Archive of Our Own

Something is wrong. 

Not in the stark, deafening way like a train crash, with its abrasive crunch of steel and the desperate squeal of iron against old tracks, sending sparks popping into grass—that's too much, too pretentious. Not like the type of wrong that occurs on the battlefield with collapsing buildings and rubble slinging across the streets and blood running in rivulets over slabs of concrete. 

That's the kind of wrong Katsuki is familiar with. 

This type of wrong is different.

It's the wrong that lies dormant in a volcano, pressure building underneath layers and layers of rock. It's subtle, patient—an assassin lying in wait, exhaling slow and steady, finger resting on the trigger, the rifle pointed at a faraway target. Almost deceptively tranquil, surface belying a chaos that roils underneath. 

This is a wrong that Katsuki is less familiar with. 

And it all starts in the breakroom at his hero agency.

To say everyone is tired would be an understatement. Exhaustion seems to be the more appropriate word, with zombie-like office workers and interns slogging around the office. Even Ochako, who’s visiting from her agency, appears slightly out of it, brows furrowed as she grips the handle of the carafe, gaze pinned to the coffee that’s beginning to stain the glass. 

“Oi,” Katsuki barks. Her gaze is unfocused, almost pedantic. His own mug is empty, drained in one swallow after a harrowing battle with words on his hellscape of a report. Normally, reports aren’t terrible; they’re tedious, sure. But dealing with a group of villains means extensive filing, and it’s almost comparable to pulling teeth. 

He’s tired. He’s pissed off. More than that, he wants a cup of fucking coffee.

Ochako doesn’t seem to register his presence, tilting her head to the side, as if listening for something. To his growing exasperation, her eyes flutter shut, and she tilts her head to the other side. The furrow deepens, skin puckering between her brows. 

“Oh, fucking hell,” he snarls, then reaches out and touches a hand to her shoulder, intent on shaking her from whatever reverie she’s lost herself in. Only, her reaction extends past his expectations, and she practically leaps a foot into the air, whirling on her feet to stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parting into a small ‘o.’ 

“Sorry!” she exclaims, and the carafe slips from her grasp. Luckily, their reflexes have been honed to near-perfection, and he grabs the handle just as she touches her fingers to the glass. For a moment, the pot defies gravity, like a paperclip wedged in his palm. Then, the momentum returns, and his arm flies back, coffee sliding over the rim to splash along his fingers.

Lukewarm.

“Sorry, sorry,” she repeats, scrambling to touch her fingertips together. The weight of the carafe returns to sit comfortably in Katsuki’s grip. His nose scrunches as a drop of coffee rolls down his wrist, and he sets the pot to the side and wipes his hand on a nearby towel. When he turns back to Ochako, she’s rubbing the back of her neck, brows furrowed in embarrassment. “I’ve been a bit out of it lately.”

Katsuki turns as he pours a cup, arching a brow. “Yeah, no shit.” 

If anything, her expression grows troubled. “You’ve noticed it too?” 

It catches him off-guard, and Katsuki gives her a once-over, checking her from head to toe for any signs of injury. All he finds is a pair of dark bags under her eyes—signs that point to all-nighters and microsleep. “Everyone’s noticed it, Cheeks.” He pauses. “You getting enough sleep?”

She blinks at him, then cocks her head. “What?” Before he can repeat himself, she shakes her head. “Uh, yeah. Sleep. That’s probably it.”

When Katsuki leaves, cup of tepid coffee in hand, he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

“Oh god, what is that?” Mina complains, pinching her nose as she throws the cup back at Eijirou, who shrugs before taking a sip. He gags and drops it immediately, clutching his throat as his cheeks bulge, before getting up and rushing to the kitchen. They hear him spit into the sink with a cough, followed by a series of retching. The room swells with disgusted, sympathetic groans.

“It’s not that bad,” Denki complains, picking up the discarded cup. He sniffs its contents, then snaps back, recoiling at the stench. Even the dim lighting isn’t enough to obscure the sheen in his eye, and he coughs, a hand flying to cover his nose. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bad.”

“That’s not a cocktail. That’s straight up gasoline,” Mina says, as Denki passes the cup to the person closest to him. Which, unfortunately, turns out to be Katsuki. Stomach churning, he doesn’t need to dip his head to smell the acrid waft of alcohol. The cocktail is pungent enough to stain the air, and when Eijirou staggers back into the room, he makes a beeline for the window, throwing it wide open. 

It’s evident that he’s cycled through all five stages of grief and has settled on the unspoken substage of regret. There’s a green tinge to his skin, pallid and strained, stemming from nausea and not from the array of city lights that sift through the open window, washing them in strange hues. 

With a groan, Eijirou settles next to Mina, who shifts an inch away. Weakly, he holds up a finger and jabs it toward Denki. “Fuck you, and fuck whatever that was.” 

Katsuki snorts in agreement. Having wielded pride and bravado as his sword and shield for years, he suppresses a visible reaction, save for a scowl, as he passes the cocktail off to the next person.

Ochako, the apprehensive next victim, takes the cup gingerly between two fingers, lips bowing between her grip. She hasn’t said much over the course of the evening, opting to watch the conversation bounce between their friends. Doesn’t notice Katuski’s gaze on her, watching her with that gut feeling that something is wrong with her. 

She’s been quiet, silent in a way that’s different from her usual pensiveness. Is she sick? Tired? Burnt out? Something about her disposition seems muted, the sun hidden behind a thicket of clouds. 

It takes him a while to realize that she’s not actually following the flow of conversation. Rather, she’s attending to social cues: she chuckles when everyone else bursts into laughter, she smiles when someone directs a teasing grin at her, she shakes her head when anyone points in her direction. All of her reactions—delayed long enough that only someone watching closely would notice. 

Though she doesn’t say or do anything, there’s a noticeable tension in her shoulders, neck craned toward the group. Corners of her eyes tight, lips pressed in a thin line, brows furrowed when she thinks no one is watching. Confusion, concern, and frustration appear in the cracks of her facade, thin enough to hide behind a tight-lipped smile. 

He watches her carefully through his periphery, pretending to watch the way Mina jeers at Denki’s shitty excuse for a cocktail or the way Eijirou sticks his head out of the open window, inhaling lungfuls of air to keep from hurling. Ochako brings the cup closer to her face and takes a tentative sniff. 

She pauses.

He waits for her to gag.

Instead, her brows furrow—whether through confusion or distress, he can’t tell—and to his astonishment, she brings the rim closer to her nose, inhaling deeply. Even next to her, Katsuki can’t avoid the sharp, distinctive odor of alcohol. In the background, Eijirou continues to swallow mouthfuls of fresh air, tilting his head back toward the open window. 

Ochako tilts her head, then lowers the cup to her lap, no longer masking the concerned lines etched across her face. Before he can stop himself, he reaches over and snatches the cup from her, then pushes himself up. She startles, whipping to stare at him, as does the rest of the room.

“I’m dumping out this shit,” he announces, grimacing at the cup. Denki doesn’t bother putting up a fight, shrugging and sitting back. Eijirou puffs out a relieved sigh, and Mina flicks her wrist with agreement, uttering, “Finally! Get rid of it.” 

As he makes his way to the kitchen, he feels Ochako’s gaze bore holes into his back. 

“Hey,” Ochako greets, slipping next to him on the bench. Katsuki eyes her warily, shifting over a fraction to give her some more space. Light dapples through the overhead maple tree, showering them in pools of sun. 

“How’d you find me?” He tips his coffee one way, then another, feeling the weight of the cup shift between his palms. He’s not hiding, per se, but the nearby park has always been the best place for him to escape the monotony of office life. Patrols begin in half an hour, and he’s just beginning to recover from the headache of sifting through various villain reports to take down a growing gang.

Ochako gives him a curious look, as if the answer is obvious to everyone but him. It takes her a moment to respond. “You’re always here when the weather’s nice.” 

An older couple passes them, arm in arm, and without his hero suit to identify him, neither pays him much attention outside of a greeting nod. It’s another reason he chooses to rest in the park—hiding in plain sight allows him to take a moment to breathe from the rush of hero life.

“Well, don’t tell anyone else, Cheeks,” he grumbles. “Don’t need the interns harassing me out here.” 

She leans in close, expression limpid with amusement. “Oh, they know too. They’re just too scared of you blowing up at them in public. Who knew the great Dynamight was such a recluse?” 

Pointedly, he ignores her teasing, and part of him wonders if she’s gotten over whatever it is she’s had over the past few days. Those hopes are dashed when she shuffles back and twists to face him, pulling a leg onto the bench. “Actually,” she starts, “there’s something I wanted to ask you.” 

Interest piqued, Katsuki twists to mirror her, coffee forgotten as he watches her reach into her bag, rummage around its contents, and pull out a block of…half-eaten chocolate? 

