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awilddreamermain · 2 years ago

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⚸ 'Save Your Tears.'

⚸ Synopsis - The End is never truly the End.

⚸ Pairing - Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

⚸ Warnings - MDNI. Domestic violence (not between Bakugou & Reader), no quirks, non-canon au, heavy angst, angst with comfort, murder, descriptions of wounds, blood, tending to wounds, alcohol consumption, discussions of grief & death, questioning of morals.

⚸ Word Count - 8.5k

⚸ Author's Note - Not 100% beta read, I apologise for some spelling mistakes. I wrote most of this at 1am & extremely tired. I'm also not going to tag the things that are huge plot spoilers, but everything that may be triggering/needs the proper content warnings has been included above.

I know I'm not giving much away but I really want you to read this for yourself and have your own thoughts on this. Please enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think! Also posted on AO3.

It was loud here. It was always loud in this house. You never knew peace and quiet, never had the chance to relax. It was foolish to believe this man—this monster could ever know what love is. He was terrifying once the door closed and the curtains were drawn, he was no longer the cheerful smile and caring boyfriend but rather he turned into the volatile, malicious man who was currently digging the heel of his boot into the white wooden door separating the both of you.

It wasn’t meant to go like this. A gentle disagreement that spiralled out of control the second you got home. You were just out for dinner with friends, or rather, his friends. You never saw your friends anymore, he said they weren’t trustworthy and you believed him. You had said you didn’t want to go for more drinks after dinner, that you felt sick from the food — not a total lie, but also not entirely false. You did feel sick and you didn’t want to go for drinks, not because of the food but because when your boyfriend had a few drinks in him … consent didn’t matter to him after that.

Of course, he had to keep up appearances. Gently kissing your knuckles, feeling the temperature of your forehead and cheek, all to live up to the image of being such a good boyfriend. But you knew it was a ruse, a warning for what was to come. You weren’t meant to disagree with him, you were meant to always say yes and follow him everywhere.

You were right, as usual, as soon as the door to the house was closed it was like being bathed in the icy waters of the Antarctic. Your blood was frozen solid, and the air felt charged. You could feel his glare through the back of your head, this wasn’t going to end well for you. At first, he was slow in his approach, methodical with his steps so as to not spook you too quickly and you’re ashamed to say it worked.

His hand was always quick, grabbing at the nape of your neck to slam your head first into the old oak door frame. There was a sickening crunch, your nose felt like it had been stuffed with tissue paper and smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. His words were violent and angry, they always were. Filled with enough curse words to make a sailor blush, he never held back.

He screamed at you, “How dare you fucking embarrass me in front of our friends?!” but you didn’t understand how it was embarrassing. You simply didn’t want to go drinking, you didn’t want to end up hurt and yet here you were. Nursing your broken nose and staring at the way the blood dripped in thick droplets onto the pristine white carpet. You picked this carpet out, it was the one thing you were allowed to do when he forced you into the new home for the both of you—your new prison.

It was a flash after that, a flurry of punches and kicks until you had managed to slip under his arm when he was winding up for something that would definitely have you unconscious and vulnerable to him. You should’ve made a dash for the door but something in your mind told you that he probably locked the door already, he always knew to cut off your escape routes before he did any real damage.

So the next best bet was his study, it was right next to the open plan kitchen and living room — a place where he could keep an eye on you whilst working. The door had a lock on the inside to keep you out but tonight, it’d be used against him. He wasn’t happy about that, of course, and you could see the anger on his face even through the frosted glass window on the door.

The window behind you was your best next chance of escape, and the sound of his boot kicking into the door was enough to spring you into action. You scamper across the wooden floor, fumbling in the dark for the latch. The windows of the house were old, they were the ones that slid upwards and the latches always got caught. It resisted on the first two tugs but it seemed at least lady luck was on your side tonight as the window creaked before sliding up and up—

“No you fucking don’t.”

A hand in the hair on the back of your head has you yelping, the pain in your head only gets stronger when he starts to drag you backwards on the floor by your hair. Your palms graze through the broken shards of glass, and you get a glimpse of the door that had protected you for a mere moment to see he had shattered the glass window to get to the lock.

He shoves you hard onto the floor, your head rattling from the sudden pressure before he’s straddling your stomach. Both his legs hold you in place for him to do whatever he deems good enough to be your punishment for not only embarrassing him but daring to run away from him. His fists are lethal, punches that could make even a grown man cry from the force behind them.

They’re laid on thick and fast against your face, your cheeks when your head turns, his fingers wrap around your throat when punching simply isn’t enough. You have nowhere to look but his face, he looks calm despite what he’s doing. His eyes are lowered to meet yours, his lips set in a fine line whilst his fingers squeeze and squeeze.

