Archive of Our Own

Anthony hums to himself as his feet swing in the air. He'd been getting so bored in the house recently because Toshinori had been spending more time out as All Might for whatever reason. Anthony of course minded, but in a "I kinda want to hang out with my dad" way. He didn't say anything, though— being a hero is Toshinori's job. It's what he does! It's his whole personality, really. Anthony just tries not to put too much thought into it. But, being so bored in his own house made him regret jot asking his dad to hang out with him sooner.

He's started to be able to know when the air conditioning unit would go off, as annoying as that is. So, today would be the day that he finally got out and did something. Hopping off the swing of dark matter that he'd made in he and his dad's living room, he quickly used his quirk to grab his house keys and wallet. When he got to the front, he, again, used his quirk to get his shoes on properly and gave a soft smile to an older picture of his mother. His hands found his bangs that were more of a replica of his father's and he gave them a small tug before walking out the door. Anthony wasn't dressed in anything too extravagant. Some black sweatpants and a run down All Might shirt that he needed to get replaced.

Unlocking his phone, he tried to think of what he should do. Izuku's place sounded really fun, though he could probably pick up some "sorry" snacks for showing up uninvited. Plus, it shouldn't be too much of a worry. Inko loves him, and she rarely minds him popping in to hang out or stay the night when he's bored and when Toshinori's not around. So, he's off to the nearby convenience store to pick up Izuku and Inko's favorite candies. What he doesn't expect, however, is a hand to grab at him as he walks.

It doesn't really set off any alarms, because it's just a hand on his shoulder. But then the mood shifts. He looks back and the person's face says what words can't. Anthony struggles for a moment and tried to quickly pry their hand off, though it doesn't work. They're in a secluded neighborhood, and he wants to call for help. Cry out and scream because it's like he's too scared to use his quirk. His phone and keys slip from his fingers as he fights the hands that now hold him tightly in an unfamiliar and upsetting grip.

All it takes is a punch to the temple, and he hits the concrete hard.

Waking up again is a pain. There's a thick feeling on the side of his face, and once he gets past the blurring vison and blinding headache. He recognizes that he's in a room. His hands are bound behind his back, and his ankles are tied together so tight that he struggles to feel the circulation to his feet. He swallows and his heart rate rises steadily. There's a camera— why the fuck is there a camera?— and some water tray and there's blood on him and he doesn't know what's happening. He wants to whisper out words of disbelief, but he can't. He doesn't know why his voice has decided to not follow what his brain wants.

Anthony sits on the ground, mouth lightly gaping as he waits for something— someone to appear.

As he waits for Toshinori to save him.

The room is dim, any light coming from an unknown source. The red light on the camera blinks, signifying it being active. Watching. The room is silent and empty until it isn’t, the stillness of the air punctuated by the hiss of a breathing apparatus and lurking presence just out of sight.

He shakes in his spot on the floor, hands rustling against each other as he tried to active his quirk to cut whatever has his arms tied together. He takes a few quick breaths, like shots of air darting into his lungs to only be forced out instantly by the fear that swells up inside him. He forces his lips into a tight smile as he stares at the camera.

“This— this s'me kinda fetish shit? So-sorry, but- but 'm not too int-into being fil-filmed.” He tried to crack the joke, maybe to calm himself down. But it just comes out like he's holding back tears. The shake and heaviness of his voice. The panic, worry— the strain and need for everything to be some big fucking messed up joke.

The presence shifts, settling to sit behind the boy. A soft hum comes from whoever’s there, a hand settling on his head and gently running through his hair.

His eyes blow wide, and he becomes tense. There's visible fear in his sweet green and black eyes, and he attempts to pull his head away from the mystery hand. The feelings make his stomach ache and twist. The hand too kind and gentle for the place they're in that it makes the poor boy feel sick to his stomach.

“Ge— get y'er fucking hand off me-” He spits the words out as if they taste bad, heart now thudding so head he feels like his ribs are bruising.

“Oh, that’s no way to speak to someone who only wants what’s best.” The presence hums, hand shifting and grabbing a fistful of the boy’s hair to hold his head in place.

Anthony cries out and his eyes squeeze shut, tears welling up. The headache worsened to the point it felt like the figure behind him was just bashing his head in with a bat. “Let me go. Stop— stop touchin' m'fucking— hair-”

He jerks around, struggling to free himself as he feels loose strands pull away from his scalp. That's what really burns. “Get— away fr'm me- go- get out 'nd let me go!”

He doesn’t let go, leaning over slightly to properly look at the boy as he mumbles barely audible words. “Small. Weak, just as he is, though I expected nothing more. Pathetic.”

He's tied up, there's a camera, he can't move his body because he's being held still. His hands. Quirk. Quirk. Use it— but he can't. His throat feels dry, and, no matter how many times his eyes fly to either side of his face, he can't make out anything. He doesn't know what to do as all ideas fall apart right in front of him, the boy's eyes looking to the dirtied sweatpants he had on.

“Let me go.” He repeats, voice still quivering but also much louder.

Hostile.

The voice laughs, a hand moving to cup the boy’s face and grabbing it when he tries to move away. Nails dig into his cheeks and his head is turned harshly away from the figure. “You’re in no place to be making demands, my dear. I think you know that.”

My dear. The name makes him almost make him gag as he tried to not give the person the satisfaction of screaming out. No matter how agonizing it felt to have his cheeks pressed against his teeth and nails forcing their way into his pretty skin. Oh, he tries so hard not to cry but he can't help the small tears that well up. He gives the camera as much of a pleading look as he can— pained and fearful as Anthony's eyes beg to be saved.

He thinks of his dad and tries to calm down. Toshinori'll know that he's gone.

