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Denki didn’t know how he got here.
His day began at the internship, as regular as ever. Denki may have even called it a good day—sunny with a high of 20, assigned patrol route passing through the street of his favorite yakitori vendor.
A promising start to a good day.
It would be later on this pleasant day that he finds himself with his colleagues, an agency sidekick and a couple of older interns, taking down an ensemble of small-fry villains whose names wouldn’t even grace the news.
There was a loud noise.
White.
And then—
His vision was enveloped by the cerulean sky. Searing pain electrified every crevice of his body, a barraging intensity even the constant synaptic tingling of his quirk has never reached. Something was digging into his stomach.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
Time and space became an indifferentiable blur. At some point unbeknownst to him, the cloudless sky morphed into a dingy metal ceiling. His breaths were a ragged array of retches. He could tell he was bleeding in more places than one.
His mind raced but couldn’t land on a single solidified thought. Further along his flurry of consciousness, a certain postulate that he recalled from class stood out. Echoing critically in his ears with every thundering pulse: stop the bleeding, sterilize the opening, cover the wound. Stop the bleeding. Sterilize the opening. Cover the wound.
Stop the bleeding.
Stop the bleeding.
With a transient inkling of gratitude that the first-aid lesson was one of the few lectures he actually paid attention to, Denki attempted to reach for the sharpest area of pain.
Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t move.
Huh. That wasn’t right.
He tried again.
…and he couldn’t move.
Before he could contemplate the more dire insinuations of that revelation, his other senses began one-by-one awakening from the shock. Like overwhelming coruscating flashes of stage lights turning on, details of his surroundings began unfolding faster than he could handle.
The air was too heavy. The ground was too hard. The hanging fluorescent light overhead was too bright, and the buzz of the electric current was too loud. There were voices coming from somewhere out of his line of sight.
Denki zoned in on the voices, grasping for something to focus on, anything to distract him from the sensory bombardment. He tried to count them. One, two… three different voices...
…voices that were grating against his growing migraine.
The head count was the only information he was able to extract before his last semblance of processing power was exhausted.
“Why the hell did you bring him here? Think we can use him as ransom or something? You know that’s a stupid idea. Besides, he looks like he’ll barely last another hour.”
“Okay, fine! Ransom was gonna be my excuse, but you got me. There was just… something I’ve wanted to try for a while.”
“…Oh, you’re sick.”
“Hah! No way, man. You chose the electricity kid for that? Have fun getting your dick fried. Or are you into that?”
“Shut the fuck up. He’s not even halfway conscious; he can’t move, much less think about how to use his quirk. Help me get his pants off before he dies on me.”
Prying him out of his cotton daze was the sudden pressure of rough hands, grimy fingers tugging at him heedlessly, and arms lifting up his back. Shaken and unprepared, the spontaneous movements ripped apart open wounds and reopened freshly clotted ones, searing a renewed agony into his agitated flesh. Denki’s throat tried to produce a sound of protest, only for thick, coagulated blood to come out in its place and gurgle from cracked lips.
No longer prone and staring at the ceiling, the new angle offered Denki an unobstructed view of the… villains… working down the torn black leggings of his hero costume. The fuzziness in his mind dispersed at the pace of a receding tide, and Denki wrangled with the waves, scrambling to turn his gears back towards making sense of the situation.
The first realization that hit him was that they were struggling because the material was soaked in so much blood. Oh god. So much blood. By the time it was rolled down to his knees, he was exposed to his own gore caking the circumference of his thighs. Unfocused eyes darted around frantically, surveying what was visible of his legs for a major opening, but he spotted none. Relief did not find him on that note; quite the contrary, in fact, as logic immediately followed that the source of the mess had to have been from a higher point of rupture. Most likely, from his torso—an area far more lethal.
The second realization was that… he couldn’t feel his legs at all. As his pants were inevitably peeled off, he watched in dumbstruck horror as his knee and ankle bent in a grotesquely unnatural manner. And he didn’t feel a thing. Fuck. Fuck. His heart plummeted to oblivion. Denki suddenly assumed the worst.
