Bakudeku/Dekubaku Oneshots

Traitors for True Happiness

“They’ve realized that there’s a traitor, Kacchan,” Izuku mumbles, using his own scarred hands to play with the tips of Katsuki’s fingers.

“A traitor. One. We can keep going; we don’t have to worry them about this just yet,” Katsuki responds, watching the way Izuku’s hair turns forest green in the sunlight.

Izuku huffs, an annoyed sound, but nods nonetheless. “Whatever you say, Kacchan.”

-----

Hero society is a rotten, rotten thing. It creates villains, it ruins lives, it kills and maims.

Izuku knows better than anyone what hero society creates.

Monsters that hide in what are supposed to be good people; demons that mock, and shove, and hurt, just because you’re different. The bruises that mottled his arms were proof enough of this.

Not all men are created equal.He learned this too young, too soon. He learned this, learned from this, and knew what he needed to do.

Izuku’s father is not a good man. His father takes people's quirks, takes people's lives for the sake of it. His father is not in his life for good reason; that is what his mother says.

His father smiles from where he is seated in front of him.

“Of course, my son,” he says, his smile sharp toothed, his eyes crinkling at the corners in vaguely concealed joy. “Of course, I can help you.”

-----

“They’re getting closer to the truth, Kacchan. Should we tell him?”

Hands slip under his shirt, tracing the harsh lines of his stomach, the rise and fall of his chest.

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Katsuki says, pressing a kiss to Izuku’s collarbone. “Calm down,” he says, voice dripping slow and sweet like honey, “let me take care of you.”

-----

Katsuki isn’t sure how he’d gotten roped into all this.

He remembers through blurry hues the sight of blood on his hands, remembers shaking as his childhood friend, his victim, sobbed into his arms. Remembers a box cutter, a roof, a bottle of pills— one of those things.

Remembers being plagued by guilt; remembers throwing up from anxiety and fear and resentment towards himself. Remembers soothing and being soothed, remembers a tall, well dressed man with a metallic mask covering on his face.

“Join us,” the man says, voice warbled.

Izuku looks at him, face dripping with sympathy, and fear, and longing.

“Join me,” he whispers, right into Katsuki’s ear.

‘Help me,’ Katsuki hears.

-----

“I think that the shitty red haired asshole tried to confess to me, today.”

“Oh?” Izuku asks, something hot and painful and horrible gnawing at his stomach.

“It was subtle, though. I pretended not to notice.”

A warm hand wraps around his shoulders, rubs at the knots in the base of his neck.

“Even if he came out and said it straight I’d reject him. There’s only one person for me.”

Izuku leans into the touch.

-----

Izuku watches sullenly as Katsuki wraps up one of his wounds for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as Katsuki tapes the bandages.