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From villain attacks to kidnappings, Katsuki Bakugo had been through a lot in his sixteen years of life. He’d been punched, kicked, burned, and scratched. He’d been knocked unconscious, possessed by a sludge villain, and teleported through vomit. He’d been beaten up by All-Might himself, attacked by professional villains, and he dealt with the side effects of his quirk on a daily basis. To sum it up, Bakugo was no stranger to pain or trauma.
This torture was a lot more than he had anticipated, however.
When the man with the freaky bug-face told Bakugo that he was looking for information, Bakugo had been quick to tell him he could go to hell. Bakugo was prepared to deal with the questions, the threats, and the likely withholding of food that was bound to accompany them. That’s what his kidnapping by the League of Villains had been like, after all. Maybe if Mr. Bug-Face was feeling frisky, he’d get knocked around a little. It was nothing Bakugo couldn’t handle.
He wasn’t prepared for the knife.
Bakugo had tried to talk his way out of it, intimidating the Bug-Face into not using the knife. He’d fought against his restraints with all his strength, but much like the previous time, using his quirk would only destroy his hands, and he wasn’t strong enough to break the chains that bound his chest, arms, and legs. He was helpless to do anything but watch as the knife descended, carving a bloody smile into his left shoulder. The pain was immediate and severe. But, as stated before, Bakugo was no stranger to pain.
Bug-Face asked his questions. Bakugo spat in his face.
Things only went downhill from there.
Bug-Face used the knife on him nine more times that session, until Bakugo was shaking and his lip was bleeding from the effort of not making a sound. He’d stopped insulting Bug-Face - he simply lacked the composure to come up with a worthy-enough insult, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. He hadn’t revealed a thing, though.
He’d told Deku he wouldn’t say anything, after all. He’d made a promise. Although, if Bug-Face was suspicious about the connection between Deku and All-Might, the damn nerd wasn’t being as quiet about the whole thing as he should have been. Bakugo was going to have to knock some sense into him later, once he got out of this mess. It was probably his fault that he was here.
Bug-Face gave him some water and then left the room, not bothering to bandage his arm, which was slick with red and in such agony it almost felt numb. Bakugo supposed the cuts were shallow enough that he wasn’t at a risk of bleeding out, which would have prevented Bug-Face from asking more questions. If he kept completely still, the pain faded to manageable levels and Bakugo could almost fall asleep, something his body desperately wanted. One muscle twitch, however, one shiver, and the tidal wave of pain crashed over him once again.
Bakugo bore this in complete silence. It was only when Bug-Face left the room, leaving him alone in his restraints with the bright light shining down on his face and the clock ticking incessantly in the corner, that Bakugo allowed himself a few tears, allowed himself to groan when the pain was too much.
Better to get it out now while he was alone, like he always did, then let anyone else see.
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He must have fallen asleep, because it seemed like suddenly he was opening his eyes to find Bug-Face back in the room, materialized out of thin air. A startled glance at the clock revealed four hours had gone by. Bug-Face had water and a knife ready to go. Bakugo accepted the water and readied himself for the questions that were bound to come.
He stayed silent when the first cut came, this time on his right shoulder, mirroring the other one on his left. He stayed silent when the second, third, and fourth cuts were made. On the fifth, his body started to shake. On the sixth, a groan welled up in his chest, barely restrained. On the seventh, to his utter shame, a cry broke past his clenched teeth despite his best efforts to hold it back.
Bug-Face noticed, and the eighth cut was the longest and slowest yet, digging deeper than the others. Tears of pain leaked from the corners of Bakugo’s eyes, but he managed to stay silent, silently screaming his pain. Bug-Face stopped after this cut and looked at him for a long time, his giant, glassy eyes unblinking. Bakugo hoped it meant that he was discouraged, having thought that he’d broken him only to be met with silence once again. He hoped this meant he would stop hurting him.
Instead, Bug-Face asked his next question, and when he received no answer, resumed with the ninth cut, dragging the blade down his arm, long and slow, until it hit the top of the metal block that restrained Bakugo’s hands.
