Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The doorknob slipped from Bakugo’s hand twice before it finally turned.

He stumbled in—hood half over his head, one shoe missing. The other was loose, dragging on the heel like it wanted to fall off too. His mouth hung open. No words, no breath. Just fog.

Everything felt far away.

The floor was colder than it should’ve been. The lights overhead were too yellow, too slow, and they left afterimages behind his eyelids when he blinked.

“Katsuki?” a voice called from the hallway.

He didn’t answer. His legs gave out before he could find the words. His shoulder hit the doorframe. Then the ground.

Footsteps rushed in. Or maybe they were slow. Time wasn’t making sense anymore.

His father crouched next to him, hands reaching out—grabbing under his arms, pulling him upright.

“Jesus, Katsuki, what the hell did you take?”

But Katsuki’s lips didn’t move. He didn’t know.

His arms hung like they weren’t his. His eyes were open, but glazed. The house felt sideways. He barely registered being dragged, stumbling, leaned against a shoulder that smelled like old soap and cigarette smoke.

They reached the couch.

It hit his back soft and heavy, like being swallowed. He sunk in unevenly, one leg off the edge, one hand clutching air. His head lolled to the side.

The room tilted.

He felt a blanket or a coat draped over his waist. Maybe his dad said something else. Maybe not. He was floating. Or falling. Couldn’t tell the difference.

Then a hand. On his forehead. Gentle.

Then on his jaw.

Lingering.

Katsuki murmured something, or maybe it was just a breath.

“M’fine,” he whispered. Or tried to.

But something didn’t feel fine.

The weight of the hand changed. Moved lower.

He blinked. Slow.

“…Dad?” The word came out like a bubble underwater.

He thought he felt fingers at his side. Then at his waistband. But maybe that was the blanket shifting. Or his nerves lying to him.

His body didn’t want to move. He wanted it to, but it didn’t listen. His limbs were buzzing. His stomach twisted.

“Feels… weird,” he mumbled, a single tear slipping from one eye.

Then—nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.

Hours later, he woke to still air and the metallic scent of night. The TV was off. His father was gone.

Only the sound of the clock ticking in the hallway kept time.

Katsuki sat up slowly. His shirt was rumpled. His belt was undone. He didn’t remember doing that.

The blanket had been pulled to his knees.

Something inside him curled, tight and sick and unsure. His throat clenched. He didn’t cry. Not really.

He just stared into the living room mirror across the way. He looked pale. Too pale. His hair stuck to his forehead. His eyes were red but empty.

He didn’t remember anything clearly.

But something had happened.

And whatever it was—it wasn’t right.

Chapter Text

The weight of his body pulled him down again.

After sitting up briefly—dazed, aching—Katsuki sank back onto the couch. His limbs felt like they were filled with sand. His eyelids were too heavy, and his head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside of his skull, asking to be let out.

Just rest, he told himself. Just a little more.

The blanket twisted around his legs again as he drifted.
Everything faded.
Again.

⸻

The next time he opened his eyes, it was darker in the room—but not night.

His throat was dry. His stomach churned. There was a bitter taste crawling up the back of his tongue like battery acid. He didn’t move. Couldn’t, really.

His shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. His waistband felt off, loose like it had been unbuckled and retightened wrong. There were red spots on his arm that hadn’t been there yesterday.

His brain buzzed.

Then—
Voices.

Raised. Sharp. From the kitchen.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?!” his mother was screaming.

Katsuki blinked. Once. Twice.

Was she back already?

“—you think I’d just come home, see my son looking like that, and what? Go make f*cking tea?”

“Mitsuki—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare use that voice. You did this before, Masaru. When he was little. You think I didn’t catch it then?”

Silence.

Bakugo’s breath caught.

He swallowed thickly. The world tipped sideways, though he hadn’t moved.

“I should’ve left you then,” she went on, voice shaking but furious. “I should’ve divorced you the second I saw how he started reacting to your footsteps in the hallway.”

“I didn’t—!”

“He flinches when you talk to him now. He sleeps with his door locked. He won’t sit on the goddamn couch. And now—now?! He’s drugged out, looks like he’s been touched, and you want me to just pretend again?!”

Bakugo closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

His chest felt tight. His ears rang. A cold sweat rolled down his temple.

“No,” Mitsuki said, quieter. “I’m done.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m done covering for you. I’m done pretending I didn’t notice. And I swear to every goddamn thing I believe in, Masaru—if I find out anything more happened last night, I will bury you before I let the cops do it.”

Katsuki’s fingers gripped the edge of the blanket without meaning to.

His heart wasn’t beating right. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was just the weight of something finally clicking into place.

He didn’t understand.

Not fully.

But something in her voice made him feel sick in a way he couldn’t blame on the pills.

The couch creaked beneath him as he sat up slowly. His head spun. His stomach lurched.

He stared at the kitchen doorway, light spilling through it, voices fading as Mitsuki stormed down the hallway—toward the front door or maybe toward him.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t want to know what she’d say when she saw he was awake.

Because some part of him already knew.

Chapter Text

Voices were cutting through the air again—sharp, frantic.

His head throbbed with every beat of his heart.

From down the hall—Mitsuki’s voice. Too loud. Too raw.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, Masaru. I didn’t forget. I knew. I knew when it started, I knew when it stopped, and I knew when he let it start again.”

Katsuki’s blood ran cold.

His breath caught in his throat.

“I gave you a second chance,” she spat. “When he was seventeen and things were finally quiet. I let it go. I trusted that it was done.”

Masaru said something too soft for Katsuki to hear.

But Mitsuki kept going.

“And then I come home again, and I see him. And he looks just like he did when it first happened. The same look. The same way he sits. The same silence. You think I don’t recognize it now?”

Katsuki’s hands trembled. He didn’t know if he could stand. But he listened.

“And him?” she snapped. “Don’t get me started on him. He let it happen. He let it happen again.”

Masaru said, “He was a kid.”

“No,” she hissed. “No, he wasn’t a kid this time. He was grown. He knew what you were. He knew what you did. And he didn’t say a damn word. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just kept walking into it like it was normal.”

Her voice rose.

“He let it back in! And you—you just kept taking!”

Katsuki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

His chest felt like it was folding in.

He could barely breathe.

“You think he’s some fucking angel?” Mitsuki said, vicious now. “He’s not. He’s a coward. He could’ve told me. He should’ve told someone. But he just kept going silent like that would erase it.”

Something in her voice cracked—rage and guilt bleeding together.

“He’s your son, and he let you in.”

Katsuki stood. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. His legs moved, shaky and numb. He leaned against the doorframe, staring into the hall.

Mitsuki turned.

Her eyes locked on him.

Silence.

The kind that hurts more than yelling.

“You’re awake,” she said flatly.

Katsuki didn’t answer.

She crossed her arms, and for a moment, it looked like she wanted to say something softer.

But then her mouth twisted. And she looked at him like he was a cracked mirror.

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you,” she said, voice low now. “But whatever it is… you didn’t try to stop it.”

He flinched.

She saw it.

She didn’t take it back.

Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed past Masaru, grabbing her keys off the counter with shaking hands.

“I’m done,” she said. “I’m not staying in this house another night. You both can rot here together if that’s what you want.”

The door slammed so hard the frame shook.

And then—

Silence.

Katsuki leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly until he hit the floor.

The hallway felt colder now.

The space where she’d stood was still warm.

But she was gone.

And for the first time in a long time…

He felt dirty.

Not confused. Not foggy.

Just wrong.

And the thing that hurt most?

Some part of him thought she might be right.

Chapter Text

Katsuki didn’t hear the car pull up.