As if sensing the question forming at the tip of his tongue, Ochako holds up a finger, motioning for him to wait. “Just—it’ll make more sense in a second.” 

He can’t help himself. “I don’t like sweets,” he grumbles, still put off knowing that the interns have figured out his resting spot. 

She pauses in peeling the foil to give him an exasperated look, and he holds up both hands in mock placation, barely catching the way she rolls her eyes, before directing his attention to the rest of the park. 

Nearby, a mound of dirt foams with ants. A brush of wind sweeps across the park, whispering secrets between leaves. The bench trembles to the rhythm of Ochako's leg, restless as her heel raps against asphalt. 

“Here.” A block of chocolate appears under his nose, and on impulse, Katuski rears back, not before getting the sickly sweet whiff of cocoa. His nose scrunches, but Ochako is relentless, pushing it into his hand. “Try it.”

“I don’t like sweets,” he repeats, moving to return the block, but Ochako pushes it back at him. Exasperated by this mini game of back and forth, he relents and pulls it to his face. Hesitant, he sniffs it, then catches the barest hint of something different. Something strong.

Ochako watches him intently. Expectantly.

He takes a bite.

That signature taste of chocolate blooms on his tongue, and he grimaces. Then, his tongue begins to burn—it’s a slow fire, an ember that starts at the tip and travels back, faster and faster until a wildfire consumes his mouth. To others, it’d be unbearable. To Katsuki, it’s a pleasant sort of surprise.

“Spicy chocolate?” he asks with a small cough. 

Ochako nods. “Is it spicy? Does it burn?”

The wildfire intensifies, and he half-expects smoke to billow from his next breath. “No shit. What pepper did they use?” 

Instead of answering, she turns to stuff the rest of the chocolate in her bag. Strangely, it’s as if all the fight has leached from her shoulders, defeat replacing insistence, and she pushes off the bench. 

As she stands, Katuski shoots forward and grabs her wrist. “Oi. You said it’d make sense.” He tugs her back down, and she slumps in her seat. “So, make it make sense.”

For a moment, Ochako remains silent, contemplative. 

The wildfire subsides into a campfire as Katsuki waits. 

Finally, she relents. “Something’s wrong,” she admits. Reluctant, as if she’s speaking an omen into existence. Troubled, she fidgets with the strap of her bag, biting her bottom lip. Her gaze lingers on the anthill, thoughts a million miles away.

Katsuki scoffs. “No shit. Still not getting enough sleep?” 

Ochako shakes her head, lips bruised raspberry red. “No, it’s not that.” Her fingers twist around the strap, tangling it between her hands. “That was the spiciest chocolate the shop had in stock. Mina and Tsu refused to try it. Eijirou needed four glasses of water, and Denki nearly passed out from the spice. You—you like spice anyway.” 

Katsuki nods slowly, not sure where she’s directing the conversation. It’s well-known that out of all of their former classmates at UA, Katsuki has the highest spice tolerance, a fact he quietly wields with pride. 

With a deep breath, Ochako straightens and twists to face him, gripping her bag tight enough that her knuckles pale with strain. “I couldn’t taste it.” 

Katsuki blinks. 

“I can’t really taste anything.” She swallows heavily. “I mean, I still taste small hints of sweet and spicy, but it’s muted. The same is happening to my hearing and smell—it’s as if I’ve been dunked underwater. If I concentrate hard enough, I can make out what someone is saying or what something tastes like—”

“What about the other two? Your sight? Touch?” Katsuki probes. What she’s saying makes sense: it would explain the coffee incident and why she couldn’t smell the hazardous cocktail Denki had created. 

Another pause.

“They’re fine.” She tilts her head up and gazes at him for a long moment. Katsuki stares back, refusing to back down from a challenge, no matter how small. One heartbeat passes, then two. Three. Long enough that the first signs of self-consciousness begin to creep down the nape of his neck, webbing across the knobs of his spine. Then, Ochako sits back and nods, hints of a flush dusting the highs of her cheeks. “Yeah, they’re fine.” 

Internally, he shakes off the moment, letting it sluice off him like water. “Have you gone to your doctor?” 

At that, her expression grows sheepish, and she shakes her head. “Not yet. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of sleep or a deficiency, so I wanted to test a few things out before making an appointment. Though, now I’m pretty sure it isn’t a sleep deficiency.” She scratches the back of her head. “Anyway, the clinic managed to squeeze me in next week.”

Next week feels like an eon away, and the answer doesn’t satisfy him. Still, there’s not much he can do, so he harrumphs his disapproval, turning his glare toward the rest of the park. With the news weighing on his shoulders, it no longer feels as beautiful, as peaceful. 

A tentative touch on his arm draws his attention back to Ochako. “Hey, can you keep this between the two of us?” She takes a deep breath. “The fewer people who know, the better. Right now, only you and Tsu know, and I don’t want it to get back to the agency.” 

Katsuki remains silent as he slides his gaze toward her, mulling over his answer long enough that Ochako grows antsy. “Your appointment is next week?”

She bobs her head and drops her hand. “Early next week.”

With a sigh, he cards his hand through his hair. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone else.”

They’re in the middle of battle when a piercing scream ricochets between the dilapidated buildings. Katsuki’s blood goes cold, and he throws out a hand, sending a wild explosion from his fingertips. The villain cries out, thrown back by the force of Katsuki’s offense, and slams against the opposite wall. 

Katsuki doesn’t bother to check whether the villain survived the detonation, aiming his gauntlets at the ground and propelling himself into the air. Smoke fills his vision, searing and acrid, as he aims for the direction of the scream. Though he’s heard many in his career, this one is different. 

This one belongs to Ochako.

His mind is a hive of thoughts, frenzied and panicked, as he shoots between buildings, leaving detonations and crumbling buildings in his wake. As he cuts through the smog, he’s reminded of their conversation.

Your sight? Touch?

They’re fine. Yeah, they’re fine. 

What if…? 

The possibility crosses his mind, and his explosions intensify, hurling him faster until the wind slices his cheeks with ice-cold tendrils. Adrenaline and concern fuel his race against time. When he rounds the corner, a flash of pink and green enters his periphery, and he drops from the air, kicking off a brick wall and rolling to a stop. He’s up in an instant, blasting the debris blocking his way. 

The rubble clears to reveal Tsuyu, along with another villain gang member lying unconscious at her feet. She heaves with exertion, wiping the dust from her face. At his rapid approach, she stiffens, tongue flicking, before she registers that it’s him and not another villain. 

“Where is she?!” he shouts. Tsuyu understands immediately, pointing behind her. Part of him wants to continue shouting at her, berating her, but the other part of him knows she’s scouring their environment for any lingering villains before tending to Ochako. Underneath her determination, he recognizes the flicker of conflict—that instinct to abandon the battlefield and give all her attention to her injured friend.

Katsuki dashes past her, blinking away the sting of dust and ash from his eyes. Frantic, he searches through the layers of grey—grey debris, grey buildings, grey boulders—for any signs of movement. It doesn’t take him long, and he immediately hears a ragged series of gasps from his left.

Ochako lies among a bed of broken glass, shards strewn around her curled body. A broken frame sits nearby, wood splintered into three. As the sun glides behind the overcast, the glass glimmers, and Katsuki has the sick thought that she resembles a broken angel. 

His heart plummets, chest hollow, when he catches another wet sob and a pained wheeze. Within a fraction of a second, he’s crouching by her side, boots crunching the glass under his soles. She hears him before he can place a hand on her shoulder, and her arm flies out, fingers splayed and ready to launch him into orbit. 

Prepared for her defense, Katsuki grabs her wrist before she can touch him, restraining her as he shouts, “Cheeks—Ochako, it’s me! Katsuki!” 

She continues to fight him, but no longer curled in on herself, he notices that her other arm is bent at an unnatural angle. His heart curdles in his stomach, and he remembers that in her current state of adrenaline and panic, she won’t be able to concentrate enough to hear him. 

“It’s me!” he bellows, loud enough that his voice echoes down the ravaged streets. Her eyes widen, and her arm goes slack as she stops struggling. 

“Katsuki?” she tries timidly and turns to face him. Turning, she exposes the cuts on her cheeks, the tear and gash that line her broken upper arm. The rage that fills his belly is white-hot and all-encompassing, and he fights the urge to hunt everyone in this villain gang and paint the ruined streets with their blood. 

The only thing that stops him is Ochako pulling herself from his grip and reaching to grasp his arm. “I didn’t see him,” she whimpers, half-manic with shock. “All of a sudden, it got dark, and I just—I couldn’t—I can’t—I can’t—” 

I can’t see.

It takes a moment for him to process the development, and he moves to stare at her. Slowly, he realizes that though she’s turned toward his general direction, her gaze extends past him, as if searching through a fog. 

