Crushed by Power
The only person that Katsuki Bakugou listens to is you and everyone in Class 1-A uses that to their advantage.
Part 10 ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · 8 - 9 - 11 - 12
The scent of burning flesh still clung to your nostrils—not yours, never yours—as you blinked awake, your wrists strapped to cold metal rails beneath Touya’s fireproof futon.
White walls, sterile and suffocating, pressed in from all sides.
Where the hell were you?
The last thing you remembered was Stain’s blade glinting in the alley’s dim light, his voice dripping with venom: "You’re no hero. You’re the weapon they’re too scared to admit they built." Then—nothing.
Your throat burned like you’d swallowed a lit match, and your limbs felt leaden, as if your quirks had raged unchecked for hours. The futon’s heat-resistant fabric stuck to your sweat-slicked skin.
A monitor beeped steadily beside you, its green line spiking as your pulse quickened. They’d restrained you. Like the orphanage. Like you were something to be caged.
It looked like a hospital room—white tiles, antiseptic stench, IV lines snaking into your arm—but what if you’d been captured? Stain’s words slithered through your mind: weapon, mistake, monster.
The straps weren’t standard medical restraints; they were reinforced, quirk-suppressant alloy, the kind heroes used on high-risk villains. Your fire quirk sparked in your veins, useless against the cuffs, and you bit back a scream.
The door hissed open. A tall, lean figure with the unmistakable muzzle and fur of a dog stepped in, followed by a younger man whose sharp eyes scanned you like a specimen.
"Chief Kenji Tsuragamae," the dog-man said, his voice measured but edged with something wary. The investigator beside him flipped open a notepad without looking up. "We need to discuss Stain’s allegations."
Your stomach dropped. "Specifically," Tsuragamae continued, ears twitching, "his claim that you’re affiliated with the League of Villains."
You barked out a laugh—hoarse, disbelieving. "Because a serial killer said so?"
The investigator’s pen paused. "Because," he said quietly, "Stain doesn’t lie about villains."
Your fingers twitched against the restraints, nails scraping metal. The room smelled like iodine and something sour—fear, maybe yours. The investigator leaned in, close enough for you to see the faint scar under his left eye.
"You burned down your family home at six," he murmured. "Triggered by the same creature Stain says works for All For One." The monitor’s beeping spiked again.
You swallowed. "I was a kid."
Tsuragamae’s tail stiffened. "And now?" His gaze flicked to the IV bag—sedatives, probably. "You lost control in Hosu. Witnesses say your flames turned black."
The investigator’s pen tapped the notepad. Slow. Deliberate. "Tell us," he said, "about the iron cage at the orphanage."
Your breath hitched. They’d dug that up. The straps bit into your wrists as you jerked against them.
"I sleepwalk," you ground out. "My quirks—they act up."
The investigator’s eyes narrowed. "Act up," he repeated. Like he didn’t believe you. Like he knew about the times you’d woken with dirt in your nails or frost on your sheets, no memory of how they got there.
Tsuragamae’s claws clicked against the tile floor as he circled the bed. His scent—wet fur and gunpowder—clogged your throat. "Stain called you a weapon," he said, each word measured. "Do you know why?"
Your pulse thudded in your ears. The truth tasted like ash: "No."
The younger man’s scar twitched when he smiled. It wasn’t kind. "Your fire," he said, "matched Dabi’s thermal signature in Kamino."
The monitor shrieked—your heart rate spiking off the charts. They thought you were working with him. With the League. With the monster who’d smiled as your parents screamed.
Your vision blurred at the edges. The restraints groaned as your fire quirk surged against the suppressants, heat licking up your arms despite the cuffs.
You wanted to scream that you weren’t one of them. That you just wanted to go back to the orphanage’s iron-barred cot, where the nuns would bolt the door and let you sleep without fearing what you’d wake up to.
"Please," you whispered, voice cracking like dry kindling. The investigator’s pen hovered over his notepad. "I don’t—I don’t remember anything after Stain."
Tsuragamae’s ears flattened. "Convenient."
The investigator flipped a page. His fingers were deliberate, unhurried. "There’s also been a case where the League of Villains tried to capture you twice during the UA invasion," he said, watching your pupils dilate.
Your breath hitched—Kurogiri’s warp gate yanking you backward mid-air. The investigator’s voice was ice. "They don’t chase strays unless they’re valuable."
The IV line tugged as you recoiled. Something in your chest cracked—memories seeping through the fissures. The orphanage’s matron hissing "Demon child," as she bolted your cage. Stain’s blade hovering over your jugular. The monitor wailed. Your skin burned where the suppressant cuffs dug in.
"You’re stalling," the investigator said. His pen tapped—tap, tap, tap—against his notepad.
Tsuragamae’s claws flexed. "Your parents’ quirks," he pressed, slow, deliberate. "One manipulated earth. The other commanded water." Your ribs constricted. "Where did fire and air come from?" The room tilted.
You remembered your mother’s hands—calloused from shaping stone—cupping your cheeks. The way your father’s laughter rippled like creek water.
Then the monster’s teeth, glinting in the dark. Your fire had answered before you’d even known its name.
You didn’t know—your breath came in jagged bursts. The investigator’s scar twisted as he leaned closer. "No records of quirks manifesting like yours," he murmured. "Not naturally."
The IV line tugged at your skin. Your pulse pounded in your throat. Stain’s voice hissed in your skull: weapon, weapon, weapon. The orphanage’s iron bars flashed behind your eyelids.
"I—" The word dissolved into static. Your wrists burned where the cuffs ground bone.
You wanted to run. To bolt through the door, down the sterile halls, anywhere but here—but the restraints held firm. "Please," you begged, voice raw as scorched earth.
Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, frantic, trapped. Tsuragamae’s tail flicked once. The investigator’s pen hovered. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Tsuragamae exhaled through his muzzle, ears flattening. "We’ll come back later," he said, claws retracting. The investigator snapped his notepad shut with a final click.
His scar stretched as he smirked. "You better have answers then." The door groaned shut behind them, leaving you alone—and the ghost of Stain’s blade at your throat.
Your chest heaved—too fast, too shallow. Oxygen scorched your lungs like you’d inhaled embers. The monitor screamed in protest, its jagged green line mirroring your spiraling thoughts. Weapon. Mistake. Monster.
The words hammered against your skull, each syllable syncing with the frantic staccato of your pulse. Your fingers spasmed against the restraints, nails drawing blood where they scraped metal.
Black spots danced at the edges of your vision. You were drowning on dry land.
The IV bag swayed—a mocking pendulum—as you twisted against the straps. Something wet dripped onto your collarbone. Sweat? Tears?
The sour tang of panic filled your mouth. You remembered the orphanage matron’s hissed prayers as she triple-locked your cage, the way your fire quirk had licked hungrily at the bars until they glowed red-hot. Now, those same flames writhed impotently beneath your skin, choked by suppressants and cold steel.
Your vision tunneled. The monitor’s shrill alarm warped into a distant echo as your lungs seized. Stain’s voice slithered through the static—weapon, weapon—but the words dissolved into meaningless noise.
Your skull cracked against the pillow as darkness swallowed you whole, the restraints the last thing you registered before the world tipped sideways.
You woke to fingers clamped around your forearm—cold, clinical—and jerked upright with a snarl. The nurse recoiled, her clipboard clattering to the floor as she backpedaled into the doorframe.
"S-sorry!" she stammered, her eyes wide and white-rimmed like a spooked horse. You barely had time to process her panic before she bolted, the door hissing shut behind her.
A dry, wheezing cough cut through the silence. You turned—too fast, your vision swimming—and froze. Beside you, propped up on a chair, a gaunt man with yellow hair stared back through fever-bright eyes. His lips peeled into a grin.