He only noticed because the house shifted.

The way the front door opened—not soft, not slamming, but final. A bag dragged against the floor. Boots. The kind she only wore when she didn’t plan to stay.

He didn’t lift his head.

The light through the curtains was weak and grey. He hadn’t moved from bed since yesterday.

He heard the voice before the knock.

“I’m only here for a minute.”

Mitsuki’s tone was flat. Like she’d run out of emotion days ago.

Katsuki curled tighter under the blanket, eyes half open, staring at the wall.

“I just dropped off the papers,” she said, loud enough to carry. “He can keep the house. I don’t want anything. Not from either of you.”

Katsuki shut his eyes.

She didn’t say goodbye. Not to him.

Just the sound of her keys. Her bag. Her leaving. Again.

⸻

The slam that followed shook the floor.

Not hers.

Masaru.

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

Footsteps. Fast. Direct.

The sound of the hallway door thrown wide.

Then—

His.

Katsuki barely had time to move before the bedroom door was kicked open, crashing against the wall with a crack.

“You little shit!”

Masaru was already inside.

His face was red, lips curled, hands balled into fists.

“You think this is funny?! You think tearing your whole family apart is just some phase?!”

Katsuki tried to sit up.

Masaru grabbed the front of his hoodie before he could even speak, yanking him upright, dragging him halfway off the bed.

“You let her walk out that door and didn’t say a goddamn word!”

Katsuki shoved at his arms. “Get off—!”

Masaru slammed him back down against the mattress, hard. The headboard rattled.

“You ruined this, Katsuki! Not me. You.”

“You—You did it,” Katsuki gasped. “You touched me—”

Masaru’s fist hit the wall just beside his head, cracking the plaster.

Katsuki flinched hard, heart thudding like a drum.

“I gave you everything! And you pay me back by letting her twist it? By looking at me like I’m the monster?!”

“You are!” Katsuki shouted, voice cracking from the inside out.

Masaru froze—just for a second.

Then grabbed him again. Fists full of fabric.

“You wanna act like a victim? Fine. Then stay one.”

He shoved him hard—Katsuki hit the edge of the dresser this time, shoulder slamming wood, his vision flashing white for a second.

Then—

Footsteps, again. Out. Away.

The door slammed shut.

And this time, he didn’t come back.

⸻

Katsuki stayed crumpled on the floor, hands gripping the side of the dresser like an anchor.

His chest heaved.

His arms stung.

But worse than all of that—

was the voice echoing in his skull:

You ruined this.
You let her go.
You let it happen.
You deserve it.

He didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

He just sat there.

And the silence hurt more than the shove ever did.

Chapter Text

Bakugo had been unraveling for days.

The kind of unraveling no one noticed—because he still showed up to class. Still scowled. Still spoke when called on. Still looked like Bakugo.

But something was different.

He hadn’t been sleeping right.

He kept jolting awake with his fists clenched and his heart pounding like he’d just thrown himself out of a nightmare. Only—he could never remember the dream.

Sometimes it was a voice. Sometimes a smell.

But it always ended with the same hollow feeling in his chest.

And then the day would begin, and no one knew.

Not Aizawa.
Not Kirishima.
Not anyone.

He didn’t want them to.

⸻

That morning, his headache came before his feet even touched the floor.

By second period, the lights were too bright. The room was too loud. Every word anyone said buzzed in his ears like a mosquito he couldn’t kill.

And then—Deku.

Hovering again.

Not even being rude. Not even trying to bother him. Just… there.

Notebook in hand. Voice too soft. Watching him.

“Your maneuver yesterday in the gym—you pivoted late. You could’ve dodged earlier, I think, but—” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “—but maybe it’s just your explosion timing. Or reaction time. Or maybe you were tired?”

Bakugo blinked. His chest tightened.

He couldn’t even hear the words anymore.

Just the hum of Izuku’s voice. The way it felt like it was inside his skin. Like it wouldn’t leave.

The pen scratching.

The eyes watching.

The page turning.

His stomach twisted. His vision swam for a second—just a second—but it was enough.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Izuku paused. “Oh—uh, sorry. I just thought—”

“I said shut up,” Bakugo snapped, louder this time.

The class turned.

Deku blinked. “Kacchan, I didn’t mean anything—”

“Don’t. Call me that.”

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t think—”

“You never think!” Bakugo stood up so fast his chair screeched. “You just hover and watch and write and keep staring at me like I’m some kind of experiment!”

Izuku’s face fell. “I was trying to be—”

“I don’t want your kindness,” Bakugo hissed. “I don’t want anything from you.”

The room had gone silent.

Mina’s lips parted. Kirishima frowned. Aizawa didn’t move—but his eyes narrowed.

Deku lowered his notebook slowly, hands shaking. “I… wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Bakugo didn’t respond.

He grabbed his bag and walked out of the classroom.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t care what they thought.

Didn’t care how it looked.

He just left.

⸻

They never asked where he went.

They didn’t check in that night.

Not the next day, either.

When he missed training, they shrugged it off.

“Probably brooding.”
“Still pissed about the Deku thing.”
“You know Bakugo.”

No one asked if he was okay.

No one remembered how pale he’d looked that morning.

How he’d been blinking like his eyes were burning.

How his hands trembled when he reached for his pencil.

How quiet he’d gone in the week leading up to that moment.

No one knew that he’d been waking up every night in sweat-soaked sheets. That his heart felt like it was rotting. That his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. That he’d been trying to hold in something that kept clawing its way out of him.

They only saw the outburst.

And when someone explodes, it’s easier to walk away than to look at what made them burn.

⸻

By the time he was passed out on the couch—numb and nauseous from pills and silence—

By the time Mitsuki’s voice cracked against the walls and the door slammed behind her—

By the time Masaru’s shadow filled the doorway with fists and fury—

Everyone else had already made up their minds:

Bakugo’s just being an asshole again.

And assholes?

They don’t need to be checked on.

Chapter Text

The sun rose again.

Bakugo didn’t.

He heard the light before he saw it—the way it pushed against the curtain like it didn’t care what was waiting on the other side.

The room stank.

Sweat. Dust. Something sour beneath the blankets.

He hadn’t opened the window.

Hadn’t left the bed.

The pain in his stomach came in waves now—cold and hollow. His head buzzed like static, never stopping. His mouth was dry, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach for water.

He stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

Then—slowly—he reached for the drawer.

The pills were still there.

Two left.

He took both.

No water.

Just swallowed and waited.

The quiet came fast.

Not peace.

Just quiet.

⸻

Masaru stood in the kitchen.

Mug in hand. Same shirt as yesterday. His eyes bloodshot from something older than sleep.

He heard the sound of footsteps above him—brief, dragging.

Then nothing.

Again.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t call up the stairs. Didn’t ask how Katsuki was doing. He just stared at the sink, jaw locked, fingers clenched around ceramic.

The rage sat in his throat like gravel.

Every time he thought of Mitsuki’s voice on the other end of the divorce papers—calm, cold, final—he wanted to punch holes in the drywall.

Every time he heard a floorboard creak upstairs, he thought:

That little shit’s still here.

And it made his blood boil.

⸻

At U.A., things felt… tense.

Not enough to notice if you weren’t looking.

But the tension was there.

“He hasn’t even messaged anyone?” Mina asked, leaning on her desk.

“Nope,” Kaminari replied. “Not a single word. Not even to Kiri.”

Kirishima frowned. “I… I figured he just needed space.”

Sero shrugged. “Classic Bakugo. Throws a fit, vanishes.”

Todoroki, who hadn’t spoken all morning, glanced toward the empty seat near the back of the room.

“Has anyone actually tried calling him?” he asked quietly.