Then, the tip of the knife still in his flesh, he twisted.
This time, Bakugo screamed, unable to stop himself. But as he screamed, he morphed it into a scream of rage, spitting every foul curse he could think of at the man wielding the knife. And when Bug-Face stopped and asked him his questions, Bakugo told him in great detail where he could stick them.
When ten cuts had been completed, Bug-Face bandaged the deepest ones - none too gently - and gave him some water before exiting the room, leaving Bakugo alone once again with the stupid lights and ticking of the clock. This time Bakugo was too enraged to cry, and he spent his time cursing Bug-Face, cursing his predicament, and cursing the world, until the pain and exhaustion dragged him under sleep’s sweet spell.
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The torture became routine after that, which Bakugo discovered he hated immensly. He thought perhaps the schedule would have made it easier to manage, but having the clock nearby to inform him about every hour was worse than if the torture was spontaneous. Whenever the designated hours for the torture sessions started to draw close, Bakugo couldn’t stop the fear from closing in on him, slowly at first but then in debilitating waves as he started to dread the pain. His body would seize, shaking, and he couldn’t control his breathing as the minutes ticked closer and closer.
Like clockwork, Bug-Face entered at the same time every session, always with water, a knife, and questions in tow. And like clockwork, Bagugo would do his best to resist the urge to make noise while his skin was sliced open, and he failed more miserably every time.
He still hadn’t answered any of the questions.
The lights and ticking were just as much of the torture as the pain itself, and Bakugo couldn’t remember ever feeling more hungry, even though the pain occupied most of his thoughts. His skull ached from the constant shining in his eyes and it felt like the ticking was slowly sinking into his psyche; if he were to somehow block his ears, it would still ring in his ears. The clock soon became the most important object in the room. He watched the days slip by, his despair growing with each one, as his body became more and more mutilated, his mind more and more fractured.
When his arms, legs, torso, and feet had been slashed, Bug-Face switched tactics. One day, he came into the room with a blindfold, a blow-torch, and a fire poker instead of a knife. Instead of cutting, Bakugo was blinded and burned. He became intimately familiar with the smell of his own flesh burning.
He didn’t even try to not scream, now.
But despite the pain, despite the light, and despite the ticking and hunger, it was the questions that drove Bakugo the most insane. Bug-Face had them on loop, the same ten or so, and would repeat them in sequence once he’d reached the end of his list. He’d burn, ask, burn, then ask, and would repeat this process until the session was over. Once the designated hour was met, it started all over again.
Every time Bakugo heard a question, he wanted to answer it. The urge to answer grew stronger with each session. But Bakugo had never told a secret he had promised he would keep. He would rather die. And so he screamed and he yelled, but he said nothing when asked the questions over and over every single day.
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Bakugo guessed, based off of the clock, that roughly a week had passed before he was given his first taste of food.
He was unprepared for the visceral reaction his body had when the scent wafted in through the door, the smells of rice, bread, and some kind of meat. His mouth filled with saliva, and every part of his body positively ached for the food. It wasn’t even a desire, it was a need. He was so hungry that he actually felt nauseous, but that didn’t stop him from wanting it.
Bug-Face came over with the bowl, and asked him a question.
Oh God.
The words leapt into his mouth immediately, and Bakugo actually had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from saying the answer. It would be so easy to say the words and get this food, this sustenance that his body so desperately needed. The only way he didn’t betray his classmates and teachers right then and there was by yelling, cussing out Bug-Face like he would any other villain, keeping his mouth busy with other words and feelings. It actually seemed to irritate Bug-Face some, his twitching antennae and face giving him the first real expression Bakugo had seen, although he couldn’t tell what it was. When the food was withdrawn it was as painful as any slash or burn could have been, but he was placated somewhat when the man still gave him the bread, stating it wouldn’t be of any use to him if Bakugo were to die of starvation.