“Flip him over.”
That clicked his survival instincts back into place. He had sat here petrified for long enough that the accumulated panic now detonated through his nervous system. A ferocious jolt burgeoned through his whole frail body, the trigger for him to begin struggling like a cornered animal.
He tried to summon the strength to make his uncooperative limbs retaliate, clambering against the floor and using any leverage he could find to shake the bastards off of him. To his sob of relief, his left arm reciprocated. Denki thrashed with it, chest still heaving and blood-drenched costume weighing him down.
His fist made contact with something, but the minor success instantly backfired when the person holding him from behind tossed his limp body sideways, landing Denki flat on his cheekbone, dusty concrete floor tearing into his face.
The soreness of his chest hitting the ground hadn’t even the time to draw out a groan from him before a heavy-soled boot instantly slammed into his back. He swears he heard his ribs crack. It was hard to tell over the deafening chorus of his own uncontrollable sputtering.
“Ow… stupid brat. Should’ve blown off your other arm, too.”
Denki bid his time trying to dissect that sentence, willed his temporal lobe to reapply meaning to words that he could just barely latch on to.
Blown off?
Denki furrowed his brows.
Other arm?
Denki blinked.
Other arm?! A dizzying montage of the implications rushed through his head. None of which he was fond of. As if on cue, he noticed that his current prone position had his head facing his right side—the side of which he still couldn’t feel his arm.
He was unsure if he would appreciate this convenience.
Before he could think better of it, breath bated, he glanced down.
Denki discovered only one thing: he could, indeed, move his right arm all along… or the bloody stump that was left of it, at least.
Everything from his elbow down was gone, missing, nonexistent, eradicated. While the frayed strands of his black jacket sleeve covered the most visceral part of the flayed flesh, he could make out the slight off-white of a bone fragment jutting out.
His hand was gone. His forearm was gone. The friendship bracelet Kyouka had made for him was gone.
His right arm was gone.
The screech that wracked his entire terrified, crumbled body was barely human. Denki felt bile clawing its way up his throat—
“No fucking way. He just noticed!”
—and couldn’t hold down the nausea anymore. He tried to turn his head away as much as possible, but his skull weighed like lead. Vomit mixed with the puddle of blood already in front of his face.
“What a bitch.”
Hands were on him again, but this time he didn’t have it in him to fight back. He didn’t feel real. Surely, this isn’t real.
There was someone pulling his collar, and then he felt the bottom of his spine being angled upwards. A sickening dread bubbled within him as he put together that his hips were being lifted, and his legs folded under them, but he couldn’t feel the action in that part of his body at all.
It was disorienting, to say the least, information that his body naturally receives being no longer present. He had been unable to taste or smell after getting sick before. He’s had his eyes covered and ears plugged. But the sense of touch is one he had never considered could be taken for granted. He felt isolated, deprived, helpless in an uncharted sea of black. Without the mobility to look back, there was no way for him to brace for whatever incoming violence was in store.
A defined rip resounded through the air.
“Ha… I knew this one would have a nice ass. See, now you know why I was eyeing down the electricity kid.”
Oh. That must have been his underwear being torn off.
Denki felt halfheartedly impressed that he was still lucid enough to interpret that much. (Given a better headspace, he would’ve realized sardonically about how fucked he must be if he had the audacity to feel proud for something like that.)
But mostly, Denki felt tired. Words glided above his head like paper airplanes. Whether it was the residual shock or the impinging fatigue, he was not cut out to keep up with any of the conversation, nor did he have the semblance of mind to process what in the world was being done to him.
A half-baked perplexity dipped in and out of his hemorrhagic torpor. It was an eccentric enough thought for his swaying consciousness to pause on the abstraction for a second longer. His current position and status of undress reminded him of a trashy porno scene. What a funny coincidence.
…Not that that was going to happen to him, right?
Of course not. How could he, Kaminari Denki, Chargebolt, out of all people, end up in a situation like that? He’s not a girl with big tits. He’s not even a girl with small tits…
Denki felt tired.