Your fingers grasp uselessly at the floor next to you, trying to grab anything — something to leverage yourself on to throw his weight off, but instead, something slices your fingertips. Glass. You feel along it frantically as your vision starts to blur and darken, it feels like your head is full of water and your lips ache from the pressure he’s putting against your windpipe.

It’s quick. The way his face morphs into one of shock and then agony, the spray of blood is quicker though. It shoots out of his neck like a fountain, your hand still holding the glass in its place deep inside his neck. He jerks back, just as you withdraw the shard of glass and it causes the gash to widen. The glass slices effortlessly down and around the front of his throat, dousing you in the sticky red that turns your once pristine dress into a deep crimson.

His blood is warm, and it’s all you can focus on when he falls to the side still clutching his throat in his final moments.

You had to get out of here. You had to leave. It would only look like you did it when someone inevitably calls the police for all the yelling and screaming. Your feet were wobbly beneath you when you finally got them under you — just what had you done? You killed someone, you killed your boyfriend. It was self-defence but you still did it, you could’ve stabbed him anywhere non-fatal but you didn’t. You wanted him dead, you wanted him to leave you alone forever.

The cold night air sticks to the blood sprayed across your face and body, making it grow tacky where it was the thickest. The street is empty save for the cars that had been parked there all night, you could take his car but they’d only trace it, trace you. No, you couldn’t take his car.

So you run.

You run until your calves ache, until your lungs burn with each heavy air intake. You run until the blood on your skin is dried and cracked, finding a home in your pores. Everything hurts to the point where you feel nothing at all. Your mind spins and it’s nauseating. With each aching breath you take, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. The ache in your throat makes the bruises that had already started to form make their presence known, you can feel the ghost of his fingers squeezing and squeezing until you can’t breathe—... you can’t breathe.

A pair of hands grasp the tops of your upper arms, holding you in place when you scream and squirm to get away–to get away from him.

“Hey!” A voice calls through the fog of your mind, sharp and deep. Those same hands are warm on your skin, they hold you so differently from how you were used to. They were soft, uncertain and yet they weren’t letting go. Reassuring. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

That same fog slowly clears from your eyes with each slow blink, until finally, you can see the person before you. It’s hard to see them in the dim light of the overhead streetlight but you can see the worry in the ruby red of his eyes. An odd colour for eyes, you thought absentmindedly, but they were so captivating to stare into. The yellow hue of the light gives the blonde hair on his head an ethereal glow, like a halo.

Another shake to your shoulders as you once again meet his eyes, and you can see him processing all the bruises and broken skin on your face. The bruises around your throat are barely visible beneath the blood caked into your skin, and still, he doesn’t shy away when he asks again if you’re okay. “Is this your blood?”

“..No.” An answer that would have any sane person running away or perhaps even calling the police, but instead the man just nods as if he understands.

“Alright, let’s get you back to–”

“No!” The man’s eyes widen at your sudden raise in volume, but he doesn’t back down nor does he show if he’s uneasy. “Please. I can’t–...I can’t go back.”

The stranger stares back at you, the silence stretching between you both until a shrill siren makes you jump in your skin. He glances over his own shoulder to see a multitude of police cars and an ambulance speeding down a nearby street until they disappear from view.

“Please.” You whisper this time, and the man nods at you. He rolls his shoulders, shucking the thick green parka off of his shoulders until he drops it over yours. It’s warm and has the faintest smell of coffee and caramel. It’s comforting, it smells like home – your real home, back with your mother who tried her hardest to protect you from the harshness of the world. You wonder how she’d feel today knowing how things turned out for you. Maybe you can tell her one day.

“My place isn’t too far from here, I guess you wanna get cleaned up?” His hands linger on the collar of the coat, holding it in place so that the fuzz of the fur brushes against your battered and bruised cheeks. He waits until you nod before dropping his hands, taking a few steps backwards and you follow without thinking. Always the follower.

The walk isn’t long, but the ache in your thighs makes it seem longer. Every step after the last is tiring, and you know you’re lagging behind but the man says nothing. If anything he slows his natural gait to walk by your side, even offering the crook of his arm when you stumble over your own feet. Whilst your body slows with fatigue, your mind runs at a mile a minute. You know it won’t take long for them to figure out what happened, you were the only person who lived in that house with him, and you were missing from the scene of the crime.

The apartment complex the stranger lives in is small, probably only housing two or three different households. Wordlessly you follow him along the gravel path, the small garden lights bathe you in a white light that feels like you’re under inspection. Every speck of blood practically shimmers in the light, exposing you to the world for your transgressions. Yet there is no one to judge you for your sins, no one who screams in fear at the sight of your battered and bloodied face – no one to ask what had happened other than the blonde stranger who leads you into his apartment.