Swallowing heavily, he leans in close, hoping she can still hear him. “I’m going to pick you up, okay? This is going to hurt.” Her gaze rests on his chin, unseeing, and slowly, she nods. 

He slips one arm under her shoulders, taking care not to brush against the gash, then slips the other under her knees. Hoisting her up, he tries not to jostle her too much, but her broken arm slips from her chest to hang limply, and he hisses at the psychosomatic pain that runs down his own arm. 

“Fuck, sorry.”

Ochako blinks. “For what?” Nothing in her expression reveals any pain she might be feeling at the moment, save for confusion and fear on her brow. Her fingers slacken on his arm and fall to cradle her stomach. A creeping dread runs down his spine, black frost weaving across his bones, and he purposefully grazes a finger against her cut. 

She doesn’t react.

There’s no other explanation, no denial of the situation unfurling like a rotting flower before his eyes. 

Katsuki had suspected the worst, and the worst has come to fruition: Ochako is losing her senses.

“Hold on tight,” he warns, then takes off. As he passes Tsuyu, he shouts, “Call Red Riot for backup!” 

The trip to the hospital is excruciatingly long. Without Ochako’s ability to hold onto him and her broken arm, he can’t travel by air. She remains silent as he makes his way to the hospital, pausing once in a while to check their surroundings. 

At one point, he hears the hum of her voice and glances down in time to see her lips shape around a word. She’s quiet, as if whispering a secret. He pulls her up, closer and closer until her breath scatters across the shell of his ear. Faintly, just above silence, he hears her rasp under her breath, “Quirk.”

His fear and concern grow enormous, staggering to uphold. If she’s losing her senses, who’s to say she won’t lose her quirk as well? 

Compared to the battleground, the hospital lights are blinding, its walls plastered with candy-colored posters that promote healthy habits and attempt to raise the somber mood. They blur as Katsuki yells for a doctor—any doctor—because a hero is hurt. 

Because Ochako is hurt. 

Ash trails in his wake, leaving grey streaks along her sheets as the nurses wrangle her body into a gurney, ignoring the way he hollers at them to be careful with her broken arm. A doctor materializes next to them, directing them down the hall, and swept into a flurry of adrenaline, Katsuki follows suit, one glove hooked around the rail.

“Something’s wrong with her—”

The doctor ignores him, scanning Ochako’s battered body, and notes, “Broken arm, likely humerus. Check her blood pressure and for any signs of a concussion, and give her a full body check-up. Notify Uravity’s agency that she’s been admitted into the emergency room—”

“Goddamnit!” Sparks fly from Katsuki’s fingertips, harmless but effective in startling the staff. The doctor falters, incredulous as he moves his gaze to Katsuki. “Listen to me! Something’s wrong with her, not just with her broken arm but with something else.” 

Though irritated, the doctor motions the staff to continue without them, and he whirls on his feet to regard Katsuki. “As is protocol for all pro-heroes admitted to the hospital, we’ll do a full check of her body. Her broken arm and the tear will be healed immediately, and we’ll check for any neurological damage if she’s sustained any trauma to her head. She’ll be out by tomorrow evening.” 

Katsuki pushes his hair back with a frustrated huff. “I know your fucking protocol! It’s not just that—she’s losing her senses.” 

That piques the doctor’s interest, and his irritation melts into intrigue. Katsuki sends a mental apology to Ochako as he breaks his promise to her. 

“It’s not gradual either. It’s been happening throughout the past two weeks. She can’t really hear, smell, or taste—I don’t know to what degree at this point. When she told me the first time, she said everything was pretty faint. After today, I’m pretty fucking sure she can’t see or feel anything either.” 

He takes a deep breath and continues, “We don’t know what’s wrong with her—she doesn’t know either, so in addition to her physical scan, you should check her quirk. That’s the last thing she said to me before we got here. If she’s losing her senses, she may be losing her quirk as well.”

The doctor nods, thoughtful as he absorbs this information. “Thank you for telling us,” he says, now troubled. “We’ll keep that in mind with the MRI scan and check on her quirk. Is there anything else we should know?”

Katsuki pauses, then shakes his head, clenching his jaw in frustration. If only he knew more, if only he’d paid closer attention, then maybe he’d have something more helpful on hand. 

The doctor thanks him again, and with a flourish of his white coat, disappears around the corner. 

To say the wait is horrendous would be an equally horrible understatement.

Katsuki paces a trench through the waiting room, unable to remain seated for more than a few minutes at a time, leg bouncing up and down as he tries not to let his mind spiral and muck through various worst case scenarios. He throws his gauntlets onto a seat, barely aware of the heavy thud it makes and how it causes the young woman seated nearby to move to a different row of seats. Running his hands through his hair, he swears a blue streak under his breath, punctuating each fuck with growing intensity. 

The nurses and receptionists watch him in trepidation, wary of his restless distress and hairpin temper. With his swelling agitation, the room seems to get smaller and smaller, claustrophobia and concern threatening to choke the air in his throat. Finally, one of the nurses musters up the courage to offer him a bottle of water, holding it out with both hands and outstretched arms. 

His pace falters into a slow stop, and pausing, he eyes her bright pink scrubs, the infinitesimal way she trembles, before sighing in resignation and taking it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

After that, it’s as if the waiting room has released a breath, tension escaping through the sliding doors. Patients come and go, and the number of families and friends ebb and flow with the course of the day. When Katsuki glances outside, it’s to find a darkened sky, the final sliver of a hidden sun sinking into the skyline. 

A plastic bag swings into view, and he finds Tsuyu standing before him, still in her hero suit and caked in dust. Beads of sweat carve small rivulets down her face, but she appears unharmed. Merely tired. 

Wordlessly, Katsuki takes the proffered bag and falls into the seat next to his gauntlets. Tsuyu joins him, and the harsh fluorescent lights draw weary lines around her eyes. She shuts them, resting with a deep breath, as if one great exhale will be enough to wipe away the remnants of the battlefield, to recalibrate from the day’s events.  

Katsuki watches her for a heartbeat, then glances inside the bag to find an assortment of snacks. He sifts through a selection of sandwiches, potato chips, and fruit. Before he can select one, Tsuyu reaches into the bag and pulls out a box of strawberry Pocky. 

“Those are for Ochako,” she says softly. “For later.” He watches her set the box to the side, and she continues, as if she can feel his gaze on her. “You should eat.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps. Anxiety suppresses his appetite, and at random, he selects an apple. It’s sweet, erasing the light taste of copper from his tongue, his stomach whines in protest. Belatedly, he realizes that this is his first meal of the day. “Thanks,” he grumbles, and Tsuyu hums as she unwraps a sandwich.

They eat in silence, watching the next batch of nurses settle into the evening shift. A few of them nod at them in recognition, whispering amongst themselves and staring at their grimy clothes. Katsuki returns them with a shallow bob of his head while Tsuyu gives them a deeper nod. 

When Tsuyu finishes, she primly folds the wrapper into three before crumpling it into a fist. She doesn’t look at him, gazing at the row of seats across from them. “How is she?”

Katsuki twirls the core between his fingers, and his brow twitches at the question. “They’re taking care of her.”

A pause. Hesitant. Quiet.

“Do they know?” 

He experiences a brief streak of panic, and it takes him a moment to remember that he’s not the only one who knows Ochako’s secret ailment. He exhales, swallowing the sparrow in his throat. “Yeah.” 

Tsuyu hums. “Good.” Another beat passes before she tries, “Did she…” 

Katsuki waits.

She takes a deep breath, dropping her gaze to her lap. “What do you think is causing this?”

“Fuck if I know,” is his automatic response, and his answer reignites the unbridled fury that sparks low in his belly. It takes a few deep breaths to rein in that anger, jaw working as he clenches his teeth. “She didn’t say. She just told me she couldn’t hear, smell, or taste much anymore. I’m pretty fucking sure she can’t see or feel at this point—that’s the whole reason we’re here in the first place.” 

Tsuyu’s hand flexes against her lap, curling into a fist before releasing and splaying all of her fingers over her knee. She appears calm, expression cool as water, but moments like these reveal the hairline cracks that expose the depths of her frustration, her anger. Nothing like Katsuki’s explosive nature. 

Katsuki has never been able to read her the same way Ochako can, but now, they sit on the same side of this rusty, beat up coin—with a friend they care deeply about in the hospital and a crippling sense of helplessness.

Tsuyu puffs out a quiet sigh and squeezes both hands, crumpling the wrapper in her palm. “She didn’t say anything to me either.” She hesitates, and her silence speaks volumes, loud enough that it draws Katsuki’s gaze to her face, searching for any signs of her unspoken words. “I visited her at the agency a few days ago to bring her some lunch and check up on her, but she was busy. One of the interns said that she’d requested her old case files from a few weeks ago. At the time, I had assumed that her current report was tied to a few past cases—I mean, we’ve all had to refer back to older cases—but—I don’t know.” 