"Hello," he said simply, fingers steepled under his chin. His sleeves rode up, revealing wrists mottled with old burns and fresh IV bruises. Your pulse spiked.
The man’s grin widened as if he could hear them too. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice scraping raw. The monitors beeped faster. "You’re not from the League of Villains?"
"Oh god no," he scoffed, rolling his shoulders with a wince. His grin faltered for a moment—pain flashing behind his eyes—before snapping back into place.
"I’m a hero," he said, like it was a joke only he understood. "Well. Sort of. And they said to keep an eye on you." His fingers drummed against his knee, restless. "What did you do?"
You flinched. The cuffs rattled against the bed rails. "Nothing," you whispered, but the word tasted like ash.
The man’s grin slipped. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing—raked over your restraints, the IV lines, the way your breath hitched when he leaned closer.
"Bullshit," he murmured, so low you almost missed it. His fingers twitched toward your wrist, stopping just shy of the metal. "They don’t strap down kids for nothing."
You thought about it—the matron’s whispered curses, the investigator’s cold smirk, the way even Endeavor had looked at you after Hosu. No one believed you. So you might as well tell him.
"I…" Your throat closed around the words. His eyebrows lifted. "I was told that I was a weapon for All For One," you choked out, the admission tearing through you like shrapnel. "They think I’m a spy or something. I’m not—I swear!" Your voice broke on the last word, raw as an open wound.
The man went very still. His grin evaporated. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the monitor’s erratic beeping. His eyes never leaving yours.
"Yeah," he said at last, voice rough. "They told me that too."
Your breath hitched. He knew. Somehow, this stranger understood the weight of those words—the way they carved you hollow. His fingers twitched toward his own wrists, where faint scars ringed the flesh like shackle marks.
"Why do you want to be a hero?" he asked suddenly, tilting his head. The question knocked the air from your lungs. No one had ever asked—not like this. Not like it mattered.
You'd never told anyone this. The confession spilled out before you could stop it: "A monster killed my parents," you whispered, the words brittle as charred bone. "I heard someone at UA had encountered it. I wanted to… to kill him for what he did."
Your throat closed. The memory of his bones flashed behind your eyelids. "But even when I got the chance, he won."
The man's reply was a slow exhale, his breath sour with hospital antiseptic and something deeper—pain. "That," he said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, "is the stupidest reason I've ever heard."
You stiffened, but his grin returned, sharper now. "Good. Heroes should be stupid." His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against his knee—nervous energy or suppressed rage, you couldn't tell.
"Stain was right about one thing: we're all weapons. Difference is who's holding the trigger."
He just stretched—languid, deliberate—until his joints popped. "I believe you," he said before he left, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised the hairs on your neck. "Don't make me regret it."
You didn't know when you were crying. The tears came silently, slipping down your cheeks and soaking into the pillowcase before you even registered the wetness.
Your fingers twitched against the restraints—helpless, aching—as the weight of his words settled into your ribs like shrapnel.
Don't make me regret it. How many people had said that before locking the iron door behind them?
The heart monitor stuttered as your breath hitched. Outside the window, dusk painted the sky in bruise-purple hues, the same color as the shadows that had swallowed your childhood home.
You wondered if Endeavor knew you were here—if Shoto had been told about Stain’s accusations. The thought twisted in your gut like a blade. Would they look at you the same way the orphanage nuns had? Like you were something volatile, something other?
You didn’t want that. You finally made friends—real ones, not just the wary glances from kids who’d heard about the iron cage. Shoto’s quiet solidarity, the way he’d wordlessly handed you his thermos after training sessions when your throat was raw from suppressing flames.
Even Bakugo’s snarled "Stop fucking flinching" when you’d instinctively dodged his explosions like they were the monster’s claws. They’d looked at you and seen a person, not a threat.
Now Stain had ripped that away with three hissed words.
The door groaned open again—no knock, no warning—and your pulse jackhammered against your ribs. A silhouette filled the threshold, broad-shouldered and haloed by the hallway’s fluorescent glare.
You didn’t need to see his face to recognize the way fire curled in his presence, the air thickening with latent heat. Endeavor. His footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing like a gavel strike. The heart monitor’s beeping turned frantic.
"You get one chance to prove your innocence," he said, voice low enough to sear. His shadow stretched across your bed, swallowing you whole.
His eyes—blue as a gas flame’s heart—raked over your restraints, your IV lines, the sweat-slicked panic on your skin. His jaw tightened. "Toshinori vouched for you. But I don’t trust sentiment." His fingers flexed, knuckles cracking. "Tell me why Stain would lie."
Your breath hitched. The truth coiled in your throat, jagged and raw: "He wasn’t lying." Endeavor’s glare sharpened. You forced the next words out before you could choke on them. "I am a weapon. But not for them."
Your wrists burned where the cuffs bit in. "I was made to kill the monster that murdered my parents." The admission hung between you, trembling like a struck match. Endeavor’s flames flickered—just once—before hardening again.
His scarred hand twitched toward your file on the bedside table. "Made by who?" The question came out rough, like gravel grinding underfoot.
You remembered the orphanage matron’s hissed prayers, the way she’d crossed herself when your fire quirk first erupted. How the other children’s whispers had followed you like shadows: demon child, cursed, unnatural.
Your pulse thrummed against the restraints. "I don’t know," you whispered.
Endeavor’s flames flickered again—hotter this time. "This monster…" His voice dipped, low and dangerous. "Was it the monster I spoke about at the dinner table? The one I defeated?"
You nodded, but you couldn’t tell him the rest—that it had smiled at you with your mother’s blood between its teeth before vanishing into the smoke. He wouldn’t believe you. No one ever would.
The silence stretched taut between you, broken only by the heart monitor’s erratic staccato. Endeavor exhaled through his nose, a thin tendril of smoke curling from his nostrils.
"You told Toshinori more than you told me," he said, his voice flat. His fingers flexed again—not quite a fist, but close. "Why?"
Your pulse hammered against the cuffs. The truth slithered up your throat like bile: "Because he didn’t look at me like I was guilty."
Endeavor’s jaw twitched. The overhead light caught the scar tissue webbing across his face, turning the ridges silver.
The door creaked open again—Chief Tsuragamae’s wet-dog scent preceding him. "It has been decided that you are not a threat," he said, ears flattening as Endeavor’s flames flared. "For now, you will rest and go to school again."
The investigator behind him didn’t meet your eyes as he unfastened your restraints. The metal groaned open, leaving behind raw, bracelet-shaped burns.
Endeavor’s glare could’ve melted steel. "On whose authority?" Tsuragamae’s tail stiffened. "Nezu’s. And All Might’s."
The use of his hero name hung pointedly in the air. You rubbed your wrists, the skin there blistered and tender. The investigator cleared his throat. "UA’s security has been… augmented. Specifically for your case."
Your fingers stilled. They were putting you under surveillance. The investigator finally looked at you, his scar pulling taut as he smirked.
"Welcome back to class." His tone made it sound like a death sentence. . . .
·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ ·
Three days passed in the hospital with whispers slithering under your door—villain, unstable, dangerous.
The nurses left your meals just inside the threshold like you were rabid, their footsteps retreating too fast. Even the doctors' hands trembled when they changed your IV, their eyes darting to the reinforced quirk suppressors bolted to your bedframe.
By the time the discharge papers came, the rumor mill had churned out a monster: the UA student who'd matched Dabi's flames, who'd whispered with Stain in that alley, who slept in a cage because their quirks couldn't be trusted.
You walked back into UA with your uniform too loose from missed meals and your wrists still bandaged from the cuffs.
The teachers looked at you the same way the nurses had—like you might combust at any second.