The group paused.

Kirishima looked down. “I… didn’t think he’d answer.”

“He wouldn’t,” Mina said quickly, like she needed to believe it. “He’s probably just being his usual explosive self. You know how he gets when people get too close.”

“Still…” Tsuyu murmured, “it’s been days.”

Momo frowned. “He’s never missed this much school before.”

“Izuku,” Mina turned, “you were the last one who talked to him. You think he’s still mad?”

Deku looked up from his notebook—eyes tired, hands still.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think he was mad.”

Everyone stared.

“I think he was… scared.”

No one responded.

⸻

Back at the house, Bakugo barely made it to the bathroom.

He sat on the floor afterward, back against the tub, hands shaking.

The pills dulled the edge. That was all they ever did.

They didn’t fix anything.

Didn’t rewind time.

Didn’t take away the way Masaru’s voice still echoed in his head.

You ruined this.
You let her go.
You let it happen.

He touched the bruise on his side. Winced. It was older now. Fading yellow. But the ache sat deeper than the skin.

There was a knock at the door downstairs.

He didn’t move.

A minute later, it opened anyway.

Masaru. Home early.

The sound of boots. The fridge door. A mug hitting the counter.

Katsuki held his breath.

He didn’t want to be seen.

Every time Masaru saw him now, it was like gasoline and fire.

One glance and he’d mutter under his breath.

“Still here.”

Sometimes louder.

Sometimes it turned into a slammed door.

Last night, it had turned into a plate thrown against the wall.

Katsuki never left his room after that.

He didn’t want to give him another reason.

Didn’t want to be the reason.

But he always was.

⸻

That night, Katsuki stared at his phone again.

Battery dead.

Not that it mattered.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Not even from Kirishima.

The silence in the room felt different now.

He used to be scared of it.

Now it just made sense.

He laid back on the mattress, head pounding.

His body trembled beneath the blanket.

And the pills? They weren’t quiet enough anymore.

Chapter Text

It was evening again.

That ugly, metallic hour when the sun’s gone but hasn’t really set, when everything looks yellow and wrong and nothing feels finished.

Katsuki was still on the floor.

Not because he fell.

Because he hadn’t stood up.

Since yesterday.

Since this morning.

Since he took the last of the pills.

His hoodie stuck to his chest. His body trembled occasionally—little shivers that ran across his ribs and faded before he could feel them fully.

He hadn’t eaten.
Hadn’t showered.
Hadn’t moved.

The house creaked somewhere beneath him.

Boots. The door. The heavy kind of silence that always came before something bad.

Masaru was home.

⸻

Downstairs, the fridge opened. Something clattered on the counter. A mug. Always the mug.

And then:

“Still fucking here.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Not yet.

But Katsuki heard it.

Felt it.

The shift.

He stood. Slowly. Steadying himself against the wall.

Just as the footsteps started up the stairs.

They were faster this time.

More deliberate.

Then the slam of the hallway door—and then—

His door.

Wide open.

Masaru stood in the doorway, fists clenched.

He looked at his son like he was looking at a mold infestation.

“You’ve done nothing for three days.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

Just stared at the spot on the floor that had gone grey from his body’s weight.

Masaru stepped into the room.

“You’re just gonna rot in here? That your plan? Let your mom walk out, leave this whole house to fall apart, and you’re gonna sit on your ass and do nothing?”

Katsuki blinked. His head throbbed.

“Say something,” Masaru barked. “Or is silence all you’ve got left?”

Katsuki finally looked at him.

Eyes dull. Red-rimmed. Lips chapped from dehydration.

“What do you want me to say?”

Masaru stepped closer.

“I want you to admit it.”

Katsuki said nothing.

“I want you to admit this was your fault.”

Still nothing.

The silence snapped something.

Masaru grabbed him by the front of his hoodie again.

Pulled him forward—violently.

“You don’t get to act like a corpse,” he spat, “when you caused this. When you let her walk. When you let it all fall apart.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched. His hands shot up to push back—but he was too weak.

Too slow.

Masaru shoved him.

He stumbled backward, tripping over the side of the mattress, falling hard.

His shoulder hit the floor first.

Then his head.

White flash.

Then grey.

He tried to sit up—barely.

Masaru was still towering over him.

“You think you can just fall apart now?!” he shouted. “You think you get to break after everything you let happen?”

Katsuki coughed. His lip stung. He tasted something bitter in his mouth.

“I was—” he tried, voice cracking, “—just a kid.”

Masaru’s eyes narrowed.

“And now you’re not,” he said. “So get the fuck up.”

When Katsuki didn’t move fast enough, Masaru reached for him again—grabbed his arm too tightly.

Twisted.

Katsuki winced. His shoulder screamed.

“Let go—”

Masaru yanked him upward—only to shove him again.

Katsuki fell against the wall this time. Hard.

Something cracked in his elbow. Maybe the drywall.

He didn’t cry out.

Didn’t scream.

Just stayed there.

Hands over his face. Breathing fast. Curling into himself like he could disappear into the floor.

“Fucking pathetic,” Masaru muttered.

Then—nothing.

Just footsteps.

The door slamming behind him.

⸻

Katsuki stayed on the floor.

His arms trembled.

His jaw ached from clenching so hard.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t even breathe right.

He sat there for what felt like hours.

Eventually, the pain faded into the background.

Eventually, the light went away.

Eventually, he stopped feeling anything at all.

And in the dark, with his ribs throbbing and the words still echoing, he whispered—

just once—

“Help.”

But no one heard.

And no one came.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet again.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace.

The kind that waits.

Katsuki hadn’t taken anything that morning.

No pills.

No sedation.

He wanted to feel normal again. Or maybe he wanted to feel anything real.

Now he wished he hadn’t.

Because the ache in his body hadn’t dulled overnight. His elbow throbbed where he hit the wall yesterday. His side was sore. His mouth was dry, throat raw from not speaking.

But the worst pain was in his chest.

The tightness.

The guilt.

The shame.

He hated that he still wanted someone to check on him. To open the door softly. To say his name and mean it.

But no one did.

⸻

Masaru came home early.

That was the first sign.

The second was the way the front door didn’t just close—it slammed.

Boots again. Loud. Pacing. Like something circling a cage.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his mattress, fully awake, barely breathing.

The door at the bottom of the stairs creaked.

Then—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Knuckles on his bedroom door.

“Open it.”

Katsuki didn’t move.

He knew better.

He stayed silent.

The knob turned anyway.

Masaru stepped in.

No mug in hand this time.

No fake composure.

Just him.

Eyes red. Face twisted.

“Stand up.”

Katsuki stared at the floor.

“I said, get up.”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Katsuki muttered.

Masaru laughed. It wasn’t amused.

“You don’t get a choice.”

He crossed the room and grabbed him by the arm. This time, there was no hesitation—just fury.

Katsuki barely managed to stand before he was slammed against the dresser. The sound echoed—flesh hitting wood, something falling from the top shelf and cracking open on the floor.

Katsuki tried to pull away.

He didn’t get far.

Masaru’s fist hit his stomach hard enough to knock the wind from him.

Katsuki gasped—choking, falling, curling in on himself, forehead pressed to the edge of the bed.

He heard his own heartbeat in his ears. Loud. Deafening.

Then—another hand in his hoodie. Pulling him up. Throwing him sideways.

His shoulder hit the closet door.

His back scraped against the handle.

He cried out this time—sharp, desperate, involuntary.

Another shove.

Another slam.

This time, into the floor.

Hard.

Katsuki’s head bounced off the carpet, and for a moment, everything blurred.

He tasted copper.

