Shitty Hair & Blasty

✨🩸 Don't Suffer Alone 🩸✨

Main Tags: Heavy angst, TW: SH hints of ED and Dissociation, blood, SH recovery, hurt/eventual comfort, queerplatonic relationships, Dead Dove; Do Not Eat.

Requested by: The marvellous Annon on Tumblr!

Relationships and Characters: Kirishima Eijirou & Bakugou Katsuki, Sero Hanta, Kaminari Denki, Ashido Mina, Uraraka Ochako.

AU(s): None that I'm aware of...

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Katsuki knows he shouldn't do it. He actually hates it. He hates how the idea plagues his mind, disrupting his thoughts. He hates how his fingers twitch in consideration and temptation, succumbing to his mind and not following his body's request. He hates the feeling of satisfaction when he knows no regular person should. He hates the anxiety that chokes him when he changes in and out of his gym clothes. He hates it all.

Every. Single. Bit.

But he can't stop, no matter how hard he tries. He always finds himself locked in his private half-bathroom at least once a week, falling back onto his worst coping mechanism.

This time, Katsuki paces around his room, doing everything he can to break the cycle. Katsuki digs his fingers through his hair, a frustrated noise tickling the back of his throat. "God damn it. Why is this so hard? I'm going to be the next number-one hero for fucks sake!"

Slamming the side of his fist against his desk, Katsuki grits his teeth. Knowing he would cave by the end of today, he burns holes through his glare at the drawer. I won't open it, he tells himself.

The ache in his chest claws at him, yearning for it.

I won't open it.

The thoughts in his mind hound him, desperate for it.

I won't open it.

The shivers breathing against his neck and shoulders anticipate it.

I won't open it.

Shaking his head, his face skews. Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut and backs away with a sharp sigh. He's better than this, and he knows it. There's no need for him to harm himself. He's perfectly capable of doing other things, but the idle scratching and picking at his left arm begs to differ.

Knowing there's no way for him to stop, Katsuki caves. Jerking the desk drawer open, he grabs what he needs before slamming it shut. Katsuki huffs as he perches on the edge of his bed, twisting his pocket knife open. I might as well do it where it's not visible instead of picking my fucking arm raw.

The cool steel glints in the evening light, casting a silver glow onto his complexion. He sighs, hiking up his shorts and peeling his boxer briefs back. Red lines trace along his flesh, jumping out at him from the stark comparison of his skin tone. Most have healed and are a soft pink, but the rest that scatter throughout his thighs are either faded white scars or dark red scabs.

Gnawing on the dead skin along his lips and the inside of his cheek, Katsuki alines the blade. Ten marks per leg. That's the limit he set himself if he ever wants to stop this. He hopes to limit himself to nine by next week, but that might not be possible.

An awfully too familiar sensation sneaks upon him. It's almost like his mind detaches from his body. The focus in his eyes slips into a haze-like stare, like sheer curtains drawing over them. His fingers and wrists work in mechanic order, never faulting or hesitating. The blade works along his thighs and hips like a bow drawing on the delicate strings of a cello.