The abeyant-alarming notion swept away as innocuously as it arrived, natural and unsuspecting, sirens silenced by the white noise. Every train of thought ended up drowned out by the formidable numbing weight of exhaustion that encumbered him at the moment. His brain was groggy, glazed by a fog similar to when he’s short-circuited but more unbearably lethargic.
An ambiguous movement coming from behind him was all that he could perceive by now. His eyelids felt like a chore to keep open, and with his vision beginning to blur together, he opted just to close them. Just for a bit.
Just for a moment.
…Denki felt tired. He felt really tired.
Perhaps, he’ll take a nap.
Perhaps, he’ll wake up in his dorm room, drenched in sweat, but relieved it was just all a really bad dream invoked by the weird porn Hanta showed him.
Denki felt tired.
Denki felt really tired.
—
“Hey, wait, did he die?”
“What?! No, he can’t! Ugh, I’ve been wanting to try this for so long; no other opportunity is going to present itself like this again! Hey, can your healing keep him awake?”
“I’ve told you before: my quirk isn’t ‘healing,’ it just regenerates blood. And fine, I’ll see what I can do—just because I pity your nasty, degenerate ass. I can’t make promises, though, given his current state.”
—
A warmth radiated on Denki’s left shoulder blade.
And he was back.
He didn’t wake up in his dorm room. He woke up as paralyzed as in the nightmare, ass up and bared in the cold, damp warehouse air. His cheek remained glued against the hard pavement instead of his tacky cheetah print pillow. Lips caked with dried fluids and bitter debris, a leaden feeling in his lungs. As his consciousness encroached, he became more aware of a disgusting metallic taste lingering in his mouth.
Suddenly, his throat clogged, and before he knew it, he was painting the concrete beneath him a fresh coat of red with a round of incessant, painful hacking. His convulsions elicited vocalizations from around him, ones he couldn’t comprehend over his own desperation to breathe in anything besides his own hemorrhage. His mangled throat burned violently throughout the onslaught of fresh blood invading his airway.
When the blood finally relented to oxygen, he gasped haggardly. Air surged into punctured lungs, forcing them to expand agonizingly into his broken ribcage. Despite this, he could still barely breathe; it didn’t help that his chest was still pressed flat against the ground, collapsed ribs giving no support to his weak lungs in creating a cavity to do their job.
Saliva was pooling at the corner of his mouth; his eyes were blown wide from hysteria, unable to resolve either the burning of his chest or stinging of his throat.
Fingers tangled into Denki’s hair and pulled up. His upper body was lifted above the floor, and Denki heaved. The strain on his scalp and neck was below ideal, but he wasn’t in a fortunate enough spot to complain about it when he was finally granted the leverage to breathe.
So he did—swallowed down the murky atmosphere rapaciously, every wheeze a battering ram straight into his chest, yet the blunt damage failed to rival the cravings of all his newly spawned hemoglobins for the sweet, stale air.
Enough oxygen had yet to make its way to his brain for him to reach a pretense of cognizance before he heard a brief muttering from behind him.
“There we go…”
—was Denki’s only warning before he was impaled.
It was indescribable, incomparable to any ungodly ordeal he had just undergone. It was bludgeoning, raw, thoroughly invasive. If he thought he had already been through the worst of it, he was proven so, so wrong.
He was being split from the core. He was being eviscerated from the inside. It penetrated deep into his abdomen. Deep, deep, deep, and it just kept getting deeper, and how can it reach so deep? Denki was feverish enough to wholeheartedly believe he felt it puncture his diaphragm.
Denki was seeing white. He felt like he was being choked again. He didn’t think he would still be able to scream, and yet, another mangled cry rasped its way out of his wrecked throat through sheer force.
“Fuck, he’s basically being lubricated by his own blood. Did you see how easily I went in?”
The wounds that he could still feel over the brutalization of his innards were tearing anew, flakes of dried viscera crumbling while any scabbing was destroyed by a flash flood of newly regenerated blood.
