Bakugo Katsuki, a Pro Hero in Japan, is used to the routine: wake up, kick villain ass, rinse and repeat. He's living his dream, soaking in all he's ever wanted and worked for.
During the brief moment he let's his guard down, everything changes.
Tos...
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The choking grip of darkness surrounded him like an ocean of spilled ink, thick and suffocating and wretched. Tendrils crawled under his skin like vines of acid, burning in his veins as they crept up his body like a ladder. He struggled, but could not move. He screamed, but no sound was heard. Mocking laughter, wet with saliva, whispered like ghosts into his ears, far away and unseen, yet clear and crisp as though right against his skin.
The tendrils reached his neck, hot and alive with an erratic heartbeat in his pulse, and constricted his airway...
You can't save everyone
They counted on you
What kind of Hero are you?
Bakugo struggled and attempted to scream as ink filled his lungs.
Then, he woke up.
With ragged breath and cold sweat pooling in the pale blonde hair on the nape of his neck, Bakugo sat up with a jolt from the nightmare, crimson eyes scanning your living room for an enemy unseen.
He clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut, letting his head fall into his sweaty palms when he realized where he was - and where he wasn't. "Even here they follow me," Bakugo grumbled, his words hot against his calloused skin.
Hero work took a toll on everyone who chose the profession. Bad was always packaged in with the good, and all you could do was minimize the damage while keeping yourself both physically and mentally intact.
Bakugo was resilient in everything he did...at least in public; even he couldn't stand strong every single day without breaking, but he let no one see that ache, that vulnerability, that weakness if he could help it. Once, he and another group of Heroes didn't fare so well against a well-planned ambush from a band of villains. Rather than let him return to his empty apartment to stand in a cold shower until his skin pruned, the other Heroes on the mission dragged Bakugo into a movie night where no one really watched the movie. Instead, they had all sat in silent understanding that grieving together in solidarity felt slightly better than grieving alone.
His nightmares were rare and usually vague, but the effect remained the same when he awoke. The exhaustion from the previous day at the amusement park must've sent Bakugo into a deep enough sleep to trigger the vision.
At least you weren't awake to see him in this pathetic state-
Wait...why did Bakugo care how you saw him? Your opinion of him didn't matter, and wouldn't influence him one way or another. He'd be gone soon, never to see you again. You were just someone who let him stay here, an unintentionally involved observer in his current life fuckery.
With a scowl, Bakugo stood up from the couch, glancing back at your closed bedroom door before moodily stomping towards the bathroom.
You lay curled up in bed, warm covers wrapped around you as you stirred from sleep. Your dreams were...interesting, your ears and face warming while you remembered the vague images of Bakugo swirling around in your head. How the hell were you going to face him when you were dreaming about him just now?!