It’s nice inside, cosy yet also empty at the same time. How was this place something but also nothing at the same time? It had no hints of being lived in other than the small white lily in the now darkened window-sill in a pretty white pot. Its petals even from where you stood in the doorway looked like pure snow, soft as the skin of a babe’s cheek. The ambient light of the warm amber lamps gives it a soft glow, and you yearn to stroke the tips of your fingers against its petals.

“C’mon, let’s get you clean.” The man offers, drawing your eyes away from the white lily and he has a saddened look in his eye when he meets yours. Did you genuinely look that awful? Perhaps you did, the dull ache in your nose stings when you think about it too hard and your lips feel numb. You just nod, following quietly along behind the man who had yet to offer you his name.

You watch him from behind as you traverse closer to the bathroom, his shoulders are broad and well-defined even under the black hoodie he’s wearing. His hands are buried inside the pocket of his hoodie, a relaxed and calm air around him despite leading a total stranger covered head to toe in blood that didn’t even belong to them into his bathroom. He lets you stand in the doorway quietly as he goes about setting up the bathroom ready for you to be cleaned.

He offers you a look that invites you into the white bathroom, it’s almost blinding when he flicks on the overhead light that floods the room. You turn to look in the mirror, to assess just how much damage was truly done to you but the man’s hand wraps around your forearm. It’s enough to make you jump in your skin, your hackles rising with the ghost of your boyfriend's hands wrapping around your throat.

“It’s best if you don’t.” His lips are set in a fine line, eyebrows furrowed – he’s serious. Was it that bad? “Don’t look, I mean, it’ll only upset you more.”

That made sense, you supposed, perhaps your mind hadn’t quite caught up with the events of the evening just yet. So you just nod your head, letting his hands move to help you up onto the counter with your back to the mirror. The blonde set the first aid kit down next to you, unboxing a few items that you know will be unpleasant when the time comes to use them.

“‘M gonna wipe the blood away first, will make it easier for me to get to the open wounds.”

“Why?” You ask quietly, watching how his eyebrows come together in confusion whilst wetting a washcloth in the warm water from the sink just off to your side.

“Why do I need to clean fir–”

“Why are you doing this?” It felt rude to cut him off, but the man shows no anger at how you cut him off, instead his features relax a little in understanding.

“Why not?” He offers you a question to your own. He shrugs his shoulders alongside it. “It’d be pretty fucked up of me to ignore someone who needed help.”

You smile a little at his words before hissing at the ache in your jaw, and his eyebrows knit together again in worry. He forgoes speaking to you any further, opting instead to focus on cleaning you up. The way he strokes the washcloth along your skin is featherlight, careful of the bruising and cuts along your cheekbones and the obvious one on your nose. He strokes it along your cheeks, gently along your lips. The sink next to you is slowly turning a reddish hue each time he rinses the cloth to go back in. He finishes the cleaning with a gentle side-to-side motion along your forehead before bringing the cloth gently down to the bridge of your nose.

“I won’t sugarcoat it, this is gonna hurt a lot.” He finally speaks again, the deepness of his voice is jarring in the tense silence of the bathroom and yet it lulls you into a sense of safety. A certain element to it tells you that this man won’t harm you, and you can trust him to get you through this next part.

“Don’t blame me if I accidentally hit you or pinch you then,” you smile a little easier than before and the man mirrors a slight grin back to you.

“I’d like to see you try, those little hands and feet aren’t gonna do shit to me.” You snort at his words but you can’t stop the pang of guilt in your stomach. Your hands had done something; you held that piece of glass and took someone's life. You did that, just you.

“Hey.” The man nudges your knee, ducking his head down to meet your eyes. “Sorry, shitty joke. I’m not the best with that shit–”

“It’s not you, don’t worry.” And now it’s his turn to snort, his eyes drifting back down to his hands as he opens up the antiseptic wipes.

“Like I haven’t heard that one before.” There’s a twinkle of humour in his eye when you meet his gaze again, and it’s easy to ease back into the comfort of just the two of you being alone in this room. A sanctuary away from the harsh reality of the world that’s awaiting you just beyond the door. “Alright, hold still. G’nna hurt like a bitch.”

The second the wipe comes in contact with your skin, you jolt. It hurts a lot more than you were anticipating and you have to steel yourself for the next time he wipes away at your skin to fully clear out the wounds. He manoeuvres you with gentle fingers, gently set at your jaw to turn you to the left and right to make sure he’s gotten everything before he hooks them beneath your chin to tilt you to look up at him.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, for the lack of a better word to describe this benevolent stranger. His skin is flawless, and the red of his eyes has little flecks of brown in them. The slope of his nose is mesmerising, he was truly made in the image of beauty. It begged the question as to why his house seemed so unlived in, did he have no one to come home to? That just seemed impossible for someone as breathtaking as he was – was there something you were missing?