The bread was glorious. Bakugo didn’t think he’d ever take food for granted ever again.
The experience was ruined when during that session, his depraved body couldn’t handle the torture and digest the meal at the same time, leading him to throw it back up. Insult was added to injury when Bug-Face calmly cleaned the mess from his tattered body before resuming where they left off.
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At some point, he lost control of his quirk. It was just a little loss of control - a single pop of a tiny explosion - but it was enough to light the sweat that had been gathering inside of his restraints. The sweat ignited - a muffled bang and searing pain being the result, his hands in agony.
He couldn’t see the damage. He hoped it was reversible.
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Having kept track of the number of times the clock had struck twelve, Bakugo thought it was around ten days of torture when Bug-Face started to show real signs of frustration that he wasn’t getting any information out of him.
The signs came in the slight inflections of his voice when he asked his questions, pitch changes and word choice. It came in the form of doors being shut more forcefully than necessary, and hands being rougher than usual. When Bakugo realized this, listening to the door slam as Bug-Face made his exit after one session, he laughed long and hard. It was a laugh born more from desperation and exhaustion rather than humor, and it turned into tears as his ragged frame protested every movement, but it was laughter nonetheless. It inspired him to keep fighting.
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On the twelfth day, Bakugo was in so much pain that he couldn’t laugh anymore. He couldn’t taunt Bug-Face and cuss in his face, playing the role of the hero who smiled in the light of danger. It pained him deeply that he had let himself be brought so low, but he couldn’t fix it. All he could do was hang on to his promises as his body was steadily broken and his mind wanted to follow suit. His two consolations were that he hadn’t answered a single question, and that Bug-Face was now visibly angry. The anger took the form of reckless torture, moves that could endanger his life - and his answers - if Bug-Face wasn’t careful, but the man no longer seemed to care.
Bakugo couldn’t stop himself from feeling fear. It haunted him every second, now. He flinched at sudden sounds, stiffened at every touch. And he loathed himself for it, yet his body was conditioned to fear. Especially when those certain hours drew nearer, stupid hours that held no special significance except they signalled the next wave of torment.
Until one day, something changed.
When Bug-Face came in that day, he didn’t hold a knife, a blindfold, or a poker. Instead, he held water and bread, and his expression was blank. Bakugo didn’t have the strength to question it and was forced to watch in wariness as the man approached, settling beside him to give him the water and food. Once again, Bakugo’s whole body craved the food and water, but now he was frightened even by the prospect of eating, memories of the last humiliating experience clouding his hazy mind. What was the catch? What fresh hell was awaiting him, now?
After feeding him, Bug-Face walked around Bakugo and studied him like an insect under a magnifying glass, taking in the barely-healed cuts, burns, and bruises. Bakugo couldn’t see himself very well from his position, but if he looked anything like how he felt, it must have been pretty bad. Bug-Face finished his reconnaissance lap and then left Bakugo’s range of vision, which caused his heart to lurch in his chest and a fresh wave of anxiety to crash over him. What was he doing back there? What was next?
No more. Please, no more.
There were several sounds of movement, then Bug-Face reappeared with… an IV? Bakugo jerked back as Bug-Face got close, hissing in pain as the man none-too-gently slid the needle into the artery in his neck. His hands - calloused and cold - scraped over the skin, which was some of the only untouched and unbroken skin on Bakugo’s body at this point, and made him shiver. Which, of course, sent waves of pain coursing through every limb. Damn.
After inserting the IV, Bug-Face retreated from Bakugo and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Bakugo stared at the door in utter confusion, then turned his attention to the iv line he now saw looping away from his neck. The liquid looked like a standard saline drip… but he couldn’t know for sure. What was Bug-Face doing?
It happened so suddenly that Bakugo thought for a moment it was just him blinking, only to gasp aloud in shock when the view didn’t change. The lights had switched off. It was pitch black, he couldn’t see anything. All that remained was the steady ticking off the clock, his own rapidly increasing breathing, and his heart slamming against his ribs.
