly, when he managed to crack his case file.
He’s more unassuming than Hitoshi felt he’d be.
He’s young looking, barely thirty, and he’s healthy with all his teeth and
bodily proportions intact. He’d almost look attractive, with a strong jaw, high
cheekbones, and unkempt brown hair, it weren’t for the eyes.
Technically, gray should not be such an unnerving color, Hitoshi’s certainly
seen stranger. But it’s the absolute lack of warmth in them that’s so off-
putting. Hirota’s eyes might as well be carved of stone.
Hitoshi has to suppress a shudder.
“Now what do we have here?” the villain asks, sitting up a bit further, a slow
smile spreading across his face.
“Hirota Masaji,” Hitoshi says, and he’s surprised he manages to keep his voice
level.
If Hirota is alarmed by their presence, then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he
begins to climb to his feet, asking, “And who might you-”
It’s incredibly satisfying to watch his awful gray eyes go entirely blank, and
his disgusting smile drop- to watch a predator freeze like a wounded rabbit.
But some part of Hitoshi can’t help but feel sickened at the thought of his own
mind brushing up against this man’s.
Get over it, he chastises himself. If you want to use your quirk as a hero,
then things like this are necessary.
Well, ensnaring unsavory minds with his own that is. The actual circumstances
however…
“Lay down on the ground, on your back, your head facing towards us,” Hitoshi
commands, and Hirota follows easily.
Hitoshi can feel Bakugou’s presence at his back. He has not taken his mask off
yet, so Hitoshi hasn’t the slightest clue what Bakugou might be feeling at
seeing Hirota like this. Whether it’s satisfying, or entirely unsettling.
“Place your hands above your head,” Hitoshi says, once Hirota is flat on his
back, his legs extended. Hirota obeys.
“Stay still, and do not speak,” Hitoshi commands, and then, as soon as he’s
sure Hirota is secure, he takes the key from Bakugou and unlocks the cell.
Only he and Tokoyami step in for the time being. Bakugou lingers in the hall,
staring down at his rapist. Dark Shadow hovers over Hirota, as if expecting the
man to break form Hitoshi’s hold at any moment. Hitoshi tries not to take it
too personally.
“Think it’ll hold?” Tokoyami asks, eyeing the plastic cell door.
The cell is, as expected, barren. Most of the room is made of cold cement. And
what isn’t is made up of some kind of reinforced plastic or carbon fiber. No
metal pipes or wires. Nothing for Hirota to possibly use.
“It’ll hold fine,” Bakugou says, and pulls out the length of rope he’d been
carrying in the small backpack slung across his shoulders.
Hitoshi watches as Tokoyami joins him. Between the two of them they manage to
secure Hirota’s wrists to the plastic cell wall- the rope winding through the
holes in the door, and tied securely on the other side.
“His legs might be a problem,” Hitoshi comments idly as Bakugou stands, and
Tokoyami moves back a few steps.
“That’s what bird brain’s here for,” Bakugou says, nodding to Tokoyami.
“And me?” Hitoshi asks, trying not the feel the heat creeping up his spine.
This suddenly feels like a very, very bad idea.
But it’s too late to back out now.
Bakugou pulls off his mask, revealing burning red eyes, and sweaty, unkempt
blond hair.
“Keep watch outside the cell,” he says, his eyes never leaving Hirota’s blank
face. “Brainwash anyone you see. Got it?”
“Sure,” Hitoshi agrees, and doesn’t waste any time moving past Bakugou, and
taking up his station.
He can’t help but notice that this puts him out of the line of sight for
whatever Bakugou will be doing.
(This is the part of the plan that Bakugou had never specified to them. He’d
only said they’d secure Hirota, then jumped to their escape plans).
“Do you need me to wake him up?” Hitoshi asks as he leans against the cell.
Hitoshi can see Bakuogu shake his head out of the corner of his eye.
“No.”
Then he slams his foot down on Hirota’s fingers, and a howl of pain fills the
precinct.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Life snaps back into Hirota’s eyes as the pain registers, and he throws his
head back, letting out a raw scream.
Bakugou just sneers, and grinds his unforgiving, steel toed boot down harder-
worn just for this occasion.
There’s something about seeing Steel again that sets his heart hammering away
in his chest, ringing in his ears like a drum, and beating away at his ribcage
until it’s the only thing that exists in a hollow cavern.
If there’s an emotion to name that feeling, then Katsuki doesn’t know it.
But he does know what to call the singing in his veins as he watched every
ounce of resistance drain from Steel’s eyes, and as he stamps down on the
villain’s fingers and watches him wither in pain- visceral satisfaction.
“Hi, fucker,” Katsuki snarls down at Steel as he finally steps off his fingers.
“Remember me?”
Steel is still shaking, trying to pull in deep, halting breaths, and it takes a
second for his eyes to fully focus, for him to process just who is standing
above him.
But when his eyes clear, Steel lets his head fall back to the ground, and
cackles.
“Oh,” Steel manages to gasp through his laughter, “now isn’t this something.”
He tilts his head back, letting his awful gray eyes bore into Bakugou’s, his
teeth bared in something that almost resembles a smile. “Katsuki, did you come
all the way out here, just to see me again?”
Bakugou sneers, and connects his foot with Steel’s ribs, jarring the villain,
and almost dislodging Tokoyami’s shadow with the force of the kick. Steel
groans, his head rolling to the side, before coming right back, his smile only
a bit more strained than before.
“Shut the hell up,” Bakugou spits. “You don’t get to fucking call me that.”
Steel fakes a pout. “Oh, come on now, Katsuki, I thought we were close?” His
back arches off the ground as he tries to lift himself up, baring his teeth.
“I’ve been inside you after all; there’s no need for us to be formal with each
other.”
The punch that Bakugou lands on Steel’s cheek is devastating, and sends the
man’s head whipping to the side with a resounding- crack!
Bakugou follows his own momentum down, and kneels over Steel’s abdomen,
straddling him (but careful to avoid getting too close to his groin). Bakugou
grips the front of Steel’s prison uniform and hauls him up before he can regain
his bearings, snarling in his face.
“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Bakugou says, before slamming Steel back into the ground.
“What you did doesn’t mean shit.”
Steel is still groaning, and before he can recover from that particular
onslaught, Bakugou grabs the knife that he has tucked away in the back of his
belt, and pulls it from its sheath. The metal flashes as it comes to rest at
Steel’s neck.
Steel’s breath catches, but only for a moment, as his eyes flick to the knife.
He licks his lips, gaze darting back to Bakugou.
“Well would you look at that,” Steel says, his voice barely above a whisper,
“the kitten found some claws.”
Bakugou growls, and pushes on the knife just the slightest bit, forcing Steel
to press himself into the ground.
Steel just laughs, the sound breathy and uneven.
“Bakugou,” Tokoyami says sharply, his tone warning. “You risk over stepping a
bound-”
“Shut up,” Bakugou snaps, glancing at the bird brain over his shoulder. “I’m
not going to kill the fucker. But if you don’t like this, then you can fucking
leave.” He rounds back on Steel. “Because I’m not about to stop.”
Tokoyami falls silent, but Bakuogu can hear his feathers ruffling, and Dark
Shadow makes an unhappy kind of hiss from where it’s pinning Steel’s legs down.
Steel’s eyes meet his own, and Bakugou searches for something- some kind of
fear, or regret, some kind of tell- but he only finds vague amusement in those
eyes.
“I’m flattered that you’d be so dedicated to seeing me again, Katsuki,” Steel
purrs. “And not even to kill me. How kind.”
“You’re not fucking worth shit,” Bakugou says. “I’m just here to give you what
you fucking deserve.”
“Well,” Steel leers, “I certainly won’t say no to a bit more time with you-”
Bakuogu doesn’t give him the time to finish that sentence, and just moves. It
isn’t until he hears the metallic clang of the knife’s edge hitting cement, and
feels tissue and sinew give way under a blade, and screams reverberate across
the concrete that he realizes what he’s done.
Steel’s right pointer finger lays severed, barely half an inch from the now
bleeding stump above the first knuckle.
Red flashes in his vision, bleeds slowly from the center, until it’s the only
thing in his line of sight, and Bakugou heaves, gasping as he tries to pull
enough air into his lungs.
He’s- he’s just cut someone’s finger off.
He actually-
Bakugou leans to the side, and dry heaves. It feels like he’s going to shake
out of his skin, and if he had chosen to eat something today he might actually
be throwing up, but instead he’s just choking on bile.
Steel’s screams suddenly warp, into something hysterical, something that almost
sounds like laughter if it weren’t so utterly and completely wrong.
It’s too loud, and it breaks through the static plugging Bakugou’s ears,
snapping him back into reality.
He lunges forward, and he knows how he must look, bloody, wild-eyed, and
desperate, but he can’t care as he muffles Steel’s hysterics by shoving his
forearm against the man’s mouth, not giving a damn when Steel’s teeth clamp
down on his skin.
“Bite down all you fucking want,” Bakugou hisses, but it comes out sounding all
wrong, too wrecked and quiet. “But you’d better fucking keep quiet. Or I’ll cut
your fucking tongue out, got it?”
Steel is breathing harshly through his nose, his eyes never wavering from
Bakugou’s, something manic reflecting in usually cold gray irises. Bakugou
feels something almost like a smile against his skin, and he has to suppress a
shudder of revulsion.
Bakugou just sneers in disgust, then looks back to Steel’s now bloodied hand.
Fine.
Fine, okay, fine.
Too late to turn back now. He came here to teach this fucker a lesson, and
that’s damn well what he’s going to do.
Bakugou sets his jaw, and leans forward again, pinning Steel’s hand down, and
bringing the blade to his middle finger.
“Bakugou,” Tokoyami says, and he sounds choked, and horrified, and Bakugou
can’t turn back and look at him now, he can’t-
“I told you,” Bakugou says, not letting his gaze drift from the narrow focus of
the blade set against Steel’s finger, “if you can’t fucking handle it, then
leave.”
There’s a shaky pause, then-
“This is immoral.”
“Yeah, and so fucking what?” Bakugou returns. He can see blood beginning to
well up from where the blade is cutting into flesh. “It’s what he deserves.”
“You’re getting exactly what you deserve.”
Bakugou feels Dream-Izuku’s sickly sweet voice in his ears, thick, and
chilling, but he can’t think about it, he can’t.
Bakugou waits, half expecting Tokoyami to up and leave. He hears a sharp
inhale, a rattling sigh, and… nothing. Tokoyami remains.
Bakugou screws his eyes shut, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.
Okay then.
He presses down on the knife- it feels slower this time, feeling the blade sink
through flesh, and catch on bone, before slipping between the joints, and
cracking against the ground again.
Bakugou can feel Steel’s cries against his arm, can feel the man trying to pull
in more air, likely on the verge of hyperventilation.
Good.
Maybe now he has even a taste of what he made Bakugou feel on the floor of that
warehouse.
Bakugou doesn’t allow himself to hesitate before slicing through Steel’s ring
finger next.
Steel’s muffled cries still seem too loud in his ears.
When he moves to Steel’s other hand he’s forced to pry his arm from Steel’s
mouth, allowing choking cackles to fill the air uninterrupted again.
The bite mark bleeds sluggishly, and Bakugou makes a face as Steel’s saliva
drips down his arm, but it’s nothing major. It’s far too late to worry about
the bastard infecting him with anything.
Steel’s still laughing.
“Who knew?!” Steel crows, tilting his head back, twisting just slightly to see
his now severed fingers. “Who knew you had it in you, Katsuki? Coming all the
way here, just to amputate some fingers like a complete psychopath!” He snaps
his gaze back to Bakugou, his grin feverish. “Why the fingers, huh? Were you
afraid I’d be able to track you down, and push them inside you again? Find you,
and watch you choke, and wither on th-”
Bakugou slams his fist against Steel’s cheek, snapping his head to the side.
“You don’t get to talk,” Bakugou hisses, shoving his other forearm into Steel’s
mouth, gagging him once more. “Fucking- I’m so fucking sick of hearing your
fucking voice.”
Steel’s eyes glint, and he can feel a smile forming against his skin, and
Bakuogu can’t help but feel that, despite their current positions, he just gave
away something telling.
The sound of the knife slicing through Steel’s left pointer finger feels
disturbingly satisfying.
Bakugou’s shaking so badly that it’s almost impossible to hold the knife still.
He’s half surprised his control of his quirk hasn’t slipped, and lead to a few
unintended explosions.
You will never touch me again, you will never touch me, you can never touch me,
never again, never again, never-
The words keep running through his head on repeat.
By the end of tonight, Bakugou’s going to be sure that Steel can’t ever even
fucking touch himself again.
It’s with that in mind, and with anger pooling in his stomach, and burning up
his spine, and his brain, and his eyes (and fuck, he won’t cry), that Bakugou
manages to dismember two more of Steel’s fingers.
It’s a blur of blood, and muffled screams, and pain, and when the knife hits
the concrete one last time Bakugou is left staring at the blood and carnage
before him.
It takes a few moments before reality starts slowly coming back to him,
trickling in like a stream over rocks.
He starts to hear his own heart beat and breath first- he’s borderline
hyperventilating.
Okay- okay. Work on that first. All this was for fucking nothing if he passes
out now.
He can hear Steel next, who has actually gone a bit quiet, simply groaning and
trying to toss his head back and forth.
The stench of blood hits him last. It leaves a bitter, metallic taste in the
back of his throat.
Bakugou straightens, dropping the knife at his side, and trying to focus in on
his breathing.
Focus. He needs to focus.
His forearm leaves Steel’s mouth- bleeding, much like the other.
He’ll have matching marks.
Steel doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look anywhere in particular, just gasps,
and shakes underneath him, and…
And all it does is leave Bakuogu feeling cold, and empty.
Any amount of visceral satisfaction or anger or vengeance has fled, leaving him
feeling hallow and dirty.
“Bakuogu?” The voice is Shinsou’s this time.
Bakuogu forces himself to look up.
Shinsou has a decent poker face, but behind the thin mask of disinterest,
Bakugou can see shock, and fear, and disgust reflected in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Bakugou says, and he forces himself to his feet, slowly. He feels his
knees protest at the action.
How long have they been here?
“Let’s get going,” Bakugou says, and he wipes the knife off on his pant leg,
before shoving it back into his bag.
Shinsou and Tokoyami nod, but before Bakuogu can step away a harsh, breathless
laugh pulls his attention back to Steel.
“Well,” Steel says, and his typical smirk seems weak, and his face is too pale,
“it seems like you gave that pitch some thought after all.”
Bakuogu feels his heckles rise, and he clenches his fist, scowling down at
Steel. “Like hell,” he spits.
“Is that so?” Steel giggles, and the sound is too high, and too wrong, and-
“And yet, somehow, here you are, against all rules and regulations. In all your
bloody glory.”
Bakugou grinds his teeth together, and tries to pretend it doesn’t feel like
the building is crumbling down around his ears.
He- he had said- he wasn’t going to- he wouldn’t be-
But here he is. Covered in Steel’s blood. Acting out his own little revenge
plot, and-
Bakugou thinks he might be sick.
Even now, even after this, Steel’s still won.
And worse still- it’s a victory that Bakugou handed to him.
“Let’s go,” Bakugou snaps. He can’t stand to stay in this fucking cell another
minute.
A part of him almost wants to call this whole stupid plan off now, and just let
himself be caught.
But no.
He dragged other people into this with him. He can’t back out now.
He steps around the bloody mess he’d made of Steel’s now severed fingers, and
grimaces.
Besides, it’s too late to change anything now anyway.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
They lock the cell door, step over the still unconscious guard, find the
surveillance room again, and order the guard to turn all the cameras on after
ten minutes. It should give them more than enough time to get out.
It isn’t until they reach a darkened park, over a mile from the precinct, that
they finally slow to a stop, and catch their breath.
“Go on ahead,” Bakugou tells them, and Hitoshi and Tokoyami both look up in
surprise. “It’s better if we split up. Less likely for us to get caught.”
Tokoyami’s brow furrows. “Where will you go?”
“To dispose of some evidence,” Bakugou says cryptically. “Just go.”
He doesn’t wait for them to say anything else before darting off in a different
direction entirely.
Hitoshi almost feels a little bit cheated.
He can’t help but morbidly wonder if Bakugou’s going back to turn himself in.
Hitoshi glances at Tokoyami, but Tokoyami has his eyes screwed shut, and is
taking deep, measured breaths.
What were they supposed to do now?
After all of that?
What could they do?
He feels shaky and numb.
“I’m going home,” Hitoshi announces. “Try not to get caught sneaking back into
the dorms. That’d be pretty pathetic.”
He turns around to walk away; he intends for that to be the last of it.
But behind him, he hears, “What we did was wrong.” The words are thick and
heavy, and they blanket and press down on Hitoshi from all sides.
Hitoshi pauses, and looks back at Tokoyami over his shoulder.
“I know,” he says.
“I-I didn’t think-” Tokoyami is trembling. “I knew he wanted revenge, but I
didn’t think he would- would do something like this.”
Hitoshi considers this for a moment, then admits, “I thought he was going to
kill him.”
Tokoyami’s eyes snap up in alarm. “Then why did you agree?”
Hitoshi shrugs. “Because I thought he deserved it.”
The words linger between them, palpable in the sultry night.
Hitoshi can’t tell if Tokoyami is frowning- the beak makes him hard to read.
“Now what do you think?” Tokoyami asks.
Hitoshi finds his gaze drawn to the cracks in the side walk.
What does he think now?
Intellectually, he still thinks that Hirota deserved it. He still thinks the
man may deserve death.
But… the smell of blood is still thick in his throat, the sounds of a knife
slicing through flesh, of muffled screams and hysterical laughter ring in his
ears, and he can’t stop seeing the blood, and the severed fingers, and
Bakugou’s empty, empty expression, flash through his mind.
He thinks it was deserved. But he doesn’t feel like it was right.
Believing something is deserved, and being the one to carry out that belief are
two entirely separate things.
And Hitoshi can no longer bring himself to believe that they should have done
this.
He settles on saying, “Now… I don’t know what to think.”
Tokoyami nods, surprisingly accepting of that answer.
“We’ll likely have to answer for this,” he says instead.
Hitoshi nods. “Yeah. I imagine we will.”
 