He'll be worried.

He'll help.

His dad's gonna help.

A hand moves away from his hair, running over his side and looking over the boy. “Not even a useful power, hm? I don’t know what I would’ve expected from a dud.”

His mouth opens, freed from the grip that held his jaw together. Anthony's quick to squirm away, writhing under the touch of the hand because it makes him feel sick. Disgusted to the point of actually spitting up whatever was in his stomach and having to swallow it back down.

“Stop-stop it. Stop touching me,” The boy begs quietly, tears springing to his eyes as he attempts to move away without becoming vulnerable and falling to his side. He does have a quirk. He does have a quirk but every time he tried to reach out for it, it wouldn't work. Like he'd be pulled away when it was so close to being in his grasp once more.

The voice hums, hands moving away for a moment as the nonexistent eyes glare at the back of his head. “Young, still. Older than when the hero scum started, but-”

A hand moves too swiftly to process, a sharp movement snapping a bone in the boy’s arm.

The pain lags behind the initial blow for a moment, and Anthony doesn't feel anything for a split second. And then he does. And it's fucking agonizing. The boy's jaw all but unhinges with the scream that gets loud within seconds. And then it shifts into a wail. Horrified screams that flourish with pain as his arm falls limply. It hurts even more since he can't cradle it to himself. Or let it lay limp easily. Steadily. Anthony's other hand jerks as an automatic reaction to grab at the injury, but that only makes it hurt more. He can't form words properly, too busy screaming is rapidly beating heart out.

The presence ignores the loud side-effects of the boy’s pain, continuing to speak mostly to himself. “Not nearly as resilient, it seems. But that’s alright. He’s stupid. It would be better for your suffering to be obvious.”

He grabs the boy’s unbroken forearm and snaps it too.

Bruising starts rapidly, forcing his skin into a disgusting purple-yellow with red blotching everywhere. The tears are like a flood that caused the damn to break— unstoppable with no force to hold them back. He scream-sobs at the pain in his arms and thrashes, kicking and screaming and sobbing as his knees jolt in an attempt to create enough friction to free his ankles.

The pain is literally blinding— the boy can barely see anything as his head screams. He doesn't want this to be real. This has to be some kind of hyperrealistic dream. The kind where he'll wake up screaming and his dad will rush in and reassure him that everything was fake and that it was okay. It's fake, a quirk, some kind of mental manipulation that makes him think he's feeling all of this. It hurts so fucking bad.

The boy is loud. Annoying. That was the point of this, but he underestimated how quickly it would grow irritating. A hand shoots out and violently strikes the boy across his face, then moves to clasp around his mouth and slam his head into the ground. The camera has a good view. He hopes they’re enjoying it.

Anthony's head hits the ground, and he's too dizzy to tell if there was a crack or not, but the warm feeling of blood pooling underneath his head wasn't all too fun. His body twisted and twitch and trembled. Landing on the broken arm didn't feel like any kind of good or happy feeling. The boy was dizzy, and his vision was spotting, and his poor hearing sounded muffled, but he still tried to kick himself away. Push his feet against the floor and drag his broken arm across it.

It hurts, but now it's just throbbing and numbing out. It more or less feels like his arms have simply been amputated. He's never broken a bone before, though he's definitely done dumb enough things that should've broken them. Maybe his death— or, should the word "rebirth" be used?— made him come back with bones that were better than before.

The man looks over the boy and watches him squirm like a deer caught in a bear trap. It’s cute, really. Adorable in a sad and miserable and pathetic way. Just loud. That’s the biggest issue. But shutting him up would stop the screams and the screams are a good part of the whole indirect torture experience. He sighs, pushing the thoughts to the side to ponder a solution to as he continues to keep his hand over the boy’s mouth, the free one moving and snapping both his legs in rapid succession. Moving too much. That’s an issue too.

He screams loudly— though, it's muffled by the hand that clamps over his mouth— as he acts as if he was drunk before and the pain had sobered him up. He wails and cries in a way that's humiliating to him. The flush of his face and how he hiccups. Vomit spurts up from the depths of the boy's guts, even though he hasn't properly eaten a meal in a while, and it suddenly coats over the person's hand and then spills onto the floor.

The twitches and squirming caused more pain to blossom everywhere. His whole body ached with a blearing pain. Anthony couldn't hold up forever. Not like this. He sobs at a deafening volume, praying and praying to whatever force can heir him to either be put out of his misery or for someone to save him.

The man pulls his hand away and flicks his wrist with a disgusted ‘tch’ to rid it of the filth. “Not nearly as tough as I expected. Spoiled, were you? No matter. There are other ways that won’t cause as much physical damage.”

Anthony gags as if he's going to vomit again, but he ends up just dry heaving against the dirty floor.

“Fuck'n' kill m' already,” He practically begged through broken and coughed out sobs.

Everything hurt in a way that was slowly becoming more of an issue to fix with however many minutes or hours, that it feels like he lies on the floor in agony. Writhing in pain and internally begging for some kind of fucking help.

“Oh, I’d love to, I really would. This is messy and you’re not nearly important enough that I would normally do something like this myself. I find no joy in your own suffering. I hate I have to do this with a camera. Would rather hear the others scream too. It would make this more worth it. But there’ll be pay-off in the end. I hope. Or else I’ll probably just kill you and hang up your mutilated corpse in a cell for a certain someone to see. But not yet sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m not.” He smiles to himself and hums.

“Y' talk a lot,” He mumbled softly, chest heaving as random parts of his body twitch as if being tugged by invisible hands. Anthony feels tired. The way the person calls him sweetheart makes him sick. Makes him want to puke more, but he just can't.

