With All My Might (!MHA!Bakugo Katsuki x !Fem!Reader)

𝟙 | 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

ᴹᵒⁿᵒˡᵒᵍᵘᵉ

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From the first time I ever opened my eyes, all I ever saw was darkness.
Never light, I didn't know what it looked like. All it ever was was perpetual darkness. Shadows among shadows.

Coldness within the ice.
Pains and pricks in our skin.
Smiles that were signs of their malevolence.
Signs of our upcoming turn to be strapped down and opened up before being picked and pulled apart before they eventually stitch us back together again like a ripped toy.

Toys.
That's all it ever was for them, playing doctor on their toys. 
I'm afraid of closing my eyes most nights, afraid of being alone in that cold cage with no protection, no warmth, no space, no freedom.

When you're lost in the darkness to the point you forget how long you've been there. . . 
You forget what light even means. . .

I hated smiles.
I hated hugs.
I hated touch.
I loathe those who look at me with pity or see me as some victim.

Like I couldn't function without someone holding my arm and saying that it's all going to be okay. Nothing was okay, but that was okay. . .
I could see what they were planning to do.
I could read them like an open. . . um. . .

Anyway. . . The meaning still stands, I could handle myself just fine.
I didn't need them, I didn't need their pity looks or judgmental subtle shifts in their movement.
Distractions. . . I never knew my purpose, was I a weapon? A girl? A student? A teacher? A friend? A Hero?

I was jaded and alone. . .
Aloof and distant. . .
I never had friends, never knew true friendship or actual love. . .

I acted most days, as I always did.
I acted with smiles.
Played along with hugs.
Never once did I actually feel it. . .

But that all changed for me. . .

They changed me. . .

He changed me. . .

For the better.

All of it. . . because of them.

My. . . friends.

I know you're curious about it. . .but don't worry. . .

Because I'll tell you all of it. . .

before my time runs out. . .

***

   "Form a line!" The command cut through the air like a whip. The rugged man, his face weathered and stern, grabbed a young boy with a shaved head and roughly shoved him forward. The boy stumbled, his small knees scraping against the cold, hard ground, but he quickly scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with fear.
   He placed his hands behind his head, trying to appear as submissive and compliant as he could. The scene was a grim image of childhood stripped of innocence. Every child, aged between three and ten, stood in rigid formation. 

   They wore tattered, ill-fitting clothes, their faces pale from malnutrition and neglect. Each child had their hands clasped behind their shaven heads, eyes cast downward, avoiding any glance that might probe further aggression.
   The most chilling aspect of their appearance was the permanent tattoos, inked inside their bottom lips — numbers that defined their worth and identity in this brutal place. The numbers ranged from "𝟶𝟿𝟿" to "𝟻𝟸𝟽," a constant reminder of their dehumanizing status.