“Quirk foul play,” Katsuki summarizes. His mind latches onto the possibility: if it’s not something biological, then that’s the only explanation that makes sense. When she’d uttered, “Quirk,” it wasn’t to tell him that she might be losing her quirk—it was to point him towards the cause. If Ochako suspected that a villain was the culprit of her condition, it would explain why she asked for her old case files. “You think one of her old cases caused this sensory deprivation?”

She shakes her head. “Not a super old case. I think it might’ve been a case from a few weeks ago, not even one month out. The prison was in the process of sending her the files, but I don’t know if she ever received them. I think she may have some in her office. Also, there’s not enough research to support lasting quirk effects since most of them take effect immediately, but there are quirk effects that can manifest belatedly. I don’t know if that’s what’s causing this, but—”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Katsuki finishes, leaning back with a deep exhale. Mentally, he sifts through the cases Ochako has mentioned: a string of robberies, a kidnapping, a gang of juveniles terrorizing the community—nothing prominent comes to mind. As he mulls through the cases, he turns to her. “Has she told you about any of her cases in the past month? Anything that might stand out?” 

They compare notes. 

Katsuki borrows a pen and notepad from one of the nurses, and Tsuyu pulls up her texts with Ochako. She scrolls through their messages, listing out crimes that Ochako had mentioned in passing. Katsuki compounds his own recollection into their notes—comments or complaints he’d heard across the agency while working in his office or taking coffee in the breakroom. 

Submerged in their research, they jump when interrupted by one of the nurses. “The doctor would like to see you.” Her words send a jolt through Katsuki’s body, electricity branching across his muscles.

Within seconds, they’re on their feet. As they follow the nurse down the barren corridors, the sound of their footfalls echo between sterile walls. Trepidation and apprehension trickle into an unpleasant swirl, sinking into the pit of his stomach like a stone. The atmosphere grows dense, hanging over them like a grim overcast. 

When they reach the room, the nurse pulls open the sliding door, releasing the soft clicks and whirs of multiple medical devices next to Ochako’s bed. Katsuki is the first through the door, heart thrashing in his throat as Ochako comes into view. Within seconds, he’s next to her bed, Tsuyu close at his heels, as they take in Ochako’s state. 

Pallid. Still. Silent.

Barely a rise and fall to her chest.

One could’ve mistaken her for being asleep. 

Another could’ve mistaken her for dead.

The doctor turns at their arrival and motions for the nurse to slide the door shut behind them. He gestures to the small couch nestled in the corner of the room, then drops his hand when neither Katsuki nor Tsuyu budge from their spot next to her. He sighs, pinching the skin between his brows, before flipping through his clipboard.

“She’s currently stable,” he says. “Due to the nature and severity of the situation, all of her physical injuries have been healed, including her arm and one of her ribs, courtesy of a healing quirk. This also means that whatever neurological injuries she might have sustained would’ve been healed as well.”

Katsuki lifts his head. “Would’ve?”

The doctor nods toward Katsuki, and his lips thin into a concerned line. “You were right. There’s something wrong with her that can’t be explained.” 

Katsuki shares a look with Tsuyu, the same thought running between them: quirk foul play. Then, moves his attention back to Ochako, scanning her face, waiting for her eyes to flutter, her nose to twitch, her lips to part—anything to signal a semblance of life.

The doctor continues, “We’ve given her an MRI scan, and neurologically, everything is fine. If there was any damage to her brain, it would’ve been healed. All of her senses should be functioning properly, but they’re not. We’ve taken some blood samples, and we’ll run a few tests, but the results won’t be available until tomorrow. Even then, I doubt that we’ll find anything of substance.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Katsuki snarls. Tsuyu raises a trembling hand and brushes back a lock of Ochako’s hair. 

With a purse of his mouth, the doctor exhales deeply. “There have been cases of people losing their senses; however, this only applies to one or two senses, at most. I’ve never encountered a case where someone of good health begins to lose all five senses at once and within a short period of time, no less. This means that whatever’s causing this isn’t intrinsic—it’s an external factor that’s shutting them down.

“And with Uravity being a pro-hero, the only reasonable explanation I can think of is that she’s been hit by some sort of quirk.”

It’s one thing to speculate, but it becomes a whole other beast when confirmed by her doctor. Katsuki releases a slow breath, fingers tightening against the edge of her bed. Quirk effects are difficult to diagnose, given the variability and complex nature of each individual quirk. Not knowing who hit Ochako with this quirk makes it near impossible to figure out how to cure her.

“What will you do now?” Tsuyu asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken up since entering the hospital room. She shakes her head, as if trying to clear her fear and distress for her closest friend. “What can we do in the meantime?”

The doctor flips a page in his chart before tucking the clipboard under his arm. “We’re going to move her and transfer her home—”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Katsuki explodes, and his voice acts as a contrasting detonation to their conversation, words echoing under the harsh white of the hospital light. Here, with its white walls and white coats, the hospital has tasted more grief, anger, and despair than one person can experience in a lifetime. The nurse behind him jumps at the sudden change in tone.

Katsuki’s fury paints his vision red. “After everything you’ve told us, you’re not going to keep her overnight? Monitor her? Make sure she recovers?!” 

The doctor goes quiet as he gazes at Ochako, and his expression shifts. It’s miniscule, barely noticeable, but it’s one that all pro-heroes have seen: solemnity. 

“What?” Katsuki says, voice low. Tsuyu tenses next to him, and her hands curl into fists. “What aren’t you telling us?” 

“When it comes to quirk effects,” the doctor says slowly, gravely, “without any information about the originating quirk, there’s really nothing we can do. Uravity has lost nearly all of her senses, which means whatever she’s been hit with is progressing too rapidly for us to diagnose, let alone process.” 

Quiet pops burst from Katsuki’s fingertips, and his breathing steepens as he attempts to calm himself. Though he hears the doctor clearly, his mind refuses to register their meaning, their severity. As if sensing Katsuki and Tsuyu’s distress, the doctor’s eyes flutter shut, as if reluctant to reveal the rest of the bad news. 

“We’re not sure how far this extends, and at this pace, we predict that by tomorrow evening, her body will begin to shut down. Already, she’s unable to communicate, unable to consume liquids, let alone solids. Most likely, her organs will begin to fail. By the time we figure out whether it’s a rare, biological disease or if it’s officially quirk foul play, it’ll be too late—”

“Then fucking do something about it!” Katsuki roars.

A hard grip on his arm prevents him from lashing out and blowing something up. Heaving, nostrils flared, he twists to find Tsuyu holding him back, pulling him out of his predatory stance. “Hurting him or anyone at this hospital isn’t going to bring her back,” she says, releasing him when he rips himself from her grip. She turns back to the doctor. “Is there really nothing you can do?”

He shakes his head. “Not that we know of. As much as we’d like to monitor her here, the decision is out of our hands. We’ve relayed all of our knowledge to her parents, and they’ve decided to take care of her for however much time she has left. They’re currently overseas, but they’ll be with her in the morning. We’ll make sure she’s alright tonight—she’ll have the best equipment any pro-hero can ask for.” 

That’s not good enough. 

That’s not remotely good enough. 

That’s lying down and taking the loss. 

And Katsuki will never go down without a fight.

He inhales sharply, biting down to keep from screaming. “What can we do?” he grits out. Tsuyu’s head snaps up, and she gazes intently at the doctor. Expectant. Waiting. 

“Find out as much as you can about the quirk that hit Uravity,” the doctor instructs. “The more we know, the higher the chances of curing her. We’ll do our part by running tests, but we don’t have the same type of access to other aspects of her life.” 

Tsuyu nods thoughtfully. “I’ll start by asking other nearby hospitals if there have been situations similar to this. Maybe we can narrow down who the villain is if others have experienced the same thing. Someone is bound to have a similar record to Ochako.”

“There’s not enough time—” 

Katsuki’s protest cuts off when Tsuyu twists to jab a finger at his chest. “That’s why we’re going to get everyone to help. This is an emergency none of them can ignore. We’ll figure out logistics as we go.” She takes a deep, trembling breath. “We’re not going to let Ochako die.” 

With a whirl of her feet, she’s out the door, phone pressed to her ear, murmuring, “Mina, pick up, pick up…” 

Her voice fades as she disappears down the corridor. 

Nails biting into his palm, Katsuki stalks toward the door, pausing to glance back at Ochako once more, scanning her features, committing them to memory. Soon, the hospital staff will move her back to her apartment, and depending on what they discover, this may be the last time he sees her. 

His face darkens at the thought.

“What are you going to do?” the doctor asks, alarmed. 