There's nothing left in his system. He was going out to get snacks before he was here— he hadn't actually eaten a lot on that day. Saturday. He wonders what day it is today. Was? That might be the right tense. He doesn't know if he'll make it out of this stupid room alive. Can't walk out. Or crawl. Not without a gross amount of pain that makes him beg to be killed.

“And you make too much noise.” He looks up, attention directed at the camera as his head tilts and he speaks at the unseen audience. “I could cut its tongue out. Would get it to shut up and would still cry. Maybe. Not yet. Haven’t heard it begging yet. Would you like that?”

The child bites at his bottom lip to the point it becomes stained with blood as he tried to muffle out the wails that slip past his lips. That try to force their way out, he means. Every moment that he's left alive is hell. He doesn't want to be here anymore. Mentally, he throws up his apologies to his dad and Izuku and Mr. Aizawa— to his friends and to his mother— but he doesn't know how to handle any of this. First time being kidnapped and it takes the worst possible route. How great.

A hand drifts to gently brush the hair out of the boy’s face. So sad and cute and pathetic. Reminds him of someone. Maybe if he’s broken enough, he’d be a good replacement. Another way to drive that hero bitch to madness.

“St—op…” He begs through a weak cry, attempting to mentally will the man's hand to leave him alone.

For the person to spontaneously combust so that Anthony could just be left to rot and die quickly. He shouldn't've left.

He's so stupid, he shouldn't have left.

He should've texted Toshinori or told Izuku.

He's so fucking stupid.

“Please... st'p touch'n' m'…” He mumbled over and over again between sobs and hiccups. Like a broken record that can't stop repeating the same lyrics.

“Why? I’m not doing anything bad.” Currently, that is. He gently wipe’s the boy’s tears away. Such sad eyes. They’d look nice in a jar.

“I hate you,” He whispered hoarsely, unable to even move. Squirming around causes an agonizing throb that crashes into his body. He tries to hold his ground on anger, but it crumbles so quickly and he melts into the floor in defeat.

“Please jus' kill m' alr'dy 'nd get it ov'r with,”Anthony begs, the words as raw as his throat. It burns to talk, to move, to breathe. He just wants a moment of physical peace again. Sleeping is an idea that draws him in with a more gentle grasp.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head to himself. “Oh, no, my dear. I can’t do that.” He takes the boy’s face in his hands, a seemingly gentle gesture to anyone who wasn’t the one subjected to the harsh grip.

Anthony follows limply with the hold, head picking up and dripping with a mix of oozing black blood and whatever he was able to puke up. Tears seemed to start to slow down, though je was definitely still sobbing. His arms flared with pain— the kind that felt like they'd just been broke all over again. He wants his dad. He wants All Might to come in and save him already and help him and take care of him and— and the poor sweet boy just wants to see his dad one last time because he feels like he's dying again.

The man hums, looking over the boy as the corners of his lips twist downward in a frown- not that it can be seen in this lighting. “Filthy. We should get you washed off, shouldn’t we?”

He doesn't reply right away, only able to bring himself to half-heartedly glare at the man who he can barely even see. The little boy's all but blind now, unable to make out anything past the black and red shapes and figures that overtake what's left of his horrible vision.

“I don'... wan' t'...” Anthony sounds pitiful. Broken with a raw voice and tears that stream down his reddened and bloodied cheeks.

“Should’ve thought of that before you made a mess, hm?” He straightens and reaches over to pull over the water tray that had been helpfully set nearby.

Fear flows through him as if replacing his blood, and he squirms and tried to lean away. Hands tired behind his back. His arms are broken and it hurts when his fingers twitch and his blackened nails dig into the once gentle skin of his palms. His breath hitches and begins to kick up again.

Panic.

“No- n'—no- no, please— 'm sorry, please— plea-please— no, no—” He begs as he tried to lean away from whoever holds him. It hurts too much.

“I know you are, sweetheart. You’ll get another chance. Maybe you’ll be better next time.” He grabs a fistful of hair at the back of the boy’s head, pulling him up and closer. A quick and violent movement shoves him into the water, chest hitting the side of the container and head held under. Ah, wet. The man sighs. This suit will have to be thrown out. What a shame.

Pain sprang up at his chest, and he twitched and jerked and tried to pull away. Get up from the fucking water and breathe properly because his chest knocking against the container all bit threw all the air out of his lungs and winded him. Be better next time— what the fuck does that mean? He can be good, but the boy doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know what to do to be good and be spared for just a moment. All the air is out of Anthony's lungs, and the boy can't breathe anymore. He can't breathe. He tries to inhale automatically, but water's the only thing that's shoved into his lungs. The little boy lurches forward and hits the container. He's going to die again.

The bubbles stop and all that’s left is panicked movement. He zones out for a moment, glancing at the camera. He’d better be watching. Otherwise this would’ve been a waste of his time. Oh, wait, how long does it take someone to drown? He frowns but waits a few moments longer before pulling the boy back up and grabbing his face to inspect. Still not clean. Can’t have that. He shoves the boy back in.

He wails loudly when he's brought up and is barely able to take a deep breath before he's submerged again. He wants to cry out apologies to the person. Beg to be left alone or for things to stop, though he knows that it won't happen. Anthony already wasn't too fond of water to begin with. He didn't like pools or beaches because he hated wearing swimsuits— having his head surrounded like this made him hate it more. His shoulders jerk around and the scream he lets out is just barely audible through the muffling of the water. Anthony just wants his dad. He wants help. He wants to be rescued and held or just killed and released of all this.