He coughed. Blood touched his tongue.

He tried to sit up.

Masaru kicked him back down.

“Everyone thinks I’m the monster?” he shouted. “You think you’re innocent? You think she left because of me?”

Katsuki’s voice barely worked. “She left because you hurt me.”

Masaru’s foot connected again—lower, crueler.

“You let me.”

And then Katsuki screamed.

Not loud.

But sharp.

Real.

He screamed because this time—he felt everything.

⸻

The next few moments didn’t feel like time.

Just sound.

Flesh on wood.

Skin on wall.

Breathing.

Yelling.

Crashing.

And then—

Silence.

Masaru stood over him, fists clenched, chest heaving.

Katsuki was crumpled against the floorboard, body twisted at an angle that didn’t feel right.

He wasn’t crying.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he couldn’t.

He could barely breathe.

The pain was thick now. Behind his ribs. In his spine. Somewhere in his jaw.

His nose was bleeding.

One eye wouldn’t open fully.

He stared through it anyway.

Stared at the man who gave him his name and took everything else.

Masaru looked down at him.

And then, finally—

Said nothing.

Turned.

Walked out.

Didn’t shut the door.

Didn’t check if he was breathing.

Didn’t care.

⸻

Katsuki didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Eventually, he pushed himself upright.

Each breath felt like razor wire.

He crawled to the corner.

Curled up.

Wrapped his arms around his knees.

The light in the hallway never reached his room anymore.

The bulb had burned out three days ago. Masaru hadn’t replaced it. Katsuki hadn’t asked.

He kept the door closed now—not to stay safe, just to stay unseen.

He hadn’t eaten.

Hadn’t bathed.

Hadn’t spoken.

He’d sat on the same stained floor in the same sweatshirt for forty-eight hours straight.

His side ached where it was bruised. His elbow had swollen from the hit against the closet door. A cut on his lip kept reopening every time he moved his mouth too much.

But worse than the pain was the clarity.

There was nothing to dull it.

No haze. No warm quiet. No soft filter over the way the air pressed down on him like it was angry he was still here.

And Masaru hadn’t spoken to him since the last time.

Not until tonight.

⸻

The first sign was the silence.

No stomping. No muttering. No clatter of keys.

Just the door opening downstairs.

Quiet.

Steady.

Katsuki sat up slowly, heart tapping against his ribs. His muscles burned. His fingers twitched.

He held his breath.

Footsteps. Heavy.

Then—

A knock.

Not a pounding one.

Two sharp taps. Knuckles against wood.

Clean.

Intentional.

He didn’t answer.

The knob turned.

The door opened.

Masaru stood in the doorway, blank-faced.

His eyes were glassy—not from alcohol.

He was sober.

That was worse.

Much worse.

Katsuki’s stomach twisted.

Masaru stepped inside. Calm. Quiet. Almost curious.

He looked around the room like he was inspecting a space he hadn’t seen in years.

It smelled like sweat, blood, and dust.

“You’ve made this place disgusting,” he said softly.

Katsuki didn’t respond.

Masaru’s eyes fell on him.

Sitting there. In the corner. Hands in his lap. Face hollowed out by exhaustion.

“You’re really going to rot like this?” Masaru asked, voice low. “No pills. No excuses. No one to cry to.”

Katsuki swallowed. His throat clicked. “What do you want.”

Masaru walked over, slow and smooth, crouching in front of him.

His hand came up—not to strike.

To grab Katsuki’s chin.

He flinched anyway.

Masaru tilted his face toward the weak light leaking through the curtains.

“That bruise is getting worse.”

Katsuki tried to pull back.

Masaru held tighter.

“You used to be beautiful, you know,” he murmured. “Sharp. Strong. Mine.”

Katsuki’s body went still.

“And now?” Masaru chuckled. “Now you look like a stray dog. Lying in your own filth. No friends. No family. Just waiting for someone to put you down.”

“Get out,” Katsuki rasped.

Masaru blinked at him. “Why? You gonna make me?”

Katsuki swung.

A desperate, instinctive hit.

Masaru caught it.

Effortlessly.

And then—

He slammed him back against the wall.

Hard.

Katsuki’s head snapped back. His skull struck drywall. His vision blinked white.

Before he could recover, Masaru’s hand grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt and dragged him across the floor.

Katsuki gasped, feet scrambling, trying to get purchase. Trying to breathe.

Masaru threw him face-down onto the mattress.

“Let’s see if you remember what being useful feels like.”

Katsuki screamed.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

And Masaru laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pushing him down with one hand pressed to the middle of his back. “You’re sober now. That means you’ll feel everything.”

Katsuki thrashed.

Fought.

Cried out again.

But no one was home.

And the house didn’t listen.

⸻

When it was over, he couldn’t move.

He lay there, curled, shaking so hard he thought his bones might shatter from the inside.

His mouth tasted like blood.

His eyes burned.

His voice was gone.

He didn’t even realize Masaru had left until the house creaked with stillness again.

The door was open.

He could have run.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Because his body wasn’t working.
Because the pain was too deep.
Because the silence was too loud.

He pulled the blanket over himself like it could hide what was left.

And he whispered—

so soft even he didn’t believe it—

“It’s not my fault.”

And then—

“It’s not my fault.”

And again—

“It’s not my—”

But the words caught in his throat.

Because even as he said it—

he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.

Chapter Text

He tried to move.

That was the first mistake.

The second his fingers touched the edge of the mattress, his shoulder flared—hot, deep, wrong.

He collapsed again.

He bit his tongue trying not to scream.

Blood filled his mouth.

His legs weren’t working right.

He wasn’t sure if it was the fall, the kicks, or the way Masaru had slammed him down, again and again, until even breathing hurt.

He lay curled on the mattress, arm tucked beneath him, ribs tight.

Every breath scraped against bone.

His skin was cold. But sweat soaked through his hoodie.

It was hard to tell what was fever and what was panic.

He tried to roll over.

His stomach turned.

He vomited into the corner of the mattress. Weak. Silent.

And still—

No one came.

⸻

Downstairs, the clock ticked.

Masaru hadn’t left the house since the night before.

He hadn’t spoken since.

But Katsuki could hear him.

In the kitchen.

In the hallway.

Sometimes standing outside the door, doing nothing.

That was worse than the yelling.

Worse than the fists.

Worse than anything.

Because it meant he was waiting.

Watching.

For the next time.

And Katsuki knew—

There would be a next time.

⸻

At U.A., someone laughed.

Lunchtime.

Mina stirred her yogurt, eyes flicking toward the empty seat in the back row.

“You think he’s still pissed about the Deku thing?” she asked.

“I mean,” Kaminari said, “he kinda snapped. Honestly, he probably embarrassed himself.”

Kirishima frowned. “It’s not really like him to just disappear.”

“It’s exactly like him,” Jirou muttered. “He explodes, gets overwhelmed, shuts everyone out.”

“But not for this long,” Todoroki said quietly.

“Maybe he’s just tired of us,” Mina offered, half joking. “Or maybe he’s just sulking.”

“Bakugo doesn’t sulk,” Kirishima replied, looking down at his tray. “He seethes.”

Deku didn’t speak at all.

He just stared at the table.

Remembering the way Katsuki had looked that day—eyes bloodshot, knuckles shaking, voice ragged from something that wasn’t just rage.

Maybe he should’ve followed him.

Maybe he should’ve checked in.

Maybe—

But he said nothing.

Because if Bakugo wanted someone to ask, he would’ve said something.

Right?

⸻

Back at home, Katsuki was shaking.

Not from fear.

From something colder.

His fingertips had gone numb.

His toes, too.

The blanket clung to him like wet cement.