You wanted to go home, but you weren’t sure where that was anymore.
You stood outside Class 1-A’s door for ten minutes, forehead pressed to the cool metal, listening to the muffled chatter inside.
Kirishima’s boisterous laugh, Ashido’s teasing shriek, the steady hum of conversation you’d once been part of.
Your fingers curled into fists. You didn’t want to see their pity. Didn’t want to watch their smiles freeze when you walked in, their gazes darting to your wrists where the bandages peeked out from your sleeves.
You knew what they’d been told. Knew the rumors had spread faster than your flames ever could.
The door opened out of nowhere—you stumbled forward, catching yourself just as Ashido’s pink face filled your vision. She gasped, eyes widening comically before she flung her arms around your neck with enough force to knock the air from your lungs.
"You’re alive!" she shrieked, her voice cracking mid-sentence. The classroom went dead silent. You looked past her wild pink curls to see every head turned your way, expressions shifting from shock to something softer—relief.
Shoto sat rigid at his desk, his mismatched eyes locked on yours, guilt flickering across his face like a shadow. Then Deku’s chair scraped back so fast it toppled over, and suddenly green curls filled your vision as he crashed into you, his hug tight enough to bruise.
"We thought—" His voice hitched, fingers digging into your shoulders. "Gran Torino said—"
Ashido pulled back just enough to punch your arm, her usual grin wobbly at the edges. "Don’t you ever disappear like that again, you jerk!" Her voice was too loud, too bright, like she was fighting back tears.
Behind her, Kirishima’s sharp teeth glinted in a relieved grin, and even Bakugo scowled instead of exploding for once. The weight of their gazes—warm, worried, yours—pressed against your ribs like a living thing.
You didn’t realize you were shaking until Shoto’s hand landed on your shoulder, his palm cool through your uniform. "We tried to visit," he said quietly, his thumb brushing the edge of your bandage. "They wouldn’t let us."
His jaw tightened, the ghost of Endeavor’s fury in the set of his shoulders. Deku finally loosened his death grip, stepping back to scan your face with those too-bright eyes.
"You’re okay now," he said, like he was convincing himself.
The classroom buzzed back to life around you, voices overlapping—welcome back, missed you, tell us everything—but all you could focus on was the way Shoto’s fingers lingered, anchoring you to the present.
The whispers would still follow you. The suspicion wouldn’t vanish overnight. But right now, surrounded by their chaos, their certainty that you belonged here, the cage inside your chest creaked open—just a little.
"Final exams are next week," Kaminari groaned, slumping across his desk like a corpse. The classroom erupted into groans, pencils clattering as if the mere mention of tests had sapped their will to live.
Kirishima punched his shoulder—half-hearted, distracted—but his eyes kept darting to your bandages. "Dude, we gotta cram. Aizawa’s gonna murder us if we flunk and not go to the training camp."
You flexed your fingers under the desk, the ghost of flames licking at your palms. They were talking around it—around you—like if they pretended hard enough, nothing had changed. Deku’s muttering spiraled into tactical analysis, his notes a frantic spiderweb of strategies.
Shoto exhaled through his nose, frost curling from his left fingertips. His gaze flicked to you, then away. "You’ve missed a lot of training."
The words settled like ash between you. Not an accusation—just fact. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. "Yeah."
Your voice came out rougher than you meant it to. The whispers in the hospital corridors echoed in your skull: villain, unstable, dangerous. Your fingers twitched toward your bandaged wrists.
Shoto noticed—of course he did. His scarred eyelid lowered slightly, a tell you'd learned meant he was measuring his next words.
End exams. You were so screwed. Usually, you'd use your air quirk to eavesdrop on Bakugou's snarled equations or Iida's methodical mutters during tests—hell, even Kirishima's frantic whispers to Kaminari—but now your quirks didn't want to work.
The suppressant cuffs had left your veins feeling hollowed out, like someone had scraped your marrow clean. You flexed your fingers under the desk again. Nothing.
Just the ghost of heat beneath your skin and the taste of ozone at the back of your throat.
"Y/N! You always get top marks!" Mina's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts like a knife, her pink fingers drumming against your desk. Her grin was too wide, her eyes too bright—the kind of desperate cheer people used to paper over cracks.
"Can you tutor me?" The classroom went quiet again. Too quiet. You could feel the weight of their gazes pressing against your spine, waiting to see if you'd snap.
Your throat closed around the words. "I—" The lie came out rough, brittle. "I need to rest right now."
Momo's ponytail swished as she leaned over, her dark eyes scanning your face with clinical precision. "Actually, Mina could join me for study sessions," she offered smoothly, her fingers already flipping open a notebook filled with color-coded notes. The relief in Mina's smile made your ribs ache.
You slumped lower in your seat, fingers twisting the edge of your bandages. The whispers started up again—quieter now, laced with something sharper than pity.
Then Ochako slid into the desk beside you, her pink cheeks flushed as she leaned close enough for her bangs to brush your temple. "I think you should speak to Bakugou," she whispered, her breath warm against your ear.
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder—your shoulders tensed, nails biting into your palms.
Why did everyone keep saying that? As if Bakugou held some secret key to fixing you, like your fraying edges could be cauterized by his particular brand of fury.
You glared at the back of his spiky blond head, where he sat rigid as a live wire, his usual explosions suspiciously absent.
The classroom blurred at the edges—Ochako's worried gaze, Shoto's tense shoulders, the way even Deku kept glancing between you and Bakugou like he was waiting for something to snap. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, restless and raw.
They didn't get it. Bakugou wasn't some redemption arc waiting to happen. He was just another person who'd look at your wrists and see restraints instead of scars.
You stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor. Every head turned—even Aizawa's, his capture weapon twitching. "I need air," you muttered, and bolted before anyone could stop you.
The hallway stretched empty, fluorescent lights flickering like faulty stars. Behind you, the classroom door creaked open again—heavy footsteps, the scent of nitroglycerin sharp as a warning shot.
You didn't need to turn to know whose shadow now swallowed yours whole.
Bakugou's voice was a low growl, barely contained: "The fuck's your problem?" You whirled to face him, your bandages unraveling where you'd picked at them.
His crimson eyes dropped to your exposed wrists—the raw skin, the fingerprint-shaped burns from where the cuffs had seared you. Something in his expression flickered, too fast to name.
"You think I don't know what they're saying about me?" Your voice cracked like kindling. Bakugou's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to explode something—or someone.
"Who gives a shit what extras think?" he snarled, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed yours. The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting his scars in sharp relief.
"You all think the same," you said, the words scraping raw against your throat. "That I'm a monster. A villain. A weapon." Bakugou's breath hitched—just once—before his expression twisted into something furious.
"I'm not," you whispered. His fingers flexed, sparks popping harmlessly against his palms. "I don't," he growled, so low it vibrated through your ribs.
The confession hung between you—fragile, combustible. Bakugou's nostrils flared as he scanned your bandages, the way your shoulders hunched like you expected a strike. His next words came out jagged:
"You're just a shitty hero who can't control their quirk." It shouldn't have felt like absolution.
You lunged before you could stop yourself, fingers fisting in his collar. "I don't want to control it!" The words tore free, raw as a fresh burn.
Bakugou didn't shove you off. His palms sparked once—a warning, not an attack—as your fire quirk seethed beneath your skin, singing the edges of your bandages.
"Then you're worse than Deku," he spat, voice cracking like a whip. His breath smelled like nitroglycerin and burnt sugar.
You could feel his pulse hammering against your knuckles where they pressed into his throat. "At least that nerd tries to be a hero instead of whining about it."
The overhead lights flickered, casting his sneer in stark relief. Your fire roared in response, licking up your forearms despite the suppressants still dulling your veins.