What was this? What was this? What was going on?
Bakugo realized that with the room being so dark, he could no longer read the clock. Bakugo was now lost to the whims of time. When would Bug-Face come back to hurt him? When would the torture start again? He had no way of knowing now; it could be hours, it could be minutes.
The panic started to truly set in, then, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. It thickened the air in his lungs until it felt like he was drowning - drowning in the way he had done so when the sludge villain was surrounding and suffocating him, drowning in the way he had felt when he realized Deku could have beaten him in a fight. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, only panic.
Bakugo couldn’t let the fear get the better of him. Not now, when he was in the dark, unsure of whether he was being watched or if he was alone. But the matter was taken out of his hands as the panic grew and grew, overtaking him completely. He wasn’t sure when he started yelling, or when the yelling changed to crying, and the crying to begging. He called for All-Might. He called for Kirishima. He cried out for Aizawa, for his mother, for the damn nerd of all people, and for all the heroes and classmates he could think of. His pride, his walls, everything he’d spent so long building up around him, came tumbling down around his shaking, burned, torn, apart limbs. He couldn’t handle it anymore. He needed out before the torture drove him completely insane.
Bakugo screamed for help, then, alone and in the dark and in complete and utter agony.
Nobody came.
The answers to the questions started to rise in his throat, unbidden and unwelcome. Maybe if he told Bug-Face what he needed to know, he could go home. He could escape this prison of pain and fear and uncertainty.
But he saw Kirishima, eyes full of pride and admiration when he looked at him.
He saw All-Might, trusting him with his secret.
He saw his mother, assuring him in her own way that she believed in him and knew he wouldn’t have given in to the villains who kidnapped him, what seemed like a thousand years ago.
He saw Deku’s face, stupidly innocent and stupidly trusting.
Stupidly concerned, holding out a hand to him in a river.
Kachaan, are you alright?
No. He wasn’t alright. Not in the slightest.
But he’d be damned if he’d let Izuku know that.
Bakugo forced the answers back down, far away from the surface. He’d lost his pride and his walls. His body had been broken, but his spirit survived, no matter how fragile a state it was in. If his only purpose now was to keep the secrets of his friends safe, then that was fine by him. He’d keep going for them.
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Bakugo wished that with his decision, the torture would have stopped.
But it didn’t.
The darkness seemed to stretch on forever. The light had been terrible, but the darkness was so much worse. At some point Bakugo’s mind, which was becoming increasingly unreliable, pieced together that the isolation, darkness, and constant clock-ticking was part of his torture. The dark and solitude were meant to break him and force him to give up the answers.
But the dark and solitude were becoming the least of Bakugo’s problems.
He could feel both his body and mind simultaneously slipping. His heartbeat was becoming erratic in his chest, fast one minute and slow the next. Chills were a common acquaintance of his, each one sending stabbing pains through his flesh and causing tears to slip down his cheeks. His skin was constantly clammy with sweat, and his breathing - already a struggle with the panic - only grew more difficult. Days of inactivity combined with minimal food and water were taking their toll. The logical part of his brain knew that it had really only been fear and adrenaline keeping him going, and now it would only be a matter of time before his blood pressure dropped to intolerable levels, and he would die.
Adding to the struggle were the hallucinations, fueled by desperation and lack of mental stimulus. They came in small waves, ever increasing in magnitude and realism. He heard voices, saw the figures of friends, family, and heroes. The first few strikingly lifelike ones raised his hopes so high that he was convinced he was saved from his torment, only to be sent spiraling into a manic depression when they faded back into the darkness. Eventually, he was too tired to react to them any longer, and he let them slide by, a dizzying mirage of colors and voices.
The last real panic he felt was when it struck him that perhaps Bug-Face simply gave up on him and left him to die, that he had been abandoned. Nobody was coming to save him, and he would die here, alone and surrounded by the darkness, the pain, and the incessant ticking. Bakugo found himself crying once again, and this time he did so freely, hating himself with every fiber of his being for being so weak, for being captured, for expecting others to rescue him. This was it for him, and what else could he have expected? He’d alienated everyone in his life; even the pro heroes thought he was more of a villain than a hero. He was the only one to blame for his predicament, and now he was getting his punishment for his actions.