It’s a long walk home.
But Hitoshi does not dare take the bus, for risk of being seen and remembered.
He tosses the mask somewhere in the garbage along the way.
He expects the police to arrive out of nowhere, and arrest him, but it doesn’t
happen.
It isn’t until he’s finally home, safe, and undetected, that Hitoshi rushes to
the bathroom and vomits up his stomach’s contents. He retches, and gags,
gasping for breath, as the blood, and stench, and screams, all try to suffocate
him.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Sneaking back into U.A. is not impossible, but it is difficult, and it requires
precision from Dark Shadow, something that Tokoyami still struggles with in the
dark of the night. He’s gotten significantly better at it over the past year,
but it is still difficult. He must carefully stretch his quirk in order to
vault over the walls of the campus, slip past cameras at just the right points,
swathed in shadows, and land lightly enough as to not cause any alarm.
Finally, Tokoyami is able to pull himself up onto his balcony, away from any
prying eyes.
He expects to feel some relief, to allow the tension to drain from his
shoulders, and he plans, entirely, to slip right inside and go about his life
as if tonight had never occurred.
Instead though, he finds himself hesitating.
He finds his shoulders drawn tight, and his breathing too labored.
He finds the thought of slipping into his room and being surrounded by four
walls unbearable.
He feels Dark Shadow press against his chest like a caged beast.
Tokoyami vaults his way onto the roof instead.
And there, surrounded by the night sky, and total freedom, Tokoyami fully
releases his hold on his quirk, and Dark Shadow bursts from his chest with an
ear piercing cry. Tokoyami drops to his knees from the force of it, his own
raw, ragged screams mixing with the sound, and he wonders what it would be like
for his own quirk to consume him.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Bakugou has half a mind to return to the precinct and turn himself in on the
spot. It might be better that way.
But the thought rings hollow, it has no drive behind it.
Nothing does, really.
But he’s already come this far, and by tomorrow morning it likely won’t matter.
So instead, he finds himself at Dogabah Beach.
Bakugou’s back curls against the water raining down on him from the shower head
above.
The water beats against his back and echoes in the small, gray, windowless,
shower room.
Blood washes from his hands like dye, and runs down the drain. Bakugou watches
it with detached interest.
It feels like he could scrub and scrub and scrub, and never get clean. Not from
what Steel had done to him, and now, not from what he had done to Steel in
return.
So he doesn’t bother.
He just lets the water hail down on him, cold, and unforgiving.
It isn’t until the water has been clear for several minutes, and Katsuki’s toes
are starting to prune, that he finally turns the water off. He stays, leaning
against the wall for another few minutes, before finally gathering himself, and
redressing in the simple gym shorts and T-shirt he’d brought along. He shoves
his black, blood soaked clothes into the now empty bag, and steps out onto the
beach.
It’s still remarkably clean.
Dogabah Beach had been practically uninhabitable for as long as Bakuogu could
remember. He used to come down here with his friends (followers, really) from
time to time when growing up, and make it into an adventure of sorts. They’d
traverse the trash, or he’d blow junk up, or they’d wrestle in the sand (he
always won, of course).
He remembers, after they got older, that his followers would joke about the
danger of finding heroine needles stuck in the bottom of their feet. He
remembers calling them idiots.
And then, over the course of a few months, the beach suddenly cleaned up. And
no one knew how, or why. But after that, the city had finally taken the
initiative and began working to keep the beach as clean and tourist friendly as
possible.
Bakugou hasn’t been here since before its miraculous clean up, has avoided it.
It sets his teeth on edge. The idea that, somehow, while he wasn’t looking,
this worthless little beach that he used to use as a stomping ground became
something beautiful makes him uneasy. Reminds him of all the wrong things.
All the wrong people.)
Katsuki feels too dirty to be here.
But he can’t focus on things like that right now.
Bakugou walks to the small pier that had been constructed in the past year or
so, ignoring his discomfort as the waves lapped up over the sides of the
planks.
Katsuki decides that the ocean is different at night than during the day. More
calming. More mysterious.
Mesmerizing, as if it were trying to draw him to the edge of the water.
It feels like the great eraser.
Fitting then, that when he reaches the pier’s end, he drops the bag containing
his bloodied clothes into the ocean, and then chucks the knife as far as he can
throw it into the waves.
And as they sink to the bottom of the ocean floor, Katsuki can’t help but
wonder what it might be like to step off the end of the pier, and sink with
them.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Elaboration on the warnings provided: There are cases mentioned and
     described of Bakugou disassociating and/or self-harming in this
     chapter. There is a scene that is a dream sequence/flash-back to the
     rape, though it is not explicit, and it is italics, so it should be
     easy to skip. There is a scene where two characters consider suicide,
     but only really as an idea. There is a long scene towards the end of
     the chapter that describes a character's (not any of the main
     characters) fingers being cut off. And, once again, rape is actively
     discussed throughout this story. Please be safe and kind to yourself!
     I think this is where my lack of knowledge about the details of the
     manga probably show- How the heck do the police restrain people?
     Especially people with quirks like the Nomus or AFO? Does the manga
     address this? I can't find it when I skim around the manga, but I
     could have just missed it. But since I don't know, I just went with
     something. Hopefully it makes some sense. But if that, or anything
     else, is actively contradicted by the manga please let me know, and
     perhaps tell me which chapter I could find the information in.
     This chapter took a lot longer to edit, but hopefully the wait wasn't
     too long.
     Thanks for reading!
***** (This is Not) Bigger Than You *****
Chapter Notes
     Author's Warnings: minor sexual assault, mentions of self harm,
     disassociation, panic attacks, and rape is heavily discussed as a
     topic. Jump to the end notes for further explanation. Please keep
     your own health in mind before proceeding.
     Sorry this took so long. Real life got in the way. And even now I
     still haven't done everything I wanted to with this chapter. This
     will be the last full chapter of the story, with one epilogue on the
     way.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The room is silent for a long moment after Tsukauchi has said goodbye and Nedzu
hangs up the phone. None of them really know what to do, or say.
Nedzu remains at his desk, his brows drawn down as he stares at the phone, as
if it perhaps has the answers he would like. All Might leans back against the
desk, shaking, his hands clenched against his thighs as he stares down at the
ground. Midnight is the most put together honestly, her expression stern, but
the valleys of the lines around her eyes, and her mouth tell of a severity and
grief that’s difficult to name.
And Aizawa can’t keep looking at them. He closes his eyes and tries to count
backwards from fifty.
It isn’t much of a help, but it gives him the motivation he needs to speak up
when he reaches zero.
“So,” he says, forcing himself to look at his colleagues once again. “What are
we going to do?”
“We can’t allow for special treatment,” Midnight says, her tone severe. “If
people know that a U.A. student was allowed to get away with such a crime-”
“I think,” All Might cuts in, finally raising bright, pinprick blue eyes, “that
we can make an exception in this case. Given the nature of-” he stops, taking a
deep breath, “-the nature of the events, we have a responsibility to try to
handle things effectively. Part of this was the result of our own oversight.”
“This isn’t a school rule we’re talking about,” Midnight says. “It isn’t even
something like quirk use or proper registration. This is a violent crime, a
punishable felony, that one of our students committed, and to protect him from
the judicial system-”
“The judicial system gave us the option-”
“Off the record,” Midnight retorts. “What would happen if the public found out?
What would it mean if we found out they had done something similar for any
other student of any other school? We would call it immoral!”
“Hirota isn’t pressing charges,” Aizawa says.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Midnight says. “He can still be charged with the
crime.”
“But they don’t want to,” All Might points out. “They want to give Bakugou a
chance. No one wants to see him lose his career over this.”
“Lose his career?” Midnight asks, incredulous. “He cut off a man’s fingers!”
“Clearly, he’s not handling the psychological fallout of his attack well,” All
Might argues. “We were supposed to make sure he would be okay. We failed him.”
“Bakugou is of sound mind,” Aizawa admits. “We can’t not hold him culpable for
his actions.”
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t,” All Might argues, clearly frustrated. “I’m
saying that we should consider the circumstances and act with some compassion.”
“More importantly,” Nedzu says, finally cutting in, “what would having him go
through trial and sent to prison do?”
“In all likelihood it wouldn’t be particularly helpful,” Aizawa replies,
jumping on Nedzu’s line of logic. “It wouldn’t help him in recovering, or in
curbing further behavior.”
“You don’t know that,” Midnight says. “For all we know it could be exactly the
kind of punishment he needs to get himself in line. It’s no secret that Bakugou
is used to getting what he wants. Perhaps it’s about time he faces the real
consequences of his behavior.”
“Reports from prison studies indicate otherwise,” Aizawa replies blandly.
“Those released from prison who were shown to be suffering from poor mental
health often showed a tendency to relapse. Rehabilitation is usually more
effective.”
“More importantly,” Nedzu says, “think about what it would mean for U.A. to
simply expel Bakugou and let him return to society. What if he did begin to
lash out? To even use the techniques taught by this school to do so? Much like
now. How could we, in good conscious, allow that?”
Everyone is silent for a long moment. At the end of the day, Aizawa supposes,
it’s a rather logical decision. They are being offered the chance to handle it
themselves. Expelling Bakugou and putting him through trials, sentencing, and,
most likely, jail, would not be helpful in teaching anything. And, they would
be dumping a student that they know needs help out into the world with a poor
state of mind and a grudge.
But logic doesn’t account for the relief he feels.
Or the guilt.
“So long as he is not officially charged, Bakugou will not be expelled or
turned over to the authorities,” Nedzu declares. “We will deal with him here,
with the full force of our authority.” He turns his gaze to Midnight. “We will
not allow him off lightly.”
Midnight nods gravely.
Aizawa glances down at Nedzu. “You’re being awfully forgiving,” he comments.
Nedzu’s smile is somehow both sharp and bittersweet. “I’m perhaps sympathetic
in this specific scenario,” he admits. “I’ve wanted vengeance on those who’ve
wronged me once before. And I can’t say, even now, that I would have felt I was
in the wrong for doing so. I can’t quite find it within myself to be
particularly angry.”
Aizawa suppresses a snort. Empathy, he supposes, is one hell of a motivation.
But that’s not going to make this easier.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
When he is summoned out of class, only an hour after school has started that
morning, Bakugou is not surprised.
He is surprised however when he is sat down in front of several U.A. faculty,
without a cop so much as in sight. He had honestly assumed that he would have
been escorted away in a police cruiser.
Bakugou wonders if this means he actually has a chance.
(Probably not.)
(Even if he does, he’s not certain he wants to take it.)
Nedzu, All Might, Aizawa, and Midnight all sit or stand in front of him, their
expressions severe.
“What is this?” Bakugou asks, trying for his usual bluster. “An intervention?”
“Bakugou,” All Might begins, then trails off, seemingly unsure how to proceed.
“We...”
“Hirota Masaji was found in his cell last night with six amputated fingers,”
Aizawa says, cutting straight to the point. “Did you do it?”
Bakugou can’t even be bothered to make it a good act. He glares at Aizawa, then
lets his gaze slip to the side.
“Why do you think it was me?”
“You have the motive, the knowledge, and the ability,” Aizawa says. “You have
the most reason out of anyone to want vengeance on Hirota.”
Bakugou scoffs, but the blood I his veins feels thick, like sludge. “Like I
would want to waste my time on that jackass.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrow. “The security cameras caught you sneaking back onto
school property last night.”
And, damn, that’s pretty damning. But Bakugou just shrugs. If they want a
confession they’re going to have to try harder than that. “So? I went for a
walk. You bastards never let me go fucking anywhere. I was going stir crazy.”
“And if we got Detective Tsukauchi down here?” Principle Nedzu asks, as calm
and pleasant as ever. “Would you be willing to tell him the same story?”
Bakugou’s fingers curl against the leather of the chair he’s sat in.
“Is this an interrogation?” he snarls. “Because if it is, I’m entitled to a
lawyer.”
“It is not,” Midnight says, her tone haughty. “Regardless of what you say here,
you will not be facing legal recourse.”
Bakugou stiffens in his seat, his heart beating out of his chest. “What does
that mean?” he demands.
“Tsukauchi is doing a few follow up investigations on his end,” All Might says,
taking a step forward. “Just to make sure there’s no possible leads that get
unfollowed, but…”
“Let’s just say the questions are mostly a formality,” Aizawa says, none too
gently. “We’re here to discuss consequences.”
Bakugou’s shoulders are too tense, he swears his muscles are going to snap like
a rubber band at any moment, and send him through the fucking ceiling. “Then
why is it just you four? I thought heroes believed in fair trials, and all
that.”
“If we were discussing proper sentencing, we would,” Nedzu says. “But we have
been given the opportunity to deal with this issue as a personal matter of the
school. Off the records, the police department believes that a case like this
is better handled with a more… personal touch.”
“I’m being expelled.” Even as he says the words they feel heavy on his tongue.
Laden with so much greif and uncertainty.
Nedzu laughs. “Heavens no. What kind of irresponsible guides would we be to
simply kick a potentially dangerous rouge out onto the streets?” Bakugou bares
his teeth at that. He’s not a fucking wild animal. “Besides, who benefits from
that in the end? We still believe you have a future. Here at U.A. and beyond.
We’d hate for a severely traumatic experience to stop that short.”
The full weight of that hits Bakugou all at once, and he has to grip the arms
of the chair to keep from listing in his seat. “So what then?” The question
comes out as more of a croak.
Nedzu just tilts his head with a strange little smile.
“Before we get to that,” Midnight says, “we do still have a few questions. We
want to know who helped you.”
Then, just like that, Bakugou’s spine locks right back into place. “No one,” he
growls.
He gets several flat, disbelieving looks.
“The ability described by the guards at the precinct remarkably resembles
Shinsou Hitoshi’s,” Aizawa says.
Bakugou is not known for his acting ability, but he still does his best, and
pulls a face. “Who the fuck is that?”
He’s not a snitch- and he’s not about to pull the people he involved down with
him.
He doesn’t know much about Shinsou- doesn’t care to. But he knows that the
other is aiming for the hero course. That he’s being genuinely considered. And
Bakugou may be an asshole, but he’s not about to ruin someone else’s chances.
(Especially if it might mean that little purple fuck in his class might get
kicked out to make room.)
His teachers seem unimpressed though.
“The cameras were short circuited as well,” Aizawa continues. “But it didn’t
catch whoever managed it- just went black, then cut out completely. Which could
indicate the involvement of Kaminari, or even Tokoyami.”
Shit, now they’re suspecting Kaminari? The guy may annoy the fuck out of
Bakugou, but he wasn’t even there.
Bakugou puts up his best front, his lips drawing back to show his teeth. “Like
I’d involve either of those fucks to begin with. Have you met Kaminari? He’s a
fucking idiot? You think I’d take him anywhere?”
“He is one of your friends,” Aizawa points out blandly. “He’d have motive.”
Bakugou scoffs. “Yeah, right. Look, I already told you- There was no one else.
Just me.”
Midnight quirks a brow. “So you’re no longer denying it?”
“What the fuck does it matter?!” Bakugou cries, pushing to his feet. “You
already think I did it, and there ain’t shit I can do to convince you
otherwise. So you think I did it? Fine. But I did it alone. So back the fuck
off the conspiracy theories.”
“The guards reported seeing three people,” All Might says, unwavering.
Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “Then they’re delusional. I’m not gonna say it again.”
He drops back in his chair, his eyes irate.
His teachers glance at one another again, then-
“Alright,” Nedzu says, still as annoyingly calm as ever. “Then let’s get to
what we’re really here for- Bakugou, your actions, understandable or not, are
inexcusable, and discipline is in order. So-” he pauses, shuffling papers on
his desk, “we will treat this the same way a judge might, were they to examine
your case.” He levels his gaze with Bakugou’s. “You will now be required to see
the school psychologist, at least twice a week. She will be turning in weekly
progress reports, so don’t think you’ll be able to get away with just sitting
there for an hour, or showing up just to storm out.”
Bakugou closes his eyes, his hands curling into fists on the arm rests of the
chair. Fuck, he should have known.
Fine. Fine, that… he can do that. It’s—it’s whatever. He can pretend to play
nice with a shrink, just for a bit. Just long enough.
“You are also officially considered under house arrest,” Nedzu says, and his
chipper voice is starting to grate on Bakugou’s nerves. He’d almost rather be
yelled at. “You are to remain on campus unless specifically sanctioned by the
school. If you would like to go anywhere else, it will first have to be
approved by the school. If you wish to go home, you will be escorted by a
representative of the school both to and from your house.”
Yeah, that one’s kind of to be expected. “For how long?”
Nedzu’s lip quirks upwards. “For the time being? Indefinitely. We can revisit
the matter later depending on your behavior.”
Bakugou has to bite his tongue.
Fine. He can deal with it.
“And you will be required to put in no less than five hundred community service
hours,” Nedzu continues. “We’re still deciding what, exactly, we’ll require and
how often, but don’t worry, we’ll get that information to you.”
Bakugou balks. “Five hundred?”
“Yes,” Nedzu replies. “Don’t worry, you should have enough time to complete
them all before graduation.”
“What about internships?” Bakugou asks.
Midnight shoots him a glare. “I wouldn’t be too worried about that right now if
I were you. Assuming you don’t put anything off, you should be more than
capable of juggling both.”
Bakugou opens his mouth to protest again, but before he can, Aizawa cuts in.
“You cut off a man’s fingers,” Aizawa says coolly. “That’s not a minor offense.
If you were in court, even given your circumstances, it’s unlikely that you’d
be considered for community service. So take what you’re given.”
Bakugou’s glad that he chose to keep his fingernails short. Otherwise he’s
certain he’d be bleeding from how hard he’s pressing his fingers into his
palms.
“Fine,” Bakugou snaps. “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll go to the stupid fucking therapy
sessions, and do the stupid fucking community service, and I’ll agree to the
stupid fucking house arrest. Anything else.”
“Yes,” All Might says, cocking his head to the side. “You’ll also be required
to be on cleaning duty three weeks out of the month. And we will have final say
over any internships you decide to take on.”
“Be happy we’re not having your provisional license revoked,” Midnight says.
“I’m not about to be fucking happy about anything,” Bakugou growls. “But fine.
Anything else?”
Nedzu leans forward on his elbows. “That’s all for now. We just need you to
sign the paperwork, agreeing.”
“Fine,” Bakugou mumbles, and he snatches the papers offered to him by Aizawa
out of the man’s hands.
“And Bakugou,” Nedzu says, before Katsuki can put pen to paper, “Any failure to
consistently adhere to this agreement, will immediately lead to expulsion, and
you will be handed over to the police for processing. Are we understood?”
Bakugou sneers. “Perfectly.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Did you help Bakugou conduct his assault on Hirota Masaji?”
Kaminari blinks at his teacher, his expression blank. “Did I what now?” he
asks, brow scrunching up.
Did he help Bakugou attack someone? Why would he do that? And who the hell is
Hirota Masaji?
Kaminari glances around, frowning. “Did something happen with Bakugou?” he
asks. “He was fine this morning? I think I would have heard about a fight.”
“What were you doing last night?” Midnight asks.
Kaminari shrugs. “Hanging out and studying with Jirou, Kirisima, and YaoMomo.
Why?”
“Could they confirm that?”
“Uh, I guess? Do you want to ask them?”
“Alright then,” Aizawa says with a sigh. “Can you tell me if you saw Bakugou or
Tokoyami any time after curfew?”
“After curfew?” Kaminari parrots, cocking his head. “No? Tokoyami usually keeps
to himself, and Bakugou kicked us out of his dorm a few nights ago. Should I
have?”
“No,” Aizawa says, then waves his hand dismissively. “You can go now.”
“O…kay?” Kaminari sys, rising to his feet.
He leaves far more confused than he was when he walked in.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Say nothing.”
Bakugou’s demand rings in Tokoyami’s ears as he sits in front of All Might and
Professor Aizawa, shame faced.
“The cameras were taken out,” Aizawa is saying. “The screens went black before
cutting out. There aren’t a lot of quirks that could manage that.”
“Please, Tokoyami,” All Might says, bracing his hands on his knees. “We just
want to know what happened.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” Tokoyami replies, keeping his gaze on
the wall behind them, and his voice even. “I wasn’t there.”
“The guards believed they saw someone resembling your description there,”
Aizawa retorts.
Tokoyami feels Dark Shadow pulling taunt under his skin, but he keeps himself
in control.
“Then they must have been mistaken,” Tokoyami says. “I was not there.”
“Dr. Akina says that you’ve been struggling in your sessions with her,” All
Might says, his tone gentle.
Tokoyami’s feathers raise slightly.
“I do not believe that therapists are beneficial to situations such as these,”
Tokoyami says, harsher than he intends.
All Might’s gaze is sad. “Tokoyami, you’re smarter than that.”
Tokoyami looks away, shame threatening to choke him.
He refuses to answer the rest of their questions with anything other than a yes
or no.
He expects to be expelled by the end of the conversation.
Instead, all he receives is a slap on the wrist in the form of a semester’s
house arrest, cleaning duties, and Dr. Akina’s therapy sessions being made
mandatory for the next six weeks.
It’s a better outcome than Tokoyami could have ever hoped for. And yet,
somehow, he feels worse for it.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Hitoshi takes what Bakugou told him to heart, and keeps his fucking mouth shut.
Besides his original ‘no,’ to the question- “Did you help Bakugou Katsuki
conduct his assault on Hirota Masaji?”- Hitoshi has not bothered to answer a
single one of their questions. Instead choosing to respond with headshakes at
the most, and, more often, blank, unimpressed looks.
Midnight seems somewhat frustrated, while Aizawa only looks tired- well, more
tired than usual.
“The assailant’s described quirk seems very similar to your own,” Aizawa says.
“They said that they felt as if a fog had come over their minds, and were
controlled from an outside force.”
“It’s a pretty distinctive quirk,” Midnight notes.
Hitoshi just continues to stare at them, not hiding his exasperation.
“You don’t make your case much better when you stay quiet,” Midnight says,
crossing her arms, clearly going for stern.
Hitoshi sighs, glancing off to the side, as he finally says, “If you want to
know who did it so badly, why not ask the victim? Surely he saw something.”
Hitoshi tries not to show the tension that’s wound his body tight. This is a
gamble, a dangerous one. He doesn’t know if Bakugou technically got caught or
not.
Maybe Hirota did give them up. He had no reason not to.
But… if that were the case, why not lead with that? Why not tip their hand in
the beginning to try and pressure him into confessing.
Instead all they’d used was circumstantial evidence, which seems to indicate
they couldn’t know for sure. But-
“Hirota declined to answer any questions regarding his assailants,” Aizawa
says, and his eye twitches somewhat. “He told investigators that if they could
not figure it out, then they were, I quote, ‘too stupid to talk to anyway.’”
Hitoshi snorts, disgust and relief curling up inside him like oil mixing in
water.
Of course.
Of course someone like Hirota isn’t interested in giving official testimony-
he’s already gotten what he wanted. Bakugou getting thrown in jail wouldn’t be
‘part of the plan.’
He hates him. He truly does.
(And then he remembers screaming, and laughter, and the smell of blood, and
vomit sticking in his throat, and-)
He doesn’t answer any of their questions for the rest of the interrogation.
He knows he’s ruined his chances of getting into the hero program now- there’s
no way they’d accept him. Regardless of if they could prove it, this would
always be a black mark against him- even if it goes on no record.
And Hitoshi doesn’t know if it was worth it.
It certainly doesn’t feel like it was.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Bakugou sits in front of the stupid therapist again, and braces himself to be
ridiculously annoyed for the next hour.
“I admit,” she begins, “that I don’t fully know where to start. The patients
I’m used to are not usually unwilling.”
Bakugou’s eyes flick to where her notebook sits on the side table.
“It doesn’t seem that the measures I provided you last time are going to be
particularly helpful in evaluating a start line,” she continues. “So how about
instead… we start with me.”
She gestures to herself. “My name is Hano Akina. You can call me whatever makes
you the most comfortable- Dr. Hano, Akina. A few students have taken to Dr.
Akina alright as well. What ever works. I’ve been called a few rude terms in
this profession a couple times, so don’t worry,” she gives a wry smile, “you’re
not about to hurt my feelings.”
Bakugou crosses his arms, sneering.
“I am thirty-three years old, I graduated from NUS with my doctorate in
psychology. I specified in trauma studies, with a track particular to pro
heroes. I have worked in the field directly now for a little over a decade, and
specifically with heroes for the past eight years,” Akina says, and Bakugou’s
grinds his teeth.
Why the hell is she bothering to lay out her credentials for him?
But he doesn’t stop her, as she continues, “My area of specialty is trauma, but
as a result I’m also qualified to treat depression and other threads of
anxiety.” She glances over at her chart. “The U.A. faculty requested that I
also watch for any possible anger management related disorders- explosive
temper, self-destructive behavior, those kinds of things. They admittedly
aren’t my area of expertise though, so we’ll see what happens, and if I find it
necessary, I can give you an outside referral.”
Bakugou’s expression twists. “I don’t need fucking anger management
counseling.”
Akina just levels him with a flat look. “Bakugou, you cut off a man’s fingers.
Despite whatever you may think or feel, that is not a normal reaction to a
traumatic experience.”
“What, you telling me that most people don’t wish their rapist was fucking
dead,” Bakugou snarls.
“Anger is a normal reaction,” Akina says, irritatingly calm. “And yes, even
wishing things like that isn’t out of the norm. But what is out of the norm, is
acting on those feelings.” She leans forward, setting her elbows on her knees.
Bakugou avoids her gaze, and grinds his teeth.
Flying off the rails right now will not help his case.
Akina watches him for a moment, before sitting back again. “Like I mentioned
before, I’m in a bit of a unique position here. My most frequent clients are
either those that have recently experienced trauma, and are hoping to work
through those experiences, or clients suffering from PTSD. While everyone’s a
bit different, almost all do seek me out of their own volition. So even if
speaking may perhaps be difficult, they are willing to do so on at least some
level. I’m admittedly not certain the best route to take for someone unwilling
to talk about a recent traumatic event.”
“I’m not afraid,” Bakugou bites, his shoulders raising.
Akina simply tilts her head. “I didn’t say you were.”
Bakugou bites down on his tongue, and stares down at his hands, curling them
into fists, and wishing desperately that he could have the pain of his
fingernails biting into his flesh back so that he could fucking concentrate.
“Like I said,” Akina continues, “this is a slightly new position for me. So, I
figured, that perhaps we could start this a bit different than usual.”
She looks at him, expectant.
Bakugou doesn’t lift his eyes. “What do you want from me?” he manages to grit
out.
Akina lifts a shoulder, “Just introduce yourself. Things like your name, age, a
bit about your history, what you like to do. Same as I did.”
Bakugou’s brow wrinkles. “You already have that shit though,” he says. “It’s in
my files.”
Akina smiles. “Humor me.”
Humor her? The bitch gives him a lecture on how he’s going to be difficult to
work with, and she fucking wants Katsuki to humor her?
Just push through it, he reminds himself. The quicker you show them that you’re
normal, the quicker this is over with.
“Bakugou Katsuki, age sixteen,” (seventeen in under a month), “I attend U.A.,
and I’m gonna be the best fucking pro hero this country’s ever seen.”
Akina gives a soft chuckle. “Well, you certainly have a lot of drive. Tell me a
bit more about that? Why do you want to be a hero? How long? How’d you get into
U.A.? Those sorts of things.”
Bakugou shrugs. “I’ve wanted to be a hero for as long as I can remember- at
least since my quirk developed. I looked up to All Might a lot.” Bakugou has to
stop his cheeks from flushing with slight embarrassment at that admittance. “I
thought he was amazing- how he always won, how he never let anything shake him.
I wanted to be that type of person. So that’s what I trained to be.” He shifts
slightly in his chair, his feet scuffing against the ground. “My middle school
was a dumpster fire. I was ready to fucking leave that place as soon as first
year started. So around that time I got serious about training, so I wouldn’t
be stuck there the rest of my life.”
Akina nods. “Alright then. And what about your third year?”
Bakugou stiffens slightly. “What about it?” he asks, even though he knows
exactly what she’s referring to.
“Your files mention an incident with a villain,” she says.
“What’s there to say about it then?” Bakugou snaps. “It wasn’t like it was all
that important. It was just a stupid spectacle that some people remember me
from. It’s fucking pathetic.”
There’s an expression on Akina’s face that’s difficult to read.
So Katsuki doesn’t bother trying.
“Okay then,” she says, and her voice is too gentle, too understanding- Bakugou
hates it. “Let’s talk a bit about yourself in middle school. Your teachers
mentioned that you’re generally hostile during class, particularly towards a
few students in particular. Was that true back then too?”
Bakugou sneers at her. “‘A few students?’ You can fucking say Deku, I’m not an
idiot.” He leans back in his chair, his eyes finding a spot above Akina’s right
shoulder on the wall to stare at. “I’m not some sunshiney idiot like some of
the jackasses in my class, and I never have been- So what?”
“It wasn’t an attack on your character,” Akina says, placating, “I just wanted
to know for reference’s sake.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bakugou grumbles.
“How would you say your life has been since attending U.A.?” she asks,
switching topics.
“It’s been fine.”
“Are you willing to be more specific?”
“Fucking-” Bakugou cuts himself off with an annoyed huff. “Yeah, sure. Regular
classes are still boring as fuck. It’s all shit I already know. If attendance
didn’t matter, I’d never fucking go. Hero training is usually fine. Sometimes
it’s good. Sometimes it’s annoying. The people are…” Bakugou cuts himself off,
as Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero flash through his mind at a rapid
pace. “… they’re more tolerable,” he admits begrundgingly. “At least, more than
my last school.”
“And Midoriyia Izuku?” she asks.
Bakugou feels the back of his neck grow hot with- (with what? Anger? Shame?)-
annoyance at the mention of Deku. But he forces to bite down on his immediate
response of- ‘he’s still the fucking worst.’ Because well… he isn’t. And
Bakugou likes to think that he’s grown enough as a person to admit that.
“He’s whatever,” Bakugou says dismissively. “He’s more bearable than he was in
middle school at least.”
“Oh? What did he do then?”
This time, Bakugou knows its shame that crawls up his throat. “It doesn’t
fucking matter,” he mutters. “Deku isn’t a problem- move on already.”
Akina seems unsurprised, and gives him an almost apologetic smile. “What about
the villain attacks then? Both on the USJ, and when you were kidnapped at the
camp. Did those events influence your thoughts on U.A. at all?”
Bakugou bites down on his tongue.
It’s an easier question than he thought he’d get. It’s not about how he felt or
any bullshit like that. Just about… about what he thought.
“Not really,” Bakugou says. “What happened wasn’t U.A.’s fault.” It was mine.
“It’s not like I’m afraid or something because of it.”
“Of course,” Akina replies easily. “So how would you say you’ve been feeling
since coming to U.A.?”
And this, this is where he’s going to start getting annoyed, Bakugou can feel
it.
“I felt fine,” he grinds out. “I’m more satisfied here than anywhere else.
Actually felt like I had some fucking room to grow or something. It was just…”
he trails off.
Just what?
Just that he also felt weaker?
More vulnerable?
“It was just new,” he finally decides on.
There. That should be safe enough.
“And now?” Akina asks. “After the assault. How have you been feeling?”
Bakugou tries to even out his breathing. Tries to focus back in on the
question, and not think about nightmares, and panic, and scratching at his arms
until he bleeds, or the smell of blood, blood, blood-
“I’ve been fine,” he says. “Same as ever.”
Akina looks entirely unconvinced.
“How have you been sleeping?” she asks.
“When those fucks in the dorms actually shut up? Fine,” he says.
“Any nightmares.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Bakugou repeats, his knuckles going white.
Akina frowns. “Bakugou, I understand that this is difficult…but please, I ask
that you not lie to me.”
Bakugou pushes forward in his chair, his eyes burning like coals. “And how the
fuck would you know if I’m lying to you, huh? It’s my fucking head.”
Akina considers him for a long moment, then asks, “Would you like to know what
my quirk is, Bakugou?”
“No,” Bakugou grumbles, crossing his arms on his knees.
Akina ignores him. “I can sense… auras of a sort. It’s nothing as simple or
static as someone having a single color, or color representing one emotion.
Instead, people tend to look like a swirl of different colors, all making up
the types of things they might be feeling in their lives at the moment.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrow.
“And you, Bakugou, look like a particularly angry bruise,” Akina says. “And,
for the people who see me, that’s not necessarily uncommon. So while I cannot
read your mind, I can read your emotions. So please, I ask that we at least try
to leave pretenses behind here.”
Bakugou pulls in a ragged breath, and does not reply.
Her gaze is calm, level. “If you’re so insistent on nothing behind wrong, then
there should be no reason not to tell the truth.” She leans back, crossing her
legs. “Just… humor me. Tell me the truth this session, try to be honest. If
it’s really so unbearable, then you can go ahead and go back to pretending next
session, and just live with the consequences. Does that sound fair?”
Bakugou glares at her, trying to reorient himself.
He can’t… he’s not going to be able to bluff his way through this one.
Fuck.
“Fine,” he spits out. “But I’m telling you it’s fucking stupid.”
Akina just gives him a small smile.
After that it’s a blur of questions that Bakugou tries to answer with at least
a decent measure honesty. Is he sleeping well? No. Is he having nightmares?
Yes. Does he feel like there’s no future? Sometimes (most of the time). Does he
feel restless? A lot. Lethargic? On occasion, but rarely. Any trouble following
conversations. Occasionally (far too often). Loss of appetite. A bit (food
tastes like sawdust half the time). Irrationally angry? Never irrationally. But
often angry? Yes, but that’s normal. His normal. Is he any angrier than normal?
Maybe. Does he think about the event when he doesn’t want to? Yes, okay, yes.
Any thoughts of suicide? He’d never act on them. Crying more than usual? No
(less actually, almost like he can’t get his fucking body to work properly).
Sex drive?
Bakuogu stiffens up at that one.
“We can come back to it later,” Akina says. “And we might just throw it out.
It’s not always appropriate, especially for someone your age.”
Bakugou’s grateful. Because… what is he even supposed to respond to something
like that?
Was… was this supposed to effect something like that?
There are more- Has he avoided things that remind him of the assault? No (how
could he? They’re everywhere). Does he think the world is unsafe? Sure. Sure?
Yeah, sure. Can people be trusted? No… not most. Some, maybe. Some? Yeah. Like
who? Move on. Do you think you could have stopped it? Yes. Why?
“I’m done,” Bakugou announces suddenly, standing up. “Your hour’s up.”
Akina glances at the clock on her phone quickly, then shoots him an unconcerned
smile. “Technically we still have about four minutes. We’ll stop with the
questions for today, but we need to wrap up here first.”
Bakugou clenches and unclenches his fist, his knuckles whitening, before he
plops back down in his chair.
Akina looks over her notes, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Well, nothing here is particularly surprising,” she says. “There are a few
warning signs for depression, so I’ll want to make sure we keep an eye on that.
But that’s still relatively normal. At the moment, your answers align closely
with ASD, Acute Stress Disorder, which, again, is typical after a traumatic
event. It usually takes anywhere from three months to a year to properly
diagnose PTSD, but think of it as very similar, just with a different time
line.”
“Whatever,” Bakugou mutters, trying not to give into the urge to curl his
shoulders forward and make himself as small as humanly possible.
Akina sighs. “Well, if nothing else it gives me a good place to start. Now.”
she says, pushing a few papers towards him on the coffee table between them, “I
do need you to sign these before we go now that we’ve officially had our
introductory session.”
Bakugou snatches the papers from the table, and scans over them briefly. “The
fuck is this shit?”
“Nondisclosure agreements, confidentiality, as well as our agreements on the
progress reports I am to submit. Read them over, ask any questions, and sign,”
Akina says breezily. “Typically there’d be things like payment and scheduling,
but since the school is taking care of all of that, we don’t have to worry.”
Bakugou grits his teeth, and barely bothers to san the full thing before
signing. He doesn’t really have a choice anyway.
She will be asked to report on his progress, but she will not be giving details
of their sessions. Any material from their sessions stays private. The only
exceptions being in the event that he threatens hurting himself, someone else,
or someone hurts him. Blah, blah, blah.
Fine.
It’s all- everything’s fucking fine.
He signs.
“Great,” Akina says, heedless of Bakugou picking up his things to storm out of
the room. “I’ll see you again next session then.”
“Whatever,” Bakugou mumbles, already on his way out the door, when he stops.
Considers for a moment. Then tosses over his shoulder, “You’re work’s mainly in
trauma, right?”
There’s a pause. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Then why don’t you try doing some actual good, and get a session with Ic-
Todoroki,” he says, then steps out of the room, and closes the door.
But not before he hears- “I’ll take that under consideration.”
 