Instead of answering, Katsuki slams a fist against the wall, uncaring when the plaster breaks under the force of his anger. The doctor jumps at the explosion, and the nurse yelps, stumbling back. He brushes past her and stalks down the corridor, mind ablaze with what to do next.

Knowing his friends, they’ll start with the most obvious places: other hospitals, Ochako’s office, and the agency’s database—joining them would be a waste of time in such a dire situation. 

Suddenly, a thought strikes him, and his steps stutter to a stop: why sift through databases when there are more direct ways of hunting for information? 

If the villain is someone that Ochako had fought, then there’s no way they would’ve gotten away: they would’ve been locked up.

With that, Katsuki knows exactly where to start his search.

It doesn’t take much persuasion to convince the guard to give him full access to the prison’s case files. One look at Katsuki’s face, a skittish glance at his ID, and the sharp crack of his gauntlet against the counter were enough for the guard to allow him entry. 

“Was Uravity here?” Katsuki asks, as the guard flips through his ring of keys. There’s a slight tremor to his grip, a sallow hue to his face, as if all blood has been leached from his skin. Hesitant, he nods. “When?”

The guard forces the key into the rusted lock, turning it to unlock a hidden panel. Pushing it open, he reveals a digital keypad and punches in the code. A whir, a click, and the lock releases to reveal a sliver of harsh lights and a burst of dust motes spinning across their makeshift spotlight. 

“She was here a few times last week, which is rare. We don’t normally receive pro-hero visitors. Usually, agencies have their own databases,” the guard recalls. Then he adds, apologetic, “I don’t know what she was looking for.” 

Katsuki waves him off, and the guard takes the opportunity to escape, whirling on his feet and disappearing around the corner, as if he can feel the rage simmering in Katsuki’s chest—a grenade barely held together by an unfastened pin. Pushing open the door, he finds rows upon rows of boxes, labeled and organized by agency, hero, and villain.

As he searches for their agency, his phone vibrates nonstop, fraught with missed calls and messages from the cohort of heroes, sidekicks, and interns Tsuyu has managed to cobble together. They’ve split up: half of them are investigating nearby hospitals for anyone suffering from similar quirk effects, and the other half are scouring Ochako’s case files in her office. 

Katsuki is the only one who’s gone rogue. 

Though the incessant notifications grate on his nerves, he keeps them on in case someone announces a breakthrough. So far, no one has discovered anything of importance, even those rummaging through the agency’s cases. Given the pace of their sudden rescue mission and the rate of Ochako’s deterioration, they’ll be lucky to have a full twenty-four hours before her body shuts down.

His search slows when he reaches their agency, scanning across the various heroes in their employment. Katsuki alone has seven boxes of reports, each one brimming with a range from petty crimes to major battles. Ochako, on the other hand, has four, most of them rescue missions. 

Crouching down, he immediately notes that the dust patterns in front of the first two boxes are different from the others—streaked, as if they’ve been yanked out in haste. If Ochako hadn’t found anything in the first box, then maybe she uncovered something in the second. 

He drags it out, coughing when it sends up a plume of dust, and tosses the lid aside. Papers have been crammed haphazardly into each folder, corners crumpled, edges creased. One by one, he sifts through each page, skimming each report in search of the sections detailing the villain’s quirks, if applicable. With most of Ochako’s cases being rescue missions, these fields are usually left blank unless she encounters a villain in her way.

The few fields that are filled out have been marked with notes. He recognizes the round arcs and swoops of her handwriting. The ones ruled out have been denoted with large X's. Questionable subjects have been distinguished with a slew of question marks—he sets these to the side for closer review.

Then, pauses.

One of the villains has been marked with rings of red, page indented to suggest aggression. However, when Katsuki flips to the quirk field, he finds…

Nothing.

There’s nothing written about the villain.

Her sobriquet: Vixen.

It’s not a familiar name, no matter how hard Katsuki wracks his brain. He fishes out his phone and enters the agency’s private database, and within moments, pulls up her case files. The reports on her are fairly short—larceny, robbery, theft—petty crimes that tell him nothing about her quirk. 

A quick search in the national quirk registry reveals another dead end. It’s not uncommon to find villains with unregistered quirks, whether it’s because they’ve come from foreign countries or because of the circumstances of their birth. 

Stuffing everything back into the box, he shoves it haphazardly back onto the shelf before charging out. Ochako must have circled her name for a reason—if not to answer the question, then to guide him in the right direction. If Vixen hadn’t been the one to cast the quirk, then she had to have answers. 

Determined, he makes his way back to the front desk and looms over the prison guard, who startles from Katsuki’s stormy expression. “Did Uravity visit a prisoner named Vixen?” 

The prison guard stammers, “I don’t—I’m not sure. Let me check the visiting logs.” His hands tremble as he searches through the system, and Katsuki watches the screen flash across the man’s glasses. He drums his fingers against the counter, a metronome of impatience, and the sound appears to agitate the guard. 

“Here!” the guard proclaims. “Uravity visited her yesterday morning—”

“Take me to her,” Katsuki interrupts. “Now.” 

With no room for argument, the guard scrambles to his feet and motions for Katsuki to follow him through the large double-doors. Unlike the hospital, the walls are sterile and bare, stripped of all life and color, until all that’s left is the harsh swatch of punishment. Silence reigns the halls with its heavy crown and murky scepter. 

The path feels never ending, a maze designed to play tricks on the mind, when the guard suddenly stops and turns to Katsuki. “We’re here,” he says, gesturing at the door.

“Let me speak to her.” 

The guard acquiesces, slipping a key into the lock and twisting it, before sliding open a metal compartment to reveal a small window fortified with bars. Over the guard’s shoulder, Katsuki watches the prisoner lift her head at the sound, gaze snapping to the door. The guard steps back, and Katsuki dismisses him with a flick of his wrist, watching the man turn and making sure he’s a good distance away, before he returns his attention to the prisoner. 

Vixen sets her book to the side and stands, her head cocked in interest. Even with the orange jumpsuit all prisoners are subjected to upon entry, she’s stunning—it’s evident that her time in prison hasn’t eroded her beauty. Crimson irises framed with long lashes settle on him, scanning from his face to the top of his chest. 

“Well,” she starts, and her voice sings like bells, delighted and clear, “two visitors in a week! Lucky me.” 

Vixen moves closer to the window, ducking her head and observing him from beneath her lashes. Up close, her eyes, Katsuki notices, are actually a shade deeper than his: scarlet, like freshly spilled blood. Up close, she observes him, and recognition flashes across her delicate face. “And by two of the nation’s top pro-heroes, no less! Hmm, the other one was cuter, but you—” her gaze rakes over Katsuki’s features—“you’re delicious.” 

Katsuki’s temper flares at her nonchalant attitude, and he resists the urge to recoil from the way her voice deepens, seduction swelling with every lecherous syllable. True to her name, Vixen fits the archetype of the temptress, a femme fatale whose every move is calculated to beguile or inveigle until the world falls at her feet—that is, until Ochako had put a stop to her.

“Dynamight,” she greets, his hero name rolling off her tongue with a coquettish flick. When she tilts her head, her hair cascades down her shoulder in a dark waterfall. “Pictures don’t do you justice—you’re so much bigger than I expected. Taller. Stronger. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have a taste.”

She presses a finger against the glass as she speaks, tracing the lines of his face before dragging it down the line of his neck, stopping when she hits the metal frame. Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and she continues, “I wonder—how would you feel in my mouth? How would you taste? I can practically feel the weight of you, hard and heavy, on my tongue.” She inhales deeply, appreciatively. “I’m curious, and if you are too, we can put it to the test. I’ll make it a night you’ll never forget.” 

When Katsuki doesn’t react, doesn’t entertain her suggestion, she drops her hand with a heavy sigh. “Another time, then. Have you come to save your friend?” 

His jaw clenches, but he remains silent. If there’s anything he knows about interrogating villains, it’s to let them and their egos reveal the truth. Speaking, asking questions, or losing his temper risks being led down the garden path, twisting through a labyrinth of lies and toxic flowers. 

“How far gone is she?” Vixen muses, humming in thought and tapping a finger against her chin. “I don’t remember how long it’s been since she’d been hit with my quirk—time passes so differently when you can’t see the sun.”

When Katsuki doesn’t respond, she leans against the bars, her gaze flicking to his face, as if searching for a reaction. “How is she? Can she hear? Can she see?” She pauses, bringing the tips of her fingers to her bottom lip in feigned surprise. “Oh! Or, has she finally fallen asleep?” 

At that, the image of a comatose Ochako in the hospital bed—gaunt and pallid and dying— flashes across his head, and his face pulls into a snarl. “What did you do to her?” he spits.

