Her hands shake violently, bloodied and dripping down her sleeve. There's no way he's sleeping right now.
Unbelievable! He's totally unbelievable!
Each fresh cut stings with every small movement, so intense that she feels it in the vertebrae of her neck. She yelps and hisses, willing it away.
It's not her pain.
She calls and calls, tucking her hand underneath her arm with a grimace, knees bouncing so fast that her whole bed shakes.
"What the hell are you doing, Bakugo?!" she grits, tears pooling in her eyes as something… uncomfortable tugs at her body.
Like something's trying to claw at her.
The weakest she's ever felt, and the most broken she's been all her life, and she's dragging herself to her feet. Fumbling to her bathroom, holding her breath at her reflection, opening the cabinet behind the mirror and grabbing her first aid kit.
Maybe he didn't do it to himself. Maybe he's in danger. Maybe he needs help.
She could rationalize it a hundred and one different ways, all so that she has the courage to go and make it stop.
She doesn't have the energy to panic over why or how she can feel his pain. Why he has it. She feels about halfway ready to fall back down but she forces her feet forward, trudging across the halls to his room, taking too long to open his door again.
Even her wrists feel like they might snap in half with the pressure.
She has to use her whole body to turn the handle, and when she does she nearly falls in, the only thing keeping her up being the sight of him, too still, too quiet, too…
She drops to her knees, a sudden weight dragging her below. Her skin stings in the same place his bleeds, dripping into his bed.
God. God, please stop.
She presses her palms into the floor, curling her pinkies around her ring fingers. She cringes at the way her elbows threaten to buckle, but despite this, she crawls on hands and knees to him, each second leaving her more and more breathless.
She whimpers as a cold shock shoots through her arm. "Bakugo…" she moans, pressing her forearms into his bed once she reaches it.
Excruciatingly slow, she lifts herself up, mouth wide open in a silent scream as all the pain concentrates inside of her.
So she knows it's not her who makes the sound.
Another grunt comes from him, his face all twisted up and his eyes closed. She plops down, laying right beside him where his blood is soaked into his sheets.
She whispers his name, over and over, waiting for his voice to come back to her. And just like before, she cries.
She keeps crying as she recalls the night before.
A blurry remnant of a memory, the soul-destroying pressure on her ribs that she thinks may have pressed into her heart.
"Baku-" she sobs, reaching for his face, "gooo… wake up."
She rubs her palm over his cheek, turning his head to face her. Her nails sink into the side of his neck and she pulls him forward like that, until his forehead rested on hers.
"Wake up, wake up. Wake up wake up wake up wake up…" she whispers against his uneven breath, ghosting over her lips.
She shakes his head as hard as she can, but she can't keep going for long. Her muscles ache just from doing that and now she's whining, hot tears spilling down her skin.
"Stop hurting me."
And for once in her life, her prayer is answered.
It's answered with his eyes locking on hers, pupils so small they're barely there. Expressionless, for a moment, he stares. She doesn't breathe for that amount of time.
She's never seen him crumble.
His brows fall and scrunch together, his mouth wrenches into something pained. His eyes hit her in the gut and the brain. Then everything is numb except for her heart, so swollen with emotion that its beating is the only sound she can hear.
They lay in a liminal space, a making beyond them. There's the passive acknowledgement of something lurking in the corner. Something lurking in the corner. Somewhere.
And to cut through the haze, and so he doesn't cry, she leans in. She presses her lips to his.
She kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him.
He kisses her. And kisses her. And kisses her.
And he keeps kissing her, trying to drink her up, like she's medicine.
Hell, she is medicine.
"Mmm…" she moans into him, rolling onto her back and wrapping her arms and legs tight around him. Pulling him down and keeping him warm. Keeping him numb.
He groans as she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth. He presses his front to hers and wraps his hands around her warm thighs, and they're wrapped around his body, keeping him numb.
She's warm and sweet and soft and sugared tea, holding him so close that there's no air that hasn't belonged to her first. Candy dripping on his tongue, he slides his against hers and pulls her in even further.