You hiss again when he presses a butterfly stitch down across the bridge of your nose, his own nose wrinkling at the visible discomfort he’s causing you.

“All done, I’m gonna guess you want to get out of those.” He points at your clothes, and you look down again to see the material stuck to your skin. It’s cold, and wet, the sensation makes your skin crawl in remembrance of just what had transpired. “I’ll go get some of my stuff, you can finish cleaning yourself up right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You offer a smile when he nods his head, he makes short work of throwing away the dirtied cloth and empty boxes before he’s gone.

You’re left in the eerie silence of his bathroom, you can’t even hear the outside world from here. It leaves you susceptible to your mind. The dreaded thoughts that condemn you for what you had done – telling you over and over that you were going to be found. Punished. Locked away and the key thrown away.

You didn’t want that, you didn’t want to be punished for something he had done. No one would believe you if you said it was in self-defence, if anything it looked like he was the one who was defending himself. No one was there to tell the judge and jury what really happened. You’d be found guilty with no one to save you.

It feels like you’re drowning, choking on the guilt that bubbles up in your throat. Something grabs at your throat, squeezing and squeezing until you feel a similar ache in your lips and a fuzzy feeling behind your eyes. Your hand scrambles to get whatever is off of your throat, nails catching against the raw bruised skin but it’s fruitless. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t–

“Hey.”

It’s a deep intake of breath, one that has your lungs inflating until they hurt and your head tilting back to greedily take as much as possible. There’s no pressure around your throat anymore, just the feeling of your own cool fingertips pressing against the bruises that had started to blossom against abused skin.

There’s a knock on the door, some shuffling of socks on wooden floorboards. “You okay in there? Do you need help?”

“N–No.” You clear your throat, coughing to clear the uneasiness in your throat. “Sorry, was getting undressed.”

He’s silent on the other side of the door for a moment, and you wonder if he’s figuring out if you’re lying or not. “Okay, sure. I’m gonna open the door so you can take these clothes, alright?”

He waits for your consent to open the door, and when he does he’s true to his word. He sticks just his arm through with the pile of clothes he has to offer, you take them gratefully and just like before he’s closing the door to leave you alone.

This time you don’t hang around to hear what your mind might have to say about your little freakout, so you start to peel off the sullied clothes from your body. You take extra care to not drag your dress against your face when you change out of it before letting it drop onto the white tiled floor with a wet plop. It looks so wrong on such pristine flooring, an imperfection; a sin.

Though you don’t allow your thoughts to drag you beneath the icy depths once again, you set a simple goal in your mind – to clean yourself and then change into new clothes. It’s easier to remove your ruined underwear when you disassociate yourself from what really happened. Your clothes were simply just wet, not dripping with blood. Your skin was just caked in mud, not cracking with blood. It was just easier to let go.

The sponge is smooth against your skin once you run it beneath some warm water, letting the rivulets of watered-down blood slide along the smooth expanse of your chest until you’re clean. You glance at the clothes that were given to you by the man who took you in, it seems to be a basic combo of grey sweatpants and a nondescript black t-shirt that looks soft. Your fingers brush along it, feeling the fabric beneath dried fingertips before you take it to slip on over your head.

Getting dressed was much quicker now you were clean, but you were presented with another problem; these clothes were far too big for you. They dwarfed you which had both good and bad sides to it. Good being it hid the fact you had no clean underwear beneath. Bad meaning you had to roll the waistband of the sweatpants up three times and cuff the legs to make sure they didn’t slip down.

Now all you had to do was face the man who most definitely would have a million questions for you. He had every right to know just what had happened given he was harbouring a criminal. The thought however doesn’t bring you as much dread as it should. This stranger had taken you in without any second-guessing, he had cleaned your wounds and provided you with new clothes. Perhaps he would see your side of things, maybe he’d even understand and now hand you into the police when you tell him the truth.

The bathroom door creaks when you open it, much to your dismay, your face crumpling a little at the obvious attempt to sneak out without being noticed immediately. Yet there is no voice asking you to come forward, or questioning if you need anything. In fact, it’s quiet, a silence that settles against your chest and melts into your skin. It’s comforting, and slowly it coaxes you out of the bathroom and further into the house.

Each step you take back the way you came confirms that the man isn’t waiting for you to emerge from the bathroom. Instead, you find the living room of his apartment to be completely empty, even the kitchen from what you can see seems to be barren. It’s odd and it should worry you but it doesn’t. You focus your mind on looking around at your surroundings. It definitely confirms what you had thought when you first arrived – it looked unlived in, or just extremely clean. The sofa looks like it had never been sat on and just plucked straight from a showroom.