The man stares and counts to himself. Not that the number will help much. Everyone is different. It’s annoying. Why can’t he have a set amount of time in which it takes for the kid to drown? He has to be annoyingly careful. Can’t have him dying, despite the voices telling him not to move. To watch. To wait until the boy goes limp and cold. But drowned corpses don’t look like mutilated corpses and he prefers mutilated corpses. Scares people more. Oh, how long has it been? He would wait another minute, but the boy’s movements have gone sluggish and he can’t tell if that’s from exhaustion or lack of oxygen. He sighs and pulls the boy back up, checking his face. Clean. Good.

He comes up with a deep breath and a sob, trying to intake air into his lungs as he coughs out the water that had entered before.

“I'm— 'm sor— sorry- sorry, please- 'm sorry— please, n-n'more— please—” The little boy cries between coughs, the words exiting past his lips with panicked and strangled breaths accompanying them hand in hand. Anthony's poor legs burn with pain because of the way he's propped up on the broken bones, and his arms ache and twist with the way he jerks his shoulders to each side in an attempt to free himself.

“I jus— wan' dad,” He choked, head falling as much at it could with his hair being held.

“Do you? Is that what you want?” He laughs. The light on the camera blinks and every part of him is so achingly desperate to be sure the hero is watching. He’s putting on a show and his son is the shining star. He should see this.

He coughs and spits out more of the disgusting water he was submerged in. Tears blend in with the wetness on his face, and he feels weak. He's embarrassed and ashamed for falling apart so easily. Just like the man said before; pathetic. The boy's dad was All Might. The standards he held for himself were impossibly high, especially with the difference in power.

But he was still so distraught that he fell apart this easily. He feels cold. He wants a hug. Anthony wants to be warm again because the thin and worn All Might-themed shirt that's stained with blood and now smells like vomit does nothing to help him insulate.

“’m sorry- 'm s'sorry, I'll— s'- 'm good— I'm good, 'nd— 'nd 'm sorry, s' plea-please—”

“I know you are, sweetheart.” He gently cups the boy’s face in his hand. “Cleaner now. That’s good.”

Sweetheart. Sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart— that's what mama used to call him. But that's not mama's voice. Not her kind touch. Not her caring presence. It makes him sick. He tries to pull away from the hands that hold his face as tears flood over the ruined skin of his face. He internally pleads with the man to be left alone and forgotten and scrapped because that sounds better than anything he wants to do.

His hand shifts and grabs onto the boy’s face tightly, holding him in place as the other loves to gently run through his hair. “Now, I thought you said you were good. So why don’t you be a good boy and smile for the camera, hm? Because I’m being so nice now and I don’t think either of us want me annoyed again. It makes this messy. And then that mess has to be cleaned.”

He feels ill at the sweet touches that he doesn't want. He hates it. He hates the touch and whoever's body is attached to the hands. But little Anthony can't do anything. He can't fight, his quirk won't activate anymore. He chokes back another sob and nods, body trembling in a way that he can't stop. “Ok—kay- I c'n– I will.”

“Very good, my boy.” He hums, patting the boy’s head in an achingly familiar way. Hm. Wet hair. Ew.

'I'm not your boy. You're not my dad. You're not him— he wouldn't do this. You're not him, I'm not your boy. I'm not your boy. I'm not—'

Fresh tears fall as he looks towards the device with the blinking light. He can't exactly move his head because of the person's tight grip, but he does force a smile onto his face. Cracked lips that slowly start to bleed again turn up into the best smile he can manage.

The camera watches, remains focused on the two of them as the only sign of any activity is the blinking red light.

Wood splinters in his hands, drawing blood from his fingers and palms. It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t fell it. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Toshinori bites back a sob, leaning hard against the table as anger and hate masks his terror. Half-hearted promises of ‘We’ll track the signal’ and ‘We’ll find him’ shackle his feet to the floor, holding him back from shredding apart the prefecture- the entire country- in search of his boy.

Shouta's feet guide him over to the hero who cracks and breaks with every second that the little boy's pain is displayed for the group of heroes in the room. Plenty already had to leave at the sight of his arm initially snapping, and Shouta was plenty ashamed to say that he couldn't watch. But he listened. He listened to the agonizing cries of the boy and he could only take so much before he felt himself throw up in his mouth. Shame grabs at his heart as he appears by the blonde and carefully peels his hand away from the wood. The hero cringes at the blood.

“We'll get him back,” He says softly, hoping to assure him. To make a promise that he intends to keep. He opens his mouth to speak more, but the words die on his tongue.

“We will. We will.” Toshinori echoes like an empty cavern, eyes still locked on the screen that is only still in perfect condition because he’s stopping himself from shattering it. One For All is restless, crashing like ocean waves hitting a cliff, chipping away at the stone. Corroding the barrier that he continues to build up to keep himself from lashing out.

We will find him.

Alive?

“It's not your fault, Toshinori,” He keeps his eyes away from the screen. Shouta longed to wrap his arms around Toshinori and hold him tight and let him sob his sweet heart out. “It's gonna be okay, Toshinori. We'll get him back. 'S gonna be fine.”

He nods slowly, trying to focus on breathing as his throat closes up. Feels like he’s suffocating while his son is being drowned.

“I knew- I knew- She said and made me promise- and I fucking did it anyway. I wasn’t supposed to- Connections, and now he’s- my-” His voice cracks. His body is shaking. It’s not fair.

Your fight is with me.

Shouta stares at the floor blankly and lets his arms snake around Toshinori in a careful hold. Something much different than what the boy was getting, that's for sure. He doesn't understand what Toshinori's saying, but he nods along either way. “It's not your fault. It's not, I— I swear. 'S not your fault, Toshinori.”

But it is it is it is it is because Nana said- She said and he didn’t listen- Villains and evil and going after all that’s good just to destroy you-

Anthony only exists to suffer as All Might’s son.