"You think I asked for this?" You shook him once, hard. His teeth clacked together. "To wake up with burns or fucking earthquakes because my quirks don't give a shit what I want?"
Bakugou's pupils dilated—shocked, but he rallied fast. His palms sizzled against your ribs where you'd pinned him to the wall. "You're weak," he snarled, but the insult lacked its usual bite.
His fingers twitched against your sides—not pushing you away, not quite. "Pathetic extras flinch at sparks, and you're out here whining about being a goddamn powerhouse?"
The fire in your veins stuttered. His breath was ragged against your cheek, his heartbeat jackhammering under your fists. You'd seen Bakugou rage at Deku, at Kirishima, at the whole damn world—but this? His fury smelled like desperation.
"You don't get it," you hissed. The words tumbled out before you could stop them—ugly, raw, true: "The monster that killed my parents? It smiled at me. Like it knew I'd never be strong enough to stop it."
Bakugou froze. Your pulse roared in your ears. You hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't told anyone that. The memory surged—teeth glinting in the dark, your mother's scream cut short—and suddenly your hands were shaking too hard to hold him.
Bakugou's fingers dug into your wrists—not to push you away, but to steady you. His palms were blistering hot against your skin, the scent of burning bandages sharp in your nose.
"Tch." His scoff was rough, but his grip tightened when you swayed. "That's why you fight like a cornered animal," he muttered, like it explained everything.
His crimson eyes burned brighter than any flame you'd ever conjured. "Stop running from it. Use that fucking rage."
The hallway lights flickered again—or maybe it was your vision blurring. The old wound in your chest split wide, memories oozing like pus: the monster's claws glinting, your father's choked gasp, the way your fire quirk had erupted before the creature even touched you.
You'd always assumed it was fear that triggered it. Now, staring into Bakugou's seething glare, you wondered if it had been fury all along.
"I never wanted to be a hero," you admitted, the words scraping your throat raw. Bakugou's grip on your wrists didn't loosen. "I just wanted to kill that monster."
His nostrils flared—not in judgment, but recognition. The kind only warriors shared. His palms burned hotter against your skin, not scorching but anchoring.
"Did you?" he asked flatly, jerking his chin toward your bandages. The question wasn't mocking—it was tactical.
You blinked. Your fire quirk sputtered beneath his touch, flickering like a dying match. "No," you whispered. The confession tasted like ash. "He won. Again."
"Should have trained with me," he muttered, fingers tightening around your wrists. His palms burned hotter—not punishing, but promising.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting his scars in sharp relief. The scent of burning bandages filled your nose—cotton charring where his fingers pressed into your skin.
"Listen," Bakugou growled, leaning in until his forehead nearly bumped yours. His breath smelled like caramelized sugar and gunpowder. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to tutor you, and you're going to train with me. With all your quirks."
Your pulse stuttered—not just from the heat of his palms, but the certainty in his voice. "I can't—" you started to protest, but he cut you off with a sharp exhale through his nose.
"I know you eavesdrop on my answers during exams," he snarled, fingers tightening just shy of painful. "You wouldn't be able to use your quirk in the final exams if you tried—not with those suppressant cuffs still fucking up your system."
His crimson eyes flicked to your singed bandages, the way your fire still licked weakly at your wrists despite the medication dulling your veins. "So stop whining and learn how to fight without them."
The overhead lights flickered again—this time from the storm rolling in outside. Shadows danced across Bakugou's face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenched like he was chewing glass.
"You're not weak," he spat, as if the word offended him personally. "You're just untrained." His grip shifted—one hand sliding down to clamp over your wrist, right where the quirk suppressant cuff had bitten deepest.
"And you think you can train me?" The laugh tore from your throat—bitter, jagged. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, responding to the challenge in his voice despite the suppressants still dulling your veins.
Bakugou's answering grin was all teeth. "I'll beat that shitty attitude out of you if I have to."
"But first you're going to the infirmary," he growled, dragging you down the hall by your scorched wrist. His grip was ironclad, his palms blistering hot against your skin. The scent of burning bandages filled the air—cotton charring where his fingers pressed too hard.
You dug your heels in, pulse jackhammering as Recovery Girl's door loomed ahead. "I don't need—"
The world tilted violently. Dizziness crashed over you like a rogue wave, your vision swimming with black spots. Your knees buckled—Bakugou's grip the only thing keeping you upright as your fire quirk flickered out like a dying match.
His scoff was rough, but his arm snaked around your waist, hauling you upright with a grunt. "Idiot," he muttered, his breath hot against your temple. "You're running on fumes."
The hallway walls blurred into streaks of gray as he half-carried, half-dragged you forward. Your skull throbbed in time with your pulse, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of nausea rolling through you.
Bakugou's fingers dug into your side—not painful, just present—anchoring you as the floor seemed to ripple beneath your feet. "Don't fucking faint," he growled, but his voice sounded distant, warped, like you were underwater.
You blinked—once, twice—and suddenly you were slumped against the infirmary doorframe, Bakugou's knee digging into your thigh as he kept you upright. His pulse hammered against your temple where your head lolled against his shoulder, rapid-fire and furious.
Recovery Girl's voice cut through the fog—sharp, concerned—but all you could focus on was the way Bakugou's fingers trembled ever so slightly where they gripped your wrist.
"Use your quirk on me," you muttered into the fabric of his uniform. Bakugou stiffened, his breath hitching audibly. "The hell?" he snarled, but you clawed at his sleeve, nails scraping sweat-slick skin.
"I can't be unconscious, please," you rasped, the words slurring together. The nightmares always came when you blacked out—your quirks running rampant, the monster's laughter echoing through the void.
Bakugou's palm cradled your jaw, forcing your chin up. His pupils were blown wide, the usual crimson swallowed by black. "Tch. You're not passing out on my watch," he growled, but his thumb brushed your cheekbone—once, fleeting—before he jerked his hand away like you'd burned him.
The scent of nitroglycerin spiked as his quirk activated, tiny explosions popping against his palm.
You expected pain. Instead, warmth bloomed across your skin—not searing, just steady, like a campfire warding off the dark. Your fire quirk stirred in response, flickering weakly beneath the suppressants still dulling your veins.
Bakugou's scoff was rough, but his grip on your wrist gentled just enough to feel deliberate. "Breathe, dumbass," he ordered, and for once, you did.
Recovery Girl's cane cracked against Bakugou's shin before he could react. "What did I say about unauthorized quirk usage in my infirmary?" she scolded, though her glare softened as she took in your trembling form.
Her wrinkled fingers pressed against your forehead, cool as river stones. "Dehydration, quirk exhaustion, and—good heavens—are those suppressant burns?" Her lips pursed. "Who authorized this barbarism?"
Bakugou's jaw worked silently. His palms still hovered near your shoulders, sparks popping faintly—not threatening, just restless. The scent of burnt sugar and gunpowder clung to him as he shifted his weight, boots scuffing the tile.
"They strapped her down like a fucking villain," he muttered, voice low enough that only you and Recovery Girl could hear. His crimson eyes flicked to your bandages, then away.
The old heroine's sigh rattled through her like dry leaves. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced efficiency, unwrapping your bandages to reveal the raw, weeping burns beneath.
"Child," she murmured, and the word landed like a stone in your gut, "you cannot keep treating your body as the enemy."
Her lips thinned as she dabbed salve onto your wrists—the sting sharp enough to make you flinch. Bakugou's fingers twitched toward yours, then curled into fists at his sides.
"Tell that to Endeavor and every teacher in this school," you said dryly, watching the ointment sink into ruined skin. The words tasted like scorched earth.