Even the rug beneath your feet felt new, like it hadn’t gone through the hardships of someone dropping coffee or food on it.

It was strange, to say the least. You venture towards the bookshelves lining one wall, and there doesn’t seem to be a speck of dust on the old oak bookcase and yet the books look old. Older than you, you’d wager. Was this guy a clean freak who liked to collect old literature? You lean in to take a closer look at the titles, some of them rubbed off from years of use you presume but even the ones you read are in a different language. Latin perhaps? You can’t tell. So he was a man who could read—speak?—Latin.

Maybe you should be more scared of the man who was nowhere to be seen.

Something catches your eye on the wall next to the grand bookcase. You have to take a step back to see it in its entirety – it’s a grand oil painting and it may just be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You’ve seen plenty of knockoff paintings being spoken about on TV shows where they go to auction off old things they find in their attics but this screams authentic to you. Which only begs the question; just how did he manage to get such a thing like this in his house?

“Fall of the Damned.” A voice is behind you, deep and yet quiet so as to not scare you. Yet it fails as you jump out of your skin, clutching at your chest as if to stop your heart from leaping out. The man makes no move to laugh at the fact he scared you. When you look at him, he’s staring up at the grand painting with a strange look on his face. He looks almost wistful, perhaps even reminiscent.

“The original from 1620.”

“But I thought the original was damaged. An acid attack–”

“No, that was a fake. But this is the real one.” He’s certain in the words he speaks, leaving no room to argue with the fact you were very certain that the original had been damaged in the 1950s.

You look back at the painting, and there are certainly no markings of any damage to it. You can see the individual strokes of the paintbrushes the closer you look; it most definitely was authentic. But this thing was priceless, so many people had tried to replicate it or reproduce it in their own image but they could never match the beauty of this. The jumble of bodies tumbling from Heaven merge together the longer you look until it looks like a stream of white meeting the fiery pits of the abyss.

“How do you even have this?” You ask quietly after a spell of silence, turning back to finally meet the burning gaze of the man who towers over you.

“A friend gave it to me.” He offers, and he must see the disappointment in your eyes when he doesn’t provide the full answer. “He told me that it would suit me well.”

Perhaps it’s best to not push for a further answer, whoever he was speaking of didn’t sound like much of a friend with the way he had spat out his words. Maybe an old friend, someone who wanted to gift this as a jab at the blonde.

“Anyway. How you feelin’?” He asks you, his shoulders relaxing a little when he takes you in fully cleaned to the best of your ability.

“Fine. Better now that I have clean clothes, thank you by the way.”

“Don’t mention it, I wouldn’t want to be stuck in bloody clothes, so.” He shrugs before sinking into the untouched sofa, his massive frame takes up a good portion of it and you can’t help but stare a little. He makes no move to speak again, instead, he leans forward to swipe the bottle of wine he must’ve placed there before he caught you staring at his artwork.

He still does not speak when you watch him pour two glasses of red wine, the red liquid swirling and settling in the pristine glass before finally, he meets your gaze, offering up a glass for you to take. A small part of you tells you to not drink in the presence of an unknown man but you can’t find it within you to reject him, something alluring in the way his face is completely relaxed – he poses no threat to you.

When you take the wine glass from him, he leans back into his spot on the sofa with his own glass and swirls it between fingers that seemed to have done such an action over and over.

“So–”

“I don’t know your name.” You blurt, nerves finally bubbling up your throat in a form of a barked question that has his eyebrows raising for a second in wonder if he really hadn’t told your name thus far. You busy yourself with a sip of the dark red liquid.

“Bakugou Katsuki.” He sips his own wine as you do before continuing. “What about you? Only fair I know the name of the woman I saved.”

You supposed he had a point, and you offered him your name. He seems to roll it around in his mind for a moment, a small nod of his head seems to be all you’ll get in return.

“So, Y/N.” Your name slips free from his tongue so easily, the rich timbre of his voice imbues your name with a sense of regality. “I won’t outright ask what you’re running from, but do I have to be worried about the police turning up to my door because I’m harbouring some axe murderer?”

Your lips twitch downwards into a frown, and you move to settle into a spot not too far but also not too close to Bakugou. He wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Not an axe murderer.”

Bakugou hums deep in his chest at your answer, the noise reverberating in the glass of wine as he takes another deep sip.

“Ex?” Your face crumples involuntarily at his easy guess, the ache in your throat returns tenfold when you try to stop yourself from crying. You hadn’t really cried once, had you? It makes your face ache, your eyes sting with confessions of just what you had done and this poor man next to you had no idea.