Toshinori doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t cry. He isn’t crying. He isn’t in pain. He doesn’t deserve to cry. The suffering isn’t his. The guilt is what he holds.

“It's gonna be okay, I promise. It'll be okay. We'll get him back breathing and well and it's going to be okay. It'll be okay.” He repeats his words automatically and he reaches up to cradle the back of the blonde's head.

“Okay- okay.” It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Please be okay. He never should’ve- “Okay.”

Selfish.

It's days of nothing, really. The camera cut off and stopped streaming to the heroes in the room after being on for about five more minutes. On the first day, they still think they can find him quickly. On the second day, it gets tougher and it starts to a be a guilty hope that the camera will turn back on so they could know he was at least still alive and worth tracking. The third day passed by upsettingly quick, and there's still nothing. The fourth day is when something finally changes. The camera clicks on and the boy's seen again. But he's different.

He's different and it's in the worst way possible. His shirt was torn, and the sleeves seem to have been singed off. Handprints were burned into his now ugly skin, all along his arms and one particularly gross one on his side. The person didn't bother to lift his shirt to burn him, just forced the fabric to melt right into his side. His eyes are cold and dead, as if he were a corpse. Sadly, he wasn't. He was breathing laboriously, chest heaving. It hurts to be alive, and Anthony can't count how many times he's fallen back into the floor and groveled— begged to be killed and erased and freed of everything.

Toshinori hadn’t left the sight of the screens, despite the pleas of his coworkers to at least rest for a bit. Not yet. He couldn’t. There wasn’t anything on the screen. Not for a long while. He prayed that it was because there was nothing happening and not to hide whatever was being done. When it finally flickered to life, he nearly knocked over the table when trying to stand and look. He felt sick, blood boiling at the sight of the boy’s injuries and the figure lurking above him.

Anthony knows that he's looming over, eyes carefully boring into the child's injured figure. His legs are crisscrossed now, which hurts to an unbearable amount, and his hands are still trapped behind his back. His poor sweet heart races erratically, and Anthony tries his damndest to not visibly react when he recognizes the man behind him. He flinches, though. Shoulders ever so slightly tensing and his head ducks down with it. He's lost faith in someone coming to save him, because he can't even tell how long it's been. Your sense of time gets blurry when you're in a room where the light doesn't shift.

The man lowers behind him, gently setting a hand on his head. “You look tired, sweetheart. Hungry? I know you haven’t eaten in a while.”

Anthony knows not to deny. Do that and you'll be burned. Say no and you'll be struck. Shake your head or glare or scream too loud, and it's better to just hold your break and hope more chunks of hair aren't ripped out. So, the boy nods. Back and forth, automatically like some robot as he does everything in his power to not lean into the hand atop his head. No matter how much he needed the physical comfort, he couldn't take it. Not from him.

“Alright then.” He hums and drops a tray in front of the boy, the metal harshly clanging against the floor. On it sits what can only be described as a bloody mess. Beneath the shredded skin and thick red coat is the shape of an arm, hand attached with its fingers curled into a weak fist that might’ve been used to fight whoever had attacked (and possible killed) the owner of the limb.

He stares at the arm with eyes that widen slowly. He chokes and withholds a gag that almost makes him start to dry heave. Little noises of horror slip past him as he stares at the arm. He tries so hard to not cry. So, so hard. But it's difficult. It almost sounds like he's laughing. Strangled and spaced out giggles of disbelief as tears well up in his eyes.

“What... th' fuck...” His voice is hoarse and raw from all the screaming, and it cracks upon use.

“Oh, now that’s rude.” He frowns, tapping the boy’s shoulder in a way that seems almost mocking in comparison to other punishments he’s received. “Foods from other cultures shouldn’t looked down upon. You said you were hungry. Try it. I’m sure you’ll like it. You liked him, didn’t you? I think this one is called… Midoriya Izuku?”

(There was a flurry of typing, grabbing phones and dialing as he yelled. Check- please, check. Not him too. Not him-)

His face scrunches up as a sob makes it's was through. It's a guttural cry of pure dread and despair as he slowly falls forward with deafening wails. “Wh—at'd y'u do t'him...?!”

He ends up yelling, overgrown fingernail digging into his palms and breaking his skin. “Th' fuck 's wrong with you...?!” The screams and flurry of horrifiedwords turn into babbling cries and sobs and wails of agony and terror.

“Nothing.” He grabs a fistful of the boy’s hair and forces his head down, a wide smile pulling across his face. “You said you’re hungry. You should be grateful. I’m so incredibly merciful toward you. Now eat.”

He's already used to the hair-pulling, but what makes the boy sob harder is the smell. Flesh. The arm of the boy who he wanted to ask out. To love and care for and even marry if the feeling was mutual. And his captor is shoving his face into it and demanding that he eats. He doesn't know what could be worse— the punishment for not eating, or forcing himself to take a bite. Izuku's skin was much prettier compared to Anthony's now. Minor scars that the brunette thought looked cool, made him seem stronger. That were pretty. Adorable freckles that spotted all over. He hyperventilated as his jaw opened and hovered above the arm. He couldn't, he couldn't.

Not when it was Izuku. Not him.

“Oh, come on now. It isn’t that hard, sweetheart. It isn’t even attached anymore! And it’ll fill you right up and make you feel better. It’s what you wanted. Aren’t you hungry? And didn’t you want to see him again? Here, I’ll help you.” He violently shoves the boy’s face into the bloody mess. He looks up at the camera and waves.