Recovery Girl paused, her rheumy eyes flicking to Bakugou's rigid stance. He didn't deny it—just set his jaw harder, sparks popping in his clenched palms. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid: the iron cages, the suppressor cuffs, the way even teacher's gaze lingered on you these days like you were a lit fuse.
"I'm calling Aizawa," Recovery Girl said suddenly, hobbling toward her desk phone. Your spine stiffened—Bakugou's did too, a mirror reaction neither of you acknowledged.
"Why?" you asked, fingers curling into the stiff infirmary sheets. Recovery Girl didn't look back as she dialed. "Because there's no way I'm letting you walk out of here while hurting like this," she replied, voice steelier than her frail frame suggested.
Bakugou scoffed—too loud, too sharp—but you saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed when Aizawa's tired voice crackled through the receiver. Recovery Girl's next words made your stomach drop: "Yes, the suppressant burns. And the dehydration—no, she hasn't slept properly in weeks."
Bakugou's sneer faltered. His fingers twitched toward your wrist again before aborting the motion, shoving both hands deep into his pockets instead. The scent of nitroglycerin spiked—nervous habit.
The door creaked open before Recovery Girl could hang up. Aizawa stood there, capture weapon askew, dark circles darker than usual. His tired gaze swept over you—the burns, the bandages, the way Bakugou hovered like an overgrown guard dog—before landing on Recovery Girl.
"You were right to call," he said simply. Something in his voice made your fire quirk flicker weakly beneath your skin, a caged thing recognizing its keeper. Bakugou's fingers flexed at his sides. The air smelled like antiseptic and impending detonation.
Aizawa didn't ask questions. He never did. Just crouched beside your cot, elbows resting on his knees, and looked at you—really looked—for the first time since before Hosu. His knuckles brushed your wrist where the burns were deepest, feather-light.
"They overdid the suppressants," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. His thumb traced the edge of a blister, calloused but careful. The touch shouldn't have felt like absolution. Bakugou shifted—boots scraping tile—but didn't interrupt.
Aizawa's fingers lingered, warm against your fevered skin. "You're not a weapon," he said quietly. The words landed like stones in still water. "You're my problem student."
Recovery Girl's cane tapped against Bakugou's shin—gentler this time—as she shuffled toward her medicine cabinet. "She needs rest," she muttered, rummaging through vials. "Proper rest, not whatever prison they've been forcing on her."
Aizawa's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around your wrist—not restraining, just present—as he exhaled through his nose. "No more cages," he said, so low you almost missed it.
You expected Aizawa to leave then—to vanish into the hallway shadows like he always did—but he didn't. Just slumped further into his crouch, knees popping audibly, and tugged your blanket higher over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, adjusting the fabric with a precision usually reserved for his capture weapon.
"Sleep," he ordered, but his voice lacked its usual bite. The command landed somewhere between instruction and plea. Bakugou scoffed—half-hearted—but didn't argue. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if standing guard.
"I can't," you whispered, fingers twisting in the stiff infirmary sheets. The admission tasted like iron—like the orphanage matron's hissed warnings about your nighttime fits. Your pulse thudded against your ribs, erratic as a trapped bird.
"When I sleep, my quirks take over my body." The words slithered out before you could stop them—ugly, raw, true. Recovery Girl's shuffling paused. Bakugou's breath hitched, barely audible. Aizawa's fingers stilled on the blanket's edge.
"My quirk will erase them," Aizawa said simply, eyes flashing red as his hair lifted. His irises burned brighter than any flame you'd conjured—not fire, but negation. "Go to sleep."
The command was absolute, brooking no argument. His capture scarf rustled as he shifted, settling against your cot like a sentinel. His fingers brushed your wrist again—not restraining, but grounding—and suddenly the weight pressing against your ribs eased.
For the first time in years, your fire quirk didn't lash out in protest. It just… stilled.
Recovery Girl's cane tapped against the floor—once, twice—before she hobbled forward with a vial of something amber-colored. Her gnarled fingers brushed your temple as she tipped the liquid down your throat. It tasted like honey and oblivion.
"There now," she murmured, her breath smelling of peppermint and old paper. The last thing you registered was Aizawa's quirk humming against your skin—a steady, thrumming absence—and Bakugou's fingers brushing yours, fleeting as a match struck in the dark.
The ceiling tiles swam overhead—white, sterile, endless—before dissolving into nothingness. No nightmares came. No flames licking at iron bars. Just silence, thick and sweet as syrup, pressing against your eyelids until they grew too heavy to lift.
Somewhere beyond the void, Bakugou's voice rasped something unintelligible—his usual vitriol softened at the edges—but the words melted before they reached you.
You woke to fingers carding through your hair—gentle, methodical—and for one disorienting second, thought it was your mother. Then the scent of burnt sugar registered, acrid and familiar, and your eyes flew open.
Bakugou's face loomed inches above yours, his scowl softer than you'd ever seen it. His palm stilled mid-stroke when you gasped.
"Don't fucking scream," he muttered, jerking his hand back like your hair had burned him. His ears were pink.
Aizawa's capture weapon rustled from the corner. He didn't close his eyes, just sighed—long-suffering—and adjusted the scarf over his nose. "He's been doing that for an hour," Aizawa deadpanned. Bakugou's explosion popped before he could stop it—tiny, contained—singeing the blanket near your knee.
"Shut up," he snarled, but his fingers twitched toward your wrist again, lingering just shy of contact. The monitor beeped steadily. No spikes. No panicked crescendos. Just a rhythm as even as Bakugou's pulse under your fingertips when you dared to brush them against his.
"We have to discuss your circumstances," Recovery Girl interrupted, hobbling forward with a clipboard thicker than her forearm. Her cane tapped against Bakugou's boot—gentle but firm—until he grudgingly shuffled aside.
The mattress dipped under her weight as she perched on the edge of your cot. Her gnarled fingers flipped through pages—incident reports, medical charts, something stamped CONFIDENTIAL in angry red ink.
"Specifically," she murmured, tapping a photo of your orphanage's iron-barred cot, "why no one noticed you were sleeping in a damn cage until now."
You recoiled—denial already bitter on your tongue. His fingers twitched toward your wrist again—not restraining, just present—as Recovery Girl's rheumy eyes narrowed.
"Don't," she said softly. "I've seen the files. The suppressants. The burns." Her cane tapped the photo again—harder this time—until the metal frame rattled. "This isn't protocol. This is cruelty."
Aizawa's eyes were red-veined and exhausted when you glanced up, his quirk still active even now, the faint glow casting shadows under his cheekbones.
He blinked—once, painfully slow—before pressing eye drops into each lid with mechanical precision. The liquid traced down his stubble like tears he'd never shed.
"UA failed you," he said simply, and the admission landed like a grenade in the silence.
The clipboard trembled in Recovery Girl's grip as she turned another page—this one stamped with Endeavor's jagged signature. "He recommended the suppressants after Hosu," she murmured, her voice cracking like dry parchment.
Your fire quirk flared in response—not at the words, but at the memory of Endeavor's grip on your shoulder after Stain, his flames licking too close to your throat.
Bakugou scoffed—too loud, too sharp—but his fingers flexed like he wanted to punch something. "Bullshit," he snarled, leaning forward until his shadow swallowed yours. "That flaming bastard doesn't get to—"
Aizawa's capture weapon snapped taut around Bakugou's waist before he could finish, yanking him backward with a grunt. "Out," Aizawa ordered, jerking his chin toward the door.
Bakugou's palms sparked—once, twice—before he wrenched free with a snarl. "Fine," he spat, stomping toward the exit. The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the IV stand.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. The truth coiled in your throat like a live wire—how Endeavor had pressed his badge into your palm after Hosu, how his flames had matched yours too perfectly. Recovery Girl's cane tapped impatiently.