He tried to sit up again.

His shoulder gave out.

He whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

And then—

The door opened.

Slow.

Masaru stepped inside.

No mug. No boots. No words.

Just him.

His eyes were hollow this time.

Empty.

He stared at Katsuki, crumpled and broken, and said:

“You didn’t clean the mess.”

Katsuki blinked.

“What?” he rasped.

Masaru pointed to the corner of the mattress. The bile. The blood.

“I told you—if you’re gonna act like a dog, you can sleep like one.”

Then he crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the mattress, and ripped it off the frame.

Katsuki tumbled to the floor, body folding wrong, gasping as his hip struck the wooden frame.

Masaru loomed over him.

“You gonna lay in it now?”

Katsuki coughed.

Didn’t answer.

Masaru grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him—across the floor, toward the pile of vomit and sweat.

“You want to rot?” Masaru hissed. “Then rot.”

He let go.

Katsuki collapsed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t ask for help.

Just lay there.

And Masaru walked out.

⸻

At U.A., Aizawa frowned at his attendance sheet.

“Still no word?” he asked Recovery Girl quietly.

She shook her head. “No one’s heard from him.”

A pause.

“I thought his mother might have called by now,” she added. “But it’s been nothing.”

Aizawa narrowed his eyes.

He didn’t say it out loud.

But something was wrong.

And he knew it.

⸻

Back in the room, Katsuki finally broke.

He cried.

Not loud.

Not messy.

Just tears that wouldn’t stop.

His face turned toward the wall.

His hands curled into fists.

He wanted to scream. But his throat was raw.

He wanted to move. But his legs weren’t listening.

And worst of all—

he still hoped someone would come.

Still hoped someone would save him.

But no one came.

And the silence wasn’t cruel anymore.

It was expected.

Chapter Text

The pain didn’t stop this time.

It didn’t settle into something dull, or fade into the background like it had the other nights.

It just stayed.

Heavy. Bright. Real.

Every breath burned.
Every muscle trembled.
Every inch of his skin felt foreign—like it belonged to someone else.

But Katsuki was still in his room.

Still here.

Still alive.

He didn’t know if that was a good thing anymore.

⸻

Masaru hadn’t left the house in days.

He was always there now. Like a shadow pressed into the walls. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout.

He didn’t have to.

It was worse that way.

Because Katsuki never knew when it would happen again.

Until tonight.

⸻

The door opened without warning.

No knock. No sound.

Just the creak of the hinge.

Katsuki was awake.

He always was, now.

His body flinched before his mind even caught up.

Masaru stood in the doorway, face blank. Shirt untucked. Hands steady.

He stared for a long time.

Katsuki tried to sit up—but his ribs screamed, so he stayed down.

“You’re still here,” Masaru said quietly.

Katsuki said nothing.

Masaru stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him.

Click.

No words.

No build-up.

Just hands.

Rough. Familiar. Cruel.

Katsuki didn’t fight.

He couldn’t.

His arms wouldn’t lift right.

His knees buckled before they even hit the floor.

He hit the wall again—maybe the desk. He wasn’t sure.

The pain came in waves.

Elbow.
Ribs.
Back.
Jaw.
Stomach.

But what stuck most wasn’t the pain.

It was what Masaru said as he leaned in, breath tight against Katsuki’s ear:

“No one’s coming.”

Katsuki froze.

“Not your mother. Not your friends. Not your precious teachers. You think anyone even notices you’re gone?”

Katsuki’s breath shook.

“You think they care?” Masaru hissed. “They probably prefer you out of the way.”

Another shove.

Katsuki hit the floor hard, chest collapsing beneath him.

He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.

“Even she left you,” Masaru said. “That’s all anyone ever does.”

Katsuki shut his eyes.

Tried to scream.

But there was no air.

⸻

It didn’t stop.

Not quickly.

Not cleanly.

When it was over, Katsuki wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

The room was dark again.

The only light came from the hallway, spilling under the door like a wound.

His body was wrecked.

His clothes twisted. His lip split. His breath shallow.

He couldn’t feel his fingers.

Something deep in his chest hurt when he coughed.

He didn’t know if something was broken.

Maybe it was.

Maybe he was.

But what terrified him most—

was that he stopped caring.

⸻

At U.A., the class laughed at lunch again.

Someone cracked a joke about Bakugo “finally ghosting the school.”

Someone else mimicked his yelling voice.

Kirishima didn’t laugh.

Neither did Todoroki.

But no one said anything.

Because it had been too long.

And by now, they all assumed—

he’d come back when he was ready.

⸻

But Katsuki?

He wasn’t coming back.

Not unless someone came for him.

And no one had.

Chapter Text

The first thing he felt was the floor.
Cold against his cheek. The fibers of the carpet scraping his skin every time his breath hitched.

Then—the weight.
Masaru’s knee in the middle of his back, pinning him flat. Not the sloppy rage from before—this was deliberate. Steady.
Hands in his hair, wrenching his head back until his neck screamed.

“Look at me.”
Katsuki kept his eyes on the wall.
Masaru yanked harder, scalp burning. “I said—look.”

The angle twisted his spine. He had no choice. His eyes met Masaru’s—flat, unblinking, the way you look at a thing you’ve already decided to break.

“You’re too fucking stubborn,” Masaru said. His breath was warm, but his tone was ice. “I told you before—if you won’t fix what you broke, I’ll fix you instead.”

Katsuki’s ribs ached with every inhale. “Get off—”
The heel of Masaru’s hand slammed into the side of his face, hard enough to rattle his teeth. The carpet burned his cheek as his head was forced down again.

Masaru’s weight shifted—off his back, but only to grab his wrists. He wrenched them behind him so hard Katsuki swore something tore in his shoulder. He didn’t even get to cry out before the belt was looped tight around them, the buckle digging into his skin.

He kicked back instinctively—caught nothing.
The next kick earned him a stomp to the calf so sharp his leg folded under him.

Masaru crouched low beside him now, voice almost conversational. “You know what the problem with you is, Katsuki?”
Katsuki spat blood onto the floor. Didn’t answer.
Masaru grabbed his jaw—thumb digging into the hinge until Katsuki’s teeth ground together. “You think you’re still in control. That if you stay quiet, it means you’ve won.”

His voice dropped to something worse than shouting.
“But silence isn’t strength here.”

He shoved Katsuki onto his back. The belt bit deeper into his wrists as his arms twisted awkwardly under him. The bruise on his ribs screamed when his shoulder blades hit the floor.

Masaru leaned over him, one hand pressing hard just below the break in his ribcage—right where it hurt most. Katsuki’s vision blurred with the pressure. His body tried to curl, but the weight kept him spread open.

“Hurts more when you’re sober, doesn’t it?” Masaru murmured.

Katsuki’s breath stuttered. “Go to hell.”

Masaru’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Already there.”

He shifted his weight again—slow, intentional—like he had all night to take him apart. Katsuki twisted, tried to throw him off with his legs, but the hold was too solid. The belt was too tight. Every movement lit another fuse in the pain running through his body.

Masaru’s hand moved from his ribs to his throat. Not enough to choke—just to hold. To remind him how easy it would be.

“You’re mine until I say otherwise,” Masaru said, voice low and steady. “And tonight? I’m not saying otherwise.”

Katsuki’s stomach knotted. The air in the room felt heavier.

What followed wasn’t quick.
It wasn’t loud.
It was deliberate—measured—like Masaru was dismantling him one joint, one muscle, one breath at a time. The room swam with pain, heat, and the sharp sting of every place Masaru’s hands dug in too hard, lingered too long.