He couldn’t recall when his face reunited with the ground. Dirty concrete sandpapered his cheek, and dust powdered his soaked lashes. Yet now, the crushing pressure against his lungs was the least of his concerns.
He was a piece of meat butchered. He was a ceramic doll shattered.
He was separated from the world and life he knew. A liminal hellscape was all he resided in.
…until suddenly, a sharp, distinctly different sensation cut through the firewall of pain and jolted him back to the present. All too soon, it happened again, unwitting nerves unleashing an exorbitant shake, rattling his weak frame as a keen pushed past clenched teeth.
“Oh? You can still feel that?”
A purposeful change in angle of whatever was in his stomach and there it was again, more intense and resolved this time, and Denki made a noise—
“Did he just moan?”
Denki didn’t understand.
Denki didn’t understand at all. He’s confused and in so much pain. He’s in so much pain and confused. He’s scared and frustrated and falling apart. He doesn’t know why he’s hurt, and he doesn’t know what’s happening.
He’s spiraling. He’s spiraling, he’s spiraling, and in this spire, he remembered he hasn’t tried speaking yet. If he couldn’t move properly, he could try to call out for help. He could… He could… He heard voices earlier, right? He faintly recalled that they were talking about him. He should ask for them to help him. He should ask what’s happening to him and why he hurts so much and how to make it stop. He should—
Another flash of the aberrant feeling had Denki’s stomach churning with an unexplained tightness. His cheek grinded forward against the cement. He felt dizzy.
It was then he heard through the cacophony, “You cheeky little whore… are you getting off on this? You’re gonna cum from being fucked to death?”
Denki processed exactly one phrase from that monologue.
In the center of the turbulence, his delirium slowly simmered to an unprecedented level of clarity. The eye of the storm. Amidst it all, he faced the inevitable dawn of realization, and with it, the dissipation of any resolve for seeking salvation. Like morning dew vaporizing in the shriveling scorch of an unimaginable celestial force, Denki had been confronted by a truth that was much too far above himself.
“What a good little hero, taking me so well…”
And Denki understood. Denki understood the tightness in his stomach. He understood the rhythmic grating of his cheek against the floor. He understood the piercing in his gut. He understood what he is, what he is to become—what he is to bear. He understood his place. His insignificance at this moment. For the first time, Denki understood true powerlessness.
“…so resilient, staying alive just for me.”
Denki understood, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t come to this conclusion sooner. Maybe he was simply too out of it to make the inference. Maybe he didn’t consider it was a possibility that could happen to him at all. Maybe he just wasn’t smart enough.
“God, do they make all the heroes at your school as slutty as you?”
But all he could do now about the revelation was weep with whatever tears he had left.
Somehow, having this knowledge made the next time his assaulter hit his prostate feel more stimulating. More obscene. More dehumanizing. The ink canvas behind his eyelids flashed a violent white at the same throbbing rate as his cheek scraping the ground.
He moaned again.
It was weak and wet and miserable, and it was unmistakably a moan. It was a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his life knowing it originated from his own mouth. More scoffs and laughter floated in a distant dimension around him.
Denki felt like he was watching the scene from outside of his body. The contorted limbs, the matted hair, the abyssal gashes, the swamping bruises, and the dark, dark, dark void of his right elbow joint, all congregated loosely, stitched together by the bare minimum, to form one heaving, hiccuping mound of flesh that is Kaminari Denki. One who was worth getting his ass pounded into within the limits of life by the villains he was supposed to take down. One who deserved it.
No, he wasn’t even put together. His concept of self might as well be held in place by cobwebs. He was watching what was being allowed to happen to him. What the world allowed, what these people allowed… what he allowed to happen to him. He watched as he was taken apart.
He tried to shake his head—shake away the grit, the grime, the pooling shame. Shake away the vile thoughts. Deny the reality of this whole affair, and maybe it’ll go away.
He had regained some movement in his neck, but lifting it still required him to exert way more strength than he currently harbored. The world wouldn’t allow him to do even that. Of course not. He felt stupid. He couldn’t even act on the bare minimum of denialism. He couldn’t do anything. A helpless victim.
