#akuma.fics

The house is quiet, save for the rain, and the silence settles as a sickly chill under your skin. Taking your time to ensure your footsteps are quiet, you head towards the door at the end of the hallway. The normally innocuous door frame looms over you and you want to shrink away, go back to a time where things were okay. You place the tray on the small table outside of the room, fishing for the keys in your pocket. There are 3 locks; two require keys, while the other is an opposite facing deadbolt. You make quick work of opening them, daily practice rendering you nimble. With the door open and the keys back in your pocket, you grab the tray and push the door in with your hip, your stomach dropping and your heart fluttering simultaneously at the sight of Uraraka, still sleeping peacefully.

You place the tray on her bedside table gingerly, opening the curtains to her window afterwards. The dim, muddy light wakes her, her form stretching under the plush covers.

“Good morning!” you chirp, over enthusiastic as you sit on the edge of her bed. Her hair is messy, skin splotchy from laying in one place all night (you give her sleeping pills at night, and they tend to keep her in one place). She rubs sleep from her eyes cutely, sighing before speaking to you.

She hums in response. Even when she’s angry, she’s always so polite, sweet enough to offer you any response after what you did to her. Her gentle voice, no matter if she’s laughing or talking or screaming or crying, is music to you. The noise does more to set you at ease than you’d like to admit, her voice like stitches to your wounded heart. You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading over your skin. You love her so much, it’s why you do what you must to keep her safe.

“Did you sleep well?” you ask, as you do everyday, setting up her breakfast in front of her. She’s silent. You expect as much, yet it still stings, and you spare a glance at her to see an expression you can’t quite read and don’t quite like. That’s all it takes for the pit to return, guilt and remorse stirring through your veins. You can only muster offer a soft noise in response, sitting back with your own plate of food. You start first, choosing to focus on the flavor of the food, the softness of the duvet, the rain- anything but the silence. 

But it’s so difficult; you want nothing more than to be able to ignore her, to not feel so attached and needy and sorry. She burns so brightly, even when she’s upset, and you’re a moth to the flame, unable to look away for long. You don’t even realize that you’ve scarfed down half of your food, but it’s glaringly apparent when you look to Uraraka’s food to see it untouched, cooling rapidly. You glance at her face yet again, and her forlorn expression prompts you to break the thick silence.

“Does it still hurt?”

She flinches but doesn’t respond, hugging her arms to her chest and turning away from you. The rain is deafening against the window, and you notice you’re not hungry anymore.

“I told you I was sorry,” you say softly, eyes unconsciously darting to the bandages on her hands, trailing down to her legs, obscured by the covers. She continues to ignore you. You can’t take it, you need to hear her say something, anything.

 “You know I hate hurting you. I hate it, but you tried to run again. Why? We’ve been doing so good, I thought you were happy! I thought you finally understood! You have everything you need here, and even if you don’t, I can get it for you. I’m not even mad, not anymore, so please just-”

“Just let me leave,” her voice is hoarse, and you can see stray tears trailing down her flushed cheeks, pained eyes trained on your face. You swallow, using all of your willpower to turn away from her gaze. You stand suddenly, taking a deep breath before heading into the bathroom, grabbing the first aid materials you left in there. You make the executive decision that it would be better if that conversation never happened, so you pretend as such when you return to the room, replacing your somber expression with a warm smile.

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” you peel back the covers and take a look at her ankle. 

-

Her shin is twisted slightly straightened yet still awkward in angle, absurdly swollen, skin littered with large splotches of wine purple, faded blue, and putrid yellow bruises. It looks like it hurts, and you feel yourself deflate, guilt chewing at your insides yet again. You’d never meant to do this to her, but you had no choice. Last night, while you were cooking dinner, you figured you’d let Uraraka keep you company as you chopped vegetables, seeing as she had been extraordinarily compliant recently. That was a mistake, as you had to act quickly when you heard the screech of the chair pushed back suddenly and the loud stomp of feet against hardwoods. You caught her before she could reach the front door, threw her to the floor, and in your irrational fit of panic you stomped hard, once, twice, three times, over and over until the sickening, dull crunch of bone snapped you out of your frenzy. In all of your time with Uraraka, both pre and post living together, you’d never seen her cry quite like this. Her loud, pained, fearful sobs made your stomach turn, and no matter how hard you tried to console her, she wouldn’t stop, thrashing to get your arms off of her. She couldn’t move far, and so you had to wait and watch her writhe in agony until she tired herself out, chest heaving, face covered in tears and snot and drool. You helped her to her room and quickly wrapped the wound, leaving her alone for the rest of the night. You were unable to sleep, hunched over the toilet for the majority of the early hours due to waves of nausea, crying spells ebbing and flowing.

(The bandages on her hands are different. Ridding her of her quirk was the only way to ensure she’d stay put. You’d had a few drinks, taken the largest kitchen knife you owned, and did what you had to. The wounds were cauterized and healed, but you kept the bandages on so she wouldn’t have to look at the scar tissue where the last ligament of her pinky fingers were missing.)

You clean her ankle, gently caressing the distorted flesh with rubbing alcohol. She returned to her reticence, save for small (cute) pained noises when you pass over a particularly tender spot. You take solace in the moment, cherishing the chance to take care of her. 

(When you rewrap the wound, you’re deliberate in doing it incorrectly. It will heal, but it will heal wrong, and then she’ll have to rely on you to get anywhere. The idea is tantalizing, and you suppress a shiver.)

-

“There, all done,” you grin up at her, surprised to find her looking back, expression exhausted but aware, awake. You pack the materials up quickly, climbing back onto the bed. You take note of her breakfast, undoubtedly cold now.

“I can heat that up for you.”

“‘M not hungry.”

That’s that, then. You decide not to push, instead opening your arms in a gesture of peace, knowing how much she loves (tolerates) your cuddles. She gives you a scrutinizing look, before nodding once, the only invitation you get. You move the tray to her bedside table, quickly scooting next to her and wrapping your arms around her gently. She doesn’t quite reciprocate, settling for just leaning against you, but you’ll take anything you can get. Your nerves are set alight, and you vow to yourself that you’ll never hurt her again. You know you did the right thing, keeping her fed and pampered and safe. You’d make up for it, devote yourself to seeing her smile again, even if only once.

“You’re not mad at me, right?” you can’t help but ask, always seeking her approval.