The Villain Integration Program | Kirishima x Bakugo x Reader

Stitches | Chpt 12

What's up homies?

Enjoy~

(y/n)'s POV

I snuck into the gym and luckily no one was there. I had studied how to do this sort of thing, having seen some of what Kirishima did and having watched a few videos on how to work out. I settled for the treadmill for a little while, switching to actually start bulking myself up a little. I had never had to worry too much about being muscular, though it seemed like it might've been a good idea when my father had trained me. 

He had told me that most of my strength had come from inside me, rather than being physically dominant. I tugged the handles of the machinery forwards, wishing that he at least cared enough to give me some kind of defense during training--rather than leaving me to not know any better. 

I felt the sweat drip down my forehead.

"Everyone's afriad of something, and that's what you use for leverage."

It was raining and cold, in the alley beside our bar. I shivered, looking to the yellow glow of the window. My father was standing across from me, about to pass me a ball. Rather than catching it, he was urging me to send some kind of creature to come and catch it instead--then effectively destroying the ball. 

I didn't really believe what he said, all the movies I had sneakily watched at the library and all the books I had read stated otherwise. It was always a clutch to fear that lead to a villains demise. 

"That's why you can make anything people find creepy."

"I--" I didn't finish my sentence, knowing that if I said I couldn't I would be a disappointment. 

"Go on (y/n)," he stated, tossing the ball up. I had to pick something that wouldn't be deterred by the rain like a flying insect. I chose the first think I could think of besides that, seeing a rat leap off the back of my hand to catch the ball and tumble down to the cobble of the alleyway. He started to rip the stuffing out of the ball and my father made a grumble of acceptance.

It hurt, watching the rat give up the ball and crawl back into the fresh stitch on the back of my hand. We had come out for a lesson after he had put one on my each of my hands. 

"Good," he muttered, heading towards the door. My mother was standing under the stoop, spindling arms crossed over her chest and back just barely resting on the dirty brick wall. I trudged past the puddles and up towards the step. My mother took my shoes and my socks, leaving my clammy feet to stick to the tile. She wrapped a towel around my shoulders and ushered me upstairs.

I sat on the edge of the tub, staring down at the backs of my hands. They were red and the pain ebbed each time I thought about it too hard. I just let my mother start a bath for me, cleaning the rain water out of my hair. I sat in the tub as she went through my room, putting the wet clothes in the wash and taking out my pajamas. Her thin fingers washed through my hair, gently pouring the water through it once and twice. She used her thumbs to wipe away at my face with a rag, careful to keep the bath soap out of my eyes. She helped me out, wrapping me up in a towel and leaving me to stand and drip on the bath mat as she drained the tub. 

She was quiet and methodical, picking me up and setting me in my bed. She dressed me for sleep and sat drying and brushing though my damp hair. She placed the strands behind my ears soaking up the last drops in the ends of my hair. I just raced my thumbs around each other in circles. 

"Mother, why aren't you working in the bar today?" I asked.

"There's no need," she answered, setting my brush aside. "Now brush your teeth and sit under the covers."