Vixen straightens, brows lifting, before her lips curl into a smile. “Aw, so she’s asleep, that didn’t take long—”

Katsuki’s patience snaps. “What the fuck is your quirk? Numbing? Toxins?” He leans in close to the window, expression darkening. “If she needs an antidote, I won’t hesitate to drag you from this prison and tear you apart myself.”

“Hm, not so fast, pretty boy.” Unfazed, she chuckles, the red of her lips gleaming in the harsh light, and she twirls a lock of hair between her fingers. “I don’t have the antidote, and even if you drained all the blood from my veins, you’d never be able to use that to save her.” 

He slams a fist against her door, fingertips sparking with frustration. Every moment he’s here, every second wasted, Ochako inches closer to death. “Then what can bring her back? What will wake her up?”

Vixen pushes off the door and crosses her arms. “Heroes are always so uptight,” she comments, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “You should let loose.”

“She’s dying!” Katsuki explodes, and a burst of his quirk leaves a dark scorch against the metal door. 

“And I’m doing you a favor.” Vixen holds out a supinated hand, then twists her wrist to observe her nails. “I’m giving you the solution and an opportunity to let loose.” 

Chest heaving, Katsuki leans in closer until his next breath paints a cloud of fog against the pane. “What do you mean?” 

“I may not have the antidote, but you do,” she answers, then twists her wrist to point down. ”Any man with a cock between his legs can wake her up.” 

It takes a moment to register her answer, and it feels like falling off a cliff: slowly, slowly, then all at once; yet the realization is worse than broken bones and a broken body. 

His body goes cold. “You’re talking about rape.” 

The word tastes vile on his tongue. 

“Fuck or die,” she corrects him. “Do it, and Uravity lives. Don’t, and she dies. It’s as simple as that.” 

“You’re lying.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He leans back, repulsed by the idea, by the suggestion that in order to wake up one of his dearest friends, he’d have to violate her in the worst possible way. 

Vixen shrugs, indifferent to the fact that she’s upended his world. “Why would I? I have nothing to lose, unlike you. Imagine the humiliation, the shame, the anger. Imagine losing Uravity’s trust— society’s trust—in you, in all heroes, because in order to save her, you had to rape her. Imagine how much she would despise you when she wakes up and realizes what you’ve done. 

“And you. Your moral compass, your principles, your position as one of the top heroes in the nation—all of it, compromised. Saving her will lead to your greatest downfall—is she worth it? Are you prepared to give up everything, Dynamight?”

She’s right. 

Saving Ochako would shake the foundations of a society built on justice and righteousness. In a world where pro-heroes are synonymous with leadership, morality, and good, the thought of one committing a crime this heinous is unthinkable. Unfathomable. 

All of his years spent at UA and under multiple internships; all of his years climbing the ranks, dedicated to catching criminals and maintaining peace; all of his life devoted to saving others and aspiring to be like All Might—all of it will fall into shambles because of this inescapable paradox. 

“You’re lying to me,” he repeats, voice low and at a loss, unable to wrap his head around Vixen’s answer. 

“Believe me or not, that’s your prerogative, but time is running out. If you want her to live, you need to decide what to do.” She turns and flicks her wrist as if dismissing him. “If you ever want some real fun, you know where to find me. Outside of that, I’m done with this conversation.” 

An hour later, Katsuki finds himself at the foot of Ochako’s apartment building. 

The furthest the rest of the team has gotten is finding a similar case in a city two hours away. Tsuyu and Mina are already on their way there with promises of keeping the group updated with what they find. There’s no telling whether the case will be an exact match, but by the time they do, they’ll have even less time to figure out a solution.

Katsuki, on the other hand, remains silent in the group chat, unable to bring himself to tell the group what he’d learned from the villain. He should tell them: it would make sense to let them know, so they can deal with the situation as a rescue team. 

However, he also knows that the solution would put them at a firm divide. Most of the group would be adamantly against the rape, preventing anyone from entering Ochako’s room and insisting on another way to save her. The rest would falter, caught in the same moral maelstrom that Katsuki is currently experiencing.

The external conflict would put the group at a stand-off. With time running out and neither side willing to budge, Ochako’s condition would worsen, and she would inevitably die. 

And in the end, regardless of the outcome, it would irreparably tear their friendships apart. 

The weight of this knowledge is staggering, comparable to the oceanic spread of his guilt and shame. Swallowing heavily, he tilts his head up and gazes at the fifteenth floor, where Ochako lives. By now, the hospital should’ve moved her back home in preparation for her parents’ arrival in a few hours. 

Night cloaks the skies, tattered ribbons of moonlight threading between street lamps. Though the streets continue to slumber, save for the occasional night owl or graveyard shift worker, Katsuki shrouds himself in shadows and waits. When he notices an opening, he aims his gauntlets at the ground and uses one sharp blast to propel himself up. 

The wind whistles a midnight melody past his ears, muffling the few car alarms he’s set off. Paying them no mind, he lands softly on Ochako’s balcony and tries the door, then scowls when he finds it unlocked. The first thing the hospital staff should’ve done was make sure no one except her parents could enter her unit. 

Incompetent. Unprofessional. 

When he steps inside, he finds most of her furniture pushed to the side to allow for the hospital machinery next to her bed. The lights remain dim, presumably to prevent her from going into shock if she wakes from her coma. The apartment is silent, save for the slow, electronic blip of her heartbeat. 

Ochako has been tucked into her bed, hospital sheets draped around the shape of her body. At home, she appears to be sleeping—an improvement to her corpse-like state at the hospital. Her lashes spin a web of shadows across her cheeks, and the dim lighting stains her skin and lips with the illusion of color. 

He shuffles closer, loosening the gauntlets at his wrist, and tosses them onto a chair, where they bump against an old decorative pillow. Then, he tosses off his mask and slips out of his combat boots.

Layer after layer, he rids himself of his hero suit until he’s left in his tank top and trousers. 

Though he remains clothed, he can’t help but feel entirely too bare in the middle of Ochako’s bedroom—an anomaly with ill intent. Guilt and apprehension swirl in his chest, grey and thick, until Katsuki is drowning in quicksand. 

His heart thrums in his chest, a lone toll across a foggy village, and it beats a step faster when he locks her bedroom door. Pressing his forehead against the cool surface, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, resigning himself for what’s to come. Condemning himself to the future he’s spiraling toward. 

No amount of time can prepare him for what he’s about to do. 

With a shuddering breath, he turns and settles his gaze on Ochako. 

For a moment, he watches her—his classmate, his colleague, his friend. 

They’ve been through so much, from their first match at UA’s sports festival, to their fight against the League of Villains, to meeting each other in surprise in the lobby of their current agency. Their history is thick with pages of mutual friends, late-night patrols, vigorous training sessions and sparring, and crime-fighting—bound together by deep-rooted trust and the sweet blooms of friendship. 

Everything they’ve been through together, Katsuki has internally cherished and will never forget. 

Everything they’ve been through together, Katsuki will tarnish and ruin before the sun can rise and bear witness. 

Swallowing heavily, he makes his way to her bed and pushes the flimsy sheets aside, before climbing on. Vixen’s words ring in his head: Fuck or die. Do it, and Uravity lives. Don’t, and she dies.

They spur him to part her legs and rest between them, settling on his haunches. The hem of her gown slides up, revealing a large expanse of smooth, milky skin. He runs his fingers up the delicate ridge of her ankle, up the slope of her shin, over the rolling hill of her knee, before pausing at the hem of her gown, thumb rubbing the soft patch of skin inside her thigh. 

His breathing steepens—every part of her is soft under his touch. His navel tightens, and blood rushes south as his cock twitches. 

Slowly, he leans forward and dips his fingers under the gown, traveling up the length of her thigh. He pauses, glancing at her face, as if waiting for her eyes to snap open and shoot up to shove him away. When she doesn’t, he exhales, resuming his journey up the curve of hip to rest at the band of her underwear. 

Breath caught in his throat, he slips his hand under the fabric to feel the curls of her pubic hair graze against his fingertips. Blood rushes in his ears, angry and deafening, as he explores the lower half of her body. 

His hand crawls lower, dipping under the band of her underwear until he’s feeling the shape of her pussy, the soft folds of her, hot and slick against his fingers. Experimentally, he fucks a finger into her and swallows dryly, throat clicking at the tight heat that engulfs him. 

He half-expects her to wake from her comatose state with feral-like fury at the blatant assault—he’d gladly take it. He’d rather accept the banshee-like ire she’d rain on him, verbally and physically. He’d rather she touch all ten fingers to his face and launch him into the fucking sun. He’d rather her do anything than stay like this, silent and unmoving and so fucking vulnerable.

In the back of his head, he wonders if she feels this. If she feels his hand probing at the root of her, the calluses of his fingertips rubbing against the velvet of her walls. Does she feel the sweat of his palms? Does she register that it’s him? 