He has therapy sessions scheduled twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays. And
community service scheduled three times a week. After school Tuesday and
Wednesday, and all of Saturday afternoon.
Bakugou feels like he barely has any time to breathe.
When Tuesday arrives his only solace is that at the very least it can’t be as
bad as the therapy sessions.
Then he gets his assignment.
“An abuse shelter?” he says, waving the paper he’s been given wildly at Aizawa.
“What the fuck?”
“It’s a bit like a homeless shelter,” Aizawa says, bored. “Except it caters to
people who are seeking refuge from domestic abuse. They also have work with
victims of human trafficking and sexual assault, but temporary housing is their
primary service.”
Bakugou is shaking where he stands. “That’s not what I’m asking, you fuck, and
you know it,” he hisses. “I mean why the hell are you sending me there?”
When they’d said community service Bakugou had figured he’d be sent to work on
construction projects, or-or like pick up trash or some shit. But- fuck, an
abuse shelter? Who the fuck do they think he is?
“It seemed appropriate,” Aizawa says.
“The fuck is that-”
“What would physical labor teach you?” Aizawa asks, but the question is clearly
rhetorical, and damn it, damn him, fucking- fuck everything. “And we weren’t
about to send you to volunteer at a hospital. So this seemed like the more
reasonable option.”
Katsuki swears he’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s from anger, or
frustration, or something else entirely.
“This is bullshit,” he snarls.
Aizawa seems unimpressed. “Too bad. You head out thirty minutes after your last
class. You’ll meet your escort at the front gate. Don’t be late.”
 
He isn’t.
If for no other reason than wanting to get this shit over with as quickly as
possible, Bakugou changes into the least distinct civilian clothes he owns- a
bit less black, pants that fit a bit better- and wonders out to the front gate.
Technically, he’s still fifteen minutes early.
And his stupid fucking escort isn’t there yet.
Bakugou groans in frustration, leaning against the large wall encompassing the
campus. He really just can’t catch a break can he?
Five minutes before it’s technically time to leave, Bakugou finally sees
someone approaching.
“Fucking finally.”
He pushes off the wall, crossing his arms, and glaring, ready to tell whoever
the fuck this is to hurry the hell up next time.
It actually takes him an embarrassing few seconds too long to realize just who
is approaching him.
But as soon as he does-
“You have got to be shitting me,” Bakugou growls.
Ponytail girl, notably lacking her ponytail, and dressed down, just raises a
brow at him.
“You’re supposed to be my guard?” Bakugou demands. “I could take you in a fight
any day!”
“I’m your escort,” Ponytail Girl (and damn it, now Bakugou needs another name
for her, because it feels too weird to keep using that when her hair’s down)
says. “Not your guard. They asked a few of us if we had any interest in
accompanying you to volunteer at the shelter. I thought it sounded like a good
opportunity.”
Bakugou scoffs. “Fucking fantastic.”
“Would you rather it be one of the teachers?” Rich Girl (there, that’s better)
asks.
No.
Bakuogu can admit that, no, he did not want any of the stupid teachers
escorting him. Present Mic annoys him, Blood King, Cementoss, and the others
make him too uncomfortable, and the thought of spending any amount of time in
Midnight’s presence alone makes him physically ill. Not to mention what it
would be like to have to walk beside All Might as a part of his ‘punishment.’
Even if in the best case scenario he got Aizawa as an escort, Bakuogu would
have felt like he’d been stuck with a fucking babysitter.
Though, honestly, he’s not sure how much better a classmate really is.
(At least it’s not Kirishima or Uraraka.)
“Whatever,” Bakugou mutters, then turns on heel. “Let’s fucking go already
then.”
“Sure thing,” Rich girl says, casually.
 
The first half of their walk is blissfully silent.
Then, as if gaining some kind of confidence, Rich Girl starts trying to
actually fucking talk to him.
“I’ve always wanted to be more involved in community service,” she’s saying,
and Bakugou feels his eye twitch. “I mean, it’s basically the pinnacle of what
it means to be a hero, isn’t it?”
“Except you don’t get paid,” Bakuogu bites.
“Exactly!” she says, entirely missing the point. “It’s what being a hero was
first about. And, don’t get me wrong, getting paid is great and all, and
necessary for heroes to do what we do, but I think it’s good to also do things
just because you can. Besides, there are a lot of things you can’t do as a
hero.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes.
“I used to want to do community service work when I was younger,” Rich Girl
says. “My family was always pretty well off, so I wanted to try and… give back
you know? Do something before I went the hero track. I only ever really did
things the school organized though. So when Professor Aizawa suggested-”
“I really do not care,” Bakugou finally snaps, his irritation overflowing. “I’m
just here because I’m required to be, so shut the hell up about it already,
okay?”
Rich Girl falls silent.
The empty air between them feels heavy and oppressive. Bakugou does his best to
ignore it. He tries to look anywhere but at his classmate, walking solemnly at
his side. Which is how his eye catches on the small convenience store off to
the side.
“Stop,” he says suddenly, pulling up short.
Rich Girl glances back at him, slowing to a stop as well. “Huh?”
“I’m going in there,” Bakugou announces, motioning to the store.
Rich Girl’s brow furrows. “Bakugou we’re supposed to be there by-”
“Oh shut up,” Bakugou says. “I’m just going to grab something. It’ll take less
than five fucking minutes.”
He doesn’t wait for her to respond before marching in.
And it really does not take more than a few minutes- Bakugou already knew
exactly what he wanted.
He grabs the surgical mask from a small section in the back, and stops in front
of the carousal full of glasses. Most of them are sunglasses, but he’s able to
find a few pairs of low level prescription reading glasses with red frames.
He throws both onto the cashier’s counter, glaring at the bored looking
teenager at the register.
When he storms back out, shoving the glasses onto his face, and tossing the box
into a nearby trashcan, Rich Girl gives him a perplexed look.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“The fuck does it look like I’m doing?” he sneers. “You may be fine with being
recognized in this shit job, but I’m not.”
Rich Girl seems annoyed at that. “Is it really that shameful to you?” she asks,
her tone accusatory. “To be seen helping people?”
“Shut the hell up,” he says.
Fuck, Bakugou just doesn’t want people recognizing him left and right, is that
so much to ask? Ever since the stupid fucking sludge monster incident, and then
the Sports Festival, and especially since Kamino Ward, he can barely take a bus
without someone point him out in a crowd. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t
want that. Especially here.
Bakugou has to suppress a bitter laugh. He wanted to be famous didn’t he? Back
before… before everything.
He had wanted to be known, and seen, and recognized. He finally gets his wish,
but instead of being known as one of the top heroes, he’s known as the heroics
student that keeps getting attacked and kidnapped.
But hey, at least he won’t be known as the U.A. student that got brutally raped
by a low level villain.
Bakugou sighs, securing the surgical mask around his ears, and pulling it up to
his nose.
He just wants to fade into the background, do his work, and then be done with
it.
It’s not that fucking much to ask.
 
The shelter is smaller than he expected in some ways, and larger in others.
It looks like a decently sized school gym, with partitions erected throughout
the large, open room. He can see towels, toiletries, and bedsheets tucked away
in cubies that line the wall. There’s a small counter that gives access to a
small kitchen, and it looks like there is an entire set of rooms on a second
floor for who knows what.
When they first arrive, they’re stopped at the door by the imposing security
guards, and are asked to give their names, and wait, before an older woman with
striking silver hair, twisting horns, and glowing red eyes comes out to greet
them.
They end up in a second floor office that’s small, a bit musty, but clearly
designed to be cozy and comfortable.
“We’re so glad to have you,” the woman says, sitting across from them at her
desk. “I’m Dr. Fukunaga. I run this facility alongside my wife. I figured
before we got started I could give you a brief rundown of what we do here?”
Bakugou just glares at the woman, but Rich Girl smiles.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” she says.
“Excellent. Well, as you likely know, we’re an abuse shelter. Our primary
operation is to provide temporary shelter for those who might have had to leave
home due to abusive situations, or might no longer have the money for their own
place since leaving their abuser. We mainly take people from the larger Tokyo
area, but we also have a system of safe houses set up across the country.” She
gives them a small smile. “You might be surprised to know that a significant
portion of those who volunteer their homes are from the hero community.”
Bakugou sits up a bit straighter, and Rich Girl seems positively delighted, her
eyes shining.
Bakugou would be lying if he didn’t say he now desperately wanted to know which
heroes.
(Would it be any of their teachers? Who among the staff seemed most like the
type?)
“In this facility we have a kitchen were we serve three meals a day. Beds,
showers, bathrooms, and clothing are available to those who need them. We can
serve up to fifty people in house at a time. We also have job search
assistants, home search assistants, and legal counsel available,” Dr. Fukunaga
continues. “My wife is a psychologist, and she and a few others offer cheap or
free therapy sessions here, as well as support groups for people, even those
who have already left our service. And, of course, we have an in house clinic,
which I run, that is equipped to deal with any nonlife-threating injuries,
smaller surgeries, sexual assaults, and even HIV testing.”
She levels them with a stern gaze. “Many of our volunteers are briefed on how
to comfort and console recent additions to the shelter, and help in all areas.
However, since you are both new, for the time being you’ll be relegated to more
menial tasks. If you would like to move on to different jobs later in your
volunteer service, then feel free to see me, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Rich Girl nods, eyes shining with stupid determination and sentimentality, and
Bakugou just feels vaguely ill.
Honestly, he wishes he were anywhere else right now.
Dr. Fukunaga’s lips finally pull down as her eyes land squarely on Bakugou.
“Bakugou Katsuki,” she says, folding her arms on her desk. “I’ve been briefed
on your situation. I’m aware that this is required community service for you.”
She gestures to her computer. “I am required to fill out forms stating that you
completed your hours, and report any possible incidents. I am aware of the
barest details of your personal case,” she continues, “and my sympathy goes out
to you. However, I’ve also been told that you are known for your aggressive and
brash behavior. So let me make myself clear now- If you harass or intimidate a
single person here, I will not hesitate to ask you to leave. Those who seek
refuge here have dealt with enough aggressors in their lives, and I will not
have them harassed by another under my watch. Do you understand?”
Bakugou swears he feels his soul curdle at her implication, and his shoulders
tense, even as his mind fills in the blank- They don’t want someone who reminds
victims of their abuser. And Bakugou wants to scream, because fuck you, fuck
you, fuck you, isn’t this place supposed to be safe for people like him too?
And they think he’ll-
And the worst part is… they aren’t even wrong. Bakugou knows what he’s like.
Knows what he’s done. He tries not to dwell on how he treated Deku for most of
their lives, but he’s not an idiot.
He knows this is not the kind of place he should be invited into.
(He knows he is the type of person it is meant to be a refuge from.)
Bakuogu forces himself to choke it all down- the guilt, despair, horror, anger,
anger, anger- and instead glares at the woman and bites out, “I’m not a fucking
idiot. Yes, I understand, okay.”
She nods. “Good. Now,” she pushes a few papers across her desk, “here are your
assignments for the day.”
 
Of the jobs he could get, scrubbing the entire bathroom top to bottom is not
the worst on the list (that would belong to whoever the fuck has to console
people who come through the door), but it’s not that fucking great either.
What, they couldn’t even put him in the fucking kitchen with Rich Girl?
No, instead, he’s stuck, scrubbing toilets, showers, and every. Single.
Fucking. Tile.
Bakugou spends the majority of the time angrily muttering to himself, and then
forcing himself to stop as soon as he hears the door open, because, the last
thing he needs is for someone to complain about him scaring them on the first
fucking day.
By the time the three hours is up, Bakugou’s knuckles are red raw from all the
chemicals and scrubbing.
One of the older male volunteers walks in and does a quick look around of the
area, before nodding in satisfaction.
“Good job,” he says. “You can go ahead and head home- I’ll tell Dr. Fukunaga
that you completed everything.”
“Fucking, finally,” Bakugou growls, tossing the scrub brush into the bucket of
cleaning solution he’d been given.
He doesn’t wait for the bastard to change his mind before storming out of the
building.
Rich Girl is waiting at the entrance, her cheeks flushed slightly, and her eyes
a bit glossy, like someone about to be moved to tears, and ugh, Bakugou so
cannot deal with that sappy shit right now.
“How was it?” she asks.
Bakugou tries to sneer at her, but it doesn’t really work through the surgical
mask.
“How do you think, fuckface? I scrubbed toilets for three hours.”
“I imagine you did a very good job,” she says as they begin walking.
“Fucking whatever.”
 