"Speak, child," she urged, but your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.
You felt uncomfortable. Your pulse hammered where Bakugou's fingers had lingered, his absence suddenly louder than any explosion. The monitor's steady beep morphed into a countdown.
"The suppressants," Recovery Girl repeated, her voice dropping the brittle crackle in favor of pure, hardened physician's steel. "They were never logged into your official student medical file, were they? Enji Todoroki handed them to you directly."
Her cane cracked against the tile as she leaned closer, the scent of peppermint and iodine turning cloying. "And I imagine he told you it was for 'discretion'—to keep your quirk from flaring while the Hero Public Safety Commission smoothed over the jagged edges of that alleyway."
Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon—instinctive, protective—but his eyes never left yours. "They dosed you enough to suppress a high-end villain," he muttered, and the words landed like lead weights. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles blanching white.
"Not a student. Not someone who—" His jaw snapped shut with an audible click. The unspoken not someone who's been through what you have hung thick in the air.
Recovery Girl's clipboard clattered to the floor, scattering pages stamped with Endeavor's jagged signature. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she reached for your wrist, pressing two fingers to the pulse point where the suppressant burns were deepest.
"Child," she whispered, and for the first time, her voice wavered—not with pity, but with rage. The antiseptic scent sharpened as she dabbed salve onto your blisters, her touch feather-light. "You were never meant to withstand this dosage." Her cane tapped once—sharp—against the IV stand. "This is poison masked as protocol."
You wanted to scream that you didn't care—that you'd swallow battery acid if it meant your flames wouldn't wake you to another orphanage wall scorched black. Normalcy. That's all you'd ever wanted: to sleep without restraints, to walk without handlers, to breathe without someone tallying the cost of your existence.
"I'm dangerous," you whispered instead, staring at the IV line snaking into your arm. The words tasted like hospital antiseptic and old blood. "It's expected." Recovery Girl's breath hitched—just once—before her cane cracked against the floor hard enough to splinter tile.
"Expected?" she hissed, her voice raw as the burns circling your wrists. "Child, they bred this into you." Aizawa's quirk flared brighter, his irises burning through the shadows clinging to his face.
The IV bag swayed—a grotesque pendulum—as you recoiled. Your ribs ached where Endeavor's fist had landed during "training," his flames licking too close to your jugular. The scent of charred skin bloomed in your memory, acrid and familiar.
Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon, his knuckles white-knuckled around the fabric. His voice, when it came, was flatter than the heart monitor's dying line: "They conditioned you to believe you're a liability." The shadows under his eyes deepened into bruises. "You're not."
Recovery Girl's cane skittered across the floor as she surged forward, her gnarled hands gripping your shoulders hard enough to bruise. Her breath smelled of peppermint and iron.
"Listen to me," she hissed, shaking you once—sharp—like you were a faulty grenade. "They made you this way." Her rheumy eyes flicked to Aizawa's glowing ones, then back to yours. "But you don't have to stay their weapon."
You nodded, just wanting them to stop talking and leave you alone. You hated this attention, pity. You were fine.
The lie tasted like ash on your tongue, but the alternative—letting them see how your hands trembled against the sheets—was worse. The monitor's steady beep mocked you, each chirp a reminder that your body was betraying you again.
Recovery Girl sighed, her grip loosening as she exchanged a glance with Aizawa. "We're not letting you go back to that cage," she said, softer now, but firm. "But you're not leaving this bed until your vitals stabilize."
Your fingers curled into the sheets, nails biting fabric. "I don't want to leave there," you blurted, then froze. The confession slipped out—raw and stupid—but it was too late to take it back. The orphanage's iron bars were familiar. Predictable. This—this tentative kindness—was terrifying in its uncertainty.
Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound dangerously close to a scoff. His capture weapon rustled as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees.
"Of course you don't," he muttered, voice rough with something you couldn't name. "They trained you to crave your own cage." His fingers twitched toward his scarred forearm—almost absently—before stilling.
"I would rather stay in that cage than scare more people," you whispered, staring at the cracks in the tile where Recovery Girl's cane had struck. The words tasted like copper and burnt sugar—too honest, too raw. Your fire quirk flickered weakly beneath your skin, as if protesting the admission.
Before Aizawa could reply, "I don't want to move," you blurted, fingers clutching the blanket so hard the fabric ripped. The admission clawed its way out of your throat—ugly, desperate. "Not when my body isn't mine when I sleep." The monitor's beep spiked as your pulse rabbited. Recovery Girl's cane clattered to the floor.
Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon—protective, reflexive—but stopped mid-air when Recovery Girl held up a gnarled hand. Her rheumy eyes bored into yours, unflinching.
"If that's what you want," she said slowly, each word weighted with decades of triage decisions, "then we cannot go against it." The resignation in her voice tasted like antiseptic and old wounds.
You nodded. Aizawa stood up, his knees popping audibly as he straightened. "I need to speak to someone," he muttered, already halfway to the door. His capture scarf rustled with restrained violence.
"Call me if there are any issues." The door clicked shut behind him with finality, leaving the scent of burnt coffee and exhaustion in his wake.
Recovery Girl sighed, shuffling toward her medicine cabinet. "He'll be back," she said, more to herself than anyone. Her fingers lingered over a vial of amber liquid before selecting another—something clearer, thicker.
"He always comes back for his problem students." The IV line hissed as she swapped the bags, the new solution cloudy like sediment stirred from riverbeds.
You stayed quiet when she dismissed you—when she pressed a slip of paper into your palm (medical leave, three days minimum) and shooed you toward the exit with her cane.
The scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs as you stepped into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects. Your footsteps echoed—too loud, too deliberate—as you turned left instead of right, toward your next class. The paper crumpled in your fist. . . .
·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ ·
The front door of the Bakugou household didn't slam this time. It clicked shut, a muted sound that felt entirely wrong for the storm brewing in Katsuki’s chest.
He kicked off his boots, shoving them into the entryway cubby with a force that was purely muscle memory, not real heat.
His palms weren’t even sweating. They were dry. Cold, almost.
He stomped up the stairs to his room, threw his yellow backpack onto the floor, and collapsed backward onto his bed. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and unhelpful.
“I would rather stay in that cage than scare more people.”
The words had been floating around the UA corridors all afternoon like toxic smoke. He’d overheard the old recovery hag talking to Aizawa near the nurse's office.
He wasn't trying to eavesdrop—he was just walking by—but he’d caught enough. Your fire quirk had flickered weakly under your skin, they said. Like a dying ember.
Katsuki rolled over, slamming his face into his pillow. It ticked him off. It made a weird, hollow ache twist right behind his ribs, and he hated it.
You weren't supposed to look like that. You were supposed to be a UA student, for God's sake. Even if you were a damn extra, you weren't supposed to want a cage.
He sat up abruptly, his hair wild. His chest felt too tight. He grabbed his phone off the desk, staring at the screen. He needed to talk to someone who wasn't an idiot, but his usual circle of dumbasses—Kirishima, Kaminari—would just get emotional and useless.
Before he could overthink it, his thumb scrolled to a contact he rarely called unless he was forced to.
He hit dial.
It rang twice. “Katsuki? What the hell do you want? Did you forget your keys again?” Mitsuki’s voice blasted through the speaker, loud and abrasive as always.
Katsuki didn't fire back with his usual shout. He cleared his throat, staring down at his own calloused hands. "No," he muttered.
There was a brief pause on the other end. Mitsuki’s tone shifted slightly, picking up on the lack of bite in his voice. “…Okay. Then why are you calling? You sound weird.”
"I don't sound weird," he snapped, but the volume wasn't there. He paced the length of his room, his fingers twitching. He aggressively rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words, trying to force them past the sudden lump in his throat.