Doubt clamors in his head, blaring with alarms. Realization crashes down on him—if she feels this, if she feels any of it now, she won’t know who it is. He doesn’t know which is worse: that he’s the one that’s about to cross a boundary, or that she thinks it’s some random stranger who’s about to fuck her unresponsive body. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, then rocks forward so that his lips sit at the shell of her ear. There, he tucks a stray lock behind that smooth curve, thumb holding the downy hollow behind her lobe. “I don’t think you can hear me.” 

She can’t—that’d been perfectly clear on the first day, yet he holds some flame of hope that she might hear the familiar growl of his voice. As the words leave him, he realizes that this is his own consolation. His own selfish way of reassuring himself. “But I have to. It’s this, or you die.”

He has to do this, he tells himself. It can’t be anyone else, can’t be some random nobody fucking her. The thought of it is as infuriating as it is nauseating, and it strengthens his resolve. 

His fingers are still slick, and he gazes around the room. It feels insulting to touch her with them, smearing the root of her against her skin, staining her. Why dirty her further, why add salt to this already-horrific wound? Before he can stop himself, he reaches up and sticks them in his mouth. 

The taste of her explodes, and suddenly, she's everywhere. That brackish, salty taste of her slick sweetened by the caramel of his sweat. All of it coating the tip of his tongue to the back of his throat. The taste of her will haunt him into the far future. 

Involuntarily, he moans. 

Katsuki is a hero—one of the top heroes in Japan. He’s supposed to save people, and he’ll be damned if he leaves Ochako to die. The thought is what spurs him to move, and he rocks back on his heels, giving her one more pass over.

The cognitive dissonance is jarring as he begins to shuck off his trousers, cock stirring to life, swelling between his legs. He shouldn't be this turned on, chest heaving, thunder rolling across his blood—fuck, he shouldn't be getting this hard this quickly. He wraps a damp hand around the shaft, almost as if to stop it from growing. 

It continues to harden, flushed a lurid shade of red, hot and heavy in his palm. The head weeps pearls of precome, dribbling pathetically down the line of his shaft. Without thinking, he smears them down his cock, thumb tracing a throbbing vein. Pleasure sparks in his navel, muted booms like stray fireworks before a highly anticipated show. 

He's breathing hard, rough as he rucks up her gown and tugs off her panties. Then, pulls her towards him and pushes her knees up and out, until the curly thatch of pubic hair parts to reveal a pink slit. 

Mouth dry, he touches a thumb to her clit, drawing featherlight circles around it, before tracing the rest of her pussy. It’s wet from bullying a finger into her, and he’s reminded of the soft flutter of her cunt around him. 

A glimmer of hope sparks through his haze of desire.

If she’s wet from him touching her, then maybe the villain hadn’t been lying. What if Ochako’s body had felt him? What if this is a physiological reaction to his touch? 

It dawns on him. 

Vixen’s quirk had slowly leached Ochako’s senses piecemeal, and her only cure is to “fuck or die.” Everything about the villain temptress revolves around the intersection between all five senses and sex, which means fucking Ochako would only be one piece of the puzzle. If sexual touch had aroused her body, then she would need sexual stimulants across her other senses to fully awaken her. 

Touch—he’s already stimulated touch. 

Sitting up, he pulls her closer and touches the tip of his cock to her entrance, dipping the head into her cunt. The sensation awakens something in him, latent nerves igniting, a carnal need to chase that pleasure—all of it crests until the last gossamer thread of his control snaps into two. 

Pushing into her, increment by increment, sets him on fire. 

Everything tunnels down to Ochako, soft and pliant, and the wet, velvet heat that blooms around his cock. The pressure, the heat, the pleasure— all of it is mind-numbingly good.

When he bottoms out, he leans forward and brackets his arms on either side of her. Every inch of his body runs hot, a live wire sparking with electricity, trembling and overwhelmed. It takes all of his restraint to resist pulling out and slamming into her, to fight the urge to chase that high and climb up, up, up until he reaches that immeasurable summit.

“Fuck,” he groans, grinding small circles against the cradle of her thighs. Her cunt pulses around him, and the slide becomes easier as her body adjusts to his size. 

He starts with slow, shallow thrusts. The room swells with the wet sound of his hips meeting hers, of his cock pushing into her over and over. He swears a blue streak under his breath, and deep in his pleasure-filled haze, he hopes that she can hear everything. 

The smell of sex permeates the air, its scent thickest in the small hollow between their bodies.

He reaches up and traces the shape of her lips, then pushes two fingers between them and gently pulls down, allowing the pads of his fingers to run across her tongue. 

Slowly, he begins to fuck her mouth in that same lazy rhythm of his cock sliding in and out of her. Hopes the combined taste of her slick and his sweat sweeps across her senses. Hopes it’s enough for her to stir from this quirk-induced coma. 

He dips his head and presses his mouth against the juncture of her neck and shoulder to muffle his grunt. Like a man possessed, he parts his lips and tastes her, nipping lightly before laving his tongue over her skin in a small apology. 

A sound catches his attention, so small it nearly escapes him, and his rhythm stutters into a grind as he presses his ear closer to her throat in disbelief.

She'd whimpered. 

She'd made a sound. 

Katsuki lifts his head in time to catch the flutter of her lashes, the part of her lips as she swallows a gasp. He pulls his cock out and lengthens his rhythm to long, steady drags. 

Ochako moans, and the sound catches in her throat. Blearily, her eyes crack open, unseeing as her attention lands somewhere over his shoulder. Confusion clouds her features, and when he slams into her, the sharp cut of fear stains her expression. 

The feeling, Katsuki thinks, must be similar to snapping out of a nightmare: unpleasant and frightful. 

“You’re awake,” he pants, and his relief bleeds into pleasure until they’re indistinguishable. Though she can’t move, her expression has always been an open book, her heart dangling dangerously from her sleeve. Even when she’s groggy and semi-conscious, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, Katsuki can read that she’s trying to gauge the situation, that she’s somewhat aware of what’s happening. 

The moment she realizes it’s him, her fear abates, melting into bewilderment. 

As his cock sinks into her, her eyes squeeze shut, and she cranes her neck back, lips parting for a gasp. A rush of color stains her cheeks, and flushed, Ochako utters a quiet whine. The sight causes Katsuki to harden further, and he groans, deep and primal.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, and though he’s serious, it comes out hoarse and ragged and filthy . Ochako clenches around him, and he nearly comes on the spot. He slows to a grind, and Ochako whimpers, soft and confused. 

Sight—he needs to stimulate the last sense to fully awaken her.

“Watch,” he commands, reaching up to pinch her chin and guide her attention south. Ochako doesn’t resist, doesn’t react when his thumb swipes across her bottom lip. “Watch the way you take my cock so well.” 

As if to make a point, he pulls out, allowing the tip of his cock to tease her entrance, before submerging himself—slowly. Inch by inch, he slides into her, forcing her to watch his cock disappear into the wet channel of her cunt. 

Her eyes widen, lips parting in ragged gasps as she sucks in a shocked breath. Her cheeks flush red, and when he bottoms out, she throws her head back, heaving as if she’s broken the surface of the quirk she’d been drowning in. Her cloud of confusion clears to reveal a limpid gaze and a fierce, angry realization that he’s fucking her—that he’s been fucking her unconscious, unconsenting body. 

Hyperaware, Katsuki feels the twitch of her fingers against his ribs. Recognizes that she’s ready to fight back and throw him off. Still, he’s faster, and his hand flies up to pin her wrists over her head. Ochako’s eyes widen in shock and outrage, mortification staining her cheeks, and her lips shape around his name in warning.

Instead of letting up, Katsuki shakes his head, pressing her wrists further into the mattress. If he lets her go, he doesn’t know if she’ll return to her previous state, and the thought of it sends a stab of fear through him. Vixen hadn’t specified how far he needed to go, but he can’t risk Ochako falling victim to the quirk again—not when she’s conscious and alive. 

“I’ll make this as quick as possible,” he promises. “We have to come—we need to come.”  

Whatever she sees on his face—desperation, concern, trepidation—gives her pause. A flash of understanding crosses her gaze, but before she can react, Katsuki shakes his head again, stopping her. He can’t—he doesn’t know if her consent will affect anything.

And with that, he sets a punishing pace. 

She locks her legs around him at a particularly vicious thrust, head thrown back with a high keen. Still, he doesn’t release her wrists, sure to leave bruises that’ll later bloom into dark flowers. The sound of his cock plunging in and out of her is loud and wet and obscene, accompanied by the slap of skin against skin. 

Using his grip on her wrist as an anchor, he uses his other hand to reach down. Smearing his fingers with their combined fluids, he rubs tight circles against her clit, stroking her with a steady rhythm. 