The next time they go out, Bakugou catches sight of his reflection before he
leaves his bathroom, and actually slows to a stop.
He’s been compared to his mother for as long as he could remember, but right
now, with the square framed glasses on his nose, he can’t help but think he
looks so much like his father.
He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
 
This time, he’s assigned to move things- pylons, boxes, bed frames, etc. Its
better, at least, then his previous job.
It still allows him to ignore most of the people at the shelter.
And his muscles straining to keep up with the work feels infinitely better than
raw, abused knuckles.
He lets his mind wander, and he finds himself wondering if he should go home
and see his parents. Part of him thinks he should- it would be a welcome break
from his classmates. And he… he misses them. As much as he hates to admit it.
He knows they’d wanted him to stay with them, at least for a while, after his
assault, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t bring himself to
coming home to a house that felt so empty compared to the dorms, to the
oppressive silences, and the discomfort in the air. He had needed the normalcy
of the dorms. Of school.
They’d demanded he come home a few times since the attack, even if just for a
weekend, and each time it’s some odd mix of relief and comfort, and stifling
protectiveness. It ties Bakugou’s stomach up in knots, even as it relieves the
pressure on his chest.
He hasn’t seen them since his jail break in. But he knows they know. His mother
had called the night that he’d received his school ‘sentencing.’ She’d yelled,
saying that if U.A. hadn’t already made a good case for keeping him there,
she’d pull him from school and ship him off to a military academy in America
herself. Then it started to sound like she was choking back tears, as she asked
stupid questions like, “What could we have done? What could we have done better
for you?” and his dad had taken the phone after that, and spoken in soothing,
but stern tones, and Bakugou doesn’t remember much of any of it, because it
felt like he was drowning. His parents are grown ass adults, and they don’t
need to be protected, but in that moment, he really wished he could give them a
better son.
He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to face them in person after that.
Undoubtedly his mother will try to demand that he come home again on Sunday.
But Katsuki doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it.
He just… he just wants everything to go back to how it was before this whole
debacle. Why is that so much to ask?
 
“Narrative Exposure,” Akina says, and Bakugou stares at her blankly.
“What.”
“One of the best ways we’ve consistently found, in pushing through trauma is
being able to talk about it. It helps people ‘place’ the experience so to
speak, break it down, and put it where it belongs in their mind so that it
doesn’t continue to just loom over them throughout their day to day lives,”
Akina explains. “For some people though, that can be difficult. Usually we see
it more in cases of PTSD, but it can occur in more recent cases of trauma as
well. So, often, in those cases, we’ll recommend something a bit like narrative
exposure, which is more objective and practical.”
Bakugou narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like the sound of any of this.
“Essentially, Narrative Exposure requires you to retell the ‘narrative’ of your
experience multiple times. The facts of what happened in sequential order as
best you can remember it.”
Bakugou feels his stomach drop, and he jumps to his feet.
“Hell no,” he snarls. “You want me to- you- fucking- NO! No way!”
Akina tries to hold up a hand to stop him, but Bakugou is shaking, and rages
on, saying, “What are you some kind of- you want me to- to what? Tell you a
fucking bed time story of how I was raped, what the fuck is wrong with you,
you-”
“Bakugou,” Akina says, cutting him off coolly. “Calm down.”
Bakugou is shaking, and he has half a mind to ignore her and storm out of the
room now, and just go blow something up or some shit.
The only thing that stops him is the small voice in his head that reminds him
this is required. If he doesn’t want everything he’s done until now to be for
nothing, he has to sit through this.
Bakugou tries to take a calming breath, and doesn’t quite manage it.
Akina’s gaze is sad as she gestures to his chair. “Sit down please. We can
discuss any concerns you have. We don’t have to start today. Typically we spend
a session or two discussing how the treatment plan will go.”
Bakugou manages to lower himself back down on shaky legs.
“Fine,” he says, it comes out as little more than a wheeze. “Then explain.”
Akina pulls her notebook onto her lap. “Trust me when I tell you Bakugou that I
have little desire to hear these types of stories either. But I have been
trained on how to handle them- on how to listen and sympathize, without feeling
myself get too caught up in the narrative.”
Bakugou’s lips manage to pull back in a scowl- like he gives a shit about that.
“I don’t ask people to tell these narratives for my sake, but for their own.
I’m sure you’ve heard of exposure therapy.”
Bakugou’s lips curl further, but he nods. He’s not a fucking crybaby with a
phobia.
“It’s the same principle. See, trauma makes the part of our brain that responds
to danger, the amygdala, go crazy- it basically sees danger far too often. But
we’ve found if we slowly and carefully expose people to what is causing that
overstimulation, then slowly, the amygdala adjusts and stops finding those
things threatening. It teaches your brain that it’s not a threat,” Akina
explains. “In the case of trauma this means that we’re teaching your brain that
a memory does not signal danger- you can remember the event without feeling as
if you are under attack. And whenever something may remind you of the event, it
won’t be cause for your body to instigate fight or flight response. Does that
make sense?”
Bakugou takes several deep breaths, trying to process all that- danger part of
his brain thinks everything’s dangerous- fine, okay. It thinks the memory is
dangerous- sounds like bullshit, but given how much Bakuogu wants to run away
or punch something whenever he thinks about it- okay, fine. Repeatedly exposing
himself to the memory will tell his stupid brain that nothing was wrong in the
first place and to calm the fuck down.
Technically… it makes some kind of sense.
But it also sounds fucking awful.
“And what if it doesn’t work?” Bakugou challenges. “What if it just makes
things worse?”
“Well, that’s the advantage of me being on campus,” Akina replies. “We should
have a pretty good idea within about three or so sessions using this technique
whether it’ll be effective. It is possible that for you, specifically, this
treatment won’t be beneficial. But I’ll also point out that we have a very high
success rate with this type of therapy.”
Bakugou frowns, fiddling with the material of his uniform slacks. He wants to
say no. Tell her to find something else, some other way. But it feels cowardly.
Like he’s somehow running away.
“What… exactly, would I be doing?” he grudgingly asks.
“Usually we start with going over what the treatment will entail, a bit more
about the logic and reason behind it, and some breathing exercises that might
be helpful, either in or out of session. Then we’ll slowly begin on the
narrative. Sometimes people can tell it all in one go, sometimes they can’t.
We’ll work on it. After that, it’s mainly a matter of keeping track of your
activation level, or how agitated you might feel, and have you tell the
narrative, and listen back to it as many times as we decide is necessary. If,
along the way, you notice yourself avoiding anything in real life as a result
of the trauma, then we can deal with that as well.”
She looks up at him, prompting any possible disagreement.
Bakuogu’s mouth tenses into a thin line. “It’s whatever.”
In the end, they only really get through the breathing exercises and a bit of
guidance on how to prepare for next session, primarily because Bakugou keeps
screwing up on something as fucking simple as breathing, and then getting
frustrated.
He gets sent to the dorm with papers to look over and shit, but really, all it
does is serve to make Katsuki dread.
 
He’s got cleaning duty again at the shelter.
At least this time he isn’t being forced to scrub toilets.
No, this time, they have him cleaning beds, linens, and the general living
area.
Which also means that this time around, Bakugou is going to have a much more
difficult time avoiding anything that so much as breathes in this place.
Great.
Bakugou tries to school his glares to something a bit more muted, something a
bit less angry and more annoyed. The mask covering the bottom half of his face
helps somewhat.
(So far, no one’s recognized him. Or, at least, they haven’t commented if they
have.)
He sulks, but does his best not to stomp or stalk as he goes from cubicle to
cubicle, taking up old sheets and tossing them into a basket. He has to collect
laundry first, then clean the beds and the individual, unoccupied cubicles.
They’ve been marked for him- ones with a yellow tag have people technically
still occupying them, and should only have their linens taken up. The ones with
green tags mean he’s free to come back and clean the entire thing. Red means it
is currently occupied, and he should stay the fuck away.
Bakugou tries to keep his grumbling to himself as he strips the sheets from one
of the yellow cubicles, tossing them into the now overflowing basket. Great,
only a few more to go, and then he can spend the next two hours scrubbing until
his hands bleed again.
He sighs, hefting the basket up on his hip, and pushes back the curtain to step
into the next room-
Only to stop as he as he meets the surprised gaze of a small child, sitting on
the bed in front of him.
Bakugou blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“Uh…” Bakugou leans back, glancing at the entrance to the cubicle again, and
sees the green tag still marking the cubicle.
He pulls back, frowning.
The kid is just staring up at him, eyes wide. They look like they’re barely
breathing.
“This your room?” Bakugou manages to ask, careful to keep his natural growl in
check.
The kid glances around slowly, like they have to think about the question for a
minute. Then they shake their head.
“Uh…”
What the hell is he supposed to do about this? Just… leave it? Should he tell
someone there’s an unsupervised kid in here?
“So, why are you in here then?” Bakugou asks. He’s trying to sound calm, and as
unintimidating as possible.
It’s… admittedly not easy.
The kid shrugs.
“Your parents know where you are?”
The kid shakes their head.
Bakugou’s starting to get a little frustrated.
“Okay… where are you supposed to be then?” he tries.
The kid just hugs the pillow they’re holding closer to their body.
“Right,” Bakugou mutters, glancing around the small cubicle. “That’s… that’s
fine then.”
He’ll go tell someone about this weird fucking child, then he’ll get back to
his job.
But as soon as he tries to turn to leave, the kid suddenly jumps to their feet,
and begins frantically tugging at the bedsheets.
“What are you doing?” Bakugou asks, then winces when he realizes how harsh it
sounds.
The kid doesn’t seem to take notice though, as they just continue striping the
bedsheets, then bunches the fabric up into a tight ball and holds it out to
Katsuki.
Bakugou just stares.
They frown, then their eyes light up, and they turn, dropping the sheets back
on the bed, and then pull off the cover still on the pillow.
Then they turn right back around, a small smile on their face as they present
Katsuki with the sheets.
“Uh, thanks?” Katsuki takes the sheets offered to him, and for the first time
really looks at the child in front of him.
Their black hair is messy, but seems clean- freshly washed, but not combed.
It’s both too short and too long, making it difficult for Bakuogu to tell just
what gender the child actually is. Their clothes seem clean as well, though
they hang off them awkwardly. They can’t be more than seven or eight at the
most.
But their eyes are too tired for their age- sunken in and highlighted by
purpling. And, now that he’s looking, Bakugou can see the bruises. There are
several circling their wrists, large, and overlapping, but Bakugou thinks he
can just make out the shape of fingers at the edges. It’s much more obvious
from the bruise on their upper arm though- a darker, fresher mark, only just
visible as the kid’s too large sleeve slips back slightly to reveal the clear
shape of a hand.
Bakugou feels kind of sick, and off balance.
The kid stares up at him for a long moment, before nodding, and going back to
the bed, and sitting down, legs crossed under them.
Bakugou takes a few deep breaths, trying to pull his emotions back towards some
kind of center.
He manages to nod to the kid before ducking out of the cubicle.
His hands are shaking.
Bakugou drops the laundry basket next to the side exit, then marches right out
the door, not pausing to stop as someone calls after him.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He rips off his surgical mask, but it still feels like he’s suffocating, and he
needs fresh air, he needs to blow something up, he needs to hit, and punch, and
scream, he needs- he needs-
Bakugou feels his palms spark, and he forces himself to take several measured
breaths, leaning against the outside of the metal building, and slowly sliding
down, resting his wrists on his knees.
Shit.
He’s just- He’s so fucking angry. It feels like all the blood is rushing to his
head, and everything feels kind of shaky, like the earth underneath is feet is
quaking, and he can’t walk straight, can’t think-
Fuck.
Bakugou hears the door creak open behind him, but he can’t be bothered to look
up.
“Bakugou.”
Rich Girl sounds concerned, and Bakugou has to resist the urge to groan.
Of all fucking people to send after him…
“Hey,” she says, walking to his side, though she smartly still keeping a few
feet between them. “Are you okay?”
“I’m-” he means to say fine, but the word turns to ash in his mouth, choking
him.
He keeps his head down, face heating with shame.
God, he’s pathetic.
There’s a moment of silence, and Katsuki can feel Rich Girl’s eyes no him,
heavy, and sympathetic, and his skin crawls at the sensation.
“You know,” Rich Girl says, squatting down beside him, “…it’s okay to be upset.
That’s pretty normal.”
“Shut up,” Bakugou growls.
Normal. Like he’s supposed to be like everyone else.
His mind is pulled back to the child in the empty cubicle, and his eyes sting.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing,” Bakugou says. “I just… I couldn’t fucking stay in there. I couldn’t
breathe.”
From the corner of his eye, Bakugou can see her nod.
“That’s understandable,” she says, and her tone makes him wish that he could
just punch her. “Take as long as you need. I can let the supervisors know.”
“No,” Bakugou snaps, grabbing her wrist before she can stand. “I don’t- You
don’t need to fucking tell them anything. Just. I just need a fucking minute,
okay?”
Rich Girl watches him carefully, and slowly sinks back down into a crouch,
nodding. “Okay.”
Silence stretches between them for several long moments as Bakugou tries to
sort out the shit in his head.
The worst part is, Katsuki doesn’t even know where to direct his anger.
The thought of the bruises around the child’s arms makes Bakugou want to rage,
blow someone up, because- shit. Someone did that. Someone hurt a kid, and who
knows how badly, because Katsuki likely only saw a modicum of the damage.
Someone made them quiet, and afraid, and Bakugou wants to hurt-
But there’s no one to hurt. He can’t even imagine pushing his rage at some
faceless culprit, because his anger isn’t towards a single person, but some
abstract concept of pain and injustice. Because as he thinks of those bruises,
he thinks of the other kids he’s seen at their mother’s or father’s or
brother’s or sister’s side. He thinks of the women, young, and bruised, and
scared, and of the boys, his age and older, with dark eyes, and slick smiles,
and broken skin. He thinks of every person he has seen walk into Dr. Fukunaga
clinic, shaking and afraid, or limping, and he just sears with hatred, and
anger, because this is wrong, wrong, wrong-
And he thinks of Steel hovering over him, and he thinks of catching sight of
his own body in the mirror of the bathroom hospital- his back, and hips, and
thighs, bruised, and bleeding, and shredded, and he starts to feel disgust push
his lunch back up his esophagus, and he has to duck his head, and try to
breathe, because fuck, fuck, fuck.
(And wide, dark eyes remind him of green eyes filled with tears, and bruises
turn to burns, and Katsuki suddenly remembers standing in front of a seven year
old Izuku, and he hates himself that much more.)
He shouldn’t feel this way. He should be stronger than this. Bad shit happens,
he knows that. He knows that.
But it suddenly feels so real, and so raw, like a scab that had been scraped
away, only to find an infection festering underneath.
He’s so fucking weak.
He forces himself to breathe.
“I knew this was a fucking bad idea,” Katsuki mutters, more to himself than
anything.
Rich Girl, who has been mostly silent this entire time surprisingly enough,
cocks her head.
“Why’s that?”
Bakugou glares at her. He was doing his best to ignore her presence up until
now.
“Because I’m not fucking-” Bakugou cuts himself off, taking in a deep,
shuddering breath. “I’m not comfortable with it,” he admits. “It makes me too
fucking angry to see this shit, and it makes me feel all weird, and out of
place. I swear I want to itch my fucking skin off whenever I’m here. I’m not…
I’m not soft enough for this. I can’t- fuck, I can’t be sympathetic and
comforting and shit. I’m not like you, or Uraraka,” Bakugou’s expression pulls
into a grimace, “or fucking Deku. This was a stupid idea.”
Rich Girl frowns, her eyes roaming Bakugou’s face for a moment.
“Bakugou… I know it may not be my place to speculate,” she begins, and she does
not stop when Bakugou shoots another glare her way (he must be losing his
edge), “but I think that maybe U.A. thought it may be helpful for you to see
other people working through their experiences. And maybe by helping them do
so… you can feel more confident in helping yourself.”
Bakugou snarls, whipping around to face her directly, about to snap that no, he
does not need that, because there’s fucking nothing for him to work through.
It’s fine, it’s in the past, he’s not…
The word weak fills in his mind.
And Katsuki can’t help but picture what it might feel like for the people in
the building at his back to overhear him. To so much as imply as they were weak
as well for being upset. And he feels ashamed.
The words curdle on his tongue, and he looks away again, squeezing his eyes
shut.
“I’m not cut out for this,” he repeats.
Rich Girl reaches out, as if to touch his shoulder, but stops before she makes
contact, and draws back.
She gives him a gentle smile. “I think you’ll be just fine. I think… I think
being angry means that you are sympathetic. Or, empathetic, at the very least.
You know they don’t deserve what happened, and you want them to have better.
And for the people that hurt them to see justice. I think that’s pretty clear
indicator of what a hero should be.”
Katsuki’s vision goes a bit blurry, and he blinks slowly, clearing the mist
from his eyes.
He has pushed the question, the uncertainty, the doubt that after Steel, after
what he had done, he could ever really be a hero. That maybe his dreams ended
before his second year at school, and he’s just been prolonging in the
inevitable.
So to hear Yaoyorozu say that, to hear that something that makes him feel weak,
or ill suited, perhaps makes him a hero in its own right.
It’s… grounding somehow. Relieving.
He doesn’t know if he believes it.
But it’s something.
So with a few more, deep, meditative breaths, Katsuki settles himself, and
dares to meet his classmate’s gaze.
“Tell Dr. Fuck, or whoever’s running the floor that there’s a kid with no
supervision in room seventeen,” Bakugou says, slowly pushing up on shaky legs.
“They’re not injured, but they look like they might be hiding or something.”
Yaoyorozu stands with him, her legs not shaking in the slightest.
“Okay,” she agrees, and Katsuki is grateful that she does not press him
further. “Would you prefer to work in the kitchen with me, or-”
“No,” Bakugou cuts in, though his tone is tired, and no longer so biting. “I
can finish up fine.”
Yaoyorozu nods. “Okay.”
Katsuki still feels too tense as he pushes the door to the building open once
more, but he feels more balanced, a bit more grounded.
He sees the kid again, after he has loaded the laundry, and starts on his next
set of duties, being escorted by one of the other volunteers, still quiet, and
curious, but safe and cared for. And for one brief moment, the kid looks over
at him, and their eyes meet, and they gives the smallest of smiles, and a wave,
and Bakugou, for a moment, almost returns it.
 