He wanted to die.
He wanted it so badly. If he’d had the strength, he would have tried to jerk the iv out of his neck, letting his blood pressure drop and kill him. He considered blowing up his hands with his quirk, so he could bleed to death, but came to the frightening and upsetting conclusion that he simply lacked the strength to even use his quirk anymore. He tried, just to be sure, and although he felt his palms heat up, he knew that nothing would happen. Bakugo was so weak that he couldn’t even kill himself properly, and he would have to die a slow, painful death in the dark.
“Let… me… die.” Bakugo wasn’t sure if his throat, raw and bloody from screaming and lack of water, could produce sound anymore, but he whispered out loud anyway. “Please… let...me...die.”
His heart spasmed in his chest, a heavy lethargy flooding through him. This was it. This was the end. He would lay here, unsure if he was awake or dreaming, until his body finally gave out. This was the end.
He wished he could apologize to Kirishima, to Shoto, to Deku. He wished he could apologize to his mother for being such a terrible son.
But he couldn’t. He’d kept his promise. He’d told Bug-Face nothing.
Now it was time for it all to end.
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The light trickled in slowly. Bakugo couldn’t even comprehend what he was seeing at first, so fuzzy was his mind. The light hurt his eyes and made his skull ache, so he shut them. Then the sounds began to filter in: footsteps, voices. A shrill sound - a cry? A shout?
Hallucinations, all of them.
For those few seconds, all Bakugo could feel was disappointment. Why was he still here? Still alive? He didn’t have enough strength to dwell on it, letting his body stay limp and the voices wash over him.
“ - my God, who could’ve -”
“ - he’s been like this for days -”
“ - gotta look at his wounds… obviously infected -”
“Bakugo, can you hear me?”
Bakugo knew these voices, but that meant nothing to him. The hallucinations were part of his own mind, after all.
But then someone touched him - a soft touch, by his neck - and that got Bakugo’s attention. The hallucinations couldn’t touch him, only Bug-Face could.
He was back.
The surge of adrenaline that rushed through him - sparked by an intense, overwhelming amount of fear - was enough to give Bakugo the strength to instinctively jerk away from the touch. But his body wasn’t prepared to move, not after having laid still for so long. Cuts, previously scabbed, cracked and bled once more. Muscles, weak and shaky from disuse, creaked and spasmed. Burns, having laid still for so long, flared in agony. The resulting pain was enough to draw a strangled scream from his lungs, and he collapsed under the weight of his restraints and his own pain.
The fear was still there, pumping through his veins, causing his heart to thump wildly and his breathing to surge, his muscles shaking and his eyes staring wide, unseeing.
Oh God no, no, no, nononononono….
“Shit!”
“Damn it, All-Might, why did you touch him?”
“Someone get Kirishima in here!”
He was drowning again, this time in light instead of darkness, surrounded by people he didn’t know and hands that were going to grab him, cut him, burn him. Maybe if he drowned, he could escape.
But drowning hurt.
“Where is he? Where’s Bakugo?!”
“Kirishima, you need to be gentle with -”
“BAKUGO?!”
Bakugo flinched at his name, shuddering against his restraints as he gasped for air. He didn’t want to see those bug eyes, the antennae, the pincers.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Bakugo! Bakugo, look at me, please!”
“Kirishima, don’t -”
“SHUT UP.”
A hand touched his face, and another wave of panic washed over him. Unable to think of anything else to do, Bakugo rasped out, “Won’t… t-tell… you…” as loudly as his broken voice would allow, over and over again, trying to drown out his own heartbeat and the sound of Bug-Face’s questions, which would start soon, trying to get into his head…
“Bakugo, open your eyes, man. It’s me! It’s Kirishima!”