Ochako arcs against him, writhing against his ministrations. Her eyes screw shut, and her resistance fades into pleasure as her hips meet him in the middle. As the fight leaches from her body, Katsuki watches her in fascination, keeping a keen eye on her face, paying attention to what might make her feel good, feeling for what makes her cunt flutter around him. 

Soon, his pleasure mounts to immeasurable heights, and his rhythm grows erratic. “Fuck,” he swears. “Ochako, I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come.” 

To avoid hurting her, he releases her wrists, twisting his fingers in the sheets. In return, Ochako winds her arms under his, fingers splayed against his shoulder blades, pulling him closer, her breathy ah ah ah's grazing against the shell of his ear. 

“I’m gonna,” she whispers, just above silence. “I’m gonna—” 

This close, this intimate, it almost feels as if they’re lovers. 

The thought sends him plummeting over the edge.

When he comes, it's white hot. The penultimate second before a star’s ignoble death. The crest of a tsunami wave frothing against the sun before crashing onto shore. The hungry maw of a wildfire—a creature molded by greed—consuming, consuming, consuming until columns of smoke weave into the overhead clouds, and the earth scorches black.

Her walls tighten and pulse around him as he grinds against her, releasing everything—all of his fear, all of his frustration, all of his fury over the past few days—into her. 

Spent, he slumps against her, face buried next to her head. Involuntarily, he turns to press an apologetic kiss behind her ear. Ochako remains still, panting softly, each breath whispering against his hair. Against her, all he feels is the small rise and fall of her chest and the occasional twitch of her around him.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Still, she says nothing. 

Her silence may as well be the gavel striking judgement. 

He squeezes her against his chest in another silent apology before sitting up and pulling out, and the post-coital guilt tastes overwhelmingly like ash, like a flower withering under the sun, petals dissolving in a haze of cemetery gloom. Worn, he readjusts the gown over her slumped legs and drags the sheet over their lower bodies, hiding his shrinking cock from view. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t—not without being reminded of the heinous, violating act. 

He keeps his eyes trained on his lap, barely able to process what he’d just done. 

The room wanes into a deafening silence. 

Katsuki feels as if his stomach has been carved hollow, blood and bone replaced with bile and remorse. Shame smarts across his face, hot and scathing, and his fingers have gone cold, knuckles staining white as he crumples the sheets in both fists. 

When Ochako finally moves, it’s with slow, jerky movements as she regains control of her limbs. As she pushes herself up, the sheets susurrate, whispering softly as she sits up and rests against the headboard. 

For a moment, nothing happens.

Katsuki wonders, with dread pooling in his navel, what the future will look like for them. 

After all, he’s the one who committed the unforgivable crime; he’s the one who broke so many boundaries; he’s the one who had to save his friend by raping her. What kind of hero does that make him? What kind of fucking friend does that make him? 

His spiral snaps when he realizes that the bed is shaking, that Ochako’s breathing has grown hysterical. With a gaping hole in his chest, he watches her pull both hands to her chest, the knobs of her knuckles blanched with strain. As if letting go, as if releasing her tension, will cause her to shatter into a million glass shards. 

She quivers like a leaf on the cusp of winter, ready to snap at the next silvery zephyr. Her lashes tremble, and when she blinks, tears streak down the slopes of her face. Eyes scrubbed red, the tips of her nose pink, Ochako hunches forward, hair falling forward to obscure her face. 

“Why?” The question is raw, watery with distress. 

He knows what she’s asking, and it’s enough to send another punch into his gut. His fingers grow numb as he twists them further into the sheets. “It was the only way to save you,” he answers quietly. “You’d been hit with a quirk that caused you to lose your senses. Your body was shutting down—” 

Ochako shakes her head wildly, croaking as she re-discovers her voice. “I know it was Vixen. I went to the prison—I just—why her quirk? Why did this have to happen to me? Why this fucking quirk?” 

Katsuki remains silent, recognizing her anger, her pain, her distress—swelling to a force with no outlet, disseminating across all four corners of the universe. He can’t imagine the emotions coursing through her, the thoughts plaguing her mind. 

“I’m sorry.” The apology sits on his tongue like lead. He doesn’t know what else to say—what else he can say.

Ochako’s gaze meets his, and he flinches at the open pain in her expression. “No, don’t—I—you had no choice. You didn’t cast the quirk.” She continues to tremble. “You wouldn’t have—you—you would never—” 

His chest aches. “Regardless, the fact that this was the only way—I’m sorry.” Gritting his teeth, he turns away, jaw working as his mind flashes to the way he’d forced her chin down to watch him fuck her. “And for the way I fucking treated you—I’m so sorry.” 

Ochako doesn’t respond. 

He can’t bear to look at her. 

Then, quietly, he adds, “No one should ever have to go through that.”

“No one,” she agrees, and her tone wavers. She sniffs, each exhale shakier than the last, and in his periphery, she buries her face in her hands, crying softly. 

Guilt continues to root him to the bed, rendering him motionless, unable to reach out and comfort her in the way she needs. He swallows the string of apologies that lodge in his throat like river stones. 

“You know, I heard you,” she finally says, and when he braves a look at her, it’s to find her shrinking back, one arm folded against her belly to grasp her elbow, as if doing so will shield her from him. “It was so strange—I was losing my senses, one after another. It was—it felt like I was dreaming, like I was underwater. The deeper I sank, the colder it got, the more I began to lose myself until I was certain I was going to die. 

“Then, I heard you. I heard you apologize.” 

Katsuki’s eyes flutter shut, and he releases the sheets on his lap. 

That was when his resolve to save her by any means had solidified. 

“I was so scared,” she admits, voice sitting just above a whisper. “I didn’t think anyone would figure it out. I realized too late that it was Vixen, and when I found out, I should’ve said something—I shouldn’t have fought that day. I didn’t realize that the rest of my senses would deteriorate so quickly, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to tell any of you, let alone ask for help.” 

Her voice thickens as she begins to cry harder. “Because of that, you got dragged into this in the worst possible way. I—Katsuki, I’m so sorry you had to do this—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “The last person that should apologize is you.” 

“This is going to sound so fucked up,” she sobs, shaking her head. “I know you didn’t want to do it, but I’m glad it was you. I was so scared—I didn’t know if Vixen had sent another villain to—to wake me. I was so scared that I would find a stranger or villain in me, assaulting me.

“Thank you for saving my life,” she hiccups, “but I can’t thank you for how you did it.” 

“I’m not sorry for saving you,” he says, low and shaky with shame, heat smarting his eyes, “but I’ll forever be sorry about how I had to do it.” 

He drops his gaze to the bed, struggling to breathe through a complicated snarl of emotions. Part of him wants to stay and comfort her, if she would allow him. The other part of him vehemently disagrees, sneering that though he hadn’t been the one to hit her with the quirk, he’d been the one to assault her. 

“I’ll go.” He glances at the way the rest of his hero uniform is strewn across her room, and his sorrow intensifies. “I’m probably the last person you want to see. You need to rest—”

Ochako shoots forward and grasps his arm. Alarmed, he straightens and folds a hand over her wrist, thumb brushing against the jut of her wrist. 

“Stay,” she pleads. “Please stay. I don’t—I can’t be alone right now. I need to know that this isn’t a dream. I need you here.” 

Unbidden, Katsuki reaches up and pushes back a lock of hair behind her ears, grazing her cheek with the back of his hand. His fingers come away damp with tears. “Your parents are coming in the morning, and I can get a nurse to monitor you—”

“No, please. Katsuki, I’m begging you—please don’t leave me alone.”

Swallowing audibly, he nods, and the knot in his chest loosens at the relief that flits across her expression. She tugs him forward, guiding him to fill the space next to her. Instinctively, he reaches out and folds her into his arms, and she presses her face into his chest as he draws small circles against her shoulder blades. 

It feels wrong to stay, to touch her, to hold her and comfort her. 

The gesture feels empty, as if by rote in instinct, but he stays. 

He stays because, at the end of the day, he’s her classmate, her colleague, her friend.

Later, Katsuki and Ochako’s parents will rush her to the hospital to test for any lingering effects, and Katsuki will feel Atlas’s weight of judgment upon him as Ochako hesitantly explains how Katsuki had woken her from her coma.

Later, their friends will fill the hospital room with laughter and tears of relief, and Mina and Tsuyu will collapse into Ochako’s bed to smother her in hugs, and Katsuki won’t be able to meet anyone’s eyes despite the celebratory atmosphere.

Later, they will work on a report to initiate Vixen’s transfer to a prison for dangerous quirks, and Katsuki will request individual therapy from the agency for him and Ochako. 

Eventually, the knot in his chest will loosen to a manageable degree, and his friendship with Ochako will heal with time and patience, though it will never return to its previous state.

But for tonight, she’s alive, and that’s all that matters.