“I can’t fucking do it,” Bakugou finally snaps.
He opens his eyes, trying to suppress the slight crackling of his explosions
against his palms.
Akina looks unsurprised.
Bakugou thinks that might piss him off even more.
“It’s alright,” Akina says. “You’re doing well. Remember, it’s just whatever
happened beforehand, not the assault itself.”
“I can’t,” Bakugou growls out again, curling his shoulders inward.
He wants to leave. Leave, hide, run away, any of it. He feels trapped in this
small room. In this chair.
Akina considers him for a moment. “Can you tell me what you’re having the most
trouble with?”
Katsuki’s tongue feels like lead. “I don’t-” know- “How am I supposed to even
start? What am I supposed to say? I’m not a fuckin’-” he waves his hand at
nothing in particular, “storyteller or whatever.”
“Well it doesn’t require that you tell a story- only that you recall what you
remember. It’s just formatted similarly,” Akina explains.
“What does that mean, though?” Bakugou demands, throwing a hand out in
exasperation.
“Hmm,” Akina leans back, tapping her finger to her chin. “How about this,” she
says, “I’ll give you an example. I’ll show how the technique is used on
something mundane, like grocery shopping.”
Bakugou levels her with a flat stare. “Can I say no?”
“Only if you don’t want this session to be counted,” Akina says, almost
teasing.
Bakugou sighs, then motions for her to continue, slumping back in his chair.
At least this gives him more time to try to avoid- that.
“Okay,” Akina says, pulling her legs under herself in her chair, and setting
her hands on her knees. “I’m going to recall going to the store two days ago,
and I’m going to try and focus on putting myself in the moment, really
connecting to what I felt, what sensations there were- sights, sounds, smells.”
Her eyes drift shut. “I’m going to close my eyes, and take a deep breath.”
Bakugou can hear her inhale.
She lets out a slow, calming breath, then starts, “I am tired this afternoon,
because I missed my bus and had to walk to my apartment. My feet still hurt
from the shoes I wore this morning. The sun is beating down from overhead,
nearly unbearable, but there’s a light breeze that helps considerably. The
market place is bustling, full of colorful people and a vast array of smells-
though few of them are good in the parking lot. I can hear a train going by in
the distance, before the glass doors slide shut behind me, and I am left with
only the chatter of people and the fresh, crisp smell of produce around me.”
She stops, and her eyes slide open. Katsuki is watching her warily.
“That’s it?” Bakugou asks, unimpressed.
Akina smiles. “I think that should give you the gist of it.”
Katsuki shifts in his seat, trying to look anywhere but at Akina. “Does it need
to be that detailed?”
He doesn’t know if he can do that. Give that detailed an account of what Steel
had done to him. It’s… it would be too raw. Too real.
“That would be the ideal, yes,” Akina says. “But if you can’t start out with
that much detail, that’s completely understandable. It’s something we could
work on more as we go if you’d like.”
Bakugou really wouldn’t like, thank you very much.
He swallows thickly. “What if there are parts I don’t remember?”
He thinks about the fight beforehand, or some of the points where Steel’s hands
and his claws turn into a blur. How he is supposed to tell a story he doesn’t
remember?
“It’s natural to have gaps in the memory,” Akina says. “Just try to remember as
much as you can as specifically as you can. It doesn’t matter if something’s a
little off- for example, if you kicked before you punched, or punched before
you kicked. You’re not being graded on this.”
Bakugou sneers at her. “Yeah, I kind of am.”
Akina shakes her head. “You’re not, I promise. That’s not the intention at all
with the progress reports.”
Bakugou doesn’t reply.
“All I ask is that you try,” Akina says.
Try. Right. Try to tell the story of the worst fucking thing that’s ever
happened to him to someone who is more or less a complete stranger. Sure.
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to take a deep breath, the same as
Akina did. It comes out too stuttery.
He tries to think of where to start, of what to say first, of how to pull the
fight that happened beforehand out of his head, piece by piece, but the more
time he spends trying to untangle the memory, the more- hands, on his thighs,
fingers, shoved in his mouth, pain, lacing up his back, and-
Katsuki’s eyes fly open and he gasps for breath. He can’t-
Akina watches him, troubled.
“Here,” she says, “why don’t we try something else? We can ease our way into
it- try a different memory first? Something difficult, but not as unfamiliar.”
She glances at her notes, and Bakuogu feels his shoulders uncoil at the
suggestion. “Why don’t you tell me the story of the incident with the sludge
monster?”
Bakugou immediately tenses up all over again.
On his list of things he does not want to talk about, it may not take the
number one spot, but the sludge villain incident is still up there.
And he… he’s never really talked about it. Not after it happened, when he felt
as if he could still feel bits of the villain clinging to his skin. Not when
he’d wake up at night, choking and thinking he was drowning in sludge again.
Not when he started refusing to let people touch him more and more, or refused
to allow anything or anyone near his face or neck.
It doesn’t haunt him the way it once did. The nightmares had lessened with
time, and he could stand to have people touch him, even if he had hated it (not
like now). But Bakugou has a sneaking suspicion that the only reason those
nightmares stopped was because nightmares about the League of Villains and All
Might’s fall were taking up too much space in his head.
Now, most of his nightmares are reserved for Steel.
“Fine,” Bakugou manages to bite out.
Because what else can he do? Ask to start with fucking groceries?
It’s fine. He’s stronger than this. He can tell a stupid story, and, and-
“I’m walking down the alley,” he forces himself to start, “with my…”
Friends? Kind of. But not really.
“With my classmates,” Bakugou settles on. “They’re getting on my case for-”
Telling Deku to kill himself-
(Katsuki suppresses a shudder.)
“-for something I did after class. It’s bright outside, and it shouldn’t be too
hot, but our uniforms are black, and it’s a bit uncomfortable. It smells like
stale beer in this back alley, and all I really want to do is get as far away
from my cesspool of a middle school as possible. I toss a soda can-” which he
exploded, “-into the trash, and one of my classmates recommends going to the
arcade. I say sure, whatever, but then they start talking shit about going to a
bar or something, and then I’m just pissed off all over again, cuz they’re
going to fucking get me kicked out of U.A. before I even have the chance to get
in, and I-” he sees it in his mind’s eye. He kicks a bottle. He doesn’t
remember if he kicked the bottle before or after this point. But he knows
that’s what he did. He knows that’s what caused it. The monster had bragged
about it- how Bakugou had essentially set him free. He’d just been too blind,
too busy, to pay any fucking attention. “I-” he can feel the sludge wrapping
around him, trapping him, trying to stuff itself down his nose and throat, and-
“I’m-” He remembers what it felt like to be struggling against the sludge, his
limbs feeling heavy and leaden, and he can’t get free, and he’s choking, and
he’s trying to use his quirk, but it’s only being used against him, and it
doesn’t matter how much he struggles because-
Katsuki chokes, lowering his head into his hands. “I’m an idiot.”
He can’t bare to see the pity in Akina’s eyes.
 