“Dickhead probably had it comin’, I’m sure he’s out there licking his wounds like the sad fuck–”

“He’s dead.” It feels like ash on your tongue to admit it, but at the same time, it feels like a deep breath on a spring morning. It feels both refreshing and restraining at the same time; to admit to something as ghastly as the murder of someone who had treated you as less than dirt is a perplexing feeling.

“Oh fuck,” Bakugou adjusts himself next to you a little, sitting forward so he can see your face a little clearer. “Did you do it?”

You simply nod your head, expecting Bakugou to leap up from his seat and immediately call the police. But instead, he stays still, contemplating what to say next.

“He hurt me,” you breathe, sucking in a harsh breath like you’d been submerged under water. “He hurt me so much, I couldn’t–... I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to get away, I needed to. I was scared that if I didn’t get away he’d really do it this time. He was going to kill me this time, I’m sure of it. I didn’t want to die by his hands and he got away with it–”

There’s a warmth draped around you, a heaviness that forces you to crumple inwards on yourself when the crying really starts. A hand on your shoulder coaxes you into a clean warm shirt, your face pressed into the fabric doesn’t do much to mute your crying. That same hand rubs up and down against your arm, comforting you in a way no one had in a very long time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his chin tucked against the top of your head when you find refuge in the safety of his neck. “You deserved so much better, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That’s what you wanted to hear, even if you didn’t realise it. You needed someone to acknowledge your pain, your hurt. It was hard to believe now that you deserved better with how it had all ended up, but you didn’t have it in you to argue with the man who was still gently cradling you into his body. You’re not sure how long you cry into Bakugou’s neck but eventually, the tears stop. It leaves you feeling empty, and your face tacky from the tear marks that stain your face.

“Better?” Bakugou asks finally, clearing his throat of the emotions that were soaking into his words to the point where his voice cracked. His voice rumbled against your body, a deep resonating sound that helps ease you back from the precipice of despair and back into reality.

You have to awkwardly peel yourself away from Bakugou, cringing at the wet patches on his shirt and the slight tinges of blood from where you had buried your face against him. “Yeah, thanks.” You have to look elsewhere, hoping he doesn’t mention how you ruined his shirt.

Thankfully he doesn’t, a simple “Fuck it,” leaving his mouth and instead he leans forward to grab the bottle of wine taking a long swig directly from the bottle before offering it to you.

“Let’s have a toast,” you take the bottle for him slowly, confused at where he could possibly be leading with this. “A toast to a better future. One without assholes, one where you can do whatever the fuck you want and no one will give a shit.”

A part of his small toast felt like he was directing it to himself also – like he wanted to be free of whatever shackles were chaining him to the past. But still, his toast sounded good. Something you could get behind and hope for, maybe the future does hold something better for you. So you raise the wine bottle when he raises his own glass, tapping the two together.

“A toast to a better future.”

Bakugou watches as you drink from the wine bottle, his own lips hovering just by the edge of his own glass before he finishes it all in one go. A deep sigh, of relaxation or vexation you’re unsure, expands his chest before he relaxes back into the sofa to stare at the grand painting that looms over the both of you like a bad omen.

“Bakugou?” He only grunts in response. “Do you believe I’ll really have a better future?”

His head turns on the back of the sofa, staring over the slight fat of his cheeks to catch your own gaze. He’s quiet for a moment, a long moment that has you fidgeting in his gaze. Why was he so silent all of a sudden? Did he simply say that to make you feel better? It would make sense – perhaps that’s the only way he thought he could ease your mind when in reality you’d be spending the rest of your miserable life behind bars.

“Yeah,” Bakugou finally replies, “I do.”

And once again, the conversation comes to a silent end. Your mind wanders for a moment, your gaze set on the small lily on the window ledge. Even from here, you could tell how well-nurtured this flower was, the petals practically glowed in the moonlight that streamed through the window and spilled out across the floor in pale beams. The man next to you didn’t seem quite like the type of person who cared for a plant so well, it was the only thing in this whole place that seemed out of place.

You venture over towards the flower, and all Bakugou does is move his legs to allow you to pass. You can feel his gaze on your back the closer you get to the flower, and now within reach, you can truly see its beauty clearly. The white pot it lays in is pristine, hand-painted from what you can tell when you lean in to take a closer look. The lily itself has the type of smell you’d expect of a flower; green and earthy, yet there’s the oddest subtle spice that lays beneath all of that. It’s baffling.

The purity of its white petals has you envious of a plant, it is without blemishes and yet here you are; stained for all of eternity by the hands of someone who had grown greedy and cruel with your life. It aches the longer you stare at the flower, wishing you could somehow steal its light and store it away in the void that had opened up in your chest. Yet despite its purity, there is a single curled-up petal nestled into the dirt beneath. It’s browned with decay and it’s curious as to why its owner would go to such lengths to care for it but not remove the dead petal.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Bakugou says from his place now over by the door. You hadn’t even heard him get up and move but you’re thankful for the distraction from your petty envy.