He tastes his name and he thinks he says hers. He thinks he says her name, 'cause she's medicine and she's keeping him numb.
His hand burns on her hot skin, goosebumps rising despite it. His palm rough and pressed into her stomach, sucking her tongue into his mouth, his favorite kind of candy.
Powdered sugar and sugared tea and medicine. Strawberry, like when he was little.
Her eyes melt slowly like chocolate, barely opened and promising something he can't place.
"Katsuki," she whispers, and he kisses it away.
"Katsuki," she says, and he swallows it whole.
"Katsuki," she pleads, and his soul cracks.
His vision clears onto her twisted expression. Horror. Confusion. Longi—
He rips himself away, stumbling backwards until he hits the wall, banging his fist against it. "What the FUCK," he heaves, "was THAT?"
"Bakug—"
"Stop fucking saying my fucking NAME!" he yells from deep down in his gut, panic cutting through his veins.
"Shhhh!"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
The wall by her head is charred, and he doesn't know until she's curling up into the farthest corner of his bed.
The guilt fucking punches him in the gut and knocks the wind out of him. It sinks his chest like iron in water.
And that's how he forgets himself.
"I'm sorry," he utters. He's stuck in place, eyes wild and frozen on her, rocking and sobbing. It hurts his ears. It hurts his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
He finds himself walking to her, getting down on his knees in front of her. "I'm sorry, Ochako. I'm sorry."
He wraps his hands around her ankles, gently lifting a leg up and pressing his lips to her instep. He drags his kiss up to her knee before starting over at the other, so gently that he loses himself in it.
"Stop hurting me…" she drawls into her hands, and he hugs her legs to his chest.
"I hurt you?" he says, scrambling onto the bed beside her. He inches his face towards hers, begging silently for her to look at him.
"Y-your hand."
He looks down at his knuckles dumbly, the blood drying into rust. "You felt it…"
"Ye-ah," she hiccups, finally wrapping her arms around her knees. Her dried tears seem to shine. "I felt it."
"Does it still hurt?"
"No… not after… that."
Then her eyes level with his and it brings him back. It cracks the sick fantasies and it makes him fucking lurch forward, the immediate discomfort making bile rise in his throat.
And just like him, she's helpless.
"Something's here," she rasps, the air so heavy that he's ready to choke. "You feel it too, right?"
He stares at her blankly, wondering why the rage isn't building. She only blinks like she understands just what's going on in his mind, but really, there's nothing there right now.
She says his name softly and he cringes at the way he jumps.
"I came because I wanted to help you," she starts with a shaky sigh, looking down at her hands curled up in her lap. "I brought my first aid kit."
"Oh," is all he can say.
"Do you mind getting it for me?" she asks softly, her cheeks turning pink.
Automatically he stands and grabs the kit where she dropped it on the floor. Something foul turns in his stomach.
"Thank you," she whispers when he brings it to her side. "Is it okay if I…" she gestures to his hand, and he snatches it away, curling it so tightly that the skin is ready to rip over his bones.
"No."
She narrows her gaze and pouts, some cross look that's never come his way. "Can you just let me wrap it?"
Without a word he stands, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth might break under the pressure. He walks into the bathroom and rinses his hand under the water.
He stares at the ugly, faded, swirl of red running down the drain. Listens to her shallow breath even though he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to, but he does, anyway, so he stares at the shards of glass scattered around the sink instead, but he regrets it 'cause all he can see is some fucking lunatic staring right back.
He wants to puke.
He wants to want to puke.
He should be disgusted, or at the very least, indifferent. He shouldn't give a shit. He shouldn't wanna go back and…
Fuck.
He could feel her tongue on his still, something so definite and sure in the fucking fog of his memory. He can't believe it. He can't fucking believe it.
Heat pools past the twist in his gut and straight to his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights it, body too hot and his heart punching the inside of his chest. He'll kill it, he has to, he'll kill the feeling.