The sweet talking makes him gag as the bottom half of his face gets coated with blood that isn't his. Anthony scream-cries as his teeth embed into the arm, more blood squirting out onto his face and making him cry more, but he can't bring himself to close his jaw and sever off the bite of meat. He's too disgusted with himself. He can hear Izuku and Inko crying out in pain and heartbreak over his actions and it makes the guilt worsen. He can't do it.

“Come on now, it isn’t hard. I told you, it isn’t hard. Just do it. You should be grateful. I do so much for you. Aren’t you hungry? Why don’t you just eat? I could’ve let you starve. I could’ve fed you something bad. Come on. Just eat it.”

It takes another moment of sobbing and pleading before there's a disgusting 'squelch' noise. Anthony lifts his head as tears mix with the red blood that coats his face and mixes in with his injuries and hopes that the bite would just be enough. That he wouldn't have to do any more of this.

He wonders why nobody's come to help. Maybe he wasn't worth it and the video was just for some sick kink or fetish that the guy had.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” He smiles and gently pats the boy’s head. “Still hungry? You should finish. There might not be more food for a while. I wouldn’t want you to starve, sweetheart.”

He feels sick at the thought of it, but he fears the repercussions more. There's a moment of horror where he glances to the camera with an utterly apologetic look and shamefully turns his head away to chew up the chunk of flesh as much as he can, let blood absently dribble down his chin, and then swallow. He stares at the arm and takes shallow breaths, tears spilling again. He lurches forward after a moment, gagging and coughing and then vomiting up onto the arm that had a chunk bitten out of it.

The man sighs, looking at the boy with disgust. “Do you understand how much I do for you? And you couldn’t even do as you were told? This is how you repay my kindness?”

“I couldn't— I can't- s'— can't. I'm sor'y— s' sorry, sir. 'M sorry- sorry— please- please don't— 'm so-rry—” He turns to the villain who holds him hostage, pleading wails leaving him with every cry and heave from his scared and bruised chest. He cries and whines and beg, head dropping as more sobs escape him.

“I know you’re sorry, but your words don’t matter. They don’t fix anything.” He takes the boy’s face in his hand, tilting it up to look properly at him. “You want to see your loved ones again, don’t you?”

Anthony tries to suppress the pitiful sobs that he lets out, nodding his head as his eyes dart around where he assumes the figure's face is. He tries to make it out through splotchy vision and the violent headache that disrupts his senses. The boy coughs up and more spit-mixed vomit spills onto his lap.

“I didn't— didn' mean t'do- t'puke... 'm sorry, dad,” The sweet little boy whimpers out the name unintentionally, too tired and nauseous and mentally out of it to realize what he'd said.

He just misses his dad.

“That’s alright. It shouldn’t happen again.” His hold on the boy’s face tightens as he slips something out of his pocket. “Now. Be a good boy and stay quiet.”

"Yes, sir," He whispers tiredly, giving into whatever punishment that he was going to be given because at this point he knew he deserved it. Large crocodile tears slip down his cheeks, but he does manage to stay a but more quiet than normal.

“Good, very good.” He smiles and pulls the boy’s eyelid open, pressing something cold and sharp to the unchanged eye before plunging the knife into the socket just underneath.

Anthony's jaw falls open with his scream, and his broken arms jerk and his wrists rub against the rope that ties his hands together in hopes to shove the blade away. It hurts and it burns and he knows he's unable to stop it. The boy doesn't mean to scream, he knows that he was meant to stay quiet, but he can't help it. The sobbing and deranged screaming as he attempts to pull himself away without killing himself.

Or he could just lurch forward. Take his own life and get everything over with. Not giving the weird kinky fuck anything to have later.

The man doesn’t let go, still holding on tightly to the boy’s face and twisting the knife around his eye. Hm. Not as easy as he was hoping. He’s never tried it himself before. He tucks the knife away and just tears out the eye with his hand, inspecting it in his palm as he ignores the tortured screams. Fading. The colors aren’t as pretty anymore. A shame. Maybe he’ll ask Garaki to try and fix it.

Tar-like, black blood pours from the emptied socket and slowly but surely cakes on his face. He screams and wails and fights to tug himself away as his wrist rubs against the rope to the point of blood dribbling down his hands. The boy's tied legs jolt out to kick the villain, though he immediately regrets it because he's reminded of the pain. The burning, stabbing, violent fucking pain from what's left of his bone structure. It hurts.

His shoulders go rigid with annoyance, clamping his hand over the boy’s mouth and slamming him into the ground. “Hush. Can’t you see I’m occupied at the moment?”

See. He laughs to himself at that.

The boy only wishes that it knocks him out instantly, but it doesn't. It just makes the headache worse as his head knocks against whatever the floor's made of. His eye finds the camera again and— oh. It can see him. He offhandedly wonders if he's still pretty as his mind trails to other things in an attempt to distract himself. Food. He really wants a real meal. Something American, or made by his mom or Inko or Mr. Aizawa. He wants to apologize to Izuku properly, to drop to his knees and beg for the, likely dead, boy's forgiveness. He wants a blanket. To be warm. Comfortable. To see his dad again and apologize for the mess he's made.

Anthony's so sorry for everything.

The man hums and looks away from the boy, back at the eye again. It would be a nice item to collect. Or maybe he’ll preserve it and give it as a gift. A charm on a dog collar, perhaps? It would be interesting to see the hero wear something made of his son’s body parts. Maybe some other trinkets too. Made of bone, perhaps. That would be fun.

“I hope your father likes jewelry, sweetheart.” He mumbles, not loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

Anthony curls into himself, whimpering and whispering mangled reassurances to himself because no one else would. Unlike the villain's mumbles, the microphone does pick up on his words. Pained sobs of his own voice telling him that it'd be okay. That he'd be safe and warm soon.