By the time it was over, Katsuki was half-curled on the floor again, wrists still bound, cheek pressed into the damp patch of carpet his own breath had soaked. His throat burned from holding in screams he didn’t even know he’d swallowed.

Masaru stood, watching him like a craftsman inspecting his work.
“You’ll learn,” he said simply. Then walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Katsuki stayed there.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he couldn’t move.
The belt dug into his skin every time his pulse throbbed. His jaw ached. His ribs burned with each shallow breath.

But worse than the pain—
was the quiet.

Because Masaru was right.
No one was coming.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off.
He didn’t remember setting it.

The sound drilled into the side of his skull like a nail.
He didn’t move to stop it.
He couldn’t.

His arms still ached from the belt. Deep, purple bands carved into the skin where it had been cinched too tight, each one burning when he so much as shifted under the blanket.

The bruises on his ribs had turned dark now, bleeding into sickly yellow at the edges. Every breath scraped inside like something sharp was stuck between his bones.

The idea of standing — of putting weight on his legs — felt like a dare he was going to lose.

But school was waiting.

U.A. wasn’t just a place to train. It was the last thread he had to anything that wasn’t here.
And if he let go of it —
…well.

He rolled onto his side, slow. The room swam immediately. His stomach clenched, bile hot at the back of his throat. His shoulder screamed when he tried to push himself up.

He sat there hunched over, shaking, waiting for his head to catch up with his body.

The alarm went off again.
He smashed it with the side of his fist.
The pain from the impact shot all the way to his elbow.

He couldn’t even dress without wincing. Pulling his hoodie over his head made the stitches in his lip pull, reopening the split. Blood welled in the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand and stared at the stain.

He’d bleed in class.
He’d limp in training.
He’d fail every drill.

And they’d all see.
They’d ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

The more he thought about it, the tighter his throat got.

What if he just… didn’t go?
Not just today.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever again.

He pictured walking into Aizawa’s office, shoving his resignation onto the desk, and never coming back.
No training.
No missions.
No friends asking where he’d been.
No one looking at him like they knew something was wrong.

He could stay here.
Hide.
Rot.

It wasn’t winning.
It wasn’t even surviving.
But it meant no one would see.

He pulled the blanket over his head again, curling onto his side until the room disappeared.

His ribs ached with the movement.
His breath was shallow.
But the thought kept circling, over and over, until it felt like the only way out:

Don’t go back.
Don’t go back.
Don’t go back.

And for the first time, he almost believed he wouldn’t.

Chapter Text

The first blow came before he was even fully awake.
A hand in his hair.
A fist in his gut.
The air left him in a ragged gasp before his eyes were open.

Masaru didn’t speak at first.
Didn’t yell.
Just dragged him out of bed by the back of his hoodie, bare feet scraping the carpet, the belt from two nights ago still lying on the floor where it had been dropped.

Katsuki’s legs stumbled under him. His shoulder protested with a deep, hot pain that made his vision flash white.

By the time they reached the hallway, Masaru shoved him forward into the wall hard enough for the drywall to dent. The impact rattled through his ribs, making every breath a threat.

“You think staying home means I won’t notice?” Masaru’s voice was quiet, steady — the kind of calm that made Katsuki’s stomach drop. “You think hiding under a blanket makes you untouchable?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. His body was already braced for the next hit.

It came fast — the flat of Masaru’s hand against his face, sharp enough to send spit and blood to the floor. Then a second. Then a third.

“Stand up straight.”

Katsuki’s knees locked even though his back was screaming.

Masaru circled him like he was studying a target. Then — a hard shove to the chest that sent him stumbling into the living room.

“You’ve got nothing left, Katsuki,” Masaru said, stepping in close, grabbing his jaw again. “You’ve got no school. No friends. No mother. You’ve got me. And that means you belong to me.”

The grip tightened until Katsuki’s teeth ached.

And then Masaru’s tone shifted — lower, colder.
“I told you before. If you can’t be useful to anyone else, you’ll be useful to me.”

Katsuki’s blood ran cold. He tried to twist away. The belt was around his wrists again before he could blink. The leather bit into the same raw grooves as before.

Masaru’s hands were everywhere now — not careless, but deliberate, holding him still when he fought, wrenching him closer when he tried to pull away. Katsuki’s shoulder screamed. His ribs caught against the edge of the table when he was bent over it, making him choke on the air he couldn’t quite catch.

He kicked. He spat. He shouted.
It didn’t matter.

Masaru didn’t just ignore the fight. He fed on it. Every jerk of Katsuki’s body seemed to make him more methodical — a vice tightening until there was no space left to breathe.

The words were worse than the hands.
“You think anyone would believe you?”
“You think they care?”
“They’d probably thank me for keeping you in line.”

The rest blurred. Pain. Heat. The sound of his own breathing turning frantic. The sick weight of being held in place by someone who wasn’t rushing, who wasn’t losing control — because this was control.

By the time it stopped, Katsuki was half-sprawled across the floor, wrists still bound, clothes twisted, skin burning in too many places to count. He was shaking so hard it felt like his bones might splinter.

Masaru stood over him, breathing evenly.
“You’ll be here when I want you here,” he said. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. And if you don’t…” He crouched down until his shadow swallowed Katsuki’s face. “…I can always take more.”

He left without untying him.

Katsuki lay there for hours.
Not because he couldn’t move.
Because he didn’t trust his body to obey him anymore.

Chapter Text

He woke before the alarm.
Not because he’d slept.
Because the cold air from the hallway seeped under the door, dragging him out of the thin, restless haze he’d been trapped in all night.

The belt marks on his wrists still burned. His ribs were a minefield — even breathing too deep set them off. But he was dressed. Hoodie. Shoes. Bag slung over one shoulder.

He didn’t think about it.
Didn’t plan.
Just moved.

The stairs creaked under his weight.
The smell of stale coffee hit him halfway down.

Masaru was at the kitchen counter.
He didn’t turn around.
Didn’t speak.

Katsuki’s eyes locked on the front door.
Five more steps.
Four.

His hand closed on the knob.
Turned.

The sound was small — metal on metal — but it may as well have been a gunshot.

Masaru’s head lifted.
Slow.

“Katsuki.”

The tone made his grip tighten on the handle.
“I’m going to school,” he said. It was the first thing he’d said to Masaru in days.

“You’re not.”

Katsuki twisted the knob. Pulled. The hinges groaned. The winter air slipped in.

Masaru moved fast. Too fast.

A hand slammed the door shut over Katsuki’s, the impact jolting all the way up his injured arm.

“You don’t go anywhere,” Masaru said, voice low.

“I’m leaving,” Katsuki growled. “You can’t—”

Masaru shoved him back from the door so hard his spine cracked against the wall. The bag slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“I can,” Masaru said. “And I am.”

Katsuki tried to push past him. Masaru caught his hoodie and yanked, spinning him sideways into the coat rack. Wood splintered as it toppled. His ribs screamed.

“School’s not where you live anymore,” Masaru said. “You live here. With me. That’s it.”

Katsuki swung an elbow into his side — desperate, clumsy — but Masaru caught his arm, twisted it behind his back until something popped in his shoulder. Katsuki’s breath broke into a sharp gasp.

“You want to try that again?” Masaru hissed in his ear.

Katsuki’s knees gave out, but Masaru held him up by the twisted arm, dragging him backward until his heels scraped the floor.

“You think you get to walk away from me? No. You think you get to disappear into your little hero school? No. You’re mine now — and mine stay where I put them.”

He shoved Katsuki into the corner of the hallway, body blocking the way to the door.

Katsuki’s chest rose and fell hard. His jaw clenched. But he didn’t move forward again.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he’d just realized he couldn’t win.