"Look. If… if someone is just… broken. Like, totally weak. And they're so damn terrified of themselves that they want to lock themselves away."
He swallowed hard, the admission tasting like ash. "If they need help, but they're too stupid to ask for it… what the hell do you even do?"
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence stretched across the line. Katsuki held the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. He could practically hear his mother blinking on the other end.
Mitsuki Bakugou was never quiet. She always had a sharp comeback, a reprimand, or a loud laugh.
“Katsuki…” her voice came through, completely stripped of its usual harshness. She sounded genuinely shocked, a rare note of vulnerability trembling in her words. “Who… who are you talking about? Are you okay?”
"I'm fine!" he barked, his face flushing hot with frustration. "I'm not talking about me, old hag! Just… answer the damn question."
Mitsuki exhaled slowly—too slow, too measured—and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped into something Katsuki hadn't heard since he was six and woke screaming from nightmares of sludge monsters.
"You listen to me, brat," she said, the words quiet but searing. "You grab them by the collar and you don't let go. Not until they stop seeing themselves as the goddamn villain."
Katsuki's breath hitched. The phone creaked in his grip. His mother's next words came softer, laced with memories he knew she rarely touched: "And if they fight you? You fight harder. Because the ones who need help most are always the ones too stupid to ask."
The line went dead before he could reply. . . .
·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ ·
It was the weekend, and you spent your time resting and trying to learn for the final exam. You couldn’t understand it at all.
The textbook pages blurred under your exhausted gaze, equations dissolving into meaningless scribbles. The iron-barred room felt smaller than usual, the scent of ozone and charred metal clinging to the sheets.
You traced the burns on your wrists absently, fingertips skating over raised flesh. Outside, rain pattered against the reinforced glass, the sound muffled and distant.
The orphanage matron had bolted the door hours ago, her usual muttered prayers drifting through the vents. You curled tighter beneath the thin blanket, your fire quirk simmering just beneath your skin—restless, impatient.
The exam didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not when sleep meant losing control, when every night was a gamble between waking up in your bed or in a crater of your own making.
Momo’s text buzzed again—third one today—her offer to study together still glowing on your cracked screen. You’d typed and deleted a dozen replies, fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally settling on a terse
Can’t. Sorry. The lie tasted bitter.
They’d planned a sleepover after, Jirou’s name popping up in the group chat with a string of excited emojis.
Your thumb hovered over the screen before you chucked the phone across the room. It skidded into the corner where the wallpaper peeled away in damp curls.
The knock came just as you were rewriting Present Mic’s English notes for the fifth time—too sharp, too insistent. You barely had time to look up before the door swung open, revealing Sister Akane’s pinched face.
She didn’t bother stepping inside, just jerked her thumb over her shoulder with a grimace. "Visitor," she spat, like the word itself was distasteful.
Before you could ask who, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind Bakugou’s explosive silhouette.
He stood there—shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets—looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Rainwater dripped from his spikes onto the linoleum, the rhythmic plink plink plink the only sound in the sudden silence. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing—scanned the iron bars first, then the singed edges of your blanket, before finally landing on your face.
"The fuck," he said, voice rough as gravel, "is this?"
"What—how did you know where I live?" you asked, your fingers tightening around the textbook’s spine until the pages crumpled.
The scent of damp leather and gunpowder clung to him, cutting through the room’s stale air. His nostrils flared when he spotted the IV bruises circling your wrists—the ones Recovery Girl hadn’t been able to fully heal.
"That’s not the problem here," Bakugou said, kicking the door shut behind him with a crack that made the iron bars hum. His palms sparked once—controlled, deliberate—before he crossed the room in three strides.
He loomed over your cot, close enough for you to see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. "Why are you actually caged?" The question landed like a grenade, shattering the careful silence you’d built around yourself.
You hunched your shoulders, fingers digging into your knees. "I'm dangerous, remember?" you tried to joke, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace.
The words tasted like ash—Stain’s words, Endeavor’s words, the orphanage matron’s hissed warnings.
Bakugou’s nostrils flared. He didn’t laugh. His hand shot out, gripping your wrist hard enough to make the bones creak. Your pulse hammered against his fingers—rabbit-quick, terrified.
"Bullshit," he snarled, shaking you once—hard—like he could rattle the lie loose. His breath smelled of burnt sugar and nitroglycerin, too close, too real. "Dangerous people don’t beg for cages."
Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, responding to his heat, his proximity. The iron bars groaned as you jerked backward, but Bakugou didn’t let go. His grip tightened, forcing you to meet his eyes—red, furious, alive.
"We're going to study with Kirishima." His voice brooked no argument. "Get dressed."
Your breath hitched—Kirishima didn’t know about the cage, the burns, the way your quirks slithered through your veins like living things. "I can't—"
Bakugou cut you off with a sharp jerk of his chin toward the door. "The fuck you can't." His palm sparked against your wrist, not enough to burn, just enough to sting. "Or are you gonna let some crusty-ass villain's words define you?"
The rain lashed against the window harder, the sound like a thousand nails scraping glass. Bakugou's jaw worked silently for a moment before he released you with a scoff. He turned toward the door, shoulders rigid beneath his bomber jacket.
"Five minutes," he bit out, not looking back. "Or I'm dragging you out in your damn pajamas." The threat hung in the air between you—real, tangible, unlike Stain’s ghostly whispers.
Your fingers trembled as you grabbed the nearest hoodie—charred at the cuffs from last week’s incident—and yanked it over your head. The fabric smelled like smoke and salt, clinging to your skin like a second layer of armor.
Outside, Bakugou’s foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the linoleum, each tap a detonator counting down.
The orphanage’s front door groaned when you finally stepped through it, the rain immediately soaking through your sneakers. Bakugou didn’t wait, already striding ahead with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
His silhouette blurred through the downpour—a smudge of red and black against the gray—but you could still see the way his shoulders tensed when you hesitated at the gate.
"Move your ass," he snapped over his shoulder, sparks dancing across his knuckles. The words were sharp, but his pace slowed just enough for you to catch up.
The iron bars of your cage faded behind you with each step, replaced by the acrid scent of Bakugou’s quirk and the distant promise of Kirishima’s too-bright grin.
The restaurant was tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Kirishima was already there—slouched in a booth near the back, red hair glowing under the fluorescent lights like a beacon.
His smile faltered when he saw you trailing behind Bakugou, eyes darting to your damp sleeves and the way your fingers twitched at your sides.
"Hey," he said, too soft, too careful. The menu in his hands crinkled under his grip.
Bakugou shoved you into the booth with a grunt, sliding in beside you like a human barricade. The vinyl squeaked under your weight, sticky with decades of spilled soda and grease. Kirishima’s knee knocked against yours under the table—warm, solid, alive.
"Order whatever," Bakugou muttered, tossing a menu at your chest. "But if you pick the damn salad, I’m disowning you." His tone was rough, but his palm pressed briefly against your wrist, checking for tremors.
The waitress arrived with a pad of paper, her smile strained as she took in Bakugou’s scowl and Kirishima’s forced cheer. You opened your mouth to order—to play along, to pretend—but the words died when Kirishima’s hand found yours under the table.
His fingers were calloused from training, his grip unshakable. "Extra spicy," he told the waitress for you, grinning like he hadn’t just anchored you to the present.
Bakugou’s smirk was all teeth. "Atta boy." The monitor in your head flatlined—just for a second—as Stain’s voice drowned beneath the sizzle of the grill.
Three hours later, the table was littered with crumpled napkins and half-finished worksheets. Bakugou had commandeered the booth’s entire bench, his knee pressed against yours as he circled a problem in red ink—hard enough to tear the paper.