The days blur from there on. Anthony can't tell what happens. What the man does to his body, however else it’s harmed and cut and ripped and burned. But, then, something shifts. Something actually fucking happens.

The news had Toshinori not hesitating for a moment, throwing himself through a window that he’d have to pay to get fixed later and running across the city while running on fumes. Thirty minutes in total of sleep in a week, barely any food. It didn’t matter, in the end. He didn’t pay attention to much, except when the feeling of a pulse from the throat clenched in his hand stopped.

Anthony lays limp on the floor, hesitating before every breath he takes because it hurts so damn bad. The boy hears minor commotion outside, which causes him to curl up and attempt to hide further in the corner he was dragged to. He whimpers and flinches when some loud noise sounds out and causes his ears to start ringing. Well, ringing more. He absentmindedly wonders what's happening and if the villain was going to punish him for whatever was going on. He waits and waits for something to happen as he melts into the floor in pained exhaustion. He's so tired and so sick. He needs to sleep— that sounds nice right now.

It takes everything in Toshinori not to destroy the entire compound, instead tearing off door after door as he searches and searches and- there.

He cries softly, though it's clearly strangled and bitten back. He doesn't want anymore. No more blearing, mind numbing pain. Maybe today's the day he'll be killed. He mumbles apologies in a panic. Quiet, barely audible pleas to be able to be spared. It was a fight— whether he wanted to die or be left alive for another agonizingly long bit of time.

Toshinori feels his throat close up as he drops down next to his boy, One For All slipping and form deflating as he carefully looks him over and hesitates when he wants to reach out. “Anthony- Kiddo.”

He doesn't look up with excitement at the sound of his father's voice, but with fear and dread. Though, it's hard to tell. He's already tense and shaking, but his eyes would normally be his tell. Now, one eye just looked like a gaping hole and the other actually was. Almost half of his face is coated with blood, the lower half of his face that isn't coated with his own blood is stained red. There's tear-stains going all the way down, and his hair is matter with dirt and blood and puke. He'd have to get it cut off, which breaks the sweet boy's little heart because his hair was a direct link to what he had left of his mother physically.

Toshinori winces before quickly undoing the bindings on the boy’s limbs, fighting every urge to pick him up and hold him tightly because that might frighten the child who’d been manhandled. Instead, he carefully takes Anthony’s hand in his. “C’mon, kiddo, it’s me. I’m- I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

“D—ad...?” He questions softly fingers twitching despite how numb they were, and he tried to intertwine their fingers.

“'m so tired, dad,” Anthony mumbles out to Toshinori, unable to tell if he's fake or real. Too much pain that washes over him. Too much guilt. “'m s'sorry f' everythin', dad... I didn' mean t'... fuck th's up...”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, baby, it’s not your fault. I’m here now. It’s gonna be okay.” He takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm despite the injuries. “Can you stay awake a little longer? I just need to take you to check if it’s alright to sleep. Is it alright if I pick you up?”

“Y'g'na... get m'out...? Y' promise...?” He sounds like he's in disbelief as his fingers tighten and loosen. Anthony quickly stops doing that because it puts a strain on the injuries that covered his body. “Y'can pick me up... please don' drop me... my head hur's s'bad.”

“Alright. I promise, I won’t drop you. We’re getting you out. It’s gonna be alright. I promise, kiddo. It’ll be alright.” Toshinori carefully picks up the boy and cradles him, making sure not to jostle him too much so his injuries aren’t worsened. He wants to run as fast as possible, but forces himself to go slow and head out to the waiting medical services.

As soon as they reach emergency services, Anthony's quickly stripped from the blonde's grasp. The hospital is quick with healing him up when they get there, through it's almost a full day before his injuries are healed enough to move. There's a nurse that sits outside his room and writes off all the injures he has. The amount of broken bones and internal injuries— not to mention the psychological issues that the poor boy probably suffered— it made her gag a bit. The poor thing. She hears a knock from the other side of the door and looks up, holding the clipboard close to her chest.

"Toshinori Yagi...?" She asks, shuffling over to the man and patting his shoulder to get his attention. The poor man looks like he's about to fall and die. Was probably terrified for his boy.

He jolts and stands up quickly, just narrowly avoiding ramming into the woman. He isn’t entirely sure how long it’s been since they got there and the only hole he holds onto is the fact that they must be healing him well if it’s taking this long. “Yes, that’s- that’s me. Is he-? Can I-?”

“He's awake now, but there have been a few issues.” She swallows and tries to deliver the information calmly.

“Nothing's wrong with his healing process, he's doing fine aside from a few minor things we couldn't touch on just yet, but I'd just suggest to be careful,” The nurse clears her throat and walks him to the door. “His vision's still blurry in the eye that's left, so it's best to introduce yourself and make sure he knows who you are... and be very careful of his forearm. It was shattered— healing quirks couldn't help enough.”

“Alright. I- okay, okay, I will. Thank you.” He smiles gratefully at the nurse before stepping in, hesitating before lightly knocking on the wall. “Kiddo…”

The boy jumps a bit, sitting up with his hands in his lap. He doesn't want to ever have them behind his back again. He looks up and tries to focus on the figure in the doorway. The new eye-patch feels weird.

“Da—dad?” The question leaves his mouth in a hoarse voice. Hours upon hours of screaming in pain does that. “'S you?”

“Yeah, kiddo. It’s me. Hey…” He carefully steps over, sitting in the chair next to the bed and setting his hand next to the boy’s, not taking it in case Anthony doesn’t want to touch. “How are you feeling now?”

He's hesitant before he carefully grasps two of Toshinori's fingers. “I don't know. It's not... as bad 'nymore, but... not good.”