His witless porno notion from earlier popped back into his mind, and he felt even more stupid.
He’s not a girl.
But maybe they think he is. Maybe they think he’s a well-enough substitute.
Denki’s heart drops at the thought. Images of Katsuki and Eijirou begin to flood through his mind.
Admittedly, he had found himself staring before, filled with an aspiration to achieve a build more like theirs. He had rolled up his shirt and traced the contour of his flat stomach, flexed his arms in the mirror every day, looking for signs of development from training. But he couldn’t seem to build muscles like his best friends no matter how rigorously he followed their workout routines. It was a quiet complex, shelved to the back of his head over time. It lingered, but it wasn’t something that arose as a dire insecurity.
He had never agonized over it more than at this moment.
Would this still be happening to him if he looked more like Katsuki and Eijirou? Or… or if he was taller like Hanta? Or if he was quicker to react like Mina?
He thought about the girls.
He thought about the girls, and yet he couldn’t imagine any of the girls letting this happen to them either. They would’ve fought off these villains, outsmarted them and overpowered them. They would’ve captured them and turned them into custody. They wouldn’t be a mangled mess on the floor.
They would’ve gotten back up and defeated them—because they are heroes.
So what does that make Kaminari Denki?
He was not a piece of meat butchered. He was not a ceramic doll shattered.
He was a wannabe hero proved weaker than nameless villains. He was a teenager being raped to death in a warehouse by the lowest of scum.
He was not a hero. He couldn’t be a hero anymore like this.
—
“Oh, come on, where did the reactions go? We’re being so kind to heal you. You better not go limp on me after all the work I did to get you.”
Unpleasant, heated whispers right beside his ear lurched him out of his daze, acutely drawing his attention back to the stabs in his abdomen. Denki whined on impulse, discomfort renewing itself all over again. It was a strained, pitiful sound, but it did nothing to ease up the torment. In fact, it caused the person above him to drill in faster. Denki couldn’t help but tense, despite it making the strain worse.
“That’s right, tighten up, Sparky.”
No… no… The nickname made his skin crawl. The nickname that was supposed to be endearing and familiar, corrupted in an instant. His heart squeezed. He didn’t want to be reminded of his friends right now. He can’t do this. He needed to get away.
Denki squirmed haplessly. Escaping with his single usable limb was a futile endeavor, but he still tried, inching ahead in desperation using his bruised, bloodied shoulders as support.
He’s never been more frantic. And yet—
Large hands on his waist and shoulder yanked him all the way back, instantly undoing the little bit of progress he made and some more. Skin slapped loudly against skin as he was pulled flush against the man. Taut.
The sound that came out of Denki was horrific.
It was not him. It was feral. His body was built to withstand millions of volts, but he was not made for this kind of physical damage. He felt small. He felt so unfairly and incompatibly small when the man bottomed out and Denki knew unmistakably that several things ruptured inside of him. He arched and gagged and twisted some more, but the unmoving hands did not make the mistake of giving him the same freedom of mobility as before.
He chanted faithless, jumbled prayers of every variation (‘please, it hurts, stop- please… stop, stop, hurts- I can’t, I can’t, plea-’) that he knew would yield him nothing, and yet he choked them out of his ruined throat nonetheless, clinging to the hope of mercy that those words just might tempt.
As he was hoisted upright, a hand moved over his stomach for support. The change in position irritated every stiff joint and muscle, concrete flooring pinpricking into his ruined bare knees, now bearing his full weight. His head dropped forward like a ragdoll when he was lifted, eyes squeezed shut in pain. When he opened them, his vision was blurry. Thick tears obscured his sight, and yet he saw… he could see…
Is that his intestine…?
The hand he thought was on top of his stomach was dipping its fingers into the giant gash over his lower abdomen. In, and out. Oh, god. In, and out. He couldn’t tell where the polyester of his shirt ended and where his viscera began. In, and out. He stared at the gaping flesh give way and his organs move around the digits like badly mixed cake batter. In, curl, and scrape.