Masaru stepped back just far enough to grab the keys from the hook. Slid them into his pocket.

“Go ahead,” he said, almost amused. “Try to leave again. See how far you get.”

Then he turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving the front door locked, the keys jingling against his thigh.

Katsuki stayed frozen in the corner for a long time.
Long enough for the air in the hallway to feel thin.
Long enough for the truth to sink in:

He wasn’t stuck because he was scared.
He was stuck because Masaru had decided he would be.

And that was worse.

Chapter Text

The first blow came before he’d even made it back to his room.
A fist in his back, low and hard, just above the kidney. His legs buckled.

Before he could catch his breath, Masaru’s hand was in his hair, yanking him backward so hard it felt like his scalp was coming off.

“You think you can run?” The words were close to his ear, hot and sharp. “You think you can leave me?”

Katsuki’s answer came out as a choke — more air than sound.
Masaru didn’t care. He dragged him across the hall, half-lifting, half-slamming him into the living room wall. The impact rattled the picture frames.

The second hit was open-palmed, across the face. The third was a fist to the stomach. Then another. And another.
Katsuki folded, gasping, but Masaru caught him under the chin, forcing his head back up.

“Look at me when I break you.”

Katsuki spat blood into his face. It was the only defiance he had left.

Masaru didn’t even flinch. He just wiped it off with his thumb — and then drove that same thumb into the fresh split in Katsuki’s lip until he jerked away with a strangled sound.

The belt came next. Not around the wrists this time. Around his throat. Tight enough to make the edges of his vision buzz. Masaru held the end like a leash, jerking him forward, forcing him onto his knees.

“You thought the door was the way out,” Masaru said. “This is the way out.”

The next minutes blurred into a sequence of pain and violation. The floor biting into his knees. The belt tightening with every pull. Masaru’s hands digging into his ribs until the bruises screamed. A boot pressing into the back of his calf until the muscle gave way.

Every time he tried to twist away, something hit him — fist, knee, belt, open hand — whatever Masaru could reach without breaking rhythm.

There was no shouting now. No chaotic rage. Just deliberate cruelty, every strike and shove placed with precision to hurt the most.

By the time it ended, Katsuki’s body was shaking so violently he couldn’t stay upright. He hit the floor on his side, curled instinctively, breath coming in short, ragged bursts through the belt still looped loosely around his neck.

Masaru crouched beside him, voice calm again.
“That was for trying to leave,” he said. “Next time, it won’t stop.”

The belt slipped free from Katsuki’s throat with a dry hiss of leather.
Then Masaru stood and walked away.

Katsuki stayed on the floor.
Not because he couldn’t get up.
Because every time he tried, his body remembered — and told him not to.

Chapter Text

It didn’t start with shouting.
It never did anymore.

Masaru came into the room quiet — too quiet — and Katsuki knew.
Knew by the way the door clicked shut, by the way Masaru’s shadow didn’t move toward the window, only toward him.

Katsuki had been sitting on the floor, back to the wall, knees pulled up. There was no strength left to stand, not after last time.

Masaru crouched down in front of him.
Didn’t speak.
Just reached for him, slow, like he was taking something off a shelf.

The first grip was in his hoodie. The second was in his hair. By the time Katsuki’s head was forced back against the wall, the third was already on his thigh — hard, unshakable, a claim.

“Don’t,” Katsuki rasped, but the word was weak.

Masaru’s hand tightened. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

From there it wasn’t sudden.
It was worse — gradual.
Masaru peeling him open piece by piece, ignoring the way Katsuki twisted or braced or bit down on the inside of his cheek until the copper taste filled his mouth.

The belt wasn’t around his wrists this time. It was looped high around his arms and chest, forcing them tight to his sides, leaving him with nothing to use — no leverage, no guard.

Every touch was deliberate.
Every movement calculated to leave him raw — not just physically, but somewhere deeper, where he couldn’t stop it from echoing.

Masaru’s words hit harder than the hands.
“You make it too easy.”
“Stop pretending you don’t know what I want.”
“You were made for this.”

Katsuki shook his head, even as his body betrayed him with flinches he couldn’t control. His throat burned from holding back sound.

“You’re not fighting me,” Masaru murmured in his ear. “You could, but you’re not. That’s how I know you need this.”

The sentence burrowed in.
Worse than the pain.
Worse than the heat of skin against skin, the press that made him want to crawl out of himself.

By the time it was over, Katsuki was on his side on the floor again, belt marks fresh across his chest, his clothes twisted and damp, the smell of sweat and something fouler clinging to him like smoke.

Masaru stood over him, eyes sweeping down as if to catalog the damage. “Every time you stay quiet,” he said, “you’re telling me you want it.”

Then he left.

Katsuki stayed there, his face pressed to the floor.
Breathing.
Not moving.

The words wouldn’t stop replaying.
You’re telling me you want it.

And for the first time, he didn’t just hate Masaru.
He hated himself — for not stopping it, for still breathing, for being here at all.

Chapter Text

The bathroom light was too bright.
It buzzed faintly, flickering in the corner.

Katsuki’s hands shook as he turned the knob, but no water came. Masaru had shut it off again — probably to keep him from cleaning up.

He gripped the edge of the sink instead, the porcelain cold under his palms.

The mirror was cracked from an old fight. A web of fractured glass split his reflection into shards, each one catching a different piece of him — the split lip, the deep bruise across his jaw, the belt marks faintly visible under the stretched collar of his hoodie.

It was easier to look at the damage than at his eyes.

But eventually, he did.

And he wished he hadn’t.

The person staring back looked like him, but there was something missing — or maybe something added. A slackness in the jaw, a dullness behind the red-rimmed eyes. A smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth he hadn’t bothered to wipe away.

Masaru’s words came back, uninvited.
Every time you stay quiet, you’re telling me you want it.

Katsuki’s stomach twisted. He gripped the sink harder, knuckles whitening.

It wasn’t true.
It couldn’t be true.

But he’d been quiet.
He’d stayed still.
He’d let it happen.

Hadn’t he?

The thought sank in like a nail driven too deep to pull out.

He lifted the hem of his hoodie.
Purple and yellow spread across his ribs, down to his hip, each bruise a fingerprint, a claim. The belt mark across his chest still burned, red and raw.

He pressed his palm against one of the bruises — hard enough to feel it, but not hard enough to yelp. He deserved it, didn’t he? That’s what Masaru would say. That’s what part of him was starting to believe.

The more he looked, the more it felt like he was staring at proof — not of what Masaru had done, but of what he was.

Damaged.
Filthy.
Made for this.

By the time he tore his eyes away from the mirror, his chest felt tight enough to split. His mouth was dry. His hands ached from how hard he’d been holding the sink.

He didn’t wash his face.
Didn’t fix his clothes.
Just left the light on and walked back to his room, each step heavier than the last.

The mirror stayed behind him.
But the reflection didn’t.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.
Not the waiting kind of quiet.
The hollow kind.

Masaru wasn’t in sight. His boots weren’t by the door. The keys weren’t on the hook.

Katsuki sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the space where the sunlight leaked through the curtain. His mind kept circling back to the mirror, to the bruises, to the words he couldn’t scrape out of his skull.

Every time you stay quiet, you’re telling me you want it.

He hated it.
He hated him.
He hated himself more.

Because if it wasn’t true, why hadn’t he fought harder?
Why hadn’t he stopped it?

His fingers twitched against his knees.
Maybe the only way to prove it wrong… was to see what happened if he didn’t fight at all.

The thought scared him.
It also felt inevitable.

⸻

The front door opened an hour later.
Boots on the floorboards.
The sound of a coat hitting the back of a chair.