Life in the dorms still seems disastrously normal. Bakugou has no idea what to
make of it.
He usually sleeps alone in his room now, but every now and then, Kirishima, or
Kaminari, or Uraraka will show up at his door and refuse to leave. Deku
occasionally lingers as well, but he no longer stays uninvited (meaning simply,
that he no longer stays).
People still hover, though less than before. They don’t follow him like
hovering mother ducks at the very least. And beyond the occasional, tentative,
‘”How are you doing, man?” no one seems to acknowledge or linger on his attack.
Still, it is rare for Bakugou to not find himself in the company of his friends
after school. Usually they simply pile together in the living room, or his
room, and either study or play video games.
Right now it’s the latter.
It’s pretty late actually, going on midnight, well after curfew, and he and
Kirishima are still in his room, sat in front of a video game console, and
shooting at fake enemies on the screen. Kaminari, Mina, and Jirou had actually
played for a bit as well for a few hours, but eventually they all trickled off,
back to their own rooms.
Bakugou knows this will likely be one of the nights that Kirishima refuses to
leave, and instead sleeps on his floor.
If Bakugou’s honest, it’s actually kind of a relief. He’s been… tense lately.
Since-
His mind supplies, Since Steel, but it feels all kinds of wrong, and bitter,
and Bakugou is not ready to acknowledge it. So instead, he tries to pay better
attention to the game.
Oh- oh never mind.
He died.
Great.
Bakugou huffs, setting the controller down.
“This is dumb,” he complains, glaring at the screen.
Kirishima laughs. “No, you’re just bad at it,” he teases.
“There’s nothing to be good at!” Bakugou argues. “You just shoot at things!”
Kirishima sets his controller down as well, and leans back slightly,
stretching. His red hair, unstyled after his shower, falls in his face, and he
doesn’t bother to push it back.
“So’s Overwatch,” Kirishima points out, “and you like that game.”
Bakugou scoffs. “It’s totally different.”
“Sure it is,” Kirishima drawls, and Bakugou glares at him.
“Just get back to the game, idiot,” Bakugou grumbles, picking the controller
back up.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Kirishima is trying here, he really is. He’s trying to keep everything as
normal as possible, trying to be there for Bakugou as much as he can, given
that it’s, you know, Bakugou.
But it can be a little difficult in moments like this, where the thing that
feels the most normal and comfortable to Kirishima most definitely would not
feel normal or comfortable to his best friend.
Because they’re playing video games, and it is going on midnight (which is
probably ill advised, since they have school in the morning), and Bakugou
yells, “Kiss my ass!” at his opponent, before blowing them away. And Kirishima
has to bite his tongue to keep from smirking, and saying, “Well if you insist.”
Kirishima could not tell you when exactly his absolutely ridiculous crush on
Bakugou started. All he knows, is that when Bakugou looked him in the eye, and
told him, “If you refuse to go down, you’re stupidly strong,” Kirishima’s heart
practically stopped, and his first coherent thought was- Oh no.
Oh no, because developing feelings for Bakugou Katsuki is pretty far up there
on the ‘Worst Possible Ideas’ list. As it is, Kirishima had only just been
trying to come to terms with the whole sexuality thing- he hadn’t been
expecting his dumb, gay heart to get ahead of itself, and decide to throw
itself at his most temperamental classmate.
In hindsight though, it feels kind of obvious. Of course it would be Bakugou,
the most powerful, prideful, and manliest of their classmates. Not to mention
how damned pretty he is. Yeah, in hindsight, Kirishima never stood a chance.
He fully intended to ignore it, he really, really did. He doesn’t even know if
Bakugou is even into dudes (or if he’s into anyone honestly), and they’re best
friends to boot, something Kirishima isn’t interested in messing up. And
honestly, how would a relationship with Bakugou even work if he did manage to
get him to agree?
So he intended to stay quiet, and stay friends, and just wait for the crush to
fade.
That, apparently, had been the wrong decision, because the more time he spent
around Bakugou, the more he liked him, and the more comfortable he was around
him, and, eventually, Kirishima starts slipping up. He starts touching (nothing
major, just an arm swung over a shoulder, or a hand on a shoulder, or fingers
messing up perfectly messy hair), and Bakugou doesn’t go completely fucking
nuts about it. He starts getting in Bakugou’s space, and he isn’t rejected. He
gives compliments, and eventually, he somehow gets from “Dude, but like, you’re
really good looking, you know that right?” (a simple statement of fact, thank
you), to playful flirting like, “Aww, but you’re the prettiest in our class!”
One day, while Bakugou was riding high after winning a battle simulation during
heroics, he told Kirishima, “You can kiss my boots,” and, Kirishima, being the
impulsive gay that he is, replied, “Nah, I’d rather just kiss you.”
He had never been so convinced that he was about to die, right there and then.
Not even when he jumped in front of FatGum during their attack on the Eight
Precepts.
But instead of blowing him up, Bakugou turned super red in the face, stumbled,
and then shouted, “Oh, shut up idiot!” and left it be.
And Kirishima realized… he actually got away with that. He actually survived
trying a come on with Bakugou. But… how? Why?
He had to try again.
So he did.
Only to yield similar results.
It didn’t give him any new clues.
So he tried it again.
Then again, just for fun.
And eventually, Kirishima realized that, perhaps, Bakugou only ever seemed
slightly flustered, and never angry, because he might have similar feelings
towards Kirishima. It felt like a long shot, but a real possibility.
He had asked once, if it made Bakugou uncomfortable, and said that if it did,
he would stop. But Bakugou had just scoffed at him.
“Like I care,” Bakugou had said.
And so it had just kind of become their normal.
And the more time passed, the more Kirishima started to give up on the notion
of giving up, and started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they had a real
chance.
But he’d always been too afraid to take it. To try.
So instead, it just became a staple of their friendship for Kirishima to
jokingly offer a kiss, and for Bakugou to scoff, or snort, or roll his eyes,
but, sometimes, just sometimes, press a bit closer.
And, well, Kirishima had been comfortable with that.
But now he wonders if he should have moved sooner, if he should have tried
harder. Because now, he thinks he may have missed his chance.
Because now, Bakugou does not let Kirishima casually touch him when they hang
out, or allow Kirishima in his space, and he tenses every time a topic remotely
sexual or romantic comes up, and honestly Kirishima could not even imagine
jokingly propositioning him for a kiss.
Bakugou is no longer comfortable in his, or anyone’s presence.
Things like relationships are pretty squarely out of the question at the
moment.
But Kirishima’s going to push through. Right now, his friend needs him to be a
bro, and support him, and keep some physical distance, and if that’s what he
needs, that’s exactly what Kirishima’s going to give him. He’s not about to let
a bro (crush) down.
But damn if his limits are not tested.
So maybe, just maybe, when Bakugou says, “This sucks,” while angrily smashing
down buttons, Kirishima’s brain to mouth filter does not catch up in time to
stop him from childishly replying, “You suck,” and then sticking his tongue out
at Bakugou.
Bakugou immediately stops, and just stares at him, heedless of his character
getting killed on screen. Kirishima blinks at him, confused for a moment,
before what he just said and did suddenly catches up to him, and his face goes
red, and he forces himself to backpedal.
“Ah, sorry, I mean, that was a little- that was dumb. I wasn’t- no filter! I
think I’ve been hanging around Kaminari too much, ya know,” Kirishima manages
to stutter out with a forced laugh.
Bakugou keeps staring.
Shit.
Kirishima’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest.
Did he just fuck up? He thinks he’ probably just fucked up.
Fuck, he didn’t even think about the vaguely suggestive nature of what he said.
And did he really stick his tongue out just now? Really? Really?!
Crap- Did he use his flirty voice for that? He can’t tell, his teasing voice
and flirty voice sound pretty similar (he blames Bakugou for that actually).
But- shit. This was- that was a mistake.
And Bakugou’s staring is not giving him enough to go on here. Is he angry? Is
he upset? Dr. Akina had discussed ‘triggering’ with him last session- was this
that? What should he even do if it was?
Kirishima laughs again, cringing internally at how wooden it sounds.
“Sorry again, dude,” he says, turning back to the game. “But I promise, it’s
not actually that bad! You’ve just got to pay attention to what buttons you’re
pressing. You can’t just smash them all and hope for the best! See, if you’re
just hitting everything, then you’re just wasting energy, and you miss the
chance to use the joysticks, and trust me, dude, those are your friends, so-”
He’s rambling now, he knows he is. But he can still feel Bakugou’s gaze on him,
burning into his skin, and shit, he just wants to rewind time and fix this.
He cuts his own tirade off, swallowing thickly.
He had been planning on trying to cajole Bakugou into letting him stay in his
room for the night, sleep on the floor again, and all that. Last night had been
rough. It took quite a bit for Kirishima to stop himself from barging into
Bakugou’s room just to make sure he was still okay.
But now he’s thinking that maybe that’s not the best idea. He’s clearly fucked
up here, and he does not want to make it worse.
Kirishima pauses the game with a sigh. “Hey,” he says, turning back to meet
Bakugou’s gaze head on, “it’s getting kind of la-”
Kirishima does not get the chance to finish that thought, as his words are
swallowed by Bakugou sealing his lips over Kirishima’s.
Kirishima makes a sound of surprise, pulling back slightly, but Bakugou’s mouth
follow his, pressing forward incessantly.
Then it hits Kirishima- He’s being kissed.
He’s being kissed by Bakugou fucking Katsuki.
The guy he has had a crush on for nearly a year now. His best friend. One of
the strongest, and hottest in their class, and shit, he has wanted this so
badly for so long now.
But he’s being kissed by Bakugou Katsuki.
The same Bakugou Katsuki that was raped just a few weeks ago.
The same Bakugou Katsuki who, up until this point, has shown little to no
interest in kissing him. Who has shied away from his touch, any touch, since
the attack.
Kirishima wants this. He wants this so, so badly, but it just feels so wrong.
Kirishima’s stomach knots up in itself, dark, and tangled, and unpleasant, and
he squeezes his eyes shut, then puts his hands on Bakugou’s shoulders, and
begins to push him away, turning his head to try and break the kiss.
Their lips break apart, and Kirishima manages to get out, “Hey, wait a secon-”
Then Bakugou is forcing his lips over Kirishima’s again with a low, guttural
growl, grabbing hold of his shoulder to try to turn Kirishima back into him.
Kirishima’s breath feels caught in his throat, and his eyes sting.
Because even though he has wanted this for so, so long- everything about this
just feels so awful. Shameful.
This time, when he pushes Bakugou away, he doesn’t hold back- he hardens his
arms, and shoves against Bakugou’s shoulders, sending him toppling back, and
shouts, “Stop!”
As soon as Bakugou is off of him, Kirishima quickly scrambles to his feet,
breathing ragged as he holds his hands out in front of his chest like a guard.
“Just… just stop, okay. Wha- what are you doing?” Kirishima demands.
Bakugou growls, regaining his bearings as he sits up, his eyes burning. “What
the fuck is wrong with you, Shitty Hair?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Kirishima repeats, his voice too high and incredulous.
“You- you just kissed me!And when I tried to push you off, you just- you- what
the hell, man?!”
Bakugou’s face warps into a snarl. “So fucking what?” he shouts, clambering to
his feet. “You’ve been asking me to kiss you for fucking months, and now you’re
suddenly not okay with it?!”
Kirishima feels his stomach plummet.
He knew he wasn’t subtle. He knew it was pretty likely that Bakugou knew that
Kirishima liked him.
But it still felt weird to hear, to know that Bakugou had known. That he’d been
so embarrassingly obvious.
It hurts, to think that, even though he’s known, this is the first time
Bakugou’s ever responded to his affections.
When Kirishima does not immediately reply, Bakugou strides forward, intent
clear on his face, as he reaches out towards Kirishima again.
Kirishima snaps out of his self-imposed pity just as Bakugou grabs him again,
and tries to press forward. A hardened arm knocks away Bakugou’s hand, and
Kirishima breaks out of the hold, pushing Bakugou away once more as he stumbles
back.
“Fuck- I said stop, okay!” Kirishima cries, his voice breaking, and his vision
blurring. “I- I know you’re messed up because of what happened, but that
doesn’t mean you get to ignore people when they tell you no!”
Bakugou freezes in place, his frustrated, snarling expression slipping into
shock, and then, slowly, horror.
Kirishima thinks he might throw up as he watches Bakugou shakily lift a hand to
his own mouth, lightly touching his lips.
“Shit,” Bakugou chokes out, breaking eye contact with Kirishima, and doubling
forward, bending under the weight of the realization of what he’d just done.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
Kirishima flinches. He wants to step up, he wants to help… but a part of him is
afraid to approach. He doesn’t want to make things worse right now.
“Fuck,” Bakugou continues. “Fuck- I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to- Fuck!” Bakugou
breaks off with an enraged yell, his hands coming up to his ears as if he’s
trying to block out a noise, or a memory, or-
“B-Bakugou?” Kirishima calls, taking a step forward.
Bakugou shakes his head, and turns his back to Kirishima, still bowed at the
waist, as if in pain, his hands gripping at his hair. “I just- I didn’t want
that bastard to win,” Bakugou manages to grit out.
Kirishima’s eyes widen, and his outstretched hand drops.
Oh.
Oh.
“I-I just- He can’t be the only person that ever touches me,” Bakugou hisses.
“He can’t. I won’t let him be. He doesn’t get to have that.”
Kirishima’s mouth opens, and closes, but no sound comes out for a long moment,
gaping like a suffocating fish.
He wonders how long Bakugou’s been thinking like this, been thinking that
Hirota Masaji’s touch has left him stained somehow.
It makes a sick kind of sense. That Bakugou might want to replace the bad
experiences he’s had with something better. That he might think he could erase
what had been done to him.
It even makes sense that he’d come to Kirishima for something like that.
But-
Kirishima shakes his head. “Bakugou- I- It doesn’t work like that okay?”
Bakugou whips around, straightening to glare back at him, tears gathering in
his eyes, but refusing to fall. “And what the fuck would you know?” he screams.
“Like you have a single fucking clue what this feels like!”
It’s a low blow, but Kirishima doesn’t get too caught up on it. Bakugou’s
hurting, and lashing out. Getting upset would be pointless.
“Look,” Kirishima says, swallowing thickly, “I get that you’re trying to just-
get more control back or something, but that’s not a reason to- to make out, or
have sex with someone!” He throws his hands up, frustration mounting as he
tries to find the right words. “You- you do that stuff with someone because you
want to. Not because of something someone else did!”
Bakugou shakes his head back and forth frantically. “You don’t get it.”
“You’d just end up feeling worse later,” Kirishima presses on. “Because after-
after, all you’d end up doing is wondering if you only did it because of what
Hirota did to you- if it was really your decision at all.”
Bakugou stops, staring at the floor, his breathing labored as Kirishima’s words
seem to register. He knows they have to ring true.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, squeezing his eyes closed. “I like you,” he says,
point blank. “And I- I’d like to do some of this stuff with you, I really,
really would. And maybe- maybe later, when you’re in a better place, and if you
still want to, we can talk about it, but-” he takes a deep, shuddering breath,
and forces himself to look at his best friend. “But if I agreed to this now,
I’d- I’d just be taking advantage. Of the situation- of you. I- I know you
don’t want to hear it, but you’re not in a place to be making this kind of
decision rationally right now, man.”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say though, because Bakugou just starts
shaking his head again.
“I don’t need to be coddled! I’m fine,” Bakugou argues, slicing a hand through
the air. “I’m perfectly fucking fine-”
“You’re not!” Kirishima cuts in, and his own frustration, which has been slowly
building and building over the past few weeks, finally boils over. “You’re not
fucking fine! Everyone knows you’re not fucking fine- You’ve been falling
apart! You barely eat, or sleep, and you don’t let people touch you, and you’re
all off balance in class-even in heroics, and you disappear for hours at a
time, and you won’t fucking talk about it, and fuck- they said you attacked
someone, Bakugou. You’re. Not. Fine!”
Kirishima’s chest falls heavily as the words die in his throat, and he and
Bakugou stare at each other for a long moment.
Fuck… he hadn’t meant to say all that. He’s tried to stay out of Bakugou’s
personal business, let him work through the whole Hirota thing how he wants.
But Kirishima’s noticed; he’s seen how tense Bakugou is, how erratic, and at
times subdued he becomes. How jumpy, and moody, and unfocused he is. And it’s
hurt. To not be able to do anything this whole time. To have to just sit by,
and watch it happen.
A part of him almost feels relieved to have finally said it. But it’s still a
line he shouldn’t have crossed.
Bakugou stares at him for a long moment, trembling, and uncertain, and
Kirishima wants nothing more than to hug him, to hold him close and comfort
him, and feel the comfort of Bakugou’s heartbeat against his own, but he can’t,
damn it, he can’t.
Bakugou’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he finally breaks eye contact
with Kirishima.
“I-” he starts, then stops, liking his lips before trying again. “I can’t let
him win. I- I can’t let him win. If I- Don’t you get it? I have to be okay. If
I’m not, if I let this get to me, then he wins. He gets exactly what he wants.”
His gaze is pleading, as if he’s desperate for Eijirou to understand, and it
looks so wrong on him.
Kirishima shakes his head. “That’s- Bakugou that’s not how it works. Villains
don’t win just because they hurt someone. A hero walking away with a few
bruises doesn’t mean the villain won! Being- being upset isn’t losing; it’s
just reacting to what happened! It’s just being human!”
“There’s nothing to be upset about!” Bakugou cries, bordering on manic as he
begins pacing. “It’s over, it’s done! I- I can’t- I can’t give that fucker the
pleasure of-of letting this-”
“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, holding a hand out to stop his pacing. Bakugou looks
up at him with pained eyes that are far vulnerable. “You can’t keep- you can’t
keep thinking about this like a battle. You can’t keep worrying about Hirota,
okay? It’s toxic to do that to yourself. You-” he reaches out, trembling finger
tips reaching, slowly, towards Bakugou’s cheek, trying to remember just what
Dr. Akina had told him. “You have to admit how much it hurt, or you’ll never be
able to face it and move on.”
For one, agonizing moment, the only sound between them is their breathing, and
Kirishima’s fingers linger just a few centimeters from Bakugou’s skin.
But moments before he touches-
Bakugou pulls away.
“I can’t,” he says, his voice wrecked. “Don’t you get it? I can’t- I- I fucking
can’t.”
“Bakugou,” Kirishima tries again, moving forward, but Bakugou stumbles back
flinching.
“No!” he shouts. “I can’t, okay! I can’t fucking do it- I- I can’t.”
Bakugou sounds like he’s close to hyperventilating now, and Kirishima does not
know whether to be relieved or horrified when he sees tears begin to slowly
roll down Bakugou’s cheeks. Then, as if a dam has been broken, they start
coming faster and faster.
“I can’t,” he repeats, like a scratched record, as his hands grip his hair
again, and he curls forward, like he’s trying to protect himself. “I can’t, I
can’t- It’s too much, I-”
“Woah, woah,” Kirishima says, taking a slow, hesitant step forward. “Bakugou,
calm down, calm down, okay. You’re safe, you’re safe here.”
But Bakugou just shakes his head, and- oh. Oh shit. He really is
hyperventilating.
Kirishima is panicking a bit too, because, fuck, he caused this, he pushed
Bakugou when he wasn’t ready, and now he doesn’t know what to do.
And then, Kirishima just barely manages to catch the familiar scent of
nitroglycerin.
He moves without thinking, and he only just pulls Bakugou’s hands from his own
head, and only just managed to harden his own skin, when explosions burst form
Bakugou’s palms.
Shit- Bakuogu might have been this fucking close to blowing up his own head
just now.
Smoke is everywhere. Luckily the blasts hadn’t hit anything, except perhaps
singed the very ends of Bakugou’s hair. Kirishima takes Bakugou’s wrists into a
tight grip, and pull them to his chest, hardening his skin further, just in
case.
“Bakugou!” he shouts. “You’ve got to calm down, man! You’re gonna end up
hurting yourself!”
But Bakugou seems beyond reason, shouting, “No!” and “Let go!” through his
panicked, shallow breaths, his face still streaked with tears, and smaller
explosions release against Kirishima’s chest, causing him to grunt. But the
blasts aren’t strategic, not like when they spar together.
This- this isn’t anything tactical.
This is Bakuogu spiraling.
And Kirishima doesn’t know how to fix it.
“It’s okay,” he tries to say. “You’re safe, you’re okay. You need to breathe.
Bakugou, please, breathe.”
But nothing’s getting through. Kirishima is dragged around the room as Bakugou
tries to pull away, stumbling back, or trying to swing out of his grip,
desperately doing anything to try and get free.
It’s nauseating to see him like this, to know that he’s causing his friend
distress, but what can Kirishima do?
Then he hears the door open.
“Dude is everything- Woah.”
Kirishima looks over to see Kaminari at the doorway, flanked by Uraraka,
Ashido, Sero, and, further back, Shouji.
“Not okay then,” Kaminari says, eyes wide.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The world feels like a blur. There’s a roaring in his ears, and his vision is
hazy, and his hands are burning, and every part of his body is itching,
itching, with the touch of that bastard, and Bakugou wants to rip all of his
fucking skin off, and fuck, he can’t. Stop. Fucking. Crying.
There’s something, some kind of pain, gripping his chest, that feels
unfathomable. It feels like the floor has dropped out from under him, and he’s
falling, and there’s something constricting his lungs, making it hard to
breathe, and his head is pounding, and Bakuou is almost certain he’s dying, he
has to be.
He’s vaguely aware of voices, of the feeling of someone- Kirishima?- holding
his wrists in a tight grip, preventing him from escaping- escaping to where?-
this place, escaping this feeling.
Then there are more voices, more people, more eyes, and no, no, no- Bakuogu is
trapped, and haunted, and he can’t-
He swears he sees Steel. He swears it. The man is here, and he’s laughing, and
there’s blood, and he’s going to-
“You’re safe, you’re safe,” just barely manages to drift to his ears, and
that’s Kirishima he knows it is- but no, no, Kirishima doesn’t know, and they
need to get out, get away, away from Steel- away from him.
“Someone needs to-”
“Recovery Girl-”
“No, we need to-”
“I’ll go-”
It’s all a cacophony of noises and colors and nothing makes sense, nothing,
except for the fact that everything hurts, has poisoned, including him, and it
isn’t safe, nothing is safe, and it hurts-
“Move,” a curt voice demands, cutting through the noise and the roar, and some
distant part of Katsuki’s mind recognizes Aizawa.
Aizawa… Aizawa can deal with Steel right? He can- he can cancel quirks, so this
is- it’s fine- it’s-
He can’t breathe.
And then, suddenly, Bakugou’s palms are no longer burning, and-
“You can let go of him Kirishima,” Aizawa’s voice says.
“But-”
“It’s fine.”
Bakugou’s wrists are released, and he stumbles back, and through blurry vision
sees Aizawa, and, he assumes, several classmates huddled at his door. He sees
it, but he can’t really process it, or make sense of any of it, it just-
nothing makes sense. Why doesn’t anything make sense?
The burning is gone again- Bakugou hadn’t even realized it returned.
“Go back to your rooms,” Aizawa demands, and Bakugou tries to push forward,
push past, but he’s stopped by cloth wrapping around his limbs, immobilizing
him, and damn it, damn it, no, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t, stop, stop,
stop, stop-
There’s a sickly sweet smell suddenly floods Bakugou’s nostrils, and he coughs,
trying to force it out, away, he tries- he tries-
His eyelids start to feel heavy against his will, and his hearbeat slows down,
and the world, slowly, ever so slowly, starts to quiet- the roaring dimming.
As his eyes slip shut, he hears-
“You too, Kirishima.”
“But, sir-”
“It can wait until morning,” Aizawa says. “For now, let me handle this.”
And that’s the last that Bakugou hears before the world goes black.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Aizawa is so fucking tired.
Technically speaking that’s not anything new. But ever since Bakugou’s assault
nearly a month ago, he’s found sleep more and more elusive.
It seems more and more these days that every time he tries to sleep, he finds
himself lying awake, fighting off the urge to check on his students. Just to
know that they’re still all there. That they’re still safe.
It’s irrational, he knows that. They usually have at least one or two teachers
on patrol, and there cameras and alarms everywhere. If it’s not his shift, then
he has no reason to be worried.
But ever since that day, Aizawa has felt as if he were waiting for the other
shoe to drop. Like there must be something coming.
He just hadn’t imagined it’d be this.
Midnight’s gas only lasts a few minutes- five to fifteen, depending on the
person- and luckily, Bakugou seems to have regained a modicum of coherency
since his panic attack.
A modicum.
The first thing he tried to do after he woke up was rush Aizawa, heading
straight for the door. When that hadn’t worked, he went for the balcony, only
to find his efforts thwarted again when Aizawa’s capture weapon wrapped around
him, and pulled him off balance.
“Where are you trying to go?” Aizawa had asked, his voice toneless.
But Bakugou had just shaken his head, trying to fight against his restraints
desperately, and just repeated, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-” until he collapsed
where he stood, curling in on himself.
Aizawa had retracted his weapon, and slowly, cautiously, sat down across from
his student, blocking the exit.
Which is how he ends up here- Sitting across from Bakugou Katsuki as he bore
the full emotional fallout of his attack for the first time. His student sits,
curled in on himself, alternating between crying quietly, and sobbing to the
point of nearly hyperventilating once more.
Aizawa waits it out patiently, prepared to draw on his quirk as he needs it.
Periodically, in those moments of desperation, and anger, and panic, Bakugou
attempts to draw on his quirk once more, directing it erratically- at Aizawa,
or furniture, or even, once, at himself- and Aizawa must be quick in cancelling
out his explosions. Each time, Bakugou seems to become more and more
frustrated.
Aizawa’s eyes aren’t exactly thrilled with him either; they bloodshot and dry
from having to use his quirk so much.
The entire experience is disconcerting, but Aizawa forces himself to stay awake
and alert- guarding over Bakugou as he falls apart.
It’s painful to watch. To see a kid as determined and prideful as Bakugou just
utterly fall to pieces in front of him.
But Aizawa keeps silent and vigilant through it all. Bakugou doesn’t speak for
the first hour or so of this, nothing coherent or worth responding to at least.
Just curses and nonsense.
Aizawa can’t help but think back on what he had told Hizashi all those days
ago. He doesn’t think he was wrong per say, even here, standing in the middle
of the storm with his student, he still believes that Bakugou will recover from
this.
But, perhaps, he hadn’t considered just how damaging Bakugou’s stubbornness
could be the situation as well. He had assumed that Bakugou would refuse to
allow his experience to keep him down.
Aizawa hadn’t considered the possibility that he would simply stubbornly deny
that the attack had any effect on him to begin with. That he would be watching
as his student stood on a cracked and crumbling foundation for weeks, until it
all came crumbling down- until now.
Bakugou Katsuki is not the kind of kid who breaks, Aizawa had believed that.
But now, with the damage so baldly laid out in front of him, Aizawa can admit
that he miscalculated. Bakugou, is, at the end of the day, just a kid. A kid
who is stubborn, and prideful, and angry, and impatient, and had been
traumatized by something unspeakable.
It had been foolish for Aizawa to just believe that he would bounce back from
this with no problem.
He likes to think himself an observant man, and he likes to believe that he
understands Bakugou better than most of the teachers here. So it’s a bit
uncomfortable to see that he’d been wrong- to see just how damaging Bakugou’s
stubbornness could actually be to himself long term.
He owes it to himself and his student to see this through.
It’s well over an hour after all this started that Bakugou finally seems to
quiet for more than a few minutes, his sobs calming, and his muttering ceasing.
Bakugou’s shoulders hunch forward as he stares down at his crossed legs, his
hands still curled into fists. He stays like that for nearly ten minutes, and
Aizawa begins to wonder if the worst is over.
Then Bakugou tenses, and Aizawa’s eyes flash just as his palms start sparking,
and he attempts to launch himself forward. The explosion fizzles out before it
so much as has a chance, and Aizawa barely puts any effort into wrapping his
scarf around Bakugou and forcing him back down. He doesn’t bother to try and
keep him there, just releases his hold as soon as Bakugou is seated once more.
Bakugou rocks back, his eyes wild, and burning, and wet, and he lets out a
hoarse, “Fuck,” as Aizawa releases him.
Then again, stronger, and a bit more choked, as he leans his head back against
the curtains of his glass door, “Fuck!”
He squeezes his eyes shut, and Aizawa has the decency to look away as a few
more tears slip out.
But his attention is drawn back almost immediately as Bakugou speaks his first
coherent sentence since Aizawa got there-
“Just- fucking, let me go.”
He sounds so tired and defeated, and everything about it feels so wrong, that
Aizawa has to take a moment to reorient himself.
Aizawa schools his expression, and raises his brow, trying for unimpressed,
instead of ‘disconcerted.’
“Let you go?” Aizawa repeats, not faking the incredulity in his voice. “No
one’s holding you hostage, Bakugou.”
“You won’t let me leave!” Bakugou’s voice cracks on the last word, and Aizawa
resists the urge to flinch.
“Why?” Aizawa challenges. “Where would you go? Have you even thought about
that?”
“Fucking- anywhere!” Bakugou says. “Anywhere, but here! I’d- I’d-”
“You’d wind up hurting yourself or someone else,” Aizawa says flatly. “You just
had a panic attack. You’re not emotionally stable at the moment. If I let you
run off-”
“Fuck you!” Bakugou says, rocking forward once more, and Aizawa prepares to use
his quirk. But it turns out to not be necessary, as Bakugou just keeps yelling.
“Fuck you! I’m perfectly fucking fine. I don’t- I’m not-”
“You’re not fine,” Aizawa snaps, feeling the last of his patience slip through
his fingers. “Stop lying to yourself, you’re smarter than this.”
“Fuck you,” Bakuguo repeats, a heaving, half-sob choking him. “Fuck you, I
don’t need- I’m not some fucking broken little weakling that’s-”
“I never took you for a coward,” Aizawa says, his gaze unflinching.
Bakugou tenses at that, and some part of his typical self leaks through as he
sneers, “What the fuck are you-”
“You think- What? That letting yourself feel upset over what happened makes you
weak?” Aizawa demands, cutting off Bakugou’s ire. “That’s idiotic. Just what do
you think you are?”
“Shut up.” Bakuguou’s voice shakes.
Aizawa gaze is stern and unyielding. “Last I checked, you’re as human as anyone
else. Not being upset after what happened, not being affected by it, would be
completely irrational for anyone. Regardless of how powerful they might be.”
“You don’t get it,” Bakugou says, shaking his head. “You don’t fucking get it.”
“Get what?” Aizawa retorts.
Bakugou stays silent, glaring back at him.
“You’re running away,” Aizawa says, letting the truth strike like a hammer.
“You’re hiding from reality, trying to pretend to yourself and everyone else
that what happened didn’t affect you when it did. It’s stupid, and it’s
cowardly.”
Bakugou rockets to his feet, his eyes blazing, as he screams, “And what would
you know, huh? How the fuck would you possibly know what this feels like?”
Aizawa just stares up at him, tired, and undeterred. “It will always take more
to face what you’re feeling. Because it is hard. Because it hurts. It will
always take bravery to face that.” He narrows his gaze. “And I did not take you
for a coward.”
Bakugou is grinding his teeth, and tears fall from his eyes anew. “You don’t
get it,” he whispers again. “You can’t possibly-”
“Explain it to me then,” Aizawa says.
“He wants this!” Bakugou explodes. “This- fuck, this is exactly what he wanted!
He wanted to- to ruin me, to make me feel-” Bakugou shakes his head furiously,
as if trying to shake out cluttering thoughts. “If I’m not okay, then he wins!”
“You mean Hirota,” Aizawa clarifies.
“Yes,” Bakuguou hisses. “That- that fuck. He wanted this. He wanted me to- to
think about him, to be afraid! He wanted me to-”
“He wanted to hurt you,” Aizawa finishes for him.
Bakugou’s chest is heaving, and he’s shaking, but Aizawa does his best to
remain calm as he stands slowly, rising to match Bakugou’s height.
“He succeeded in that,” Aizawa says bluntly. Bakugou’s eyes widen, his breath
hitching, but Aizawa doesn’t allow himself to stop. “He succeeded in that the
moment that he caught you. From the moment we did not find you in time. That’s
not something you, or I, or anyone else can deny. He hurt you. He raped you.
That’s just a statement of fact.”
Bakugou squeezes his eyes shut, and refuses to look at him.
“You don’t get to choose whether or not that happened,” Aizawa continues. “And
you don’t get to choose how you feel about it. That’s not how this works.”
Bakugou’s arms come up to wrap around himself, as if he’s trying to hold
himself together against the onslaught of Aizawa’s truth.
“But you do get to choose how you deal with it,” Aizawa says, and he watches as
Bakugou goes still. “You get to choose how you handle yourself and your
experiences. And so far? You’re letting him win.”
Bakugou’s head whips up at that, the fire in his eyes relighting. “I’m not-”
“Why did Hirota want to hurt you?” Aizawa asks, point blank.
Bakugou stutters to a stop. “I- what?”
“He wanted to hurt you, but for what?” Aizawa says. “You said it earlier,
didn’t you? He thought he could ruin you. That he could break you somehow.”
Bakugou’s adam’s apple bobs.
“You’re letting him,” Aizawa says. “By refusing to face what happened, by only
lashing out in anger, you’re letting him win.” His gaze is unyielding. “The
more you try to force what happened into the shadows, the larger that shadow
will grow, until it consumes you. And then Hirota really will have won.”
Bakugou stands there, shaking, staring, and for a moment, Aizawa thinks his
words might have finally, finally gotten through to him.
Then Bakugou snaps forward again, rushing for the door.
Aizawa growls in frustration, and activates his quirk, stepping in Bakugou’s
path, and holding him in place as he tries to push past.
“Damn it, damn it!” Bakugou screams, trying desperately to throw Aizawa off.
“Let go of me, you bastard! I’m through with this, let go!”
Aizawa forces him back, and Bakugou stumbles before finding his feet again.
“Damn it!” he shouts, clutching at his hair, fury and desperation plain on his
face. “What do you want me to do? Suck your fucking cock?!”
Aizawa freezes, some kind of primal horror and disgust flooding him like acid
at the suggestion. He’s so thrown off guard that he nearly misses it when
Bakugou tries to rush forward again.
An explosion sparks in Bakugou’s palms, and Aziawa snaps back into action, his
eyes burning red as he draws upon his quirk, and quickly circumvents any
further damage. His scarf darts out, and grips Bakuogu by the wrist, pulling
his student towards him.
“Get a grip,” Aizawa barks, sobering himself. “No one here is your enemy right
now except your own irrationality.”
He releases Bakugou, wary of keeping him pinned for too long, and pushes him
back towards the opposite end of the room once more.
But Bakugou is still yelling incomprehensively, angry, and desperate, and near
hysterical once more. He paces around the room, like a lion trapped in a cage,
ripping at his own hair.
Aizawa can’t help but feel lost watching him. What can he do against something
like this? He’s never been great at comforting victims, and he’s no therapist.
The only tool he can draw on in moments like this are appeals to logic.
“Do you think you can be a hero like this?” Aizawa demands, raising his voice
over Bakugou’s.
He half expects it to deflect like most of his words have, or simply make
Bakugou angrier.
But instead, Bakugou freezes in place, his hands still curled in his hair, his
eyes wide and unseeing as he stares down at the floor.
Aizawa waits, trying to keep his own breathing under control.
“What?” Bakugou croaks out. He looks up slowly, his eyes landing on Aizawa.
Aizawa just meets his gaze, refusing to back down. “I-” the word breaks, and
Bakugou looks away, as fear- real, true, fear, that makes him look far too
young- far too vulnerable- takes over his expression. “He- It- it doesn’t mean
that I can’t- I can still be-”
“You’re right,” Aizawa says. “What Hirota did to you does not determine whether
or not you can be a hero.”
Bakugou looks back to him, and he looks cracked open, and Aizawa feels like he
should look away, like he should be giving Bakugou privacy in this moment of
vulnerability.
“But look at yourself right now,” he continues, not allowing himself to waver.
“Not sleeping, afraid, hysterical- What do you think happens, long term, if you
continue as is? If you just ignore your own pain? What happens if you don’t
deal with this now?”
Bakugou just shakes his head. But it’s quiet. Subdued. The last embers of
denial slowly stamping themselves out.
“Emotional wounds are no different than physical ones,” Aizawa says. “If you
refuse to treat an open sore, it will get infected. It will make you weak in a
fight. You’ll lose more often. Make stupid mistakes. You might end up losing
the limb. Or permanently debilitated in some other way. And then you’ll never
fight again. Either because you physically can’t, or because it was your last.”
“I’m not,” Bakugou pauses, his voice shaking as he licks his lips. “I’m not
weak.”
“That’s not weakness, that’s logic,” Aizawa replies coolly. “Trauma’s the same
way, Bakugou. It doesn’t go away when you ignore it. It festers. It comes up
when it’s inconvenient. What happens when someone tries to grab your arm to get
your attention and you attack them? Quirks are dangerous- you could end up
severely hurting a civilian. Maybe even killing them if you were reckless
enough. Or what about in battle? If a villain reminds you of your attack, or
your hands are incapacitated? You might freeze up and loose the fight. Or
worse, go into hysterics and lose track of any kind of battle strategy
altogether.”
A familiar, telltale fire alights back in Bakugou’s eyes. “I could still wi-”
“Most days you could give me a half decent fight, even without your quirk,”
Aizawa says. “But right now? What are you capable of?”
Bakugou’s hands finally find their way down to his sides, clenching and
unclenching.
Aizawa’s expression softens somewhat, and he sighs. “You can’t be a hero like
that. If you let yourself cling to too much baggage then it’ll only weigh you
down. And you can’t get rid of it just by pretending it’s not there.”
Bakugou squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then exhales loudly. He leans back
against the window, and slides down until he’s seated again, his eyes resigned.
Aizawa squats down, to keep his gaze. “The kid I know wouldn’t let anything get
in his way of being a hero. Not even his own pride.” Bakugou looks up at him in
surprise, and Aizawa lets his mouth curl upwards in a ghost of a smile. “Don’t
prove me wrong, now.”
 
===============================================================================
 
The first dredges of sunlight are just beginning to peak over the horizon, when
Katsuki realizes that he officially spent a whole night dealing with an
emotional breakdown. Aizawa is still there, sitting across from him, silent
now.
It’s been at least an hour since they last exchanged so much as a word.
Katsuki has spent most of that time in thought, trying to untangle that makes
up the mess that is his head.
The horror and guilt at realizing what he’d done to Kirishima- using his
feelings for Bakugou against him, and all but assaulting him in some fucked up
desire for intimacy. The humiliation he felt at the display he’d made of his
own messed up emotions to over half his class and his teacher. The cloying
shame of the insults he’d thrown at Aizawa, at suggesting that his teacher,
someone he’d always trusted, was only interested in assaulting him as well.
And then of course- everything else.
It feels a bit like Katsuki has been forcibly slammed back into his own body-
no longer drifting at sea, disconnected. Everything feels too sharp, and too
real all at once. It’s like waking up to the realization that he’d been
drowning all along.
The fear, the horror, the disgust, the shame, and every unnamable emotion that
arose as he finally understood and felt the reality of what had happened were a
tsunami within him.
It felt like he was experiencing every touch, every awful word, every hurt. His
chest was too tight, his heart feeling as if it was being squeezed by the knot
his own intestines seemed to be making in his chest. His throat felt clogged.
His brain felt too aware, and everything felt too bright, too close, too sharp.
He wishes, now more than ever, that he still had the wounds from his attack. So
that he could focus on the physical.
The emotional pain that’s left a stark scar across his own psyche is so much
more difficult to come to terms with.
But eventually, Aizawa’s truth hit him in full- he can’t be a hero like this.
He doesn’t currently feel capable of fighting off a mouse, much less a villain.
He had been sloppy and uncoordinated in class. Too on edge outside of battle
simulations. Too snappy and irrational.
And so, as Katsuki sat there, sunlight just beginning to pour through his
curtains, he realized that Aizawa (and Deku, and Kirishima, and Yaoyarozu, and
the stupid fucking therapist) was right.
He would either have to deal with what Steel had done to him, or he’d have to
give up his dream of being the best of the best.
And the latter wasn’t an option.
“I can’t,” Bakugou begins, but is forced to clear his throat when his voice
comes at as little more than a rasp. It seemingly gets Aizawa’s attention
however, as his teacher turns his gaze back to him. “I can’t let this get in my
way. I- I’m not letting him take this from me. I’ll be a hero, and he can rot,
knowing he lost.”
Aizawa’s gaze is assessing, but he remains quiet.
Katsuki takes a ragged breath. “I-I’ve got to get over it.”
Aizawa nods. “That’s what we’ve got a therapist for. Talk to her. Use the
resources you’ve been given.”
Katsuki swallows thickly, his throat bone dry.
“If you want some advice,” Aizawa continues, finally standing, cracking his
back as he goes, “I’d recommend that you start by swallowing your pride.
Otherwise, you’ll keep going nowhere fast.”
Katsuki squeezes his eyes closed.
He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to admit that Steel managed to hurt him
like that. Managed to leave some kind of impression. He doesn’t want to admit
that there’s something wrong. That he has a real weakness.
But he can’t argue with the facts. And the fact is that he was raped. That he
is affected by it.
And that, eventually, it could be the fall of his hero career before it even
began.
He can’t allow that.
So he looks up, and meets Aizawa’s gaze, and nods.
Pride is very bitter.
 