Denki had no contents left in him to throw up.
“God damn, it really does feel like a pussy.”
The hand pressed in harder, and Denki spasmed, pupils dilated and mouth hanging open. He could feel the outline of the cock still lodged in his ass with the mounted pressure, like it was kneading the malleable tissue to the shape of a cast.
“Oh, baby, you’re gonna be moulded into the perfect cocksleeve for me.”
Like a lemon wrung out on a juicer.
“Gonna have my dick imprinted in your pretty little hole by the time we’re done. What do you think, little hero? Something to remember me by if you survive, yeah?”
Another knick of that stupid bundle of nerves had him gasping, shuddering. He wished he was injured enough to not feel it. God, if he could’ve been granted one mercy, it would be to not derive any twisted form of pleasure from this accursed experience.
It’s too late for that, though.
“You sure are hard for someone still babbling for me to stop.”
Denki didn’t realize he was still mumbling.
“Kinky little freak… At this point, I’d believe it if you signed up for hero school just so you could get caught and turned into a villain fucktoy. Hah… you know what? Here, I’ll help you with that since it’s clearly your first time.”
When he thought it couldn’t get worse, deft movements began stroking him. First slow, as if delicately mapping out his length and shape, before beginning to jerk him off in earnest. Denki twitched, trembled—he was embarrassingly sensitive—but there were no more sounds left in his throat. The hand lathered his cock with his own blood. Denki was so fucking dizzy.
“There, isn’t this better?”
It was his first time being touched by someone besides himself. It feels good. It feels bad. It feels bizarre; the lack of control, the inability to twist and pace how he wants overstimulates him more.
He hates it. He needs more.
It was his first time being touched by someone besides himself, and it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Bet you’ve been dreaming of this.”
He’s thought about it. Of course he’s thought about it.
He’s thought about Katsuki’s dangerous scarred palms while he teeters him on the edge with teases and taunts. He’s thought about Eijirou’s calloused fingers and his enthusiasm, his boundless stamina and brilliant smile. He’s thought about Kyouka’s nimble musician hands working him up in ways he can’t imagine, planting dainty kisses on his forehead… maybe even using her cord to… to…
“You’re leaking like crazy.”
He’s thought about it all, thought about what it would feel like more than he would like to admit. But this was not among any of his expectations. This was unbearable and vile. This was painful. This was too harsh and too fast and too much and he wanted it to stop. This was all stress and adrenaline rather than pleasure and intimacy.
“What are you thinking about, huh? You’re not braindead yet, right? I know you can hear me. You don’t have to pretend. It won’t make this go any faster, you know.”
Now, Denki felt disgusting for thinking about it in the first place. Of course his first time wouldn’t be anything like that. Why should he be treated with gentleness? Why should he deserve care? He’s revolted with himself.
How dare he once imagine his friends. How insolent. How repulsive he is.
The only way it could happen with him is with people like this, at places like this. This had to happen to him, it must have. This was meant to happen to him. To show him his place. To prevent him from getting carried away with his fantasies of tenderness.
This is what he was made for.
Denki sobbed. He sobbed, as he couldn’t even escape to his own spiral of dark thoughts. He sobbed as much as his obliterated throat would let him, and he felt pathetic. He felt useless.
A feeling so familiar.
That must’ve meant something.
—
Denki was at the edge of his sanity. He wanted to beg, wanted to plead for it to end. He wanted to die. He wanted to die.
Please, he wanted to die.
But the hand on his back steadily pumped life back into him at the same rate it leaves him—leaving him hovering at, but bringing him no closer to, the comforting embrace of the void.
“Hurry up, fuckwad. At least let me have a turn before he goes out.”
“Shut up, you’re ruining the mood.”
“You two are disgusting. But yeah, you might wanna hurry up if you don’t wanna be fucking a corpse. He’s starting to lose blood faster than I can regenerate.”
“I wouldn’t mind fucking his corpse if he continues to feel this good.”
“Well he won’t, and I’m getting tired, so wrap it up or I’m going home.”
Denki wanted to go home.