Ch. 30 No Questions

There was no universe in which it was possible that you were a villain.

Bakugo kicked aside the scattered trash at the bottom of the stairs to your apartment. Fucking revolting. Didn't this building have a maintenance crew or something?

He'd tried being patient, waiting for a few hours at his own place, waiting for you to call or text back or anything, but no matter how many times he stared at his phone and willed it to ring, it didn't.

There was no universe in which it was possible that you were a villain.

He had repeated this mantra numerous times over the hours he waited before he finally gave up and went to your apartment to find you.

There could be other people with a similar quirk. He knew that was a fact and yet it still wasn't exactly common and didn't make him feel better.

It was possible that Kirishima had it wrong. Bakugo had to admit that Kirishima was not always the sharpest crayon in the box, so maybe he misunderstood what was happening and the villain he talked to didn't have a mind reading quirk at all.

He only knew this for sure: there was no universe in which it was possible that you were a villain. He would have to keep repeating it in his head, repeating it a thousand times over if necessary, until it didn't need to be said anymore and he actually believed it.

He knocked a few times on your door, but when you didn't answer, and he didn't know what else to do, Bakugo sat down on the floor, his back against your door.

Two men with hollow faces and tattered clothes passed by on their way down the stairs, took one look at him, and walked that much faster. An hour or so later, maybe longer, a couple of giddy teenagers ran down the stairs, apparently not at all alarmed that a strange man was sitting on the floor outside someone's apartment.

Would he sit there all night? You could be at work, whatever and wherever the hell that even was, and maybe you wouldn't be home until hours from now. And what, he was going to be waiting at your door like some kind of stalker?

Yeah, apparently that was exactly what he was going to be doing. He could fool himself and say that was his job now, the job given to him by Hawks. it's not like he had something else he was supposed to be doing anyway.

In the dark, since of course they hadn't installed lights on the staircase, or maybe they weren't working or hadn't been repaired in ages, Bakugo could see the form of a person dragging his or herself up the stairs. Another fucking drug addict or criminal, he assumed, by the staggering way the person climbed the stairs, probably high out of their mind.

Damn, you needed to move.

But Bakugo's eyes went wide when he realized that this person was you.

"What the hell?" he asked, jumping to his feet and rushing to you. Your face fell – was it possible to fall any more than it already had? - when you saw him, but he grabbed you by the shoulders. You were too tired to do anything other than slump against his chest as his arms went around you, his solid form letting you go limp as he held you there.

The gentleness of his hold, compared to the past few hours, was... nice.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

He was too loud. It was all too loud. Almost to make up for the noise, your voice was quiet, hardly even audible. "Go. Home."

"What? But you are home. What the hell happened, y/n?"

"Go home," you whispered again, gently pushing back on his chest, since that was about all you had the energy to do, but he held you firmly. He knew you were telling him to go, but there was no way he was going to do that.

"I'm not leaving you like this."

You clenched your eyes shut, as if that would hide you. There was no reason for Bakugo to be outside your apartment in the middle of the night, but it wasn't even worth asking about. Everything hurt.

"Y/n. You're shaking."

"Please. Go. You can't be here."

"If I go home, I'm taking you with me."

"No. Just go. You can't... You can't be here."

"Like hell I'm going anywhere. What the fuck happened?"

You were vaguely aware that Bakugo was rummaging in your purse and finding your keys. You mindlessly followed behind him into your apartment and stumbled to your bedroom.

You walked right past him into your bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go so you could try to clean the mess between your legs. 

"No questions," you mumbled when you came out, not at all surprised to see Bakugo still sitting on your bed. You gave him a small smile that he thought made everything even more disturbing before you collapsed on your bed, sleep coming over you fast. "We'll talk... tomorrow."

--

When your information on Hawks wasn't good enough, you thought it couldn't get any worse when Shigaraki forced you to sit in his lap and watch while Dabi took his time with the two girls he'd brought back. Part of you pitied them and part of you simply wished all three of them would hurry up. 

Then you really thought it couldn't get worse when the pale bastard asked you to narrate what each person in the trio was thinking, as if you were some fucking erotic narrator, all the while Shigaraki's hands gripped your hips and you tried to pretend like you didn't feel him getting hard beneath you.

But it did get worse.

It got worse when he wasn't satisfied with your hips any more and his long fingers started to explore under your shirt, keeping at least one finger off you, thank god, but you knew the threat was still there. Shigaraki was at least precise in his gropes and pinches. When he told you not to move, you knew he meant it.

Dabi apparently couldn't get off as long as he knew that someone else was touching you, so even though you had sighed with relief for the two girls when the men let them scamper away, it quickly vanished when Dabi's attention turned to you instead.

Who would have expected that Dabi's hands would leave you wishing for the carefulness of Shigaraki?

You hated that Dabi knew how to curl his fingers just right, even if it made the rest of what happened easier. You hated that you got even wetter when his mouth sucked and bit on the sensitive parts of you despite yourself and he called you names that pissed you off but still lit some kind of fire all over when his blue eyes met yours. And you hated that he knew, the bastard knew, exactly what you liked; you hated it almost as much as you hated the guttural noises coming from the man in the chair across the room who watched the whole thing.

The second you could leave, you did, and you only allowed yourself to feel your bruises when you were a safe distance away. One step in front of the other, you finally made it to your apartment and then, like some sweet angel you didn't deserve.... there he was. 

---

In the morning, Bakugo's first thoughts were about the smell of your hair. That fruity scent took him back to memories of you leaning over his desk at work to show him something but all he had wanted to look at was you, or when you'd been forced to press against him on the stairwell when a crowd passed by and he had focused on the smell of your shampoo to take his mind off the straining in his pants.

But now... when he was right here next to you on your bed, there was something off about it. The smell wasn't quite right. It was still very much you, but the sweetness was gone and instead it was... different.

You were still asleep so he watched you, and from the position of your body, it looked like you hadn't moved since you fell asleep. But he had, and now his arms were around your waist, fitting your back against his chest just right.

The snugness was enough to wake you up. Feeling a man's arms around you caused just a second of panic before you remembered last night. You rolled over slowly, your body stiff and achy, and realized you were nose to nose with Bakugo. Was he still asleep?

You got your answer when he opened his eyes.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry – " you started to say.

"Don't. Not yet. Just... stay here."

Kissing your forehead before letting you go, he went into the kitchen and started opening cabinets to try to find something edible in one of them. He didn't have much luck. There was barely enough to make some coffee and toast.

He'd just finished when he heard you slump against the door frame to the kitchen, watching him.

"What are you doing?" you asked him.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making you breakfast. Or trying to, since you don't have any food."

"I get that. But why?"

"Because you need to eat."

"I guess."

You sat down at your table and pulled your knees to your chest under your shirt, your baggy sweatshirt covering you and seeming to swallow you whole.

There was so much you wanted to say. There was so much you didn't want to say.

But for now, food. Food was good.