Extra chapter because I want to get rid of the stereotype that I'm mean and act like Bakugo. I hate that whiney little bitch. If he wants to scream he can do it elsewhere.
Enjoy <3
Trigger warning: descriptions of child abuse and mention of attempted rape (no desc.)
Another TW: disgustingly cute couple stuff btw the bois
Kaido
I have happy memories of my father. My most comfortable are when the light sifted through the industrial plant smog in the spring mornings. Back then, I didn't know what industrial plants were or even spring. Dad kept my education to a bare minimum. There were basic things I had to know. The world is full of liars. People are liars, heroes are liars. I couldn't trust anyone but him. Because Dad always did what was best for me. I had to listen to him. He taught me that aggression was my most valuable weapon. He told me one day I'd make him proud by being the strongest son he could ever have. The most important lesson dad ever instilled in me was that love is bait. It's a false promise, a tool of manipulation. My father was skilled at using it. It hung over my head for ages. Love, he said, would make us a family. We could only be a family if I did what I had to do.
For all the hurt I suffered under my dad's commands and ignorance, our relationship was not black and white. One night, when the skies were clear, I actually got to see the stars. I sat on my bed, the dog bed beneath the window and stared at the twinkling against the black sky.
"You like the pretty lights?" Dad asked. He'd just come home, wearing his black coat, his hair dyed black again.
"Mhm," I hummed, standing up, getting ready to leave since night had come. I had a cold. I didn't know what colds were at the time, but I knew I was sick. My head felt heavy and I could only breathe through my mouth. Dad noticed. He pressed his hand against my forehead and sighed.
"I got you something, c'mon," he said. He took my hand, gently. I stared at the connection. He was so rarely ever soft, he so rarely ever touched my skin. The metal binding his skin rubbed against my knuckles. It felt nice and warm and I was happy.
"Here," Dad said, taking something out of the paper bag on the counter and giving it to me. "It's for you."
It was a little black furry thing. It had no life in it, it wasn't warm, but it was soft, like the soft when Dad held my hand. He put it in my arms, said it was a kitten, a kind of animal people could have as pets. I didn't understand at first. Everything is difficult to understand when you're raised under circumstantial truth. Dad said I could never trust anyone, but I trusted my feelings. I felt safe when I held the black kitten in my arms. I nuzzled into it, slept with it, and when I woke in the mornings, depending on the sound of Dad's footsteps, I nibbled on its ear.
Dad's footsteps were circumstantial too. They were my first indication of his anger. If they were slow, rather silent, he was relaxed. If they were fast and heavy, that meant he was worried. If they were slow and hard, that's when he was angriest. Those are the footsteps that ordered me out of the house until the sun rose. I always listened though. I left my kitten under the window and kissed it goodbye. Then I walked out the door for my training.
Violence became my only medium of communication. At night in the Slums, the monsters hunted for blood and a pretty little boy is always easy prey. Monsters don't respond to begging. I had to be creative. My knife was a permanent staple in my waistband. I'm left handed, I figured out, which is good because most people try to detain your right hand before anything else.
I was small when I was young. I ate only what dad allotted me. That didn't leave much strength for growth. I barely ever slept either. Sleeping on the street in the night was a one way ticket to getting attacked.