“Is that a good idea?”

The question makes him stop midway putting his black leather jacket on. Did he not consider the fact you were most likely a wanted criminal by now?

“You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, now c’mon. It’s too stuffy in here and I wanna go to the park when there's no extras roaming around.”

He waits patiently by the door when you slip into your previous shoes, they weren’t nearly as bloody as the rest of your old clothing which you were thankful for. Bakugou locks the door behind you both before he extends a hand out for you to take, you look up at him to question why he’s asking to hold your hand when you stop. He has a soft red hue to his cheeks, a blush perhaps or maybe the alcohol is just settling itself beneath his skin.

His palm is soft against your own, much larger, yes, but all the more comforting. He must be thankful for you not saying anything as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before he’s guiding you back out the way you come. Each step is as nerve-racking as the last, this feeling that someone is waiting for you around the corner to snatch you up and lock you away.

You’re thankful for the fact Bakugou had offered to hold your hand as he encourages you to keep pace with him, to not fall behind as he guides you out into the cold night and down the dim street towards an unknown location. There is no one you encounter on the way to the park, the streets are desolate and quiet as everyone slumbers in their beds unknowing of who is walking by.

The park itself is pitch black save for some street lamps that light the occasional park bench along the winding path that traverses from one side to the other, Bakugou must sense your hesitance to enter as he gives you another gentle squeeze. “It’s fine, no one’s here.”

You somehow doubt that he knows that, there’s no way for him to know that the park is completely barren. There are probably some teenagers messing around late into the night against their parent's wishes, or perhaps a homeless man that seeks a quiet night's sleep on one of the many benches.

Alas, you still follow him through the large iron gate that squeaks when you pass through before it rattles behind you with a jarringly loud noise. Despite that, no one comes out from hiding in the dark shadows and no one shouts at the two of you for being out so late.

Now in the park, Bakugou slows his walk enough to enjoy the cool night air, to tilt his head back as he peers up at the overhanging moon and the clouds that shroud it in a gentle white blanket. He seems at peace here, like his mind can finally unwind and the alcohol in his system helps with sorting through whatever may be troubling him.

“Do you regret it?” He speaks once the two of you come to a standstill in the middle of the path, only the overhead street light illuminating the both of you. “Do you regret what you did?”

It’s a sucker punch of a question, it hurts to think about if you truly regret it or not. Your eyebrows come together in a deep frown, and you turn to face Bakugou who also does the same to you and you’re surprised to see he’s also frowning down at you.

Although, when you think about if you did or did not regret what you did. You’re torn between two minds; part of you regrets the fact you had taken another human's life but at the same time… you ponder the question if he was really a human anymore? Did he deserve to be treated as one if he did not treat you the same? He beat you whenever you defied him or shoved you into the boiler closet when you had accidentally cut the vegetables the wrong way.

He didn’t see you as human, he lost his right to be a human the moment he laid a hand against you.

“No.” You finally reply with the word breathed out with a small white cloud that fills the space between the both of you. Bakugou is silent as he fully takes in your choice, his nose wrinkles a little when he frowns again before he turns his head to look away from you.

“I want to show you something.”

And he’s moving before you can question just why he had frowned at your answer and changed the subject so sharply. Your steps are hurried behind his as he tugs you along, further and further down the path before he’s suddenly diverting into the thicket of trees to your left. It has a shot of fear racing through your veins, your hand squeezes tighter around his own as he continues to traverse through the unknown darkness.

All at once the darkness fades away for a blinding bright light, and you’re forced to shield your eyes away with your spare hand and curl yourself into the arm of the man who had been pulling you through thorns and sharp branches for the best part of two minutes.

You come to realise that Bakugou has also stopped. You peek around his jacket arm, squinting at the bright white light that slowly fades away to reveal … a security light. Confused, you start to take in your surroundings. By the looks of things you’re in a garden, the grass is overgrown and filled with a mixture of weeds and wildflowers, some wilting and others blooming. The birdbath that you assume must’ve been the centrepiece is filled with brown water; neglected for years and unused by any birds since the owners had turned their backs on their garden.

“Where are we?” You finally ask, turning your head back up to look at Bakugou who is staring straight ahead still.

You follow his gaze, and immediately you try to jerk your hand out of his own. You try to tug and pull will all your might to escape the ever-tightening grip he has on you. How dare he! He betrayed you, he pulled you into a false sense of security so he could what?! Take you back to your home?! How did he even know where you lived anyway, how did he know and why did he do it?

“Let go!” You all but scream, tears once again blurring your sight. “Please, let me go! I don’t want to go back!”