The boy was able to activate his quirk— he found that out after a doctor held their hand out and it made him panic— but he didn't want to for now. It felt useless that he had it and couldn't use it to protect himself. “It's hard to see... 's m'bad eye.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure it’ll get a little better soon.” Toshinori carefully holds onto the boy’s hand, focusing on not grabbing it too tightly.

“I keep on thinking 'bout the... 'bout ev'rything. They cut m' hair.” He's upset, and it's clear in his tone, but his face doesn't quite show anything. He sniffled a bit and tried to not let himself cry.

He'd get messy. He'd get in trouble. Get hurt or wake up there again or or or—

“I know. I know, I’m sorry- It’s okay.” Toshinori squeezes his hand, trying to distract him from panicking. “Look at me, kiddo, please? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s gonna be okay. I hope. Everything will be okay. You’re not there anymore. You’re never going back. I promise.”

He looks to Toshinori's face with sine kind of variation of heartbreak. One eye is patched over and the other's just cold. The boy's face holds a look of worry, and little scars are peppered on. Where his piercings were ripped out and forced to heal back up. The small bits of where All For One's nails dug into his face and ripped the skin on his pretty face.

“I don't— it hur's s'much, dad... I didn't mean to ruin ev'rythin'. I don't... you— I needed you s'bad. He w's right 'bout me.” The boy's head dropped, what was left of his hair falling down and covering his face as he turns away. He's not quite panicking, but he is upset. Distraught.

Traumatized is actually the right word.

“No. No, he wasn’t. He was just mean. He said terrible things and none of those were true.” Toshinori carefully holds the boy’s hand in both of his. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. If it hurts, would you like me to call a doctor for some painkillers?”

“No— no, n'more pills,” He shakes his head and his fingers twitch in Toshinori's hold. He doesn't mind the hand-holding, though. It feels comforting. Kinder than his. With a shake of his head, he carefully moves the arm that's wrapped in the cast and places the freed fingers he has over his dad's hands.

“I can't... I hate the beepin'... sounds like the camera.” He shivers. Yeah, no more taking pictures for a good, long while. “I don' like it here... too bright.”

“Okay. I can- turn the lights down. Hold on a moment?” He carefully moves his hands away from Anthony’s, stepping over to turn down the lights before going back to his son. “Better? I’m sorry, you have to stay here for a while. Just until you’re well enough to go home.”

His hands lay face up, and he nods his head over left and right. Just so that he can feel what it's like to move his neck around.

“Home's safe?” The poor sweet boy murmured, unable to talk any louder than that as his hands started clenching and unclenching around nothing. “I don't want to be here. 'S too loud,” He whispered out to the very quiet room.

“Home is safe. I’m sorry it’s loud. Do you want me to… I could get you some headphones? I’ll call and ask.” He sits back down, taking his boy’s hands in his again.

Anthony sits upright and still for a good moment. Peaceful and silent as he thinks for a good moment. He lets go of his dad's hands and uses his newly freed hands to move over slightly before turning over as best he can whilst ignoring the phantom pains that wash over his legs. Slowly, he leans forward and loosely wraps his arms around Toshinori, loosely trembling as he worried about making the wrong choice.

“’m sorry, dad,” He mumbles softly, sniffling slightly.

Toshinori hesitated before hugging the boy back, holding onto him tightly but willing to immediately let go of the boy didn’t want that. “It’s okay, kiddo. I promise, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s gonna be alright now.”

The boy's tense, ever so slightly uncomfortable, but he ignores it completely. Cause Toshinori's here— 

'You want to see your loved ones again, don't you?'—

and he promised that it was gonna be okay. Anthony's grip tightened around his dad as well, a small sob escaping from the back of his throat as he buries his head into the side of Toshinori's neck. He feels disgusting— the hospital gown he's forced to wear rudely shows off all the handprints that were burned into his arms, all the small cats and bruises for various torture methods that had become scars. The little boy feels tired, exhausted even. He needs to sleep. Properly. And figure out what the hell he's going to be doing with his life now that heroism's gone.

Toshinori hums softly, a tune he’d heard from Camile some nights. He can’t remember the entire song (that thought hurts quite a bit) but it’s something comfortingly familiar to him. Hopefully it is to Anthony too.

The cries come out again, but the boy can't place his feelings. He's scared, petrified almost, but he's also relieved. And shaken. And filled with too much mental turmoil to be considered okay at any variety. So, he slowly starts to let out more and more gentle cries after he's not reprimanded for the first one. His fingers pop and curl around the fabric of Toshinori's shirt. The tune is something he recognizes instantly, though he struggles to fully remember who sang it. Getting hit on the head so many times actually does have an effect!

Toshinori mumbles and presses a soft kiss to the top of the boy’s head. “‘M sorry, baby. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here now.” He continues humming, eyes staring unfocused at a spot in the distance as he rocks the both of them back and forth.

He bawls and resist the urge to crawl up into Toshinori's lap because he still can't move his legs without pain. Instead, he grabs onto as much of Toshinori as he can and sobs into his shoulder. He trembles in his father's grasp and struggles to breathe properly— he's wanted this. He doesn't know how long it's been yet because they wouldn't tell him the day but it's all he's been wanting. Cries on hiccups on choked out apologies escape from the back of his throat in a cracked and hoarse manner. He didn't mean to ruin everything and to fall apart so easily. Guilt runs through his veins as does the blood that's already there, as he can't help but internally beg and plead the universe for forgiveness for his actions.

“I l've y', da—ad-”He wailed, the cries probably being heard outside their room.

“I love you too. I love you so much.” He holds the boy and pulls him closer, careful not to jostle his injuries. “It’s gonna be okay.”

It has to. Let him get better.

Toshinori will give anything.

Let him be okay.