But his mind betrays him. 'Cause in it he sees her on her knees, eyes glazed over, mouth wide open—
"Are you okay?!"
"Get. Out."
His voice feels unnatural coming out of his throat, like he's been split into two. He can't choose who to be. He doesn't know who's really him.
He doesn't see her leave. He counts her steps as she walks, so delicate that they sound miles away.
He releases his grip on the sink, stumbling back and grasping at his chest as he gasps for air. He's gulping so much of it that his head spins, sweat rolling down his face, heat in his chest, sinking down his body, his clothes too tight. Something ugly and desperate clawing at his guts.
Fucking singing whatever semblance of reality he had, and then he's falling onto his knees, face pressed so hard into his bed because maybe if he holds his breath he'll remember himself, except he doesn't.
Her lips sliding wet against his, so fluid and open and sweet, spreading thick and sparking throughout his body. He tastes her and with that he palms himself roughly through his pants, fisting his sheets. Blood pumping so fast that all that keeps him on the ground is the relief that comes with touching himself.
In a second, his back is against the bed frame, his pants and underwear down past his knees, and then he's stroking himself from base to tip, each movement sending waves of electricity from the center out, the tips of his limbs buzzing.
He goes fast, fast and bordering on the edge of violent, the ache in his balls coming in and out. The noises come from the back of his throat, drawn out but also huffs and something that might sound like a name.
Her name.
His teeth cut into his bottom lip. Blood trickles onto his tongue.
He cums hard to the memory of her body against his, and only then does his head clear.
How fucking—
Disgusting.
That's how she fights the need deep in her belly, her whole body trembling with it. She fights it with shame, but it only seems to fuel it.
That's disgusting. Not him. Not him…
The adrenaline makes her body so hot, but it lets her reach her door without the pain. She practically throws herself in, rushing to soak her face in cold water, but it's still so humid even with the air conditioner on and the water soaking her hairline and rolling down her neck and then the smell of his sweat invades her senses, sweeter and smokier than she ever cared to realize.
It was like some sort of deep, ancient attachment ingrained her to him, a need so desperate that no words could do it justice.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back.
It was so indescribably awful.
So… disgustingly good.
She wants to retch or sob, or just float up into the air because gravity was doing nothing but crushing her. The aching between her legs hurts.
I need to. I need to. I need to.
She stumbles against the wall, her hair sticking to the back of her neck. Her whole body exploding from the inside out, slipping into lava, becoming a wildfire, gulping up all the oxygen and using it to burn.
He burns me, but it feels good. It feels good, good, goodgoodgood…
She slides down to the floor, her sweat-slicked skin skidding loudly. The back of her head spins, like she's swinging, but she's not really there to feel it.
If he was on me, we'd—
"UGH!" she grunts, digging her nails into the backs of her knees. Her legs feels so weak that she doesn't even let them fall, they just do, flat on the tiles and shaking.
She sobs wretchedly, trying to hate him. Trying to believe that she hated his touch, the pain in her center growing tenfold.
It wasn't him, Ochako, and it wasn't me. It wasn't me, we weren't in control, we weren't ourselves…
"I'm not me…" she whispers to herself before cutting her teeth into her bottom lip roughly, rolling her breast around in a single hand as the other slips underneath, where it matters, where she doesn't want it to matter.
She finds herself soaked and swollen.
All it takes is the memory of his lips against hers.
Her climax is so intense that her vision blurs and her toes go numb, stalling the utter humiliation from setting in. She revels in it for actual seconds before she slumps into a useless heap, her soul so sore that as she closes her eyes, she wishes she wouldn't open them again.
She focuses on the feeling of maybe her rib about to stab through her heart. Of the new bruises that will never heal. She leans into it, the physical pain nothing compared to the crushing weight of her failure.
A strand of hair grazes her cheek, like it was moving in a breeze. She topples over, sprawled on the floor, exhausted. Sick of being weak.
Sick of the void in her chest.
"Why him?" she says to no one, voice ruined. All the while longing.