“Please,” Bakugou pleads, his word sounds wet – like he’s crying as well, and the sharp intake of breath he takes is enough to confirm that perhaps he really is. “Don’t fight me, just follow me and it’ll all make sense.”

“No!” But he’s moving again, and you’re forced to come with him. It feels like your lungs are filled with water, and your throat feels like it starts to shut the closer you get to the backdoor of your house. “Bakugou, please!”

He isn’t listening.

“Bakugou, listen to me!”

The door is open and the sense of dread increases tenfold.

“Katsuki!”

Finally. He stops. But it’s far too late, you’re both past the threshold and you’re forced to stare at the red patch on the pristine white carpet that looks more cream now. His fingers slip away from yours but it’s like you’re in a trance the longer you stare at the stain that grows duller and duller the longer you stare at it, there are no shards of glass littering the floor.

In fact, as you look around the house is completely empty. Barren. There are dust sheets over the expensive marble kitchen counters, the doors have been removed and there are no light fixtures. What? This didn’t make any sense, it was your house you’re sure of it but it felt like an empty husk.

“I don’t… I don’t understand, is this some sort of sick joke?” You whirl on your heel to stare at Bakugou whose face is crumpled in what can only be described as agony, the white of his eyes are red with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Why–”

“I shouldn’t have taken you in when I found you. I was told to never do that, I was meant to lead you back here at the start! To help you find peace but I couldn’t do it. It hurt too much to see you crying and pleading with me to take you somewhere safe, I thought I could keep you safe from all of this!” His words seem so out of place on the brute of a man, his large shoulders bunch up with each heavy breath he takes to stop the tears from overflowing.

“But you looked so happy when I said I think you would have a better future. You’d never have a better future with me, not really, you would always have that longing you feel in your chest right now. That emptiness that isn’t ever really gone until you move on.”

“Katsuki–... What are you trying to tell me?” His words in truth scare you, nothing he’s saying makes sense and yet it does. That feeling in your chest is true, and you’ve felt it from the moment you stepped foot out of this house just hours ago.

“You died!” He yells, a sharp intake of breath has him nearly hunching over as if he was punched. “He killed you, right there. And no one ever found you.”

“I don’t… I don’t believe you, that makes no sense. I’m right here! I can feel that I’m right here.” Your hand presses to your chest but even then, it feels cold. You can’t feel the pitter-patter of your heart beneath your fingertips.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I could never lie to you.” His hands are warm when they press on either side of your face, cupping your cheeks until you look into his eyes. He looks heartbroken. As if his world has collapsed in on itself and he may never see the sunrise again. Perhaps he may never get to see it again, much like you, you’re unsure just who Bakugou Katsuki really is but the way he’s holding you is undeniably intimate.

“Do you remember when I said I truly believe that you could have a better future?” You nod in his hands, and he nods along with you. “You still can have a better future, I can give it to you.”

His fingers dig a little into the plushness of your cheeks, clinging to you as if you may slip from between his fingers like sand and he’s unready to let go of you just yet.

His face is so close to yours that you’re greedily breathing in the warmth of his breath, your noses brush with a slight raise of his chin. He’s asking for something; for permission, you realise, and you wonder if this is truly how it all ends.

His lips are just as soft as you imagined, they’re undeniably warm compared to the coldness of your own. Bakugou is greedy when he kisses you, his hands clutch that much tighter until you’re forced to feel the ache in your jaw. He breathes in when he can, only to dive straight back to your lips – to bite on your bottom lip until you allow him in. But you pull away before you let him in, and he’s forced to press his forehead to your own.

You meet his longing gaze once again to ask one final question.

“Did he survive?” Your question clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows furrow and his hands loosen for just a nanosecond. “Did he get away with killing me?”

“...Yes.”

You expected that answer and yet it still hurts to hear, that he had gotten away with it and would most likely get away with it again and again until the hands of Death cradled him the same way Bakugou cradles you now. Something deep inside of you tells you that you can’t settle for that, you can’t let him have the last laugh nor can you let him believe that he got away with discarding you so easily.

“I can’t truly have a future as long as he’s still out there.”

Bakugou grows silent once again, the natural red hues of his eye dull as the tears dry up and his lips drop into a slight frown. “Is that what you’re asking for?”

“Yes. It’s my final wish.”

And Bakugou just nods solemnly, he knows what this means for both him and yourself. It hurts him that you feel like you’d be unable to move on without this one final thing, and still, he must obey your final wish. After all, he wouldn’t be the Angel of Death if he ignored the plea of an innocent.

… Somewhere in the city, in an empty apartment that sits lonely. A white lily wilts, one of its beautiful petals curling as the decay spreads until it falls into the dirt below. A lily that once had three petals has been reduced to two as the Angel sacrifices his own salvation in order to save yours.

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