“Go see Recovery Girl,” Aizawa had said. “If you feel up to coming to class
after that you can show up. If not, then get some sleep. I’m excusing you for
today.”
“You’re going to be late,” Katsuki had pointed out. It was nearly an hour after
school had started when he finally began to feel more like himself again.
Aizawa had seemed unimpressed. “I’m getting some sleep. I told Present Mic to
take class this morning.”
Katsuki had snorted. He should have figured.
But even after Aizawa had finally left, Katsuki had waited another half hour
before daring to drag himself up for the day. It felt daunting, near
impossible, from where he was seated on the floor. But he tried to take
everything one step at a time.
First, he just had to stand. Then he just had to walk to his dresser. Then he
just had to get water. And so on and so forth.
He had spent too long in the shower, but that was fine.
By the time he finally made his way towards the main campus building, it was
nearly lunch time.
Recovery Girl seemed unsurprised at his visit, and simply did a thorough check
up of him, clearly disapproving when she found a few scabs from previous burns
and scratches Katsuki had inflicted on himself. But little was left over from
last night. His palms throbbed somewhat, as did his head, and one of his
forearms felt a little raw- a telltale sign of a minor burn. But they were all
fixed with a quick press of Recovery Girl’s lips to the back of his hand.
Once again, the rapid recovery left him somewhat off balance.
He means to go back to the dorm and fall asleep. Or, hell, maybe even march
straight up to the stupid fucking therapist and get this shit over with here
and now.
Instead, he finds himself wandering the halls of U.A., slouched with his hands
in his pockets.
The concept of going to class feels too daunting right now. Especially after so
many of his classmates saw him… like that.
Shit, he still owes Kirishima an apology. Katsuki isn’t sure he could face him
again without doing that first.
Lunch has started already, and while most of the students are either in their
classrooms eating, or in the lunch room, there are a few that linger in the
halls. Katsuki tries to avoid anyone he knows.
Somehow, he ends up outside 2-B, looking in on the small gaggle of students
that are still seated at their desks, personal lunches out.
He only recognizes two of them.
The red headed girl, and the plant chick.
Shiozaki.
Katsuki stops at the sight of her, his mind suddenly jumping back to the moment
in the hallway the other week.
He’s thought about her since then, several times. Wondered what she might be
able to tell him. But he hadn’t wanted to consider it for long. Asking for help
meant that it was bothering him, and that was the last thing he had wanted.
But that plan was pretty fucking shattered right now, and Katsuki doesn’t have
any great ideas for its replacement.
Fuck it. If he’s going to do this shit, then maybe he can at least find out if
it’s fucking worth it.
Katsuki marches into the classroom, and does not wait to be acknowledged,
before barking, “Scram, you fucks.”
The four students in the classroom startle at the sound of his voice, and the
red headed girl stands, her eyes narrowing.
“Excuse you,” she says. “I don’t know if you noticed, but this isn’t your
classroom. Where do you get off, thinking you can-”
“Oh can it,” Katsuki sneers. “I’m here to talk to Shiozaki. The rest of you can
fucking leave.”
Shiozaki doesn’t look surprised at his declaration, but her gaze is heavy,
considering.
Katsuki looks her in the eye. “You told me we could talk whenever. That offer
still stand?”
The red headed girl makes a sound of confusion, glancing back at her friend.
But Shiozaki isn’t looking at her. She stands slowly, saying, “It’s alright,
Kendou. Could you all give me a moment alone with Bakugou?”
The red head glances between Shiozaki and Katsuki, her gaze dark and dangerous
as it lands on him.
“Fine,” she grits out, grabbing her food and standing. The other two in the
class follow her example. “I’m going to sit out in the hall. If you need
anything, Shiozaki, just call for me.”
Shiozaki nods, giving her friend a soft smile, but Katsuki just scoffs.
“Oh get over yourself,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not here to hurt her.”
She just glares at him as she passes, close enough to try and loom over him
(difficult, given her shorter stature), but not quite shoulder-checking him on
her way.
After she and the other class B lackeys meander out, Katsuki pushes the door
closed behind him.
He wishes it weren’t so big, he would have loved to be able to actually slam
the damn thing.
But as soon as they have a modicum of privacy, Katsuki lets out a relieved
sigh, before setting his gaze on Shiozaki, and moving further into the room.
She remains quiet, her gaze calm and assessing.
She’s waiting for him to start the conversation.
Katsuki grits his teeth- he wishes she wouldn’t.
How does he even begin to ask the questions that are making a mess of his head?
“How-” he starts, then cuts off, biting down on his bottom lip.
Shiozaki cocks her head, but doesn’t say anything.
Bakugou sighs. “You said that you ‘understood the look in my eyes,’ or fucking
whatever. What did you mean?”
Shiozaki lifts a shoulder, in a dainty, half shrug. “There were rumors going
around, about what might have happened. That you had been kidnapped by villains
again, or hurt.”
Katsuki tries to keep his expression schooled. “That what you think happened?”
She tilts her head. “In a sense, I guess. But… no. I was watching you, from a
distance, after you returned. I saw how you kept your distance, shied away from
contact, how you seemed a bit… preoccupied and upset. And that day, when you
destroyed the purple one’s phone… your eyes just seemed to tell it all.”
The breath Katsuki exhales is shaky and shuddering. “And what would you know
about it?” he tries to sound gruff, annoyed. Instead it sounds fragile and
hurting.
“It’s a look I saw for a very long time in the mirror,” Shiozaki says, and
Katsuki feels like he’s been punched in the gut.
He had assumed, on some level, that this would be the truth. But it still felt
sickening to consider. To know that others had endured the same violation. That
anyone else had to suffer that way.
“Can I-” Katsuki broke off, swallowing thickly, and glancing away. “Would it be
okay to ask-” he cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh. Damn it, how does he
ask something like this?
“You want to know what my experience was?” Shiozaki asks.
Katsuki unfurls his fists, ignoring how the sweat has gathered there. “Sorry.
That’s a… personal question.”
“It’s okay,” Shiozaki says. “I’ve come to terms with my own experiences. I’m
willing to speak to you about them.”
Katsuki looks up in surprise.
Shiozaki gives him a sad smile. “I was twelve. My father had a gambling
problem. I believe he had just lost a lot of money. Oone day, when my mother
was gone for a business trip, he said we were going for a drive, and he took me
to a large house. And a man in that house paid him to rape me.”
Katsuki feels numb with horror, unable to speak as he just stares at Shiozaki.
“He sold me to that place,” Shiozaki says. “It was a child trafficking ring. It
was… awful.”
Katsuki wants to close his eyes, as if no longer seeing Shiozaki would suddenly
make the reality disappear. But no. He didn’t want to let his imagination
picture these things. So he kept his gaze focused on her. On her hair. Her
eyes. Her uniform. Something to keep himself grounded, here, in this room.
“But my mother found out,” Shiozaki says. “And she called the police, and she
saved me. The entire place was shut down. My father, and the man who hurt me,
and who had their name on that clientele list were imprisoned.”
Shiozaki pauses, and Katsuki takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You were
twelve?”
Shiozaki nods. “Yes.”
Katsuki tries to blink the wetness that springs to his eyes away. Damn it, he
needs to pull himself together. If he were in the one telling the story, that
last thing he’d want is some punk’s sympathy tears.
But fuck- she was just a kid. Someone had done that to a kid.
Katsuki feels the need to hurl.
He took a few steadying breaths, trying to get a hold of himself, before
looking back to Shiozaki.
“Does it ever get better?” he finally asks.
At the end of the day, that’s what matters, isn’t it? What’s the point of
facing it like people keep saying, of listening to the stupid therapist, if at
the end of it all, it never gets better? If the hurt never goes away?
Right now… right now it feels close to impossible.
But Shiozaki, with her patience, nods. “Yes. It gets better. Though I know it’s
likely difficult to believe at the moment.” She sighs, and looks off to the
side for a moment, her own thoughts distracting her. “I remember that I was… so
angry. All the time. And afraid. I wanted to hurt- everything, anything.
Myself, my mother, friends, other people. And I remember people would tell me
that- They’d say that it takes time, that I needed to talk about it, and
everyone would tell me ‘It gets better.’ And I remember being so, so angry at
them. Because how could they ever know? They weren’t there. It didn’t happen to
them. How could they sit there and say ‘It gets better,’ when they have no idea
how it felt.” She looks back to Katsuki. “But… they were right. And,
eventually, it got better.”
Katsuki feels as if a knot has formed in his throat.
“Bakugou,” she says, taking a step forward, “if you need to hear it from
someone who knows, who’s been there- It gets better. I promise.”
Katsuki tries to swallow. “How?” he manages to croak.
Shiozaki inclines her head. “The way that feels the most painful- facing it.
Every day. Not turning from it, or trying to hide away, but facing what
happened each and every morning, and afternoon, and night.” She gives a wry
smile. “And therapy, as much as you probably don’t want to hear it. It helped.
A lot. In knowing how to face it, and how to beat it. And finding things that
give you hope- that help you believe you can get past it.” She brings a
clutched hand to her chest. “For me that was religion. But not everyone turns
to the same things in their times of need.”
Katsuki gave a soft snort, but there’s no malice behind it. The tension in his
chest is slowly, slowly unwinding.
“It’s going to be slow,” Shiozaki warns, her voice turning more severe once
more. “And some days are going to be worse than others- things don’t always
continuously get better. But one day, you’ll get in bed at night, and as you
close your eyes you’ll realize that you hadn’t thought of it all day. And then,
eventually, you’ll not think of it for a week. And you’ll start to realize that
you chose when to remember. And it will be better.”
With one final, shuddering breath, Katsuki feels the last bit of tension drain
from his shoulders. His vision blurs a bit, and he wipes at his eyes quickly.
“Okay,” he finally manages. “Okay.”
He can do this.
Shiozaki gives him a small, empathetic smile.
 
Katsuki decides that sleeping is probably the best thing he can do for now. But
when he gets back to the dorms, he finds himself restless, and, more
importantly, hungry. He sighs, and resigns himself to spending the next two
hours cooking way too much damn food. He figures it’s probably better to take
care of basic human needs like eating now, so he doesn’t have to risk running
into any of his classmates later.
He isn’t ready to face them yet.
Well… not all of them at least.
There’s a knock on his door at around four o’clock, waking him from his two
hour, sorta, kinda nap.
“Kacchan?”
Katsuki has to resist the urge to flinch at the sound of Deku’s voice.
He can’t be sure, but the damned nerd was probably there, gawking in the
doorway last night as well. He doesn’t want to see the look of pity on Deku’s
stupid fucking face.
So he doesn’t reply.
“Um, Mr. Aizawa asked me to bring you the work you missed today,” Deku says
after a long stretch of silence.
Katsuki still doesn’t respond. He can hear uncertain shuffling outside his
door.
“Well,” Deku finally says, “I guess I’ll just… leave this out here. For you
to... get. Whenever you like.”
Another pause, and Katsuki has to suppress a scoff. The nerd still thinks he’s
going to get a fucking response.
He hears a sigh outside the door, and barely manages to catch- “Yeah, okay
then”- before he hears the sound of shuffling again, papers being set on the
ground, and Deku walking away.
Katsuki waits nearly thirty minutes before he dares open his door to grab the
materials.
It’s nearly seven when Katsuki has finally catches on the work he missed, and
he hears he telltale sound of Kirishima’s footsteps out in the hall. They seem
to pause in front of his door for a moment, and Katsuki holds his breath, half
expecting a knock on his door, and Kirishima’s typical, chipper greeting.
Then the footsteps continue on, and the door next door opens.
Katsuki sighs, but instead of relief, he feels something nasty and dark eating
away at him. Some part of him can’t help but wonder if perhaps Kirishima
doesn’t want to see him after everything happened.
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, tries to count backwards from ten, tries to
breathe evenly.
It doesn’t work, but still when he reaches one, Katsuki forces himself to
stand, and then stalk out of his room.
He stops in front of Kirishima’s door, his fist raised to knock.
He pauses, insecurities, and doubts threatening to choke him. What if Kirishima
doesn’t let him in? Or doesn’t want to talk?
Or, worse, just tries to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen?
He shakes himself.
Fuck, this is Kirishima he’s talking about. He’s not a fucking coward. Not now.
Not ever.
His fist only lands on the door once before it’ flung open, and Katsuki finds
himself staring into Kirishima’s wide, bright, red eyes.
His hair is down- Bakugou wonders if that means he has already taken a shower,
or if he simply couldn’t be bothered to style it today. Red hair falls into
Kirishima’s face as he pulls back a bit, his expression unreadable.
No doubt he’d known it was Katsuki at his door, and had simply waited to see if
he’d leave or not.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, and Katsuki can’t quite decipher his tone. “What’s-
are you-” he breaks off, clearing his throat. He likely doesn’t know what’s
okay to ask.
Katsuki swallows thickly. “Can I come in?”
Kirishima blinks in surprise. “Ah, yeah. Yeah, no problem, just-” Kirishima
moves out of the doorway, and motions Bakugou in.
Kirishima’s room is an eye-sore. Though less so, perhaps, than it was last
year. There are now colors other than red to be found here, and some of the
more excessive items have been taken down or removed. It’s no longer so
overwhelming.
Or, perhaps, Katsuki’s just gotten used to it.
He tries to keep his eyes averted, looking anywhere but at Kirishima as the
door closes behind him.
He knows what he needs to say, why he’s here. But that doesn’t make doing it
any easier.
There’s a long, drawn out silence that weighs on the both of them.
Kirishima shifts uncomfortably behind him. “So, uh, what did you want to-”
“I’m sorry.” Katsuki blurts it out before his pride can stop him. It feels raw,
tearing the word from his throat.
He turns to look at Kirishima, who’s staring at him with blatant shock. “I-
wait- what?”
Katsuki has to resist the urge to grind his teeth. “I’m. Sorry,” he repeats.
“For- for last night. I’m sorry for freaking out on you, and... whatever. But.
I’m mostly sorry about-” he breaks himself off with a disgusted snarl. God, he
was such an idiot. “I’m sorry for kissing you. Like that. I shouldn’t have. Not
when… not when I didn’t know if you wanted to. And I especially should have
stopped when you pushed me away the first time. I was… it doesn’t matter. I was
wrong to do that. I’m sorry.” The words feel like ash in his mouth, but he
forces himself to keep going. “You were right. About what you said. If you… if
I’d actually gone through with any of that shit, I would have never forgiven
myself.”
Kirishima is still staring, wide eyed, and Katsuki can no longer bring himself
to meet his gaze.
Katsuki owes apologies, he knows that. He’s not sure he’s able to give many of
them. But this… this he has to do. He used Kirishima’s feelings for him against
him. He forced himself on his best friend. He tried to take things further.
To not apologize for this would mean the death of the first real friendship
he’d had in years. Fuck, maybe the first real friendship he’d had ever.
And he doesn’t know if he can face what he has to do now without Kirishima by
his side.
Finally, Kirishima closes his mouth, and his brows draw down, as he processes
the apology.
He gives Katsuki a small, tired smile. “I forgive you, dude. I forgave you
basically the moment it happened. You weren’t exactly in the best place. But… I
appreciate it.” He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing red strands
behind his ear- but they’re a bit too short to stay there. “And you don’t need
to apologize for having a panic attack. That- that’s not something you can
control. I just wish I could have done more to help.”
Katsuki bites down on his bottom lip, withholding the part of himself that
wants to tell Kirishima he’s being an idiot, and should definitely be angrier
with him.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” is what he settles on saying. “I- I haven’t been…
dealing well. I’m gonna try and fix that.”
Kirishima’s smile spreads a bit, becoming a bit more genuine. “I’m proud of
you, dude. And, well, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want,
but… I’ll be here. If you, like, need anything or whatever.” He’s blushing as
he says it, but Katsuki, for once, doesn’t feel the need to tell him that he’s
being an idiot.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, and the word doesn’t feel nearly as painful as he
expected.
“And hey,” Kirishima says, his smile turning into something softer, “just so
you know? This doesn’t change anything. I still think you’re amazing.”
Katsuki scoffs, feeling heat flood to his own cheeks unbidden. “Save it, you
overemotional freak. I don’t need that mushy shit right now.”
Kirishima just gives a small laugh, and Katsuki plops down in his desk chair,
swiveling back and forth as they fall into a semi-comfortable silence.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou says, catching his friend’s attention again.
Kirishima looks up from where he’d wandered over to his bed, his homework still
splayed out on the sheets. “Yeah?”
Katsuki takes a steadying breath. “You… mentioned, last night, the possibility
of… us. Dating, or, you know, whatever.”
The tips of Kirishima’s ears quickly begin to match his hair. “Uh, yeah. You
can, just forget I ever-”
“I don’t know how I feel,” Katsuki confesses.
Kirishima straightens, surprised. “O-oh?”
Katsuki glances away. “I was figuring it out still, when-” he breaks off. “And
since then, I don’t think I’ve… I don’t think I can figure it out right now.”
Kirishima shakes his head quickly, waving his hands in front of his body. “No,
no, I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to try and imply-”
“Shut up, and listen, you idiot!” Katsuki yells, cutting him off. Kirishima
stops, and he sighs. “But maybe… maybe after. After all of this. Once it stops
feeling so… present. We can get back to trying to figure it out. If you still
want.”
It takes Kirishima a moment to process that, and slowly, his expression lights
up. “Yeah, dude,” he says, his voice a bit choked as his eyes water. Oh God,
what has Katsuki gotten himself into? He’s nearly as bad as Deku. “I’ll wait
however long you want.”
Katsuki groans. “Okay, you seriously have to stop saying mushy shit like that.”
Kirishima’s laugh is watery. “Why? Is Blasty McSplodes going to explode from
embarrassment?”
“Okay,” Katsuki growls, standing up, and grabbing a binder from Kirishima’s
desk. “That’s it!”
Kirishima’s peals of laughter as they spar with much needed school materials,
leave something warm, and almost light in Katsuki’s chest.
It’s good to know that, even when facing what’s to come, he’s still going to
have Kirishima at his side.
 