Bug-Face’s voice sounded different, this session. The monotone was gone, along with the strange clickiness that accompanied his words.
And did he sound… emotional?
Hands cupped his face, gently, and Bakugo’s train of thought instantly derailed as the fear returned.
“No no no no, don’t do that. Just open your eyes, please!”
The hands on his cheeks were trembling.
“I’m begging you, Katsuki.” The voice was definitely shaking, and something wet dripped onto his skin.
“It’s me. It’s Eijiro. I’m here, man.”
Bug-Face never cried.
Bug-Face didn’t know Kirishima’s first name.
Bug-Face never called him Katsuki.
It took Bakugo several seconds to slow his breathing to a point where he could rationally think again, and the voice of not-Bug-Face praised him the entire time, still shaking and catching as it did so. By the time Bakugo started to open his eyes, he was thoroughly confused. Who…?
At first, all he could see was a fuzzy silhouette framed by light. But then the colors and shapes began to filter through, and he saw the red hair, the crimson eyes - now filled with tears - and the shaky, sharp-toothed smile.
Kirishima.
Bakugo’s mind started to spin. It couldn’t be Kirishima, it had to be a hallucination. But visions couldn’t touch, couldn’t cup his face tenderly with shaking hands, the first gentle hands he’d felt since…
A feeling Bakugo didn’t recognize started to smolder in his chest, and a fire began to burn behind his eyes. Afraid to stop looking in case the maybe-vision disappeared, Bakugo dared to ask, “Are… you… real?”
Kirishima’s already tear-filled eyes overflowed, and more than anything else it was the water on Bakugo’s face, salty on his lips, that continued to convince him as Kirhishima gulped and nodded several times.
“I’m real, man.” Kirishima managed to tearfully say. “We found you.”
“We’re taking you home, young Bakugo.”
Bakugo managed to turn his head, and suddenly he recognized the other shapes in the room. All-Might, his hero, was standing next to him, tears of his own rolling down his cheeks. Further in the back was Aizawa, looking more stricken than Bakugo had ever seen him. Also there was the plain-looking detective from the USJ attack and his previous kidnapping, Tsuka-something, standing by the door like a security guard.
“Shinso and Midoriya are outside.” Kirishima said softly. “They wanted to come in but we weren’t sure if…” Kirishima swallowed. “We’re taking you home, Katsuki. You’re safe, now.”
The feeling in his chest was ablaze, and suddenly Bakugo knew what it was. But he didn’t want to acknowledge it. If this was somehow fake…
Bakugo would rather die.
Struggling to maintain his breathing, Bakugo ground out, “Don’t… lie…”
Kirishima leaned in close until his face was inches from Bakugo’s, and gave him one of the most open, intense looks that Bakugo had ever seen.
“I’m. Not. Lying.” Kirishima said slowly and firmly, even as tears started to flow down his cheeks again. “You think I’d be crazy enough to do that,” he gave a teary grin, “Lord Explosion Murder?”
Bug-Face never, ever knew about that.
The fire behind his eyes transformed into a wellspring of tears. Bakugo clenched his jaw with all his strength as the tears started to flow, scrambling to pull together the bits and pieces of his walls even as the hope burned in his heart. He couldn’t be weak here. Not after everything. The adults couldn’t see how far he’d fallen.
But this was real.
This was real.
Kirishima didn’t say anything about Bakugo’s tears, instead leaning forward to press his forehead gently against his friend’s, using his arms to shield Bakugo’s face so he could piece together some of his shattered pride away from the eyes of the adults. It still hurt that Kirishima was there to see his tears, to hear his barely-stifled sobs, but if there was one person in the world whom he could bear to see him cry, it would be Kirishima.
After several minutes of this, exhausted and reeling with pain, shame, and relief, Bakugo managed to croak out, “Can… we… go… home?”
“Yeah, man.” Kirishima withdrew, looking and sounding like he’d been crying as well, but smiling with something akin to triumph.
“We’re going home.”