"No, dumbass," he snapped, smacking Kirishima’s head with the textbook when he botched the equation again.
Kirishima yelped, rubbing his skull with a pout. "Dude! Warn a guy!"
Bakugou ignored him, tossing the pencil at you instead. "Your turn." His crimson eyes tracked your shaky attempt, lingering when your fingers twitched mid-calculation.
"Close," he muttered, nudging your wrist—just enough to correct the angle.
Kirishima’s chair squeaked as he leaned closer. "Hey, why does she get a do-over?"
Bakugou didn’t look up. "Because she’s actually trying, Shitty Hair."
The lie tasted like sugar on your tongue—sweet, cloying, impossible. Bakugou had seen you flinch at your own shadow in the training yard, had watched you freeze when Kirishima’s quirk activated too close.
Yet here he was, elbow-deep in your wreckage, treating your broken pieces like they could still fit together. Kirishima’s grin slipped when Bakugou reached over you to grab the salt, his forearm brushing your shoulder.
The motion was casual, careless, but Kirishima’s knuckles whitened around his pen. "You good?" you asked, voice low. He blinked, forcing a laugh. "Yeah! Just—math, y’know?" His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Bakugou’s pen snapped mid-sentence, ink splattering across the worksheet like blood. His glare swiveled from the ruined paper to Kirishima’s stiff posture, then back to your white-knuckled grip on the table’s edge.
Something in his expression darkened—a storm brewing behind those sharp red eyes. "Oi," he growled, kicking Kirishima’s shin under the table. "Spit it out."
Kirishima flinched, his jaw working silently before he exhaled through his nose. "It’s just…" His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh. "That internship report. Endeavor’s agency submitted it today."
The air between you crackled—charged, dangerous. Bakugou’s palm flattened against the table, his quirk sparking in warning. "And?"
Kirishima’s throat bobbed. "They listed you as ‘high-risk.’ Said your fire quirk’s unstable. That you—" His voice cracked. "That you might be compromised."
The restaurant’s chatter faded into white noise. Your fingers twitched—a spasm of heat licking up your wrist before you crushed it back down.
Bakugou’s knee pressed harder against yours, anchoring you to the booth’s cracked vinyl as Kirishima's words slithered through your skull: unstable, compromised, risk.
The monitor in your head flatlined again, replaced by Endeavor’s cold stare the day he made you get strapped to that medical table.
Bakugou’s palm slammed down beside your forgotten worksheet, scattering pencils like shrapnel. "The hell they did," he snarled, voice raw enough to flay skin.
Kirishima flinched but didn’t look away, his fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. "They’re wrong," he said, softer now, eyes darting to your clenched jaw. "But it’s in your file. They’re—they’re recommending quirk suppressants."
Kirishima pulled up his phone, his thumb swiping too fast across the screen before turning it toward you.
The brightness seared your retinas—an official-looking document with Endeavor’s agency seal glaring at the top. Your name jumped out in bold, followed by a paragraph of clinical jargon: Subject exhibits erratic quirk manifestation… potential League sympathizer… recommend immediate evaluation.
The words blurred. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your ribs, begging to burn the phone—the lies—to cinders.
Bakugou’s hand shot out, snatching the device before you could react. His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling with suppressed explosions. "This is bullshit," he spat, but his voice lacked its usual venom.
Kirishima’s fingers twitched toward yours under the table—hesitant, unsure—before curling back into his lap. The neon sign outside flickered, casting jagged red shadows across his face.
"We’re gonna fix this," he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Bakugou scoffed, shoving the phone back at him hard enough to make Kirishima flinch. "Damn right we are," he growled, leaning in until his breath ghosted over your knuckles.
His next words were low, meant only for you: "First, we find out who the hell wrote that report." His pupils dilated—black swallowing crimson—as your fire flickered in response. "Then we make them eat it."
"It's all right," you tried to say, but the words dissolved into static. Your throat burned—not from your quirk, but from the way Kirishima's eyes darted to your wrists, where the suppressant cuffs had left ring-shaped bruises.
The restaurant's hum of conversation faded beneath the rush of blood in your ears. Stain's voice slithered through the cracks in your composure: weapon, mistake, monster.
You swallowed hard, forcing your fingers to unclench from the crumpled worksheet. "Let's just… study."
Kirishima's grin faltered. His fingers twitched toward the scattered notes—Present Mic's English verbs, Midnight's ethics diagrams—before hesitating.
"You sure?" he asked, too gentle, like you were glass about to shatter.
Bakugou answered for you, snatching a pencil and slamming it onto the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump. "Focus, shitheads," he growled, but his glare lacked its usual heat when it landed on you.
The worksheet trembled in your grip as you bent over it, the equations blurring into meaningless shapes. Kirishima's elbow bumped yours—deliberate, grounding—as he leaned in to point out a miscalculation.
"You dropped a negative here," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple.
Bakugou's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the tabletop, each tap syncopated with the restaurant's flickering neon sign. His other hand remained braced against the back of the booth, inches from your shoulder—close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but not quite touching.
"Tch. Even Deku could solve this," he muttered, but when you flinched at the jab, his foot hooked around your ankle under the table, anchoring you to the moment.
Kirishima's laugh was too loud, too forced, as he erased your mistake with more force than necessary. "Yeah, well, Deku's not here," he said, shooting you a wink that didn't reach his eyes. "Lucky us."
The worksheet tore where Bakugou's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening around the pencil. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the sizzle of the grill and the faint hiss of his quirk sparking beneath his skin.
Then he exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—and shoved the ruined paper aside. "Again," he ordered, sliding a fresh sheet toward you.
His fingers brushed yours—just barely—as he let go, lingering long enough for you to feel the callouses earned from years of detonations.
Kirishima's knee knocked against yours again, his smile brittle at the edges but unwavering. "Third time's the charm," he said, and for a moment, you almost believed him. . . .
·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ ·
Bakugou stared at the exam results in his hand—perfect scores across the board—and felt nothing.
His eyes scanned the classroom before he could stop them, searching for you instinctively. When he found you across the room, your face was flushed with triumph, unshed tears glinting in the fluorescent light as you flashed him a shaky thumbs-up.
His chest tightened inexplicably, and he sighed—just a quiet exhale through his nose—before he even realized he'd been holding his breath.
You grinned wider, like his relief was contagious, and something in his ribs shifted uncomfortably at the sight. He scowled and looked away, but the ghost of your smile lingered in his periphery like a stubborn afterimage.
Kirishima's elbow dug into Bakugou's side as he leaned over to peer at his own results, his grin faltering when he saw the red marks. "Damn, dude," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Bakugou snatched the paper from him with a snarl, scanning the mistakes with a critic's eye. "Idiot," he growled, stabbing a finger at a botched calculation. "You forgot to carry the fucking two."
Kirishima winced but didn't pull away, his shoulder pressing into Bakugou's like a silent plea for help. Bakugou exhaled sharply through his nose—long-suffering, familiar—before dragging Kirishima's notebook closer with more force than necessary.
"Pay attention this time," he grumbled, already scribbling corrections in the margins with violent precision.
The classroom buzzed around you—cheers, groans, the rustle of paper—but all you could focus on was the way Bakugou's scowl softened minutely when Kirishima finally nodded in understanding.
His fingers twitched toward his own perfect scores again, hesitating before shoving them into his pocket with a huff.
You caught his eye across the room and mouthed "thank you"—for the study session, for the anchor, for pretending not to notice when your flames flickered black at the edges.
His nostrils flared, but he didn't look away this time. Just tilted his chin up in silent acknowledgment, the ghost of something too vulnerable to name flickering behind his sharp red eyes before it vanished behind his usual glare. . . .
·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ! ݁ ˖ ·
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