He gives himself that day. A day to think, and try and figure his shit out. A
day to work up his courage.
The next day, he goes to school.
No one avoids his eyes, and no one stares. Bakugou is grateful that only a
handful of his classmates saw his break down. And, while he still says they’re
a bunch of fucking weaklings, he can admit that they’re trustworthy and loyal.
He couldn’t tell you why, but that much he knows.
(He’d do the same for any of them. But he’s not about to admit it.)
The only acknowledgement that’s made of his breakdown, and subsequent absence,
is Uraraka, who smiles at him when he goes downstairs that morning, and says,
“You look like you’re doing better.”
Better is relative. Bakugou still feels like a single nerve flayed raw. But
perhaps it no longer feels as if he’s bleeding out for the world to see.
So he just gives her a terse nod, and goes about making himself toast. He’s not
sure he could stomach much else at the moment.
The entire day feels off balance- Bakugou feels a bit lightheaded. But somehow,
he also feels more real than he has since the day of his assault, more present.
His skin fits right, even if his chest feels hollow.
And then it all sinks down, like a leaden weight, to the bottom of his stomach,
as he sits down in front of Dr. Akina.
He swallows thickly, barely daring to so much as breathe for a long moment.
“Okay,” he says. “Where do I start?”
She seems surprised, but smiles gently, sitting up a bit straighter. “Wherever
you think is best.”
Bakugou takes a few, measured breaths, and nods. He squeezes his eyes shut,
lets air fill his lungs… and then he begins.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Warnings: There is a moment in this story when Bakugou kisses
     Kirishima without permission, and continues to try to kiss him after
     Kirisima has verbally and physically rebuffed him. The scene does not
     go further, and does not end romantically. There is also a moment
     when Bakugou finally snaps out of his own dissociative emotional
     state and has a full blown panic attack. Again, please be safe for
     yourself!
     Well, there's a lot I didn't get to here. I wanted to talk more about
     Shinsou, Tokoyami, and Kirishima, but I really didn't have the chance
     to. And just adding it in here felt very forced, so I finally decided
     to just leave it as be. Sorry to those of you wanted to see more from
     them! Honestly, I did too.
     One last chapter to wrap everything up! Thanks for sticking with me.
***** This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore *****
Chapter Notes
     Author Warnings: Rape is still a heavy topic of discussion
     throughout. Any additional warnings will be placed in the end notes.
     Well here it is! The epilogue for this story. It's shorter than the
     rest, and it stays confined to Katsuki's perspective. I'm not 100%
     happy with it, but here's hoping it still does the rest of the story
     justice at the very least!
     Title is from Of Mice and Men's song Little Talks. Gotta keep the
     generic music motif up somehow!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Four. That’s how many recorders he’s broken.
Katsuki’s honestly surprised there hasn’t been more.
Four recorders, and one phone.
That’s what they had tried the first time- recording everything on his phone,
letting him have total control over where this story was placed.
Then he’d gone and blown up his phone in a fit of anger and frustration while
listening to the tape, and they decided it would probably be better to use a
cheaper recording device.
(Luckily the school had been willing to pay to replace his phone this time.)
Given how often he had to listen to this godawful story, four (technically
five) exploded recorders isn’t much. And it was happening less and less as the
days went by. His phone and the first two recorders had been shattered within
the first week and a half, the third within the first month, and the fourth
just last week, two months after he’d started working with Akina.
It was progress.
Kind of.
At least, that’s what Akina keeps saying. Katsuki isn’t totally sure he
believes her.
It had taken him four sessions to finally be able to tell the full story. He
had to stop at different points in the first three- too upset or bordering on
hysterical to continue. Akina was much better at dealing with potentially
dangerous hysterical people than he would have thought.
He admires that to a degree.
Most days he doesn’t even want to hate her anymore.
Most days.
It’s still not easy. It will probably never be easy to think about, much less
verbalize, what happened that day. But it isn’t as impossible as it felt in
those first two weeks.
As much as he hates to admit it, it helps that he has to listen to the story he
tells in their session every day as well.
It feels fucking terrible, and most days he’d rather peel his own flesh off
than ever have to listen to that damned recording again, but- it helps.
Besides, avoiding it would be the coward’s way out, and Bakugou Katsuki refuses
to be made a coward.
And a story can only retain a certain level of horror and fear for so long.
It still hurts. It’s still horrible. It will never not be horrible.
But it feels more manageable. Less raw. Less like a point of no return.
Remembering his rape has become easier to deal with. Telling the story of it
has become more endurable. Listening is now more bearable. It’s progress.
There are still setbacks though.
Like last week, when Steel’s trial, which had been delayed by over a month due
to Katsuki’s own interference, finally came and went. Akina had asked him if he
felt he’d be capable of attending the trial, of seeing Steel again without
panicking. She told him it would be a good way to face his experience more
directly. But she also advised that, unless he was absolutely certain he could
manage, that the trial was best avoided.
Katsuki likes to think that he’s gotten better at understanding his own
emotional disposition, that he’s been more rational regarding his own mental
health recently.
But he still hates the thought of being unable to “handle” anything.
So he went.
He found himself having to leave halfway through the trial.
Even with six fingers missing, Steel was still a smug, disgusting fucker.
Katsuki had been sitting in the back row of the court house, slouched behind
several tall men in suits, and Steel still seemed to know he was there. Seemed
to look right at him.
And Katsuki had felt hands on him, and breath on his face, and a smirk far
closer, and blood, and-
It had been too much.
When he tried to listen to the recording the next night, he blew up the
recorder.
Setbacks, Akina had explained to him, are normal.
It hadn’t felt normal.
It felt like failure. And failure, for Bakugou Katsuki, is not normal.
But, by the end of the week, it seemed his brain had rightened itself once
more, meaning, at the very least, that he wouldn’t have to start his whole
‘emotional process’ or whatever over from scratch. He’s honestly not sure he
could if he had to.
Katsuki runs his hand over the sleek buttons of the recorder as he listens to
the end of the story-
“I start to think this will never fucking end, that he’ll never be done with
me, that it’ll never be over. But then something knocks Steel off of me,
jarring my whole body in the process, because, fuck, that disgusting fucker was
still inside me- and… that’s it. It’s over. Kirishima and the rest of those
fucks are there, and it’s done.”
Katsuki squeezes the hand he has fisted in his sheets tightly.
It’s done.
It’s over.
He repeats those words like a mantra.
It’s done. It’s over. It’s done, it’s done, it’s-
A knock on his door startles him.
“Bakugou?”
Katsuki pulls his earphones out, and then shoves the recorder into the drawer
of his dresser quickly. When he pulls open the door, Kirishima stands there,
grinning at him brightly.
“Yo!”
Katsuki glares at him. “There’s no way in hell you’ve already finished your
homework.”
Kirishima’s grin falls. “Well not entirely,” he admits, sheepishly. “But that’s
why I’m here! You can help me with the math and stuff, right?”
Katsuki huffs with an annoyance that’s mostly faked. “Why the hell would I do
that?”
Kirishima fake pouts, leaning against the door. “Because you love m-”
Katsuki cuts him off, pushing Kirishima away with a hand to the face. “Shut up,
you fucking idiot. Just get in here.”
Kirishima laughs, and pulls away from his palm. He doesn’t even bother to
harden his skin, and something about that innate trust makes Katsuki’s heart
clench.
“Aye aye, Captain,” Kirishima says, following Katsuki into the room.
It’s been better, they’ve been better, over the past few weeks. Kirishima’s
started joking like he used to- play flirting, and teasing here and there. It’s
still more tentative than it was before, but it feels nice to slowly begin
regaining some semblance of their normalcy.
When Kirishima comes to sit next to him, cross legged on the bed, their knees
press together, and it’s easier this time, for Katsuki not draw away from the
touch.
This is something relatively new. Kirishima’s physical presence has always been
a bit more bearable than most people’s, but Katsuki’s just honestly never been
very comfortable with touch to begin with. He hadn’t liked it as a kid, and he
couldn’t stand it after the fucking sludge monster. Even casual and light
touches were reserved for only the most bearable, and trusted people.
After Steel the very concept of touch made his skin crawl, made him want to
scratch his own epidermal layer right off so he’d never have to worry about
unwanted contact again.
According to Akina, that’s apparently a problem.
Katsuki had been pretty content to let it stay an issue for the rest of his
life, but no he had to ‘overcome it’ and shit. Ugh.
She had started introducing ‘touch exposure’ about two or three weeks ago. When
she’d asked who he’d be the most comfortable with at the start, Bakugou had,
idiotically, replied that he didn’t fucking care.
So, of course, the next fucking session, he walked into the room to find
fucking Deku of all people there.
Luckily Akina had been merciful enough to keep things simple in that first
session, only requiring them to sit next to each other on the stupidly small
couch, and touch fingers for only a few moments at a time. It had been awkward
as hell, and Katsuki had to resist the urge to blow up Deku’s fingers on
multiple occasions, but somehow, they both managed to make it past those
fifteen minutes with their sanity and all ten of their fingers intact.
It was a different person each session, but Akina had encouraged him to
practice as much as he felt he could outside of their sessions.
Kirishima had been more than happy to help when he mentioned it.
So. Casual touching. That’s happening. And he’s… getting used to it. He thinks.
Maybe.
While he’s going over quadratic equations at one point in the night, Katsuki
finds Kirishima staring at him, red eyes soft and disgustingly sentimental. And
instead of looking away quickly, blushing as red as his hair like he normally
does when he’s caught staring, Kirishima just smiles at him, gentle and caring,
and Katsuki feels his heart clench.
Somewhere down the line that had stopped hurting.
Katsuki doesn’t know when.
 
Things won’t ever fully go back to normal, Katsuki understands that. Some
things will just have to change, because, as much as he hates to admit it, he’s
changed since that day in the warehouse.
So some things are different.
Things like his hero costume.
For the first few weeks after Steel he’d had to wear the school gym uniform
because his costume was being remade from scratch. But even after his hero
costume had finally arrived, he couldn’t bring himself to wear it for the
longest time. It felt wrong, somehow, to wear the same clothes he’d been raped
in. Unnatural.
As much as he hates to admit it, Akina had given some pretty sound advice.
“If you still like the design, then stick with it,” she said. “Maybe change it
a bit if you want to feel more comfortable, but so long as you still like it,
try to take ownership of it.”
And so he does. He still likes the costume, and fuck Steel if he thinks he gets
to ruin something else for him. But there are some things that he just can’t
leave as is.
He sends it back, asking for the metal collar to be removed, and for the
material making up the gauntlets to be changed. They border on being too bulky
anyways. The design changes past that are small, just enough to make it
slightly different, but not enough to change the fact that it’s still his
costume.
It’s different. But he finds himself oddly satisfied regardless.
He also finds the abuse center becoming a part of his new norm. Walking there
with Yaoyorozu three times a week no longer feels like a chore, but just a part
of his normal routine. And, while he can’t say he exactly loves it there, the
work is… tolerable. It actually feels a bit, well, not rewarding exactly, but
satisfying to know that he’s doing something that helps. Even if he’s really
not comfortable doing anything more involved than serving food in the kitchen,
it’s something.
Doctor’s visits are more normal now. He’s been cleared for HIV for the most
part, but the doctor’s still recommend he come in every two or three months,
just to make sure everything is still okay. At least for a while longer.
Relationships have changed too.
He and Kirishima are much the same as ever, though closer and some ways, and
still trying to rework common ground in others. But there’s also what Kirishima
had told him about his talks with Akina, about the anger he had felt that day
in the warehouse, about how it had scared him.
Katsuki does not know what to do with that information, doesn’t know what to
tell him. But Kirishima doesn’t seem to expect him to say anything, and somehow
it just becomes another puzzle piece that forms the full picture of his best
friend.
There’s also Tokoyami.
They don’t talk, not really. That’s not either of their thing. But Katsuki had
still felt it was important to face him after he’d dragged him into the whole
mess with Steel.
“They figure out it was you?” Katsuki had asked one day when their cleaning
duties had overlapped.
“They highly suspected,” Tokoyami replied. “I was given cleaning duties, like
you, and my sessions with Dr. Hano were made mandatory.”
“Sorry.”
Apologizing was somehow easier than before.
“It’s fine,” Tokoyami said. “Besides, I… I perhaps underestimated how helpful
she could be.”
Those were the last words they’d exchanged on the subject, but it was still
oddly reassuring to have silent presence there whenever he began cleaning
duties for the night.
He’d reached out to Shinsou in much the same way, dreading what he might hear.
“Academic probation, and some kind of counseling,” Shinsou had told him,
grimacing. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You still aiming for the hero course?” Bakugou demanded.
Shinsou had just smirked, but it seemed strained around the edges. “Couldn’t
stop me if you tried.”
So, perhaps, not everything had changed.
It’s a tedious process, but Bakugou, slowly, surely, gets used to the way
things have changed.
 
It seems that getting used to anything though is a task better forgotten,
because the morning after Kirishima drops into his room, everything goes to
shit again.
Katsuki manages to stumble down to the kitchen, barely awake and in desperate
need of coffee.
There are only a few other students from his class milling about, but that’s to
be expected. He tends to wake up rather early, eating breakfast before the rest
of the lazy assholes in his class so much as get out of bed.
What is strange however is how quiet they all are, huddled over a phone screen,
alert and tensed as if for attack.
Katsuki stops at the edge of the kitchen, and narrows his eyes at them.
“The fuck are you doing?” he slurs.
All of their backs straighten at once, and four pairs of wide eyes turn to him-
Deku, Todoroki, Tail Guy, and Yaoyorozu’s.
They send each other quick, furtive glances, and Katsuki immediately knows
something’s up.
He glares, stomping forward. “Oh, what the fuck is it now?”
“Kacchan,” Deku starts, but Katsuki just grabs the phone from his hand, not
caring about the noise of protest Yaoyorozu and Tail Guy make.
He stares down at the article in front of him, and for a moment the words don’t
make sense.
Murder.
Attack.
Break in.
Hirota.
Katsuki’s entire body goes cold, and his vision finally focuses in, and-
The article is only a few hours old. It’s only a few paragraphs- the police
haven’t given much information yet.
All that’s known is that Hirota Masaji was found burned to death last night in
his cell.
“Bakugou,” Yaoyorozu is saying, moving closer to him with her hands raised, as
if she were approaching a scared, wild animal.
Katsuki doesn’t bother to listen to her. He drops the phone as if it’s burned
him, and he doesn’t even stop to consider- his bare feet, his pajamas, the
irrationality of it all- before running out the front door.
His classmates call after him, but no one gives chase as Bakugou tears out of
the building, and across the court yard towards the school.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no-
Katsuki knows how this has to look, knows what his teachers will think.
Damn it, he’s been working so damn hard to put what Hirota did behind him, to
move on, to be allowed to continue here. To be a hero. He’s kept up with the
school’s parole, and the community service, and the therapy, and he hasn’t even
let his grades slip. He’s been so careful not to mess it up, and he hasn’t- he
hasn’t.  
And it’s all about to be gone in the blink of an eye. All the work he’s done,
all-
Katsuki bursts into the school building, his chest heaving.
Was the door locked? He can’t remember.
He only takes a moment to glance about, trying to remember where he is, trying
to orient himself for a brief second, before taking off in the direction of the
teacher’s tower.
He has to tell them, he has to- they have to know. They can’t expel him now.
Not after everything he’s done to stay.
“Bakugou,” a voice rings out as he reaches the first landing of the stairs in
the staff wing.
Katsuki pulls up short, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He can’t get
enough air, damn it, he can’t-
Aizawa stares down at him, eyes tired and unimpressed.
He should wonder how he got there. How he knows Katuski would be here, but the
only thing that matters now, is-
“I have to-” Katsuki starts, then stops as his throat constricts around the
words. “I have to talk to Nedzu. He has to know-”
Aizawa doesn’t seem the least bit surprised, and just motions Katsuki along.
“He sent me down to meet you- camera’s caught your entrance. There’s a staff
meeting in his office now. Come on.”
Katsuki hurries to catch up to Aizawa, but somehow the walk still feels as if
it takes forever. He wants to run to Nedzu- he needs to tell him, before anyone
can convince him otherwise. He needs to know that Katsuki didn’t do this.
When they get to Nedzu’s office, the place is crowded. Blood King, Present Mic,
All Might, and Midnight are all there already, looking at something on a
hologram screen. When they open the door however, the picture is closed, and
all eyes turn to Katsuki and Aizawa.
Nedzu looks up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, there you are
Bakugou. We had been planning to speak with you at the start of class, but just
as well.”
Katsuki takes a few quick strides towards Nedzu’s desk, ignoring Blood King as
he sets a hand against his shoulder to hold him back.
“I didn’t do it,” he says, and his voice shakes. “You have to know I didn’t do
this.” He turns to look up at Aizawa, who continues to stare down at him
impassively. “You know I didn’t. I wouldn’t fuck things up after this long. I
can- I’ll take any test to prove it. I wasn’t the one who-”
“Calm down my boy,” All Might says, finally cutting off Katsuki’s diatribe.
Blood King shifts out of the way as All Might moves in front of Katsuki and
places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Katsuki just barely manages to not
flinch. “We know you didn’t kill Hirota,” All Might assures him.
Katsuki feels his breath catch in his throat. “What?”
“Of course,” Nedzu says, a bit of amusement in his tone. All Might moves back
so that Katsuki can see the principal once again. “We know it wasn’t you. It
wouldn’t make sense for one. But, more importantly, the actual killer left a
calling card of sorts.”
Nedzu reaches forward, activating the projection they’d been looking at before,
and Katsuki only sees a glimpse of what looks to be a burnt body, before Nedzu
zooms past it to blood red writing (that might actually be blood) that hangs
above the body.
Rapists will be Rejected.
Katsuki feels his breath catch in his chest, feels his lungs burn.
Steel is dead. He’s actually dead. He-
“The culprit also seemed to make an effort to make themselves known,” Nedzu
continues, and the hologram fast forwards through what must be security camera
footage for a moment, before coming to stop on a familiar face, looking right
into the camera.
“Dabi..” Katsuki means for it to be a simple statement. It’s obvious who it is
after all, with the distinctive scarring. But incredulity clouds his voice,
posing it almost as a question.
But why the hell would someone like Dabi murder another villain for committing
rape?
Shouldn’t the League of Villains be chummy with people generally trying to
destroy the students of U.A., regardless of their methods?
“It appears so,” Midnight says, and Nedzu closes the projection. “The police
department sent this bit of evidence to us to try and understand any possible
motives.”
“As best we understand it,” Aizawa says, speaking up for the first time since
stepping into the room, “this appears to be a statement on Dabi’s part, or on
the part of the League of Villains, about what they will and will not accept
from other criminals.”
“Either way,” Nedzu says, “you don’t need to concern yourself further, Bakugou.
You are not under investigation for this act.”
“But if you feel you are in danger, or need to speak with us,” All Might
interjects, “then do not hesitate. We can’t be certain that this isn’t a larger
ploy on the part of the League of Villains either. If you think any of them
might be trying to contact you, please inform your teacher.”
Katsuki gives a halfhearted scoff, his mind still reeling. “I’m not an idiot,
All Might.”
All Might just gives him a small smile. “Of course not, my boy."
“Come on,” Aizawa says with a sigh. “We’ve still got a few hours before school
starts. I’ll walk you back to the dorms.”
 
Katsuki’s head is still spinning.
Steel is dead.
Really, and truly dead.
It doesn’t feel real.
Most of the day is passed in a haze. He notices a few concerned glances from
his classmates, but he can’t bring himself to give them any false reassurances.
He’s too preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Even his community service work that day is passed in relative silence.
Fukukoda watches him quietly, her eyes sharp and hawk-like.
He even ignores Kirishima when his friend comes to knock on his door.
He doesn’t want to speak to anyone right now. He doesn’t think he’d know what
to say.
A part of him wants to let Kirishima in, to soak up the warmth of his presence.
But some desolate, awful part of him doesn’t want that right now. Doesn’t want
warmth, or comfort.
He doesn’t want to run from this emotion.
It’s stupid, but he just curls up in his bed, and pulls the covers over his
head, staring at nothing.
It’s nearly one a.m. when his stomach finally protests his lack of dinner.
It’s late enough that Bakugou doesn’t think twice about stumbling down to the
kitchen- where this had all started, where- and making himself something to
eat.
No one’s down there of course, so Bakugou has that time to himself. To think,
and eat in peace.
He’s just finishing up cooking a pot of curry, when he hears footsteps padding
across the floor. He doesn’t dare look up. Maybe whoever it is will know better
than to try and speak with him right now.
“Kacchan?”
Unless that person’s Deku, in which case, there’s no fucking chance.
Katsuki groans, and sends a glare of his shoulder. “The fuck you want?”
“Needed some water,” Deku says, walking cautiously to the sink. He’s still
blinking sleep out of his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking,” Katsuki bites out.
Deku glances at the pot on the stove, then at Katsuki, raising a brow- the
question and sarcastic remark regarding the time going unsaid.
Damn it, when the hell did the twerp get this damn sassy around him? He
remembers when Deku would flinch away from him. What happened to that?
And why is he happy that it’s gone?
When it becomes clear that Katsuki isn’t going to elaborate further, Deku just
sighs, and refills his cup at the refrigerator. But before he leaves, he pauses
again to stare at Katsuki.
“Do you want help cleaning the dishes?” he asks.
Katsuki starts. “Eh?”
Izuku indicates to the dishes Katsuki’s left in the sink. “That way you don’t
have to worry about it after you’re done eating.”
Katsuki should say no. He thinks he wants to say no.
But.
“Fine,” Katsuki grumbles, turning away from Deku to grab two bowls from the
cabinet. “But you might as well fucking eat then. The pot’ll be too hot to
clean for a while.”
Deku blinks in surprise, tilting his head. “You sure?”
“Fucking whatever,” Katsuki sneers. “I made too much any way. Just don’t whine
if I give you a smaller portion.”
Deku gives him a small, sincere smile that Katsuki chooses to ignore. “Thanks,
Kacchan.”
They have their meal of rice and curry in silence, the only sound the clinking
of metal spoons on porcelain dishes.
The company is more grounding that Katsuki would have anticipated. It almost
makes him regret pushing people away earlier today.
(Then perhaps he could have avoided this awkward interaction with fucking Deku
of all people.)
They stand side by side as they wash the dishes, shoulders occasionally bumping
as they reach for another dish or a rag.
Katsuki doesn’t know what prompts him to say it, but before he can think about
it, his mouth is already opening.
“I’m glad he’s dead.”
Deku slows in scrubbing the bowl in his hands. He doesn’t look up at Katsuki.
Katsuki wishes he could take it back as soon as he’s said it. Why the fucking
hell would he tell Deku of all people that?
Then, slowly, Deku sets the dish to the side.
“I don’t blame you,” he finally says, and looks up at his once childhood
friend. His green eyes are tired, but sincere. “I don’t even know how I feel
about it. I can’t imagine how you must feel right now.”
“Relieved,” Katsuki says immediately.
Shit, okay, apparently his filter is extremely loose this late at night.
But Deku just nods. “I kind of am too, actually. But,” he pauses, biting his
lip, and Katsuki waits for it. Waits to hear how it’s wrong to wish anyone
dead- even a piece of human garbage like Steel. “But I also feel kind of
angry,” he finally admits, and Katsuki’s eyes narrow. “It feels like he got the
easy way out. I wanted him to have to live- I wanted him to be miserable for
every second, of every day, for the rest of his life, for what he did to you.”
His fingers curl around the sink, and there’s an awful creaking sound as the
metal warps under his hands. Izuku pulls away quickly, leaving dents behind in
the metal.
“Whoops,” he says, attempting a sheepish laugh. It rings false.
Katsuki stares at the warped sink and doesn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t
thought Deku could feel things like that- could feel anything but disgustingly
inspired determination and optimism. To think that even ‘kind and timid Deku’
had been pushed to such vindictiveness by Steel was almost… reassuring in a
way.
“He wouldn’t have,” he finds himself saying. “He would have still felt like he
won.” A sneer tugs at his lips. “That bastard- I bet he even found a way to
smirk even as he fucking died. He always thought he’d won. No matter what.”
“But he’s dead now,” Deku points out. “He’s dead, and you’re still here.”
Katsuki swallows thickly, and Deku’s gaze is too intense, too sincere to hide
from.
“We’re going to be okay,” Izuku says, unprompted, but strong in his conviction.
“He’s gone, and we’re going to be okay. He lost.”
Katsuki feels something slowly begin to untwine itself from his insides,
loosening just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “He lost.”
And Katsuki tells himself, with renewed assurance- It’s done.
And he’s going to be fine.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Additional warnings: Minor character death, and possibly unhealthy
     thoughts on the deservedness of that death.
     Thank you guys so much for your support of this story! I really
     wanted to have more about the summary stuff that's in this chapter,
     but it just didn't feel like it fit well enough, since I really liked
     the contained nature of this epilogue. Still not totally happy with
     the compromise, but I prefer it this way!
     To the person who wanted to translate this into Russian- Go right
     ahead! And thank you so much for wanting to do so! Please just link
     back to the original story at the beginning.
     Thank you to everyone else as well who has given a lot of love to
     this story! I was surprised it was as well received as it was, given
     the topic I was covering. To those who want to know about the
     possibility of further stories from me, particularly the idea of
     following up on the Todoroki plot thread that was mentioned, there's
     a possibility of me doing that. However it would be months from now
     if I do so as I have a lot in my personal life to work on at the
     moment. I'll go ahead and turn this into a series just incase, and
     you guys can bookmark that if you want.
     Otherwise, thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the ride!
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