Katsuki stood.
Not to run.
Not to hide.
But to meet him.

He stepped into the hallway just as Masaru came out of the kitchen, a mug in one hand, eyes narrowing the second he saw him.

“You’re up,” Masaru said flatly.

Katsuki didn’t respond. He didn’t move out of the way when Masaru approached.

The shoulder check was hard enough to spin him into the wall. He didn’t push back.

Masaru stopped. Turned. “What, no fight today?”

Katsuki met his eyes. “Do what you’re gonna do.”

It was quiet for a beat. Then Masaru smiled — slow, cruel.

“Finally learning your place.”

The mug hit the counter with a sharp clack. Masaru stepped in close, hand at the back of Katsuki’s neck, forcing him down the hallway. Katsuki didn’t resist. He kept his feet moving even when the grip tightened enough to bruise.

The bedroom door shut behind them.

What followed wasn’t the rushed violence of punishment.
It was slower.
Worse.

Masaru took his time — unwrapping him like he was peeling something disposable, keeping his hands where they hurt most, dragging out every second. Every shove, every grip, every press of weight made Katsuki feel smaller, weaker, more like the thing Masaru kept telling him he was.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t stop him.

The silence seemed to thrill Masaru more than any resistance ever had.

When it was over, Katsuki was face-down on the mattress, arms dead at his sides, every inch of his skin throbbing with pain or heat. His breath came shallow. His chest was slick with sweat — not all his own.

Masaru leaned down, voice low against his ear.
“See? You make it easy. You always have.”

The door opened.
Closed.

Katsuki stayed where he was.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if the ache in his chest was from what had just happened —
or from the fact that he’d let it.

Chapter Text

It started small.
Not fighting when he heard the boots in the hallway.
Not locking the door.
Leaving the blanket folded back like an unspoken invitation.

He told himself it was just easier this way — no tension, no guessing when the next hit or grab would come.

But deep down, he knew what he was doing.

⸻

Masaru noticed.
Of course he noticed.

The third night in a row, Katsuki was sitting at the edge of the bed when he walked in, shoulders slack, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You’re not even pretending anymore,” Masaru said.

Katsuki didn’t look up. “You’re gonna do it anyway.”

Masaru closed the distance in three steps, tilting Katsuki’s chin up with two fingers. “So now you’re making it easy?”

Katsuki’s throat worked around the words, but they didn’t come.

Masaru smiled — the kind that never reached his eyes. “Good. Saves us both the trouble.”

What followed wasn’t rage. It wasn’t punishment. It was use.
Masaru’s hands on him like he was an object, a thing to be moved, adjusted, handled until he’d wrung out everything he wanted.

Katsuki didn’t flinch when his head was forced down. Didn’t resist when he was shoved face-first into the wall, the plaster rough against his cheek. Didn’t twist when fingers dug into bruises already blooming across his ribs.

He told himself it was better this way. If he didn’t fight, it’d be over faster.

But it wasn’t faster.
It never was.

By the time Masaru was done, Katsuki was crumpled on the floor, back against the bed frame, sweat cooling against his skin, his breath shallow and uneven.

Masaru looked down at him, almost curious. “You really are built for this, aren’t you?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the carpet, jaw tight.

When the door closed, the silence felt heavier than the hands ever had.

He hated himself for not moving.
For not running.
For waiting.

Because some part of him — the part Masaru had been carving away piece by piece — believed it was all he was good for now.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that meant safety — the kind that felt like an open mouth, waiting to swallow whatever walked into it.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips hard enough to leave marks.

He’d been thinking about it all day.
About the look on Masaru’s face last time.
About the way it had almost been… smoother, when he didn’t fight.

He told himself it was just about control — if he went to him, if he started it, then maybe he could decide when it ended.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

The truth was heavier.
Sour in his stomach.
Somewhere deep down, he didn’t just expect it anymore — he needed it to happen. Because if it didn’t, what did that make him?

The thought made his throat close.
Made him stand up anyway.

⸻

Masaru’s door was open.
A sliver of light cut across the hallway carpet, pooling around Katsuki’s bare feet.

He stood there for a long time.
The floor creaked once under his weight.

Masaru’s voice came from inside, low and lazy: “What is it?”

Katsuki’s mouth was dry. “I… need to talk to you.”

A pause.
Then the sound of something being set down. Footsteps.

Masaru appeared in the doorway, eyes scanning him from head to toe like he was measuring something.
“You never knock.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.
Didn’t move when Masaru stepped closer.

“You here to start trouble?”

Katsuki shook his head. “No.”

Masaru tilted his head, like the answer didn’t make sense.
“Then what?”

The words came out quieter than he meant them to. “Get it over with.”

Masaru blinked once. Then a slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
“Over with, huh?”

Katsuki nodded.

Masaru didn’t waste another second. His hand was at the back of Katsuki’s neck, pulling him inside, kicking the door shut.

⸻

It wasn’t quick.
It wasn’t rough in the same way as before.
It was worse — because it was deliberate, methodical, like Masaru was savoring the fact that this time, Katsuki had walked in on his own.

Every movement felt stretched.
Every touch calculated to remind him he’d made this choice.

When Masaru shoved him onto the bed, Katsuki didn’t resist. When fingers dug into the bruises already marking his ribs, he didn’t flinch. When his head was pushed down, he let it go without a word.

“You see how easy it is when you stop pretending?” Masaru’s voice was low in his ear.

Katsuki said nothing.
He kept his eyes on the floor, letting the heat in his cheeks burn through the shame in his chest.

The minutes dragged into something formless. The air grew heavy with sweat, with the sound of his own shallow breathing, with Masaru’s steady rhythm.

By the time it was over, Katsuki was flat on his back, arms limp at his sides, staring at the ceiling. His skin was slick, his hoodie twisted halfway around his torso, the belt discarded on the floor like a trophy.

Masaru leaned over him, bracing one hand on the mattress.
“You’ll come to me from now on,” he said. “You know you will.”

Katsuki didn’t look at him.
Didn’t answer.

Because he knew Masaru was right.
And that was the part that made him sick.

When Masaru left the room, the door stayed open.

Katsuki rolled onto his side, curling his knees up until his ribs ached. He pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying to breathe around the knot in his throat.

This wasn’t survival anymore.
It wasn’t even endurance.

It was something worse.
Because now…
he didn’t know where Masaru ended and he began.

Chapter Text

The days had stopped feeling separate.
There was no morning, no night — just a loop.
Breathing. Waiting. Going.

Sometimes Masaru called him. Sometimes he didn’t.
It didn’t matter.
Katsuki went anyway.

At first, he’d told himself it was survival.
Then he told himself it was easier.
Now, he didn’t tell himself anything at all.

He’d stopped checking the mirror.
He didn’t need to see what he already knew:
The bruises never had time to fade.
The marks on his wrists stayed dark.
The hollow in his eyes was deeper than anything a night’s sleep could fix.

He’d stopped thinking about leaving.
Stopped thinking about U.A.
Stopped thinking about anything that didn’t happen in this house.

And somewhere between the bruises and the silence, he’d started wondering —
maybe if Masaru broke him all the way, if there was nothing left,
it would finally stop hurting.

⸻

That night, he didn’t wait for Masaru to come upstairs.
He went down.

Masaru was in the living room, feet up on the table, beer in hand. The TV flickered blue against his face.

Katsuki stood there in the doorway.
Masaru didn’t even glance up.

“Well?” he said finally.

Katsuki crossed the room without answering. Stopped just in front of him, close enough to smell the bitter tang of the beer.

Masaru’s eyes flicked up then, scanning him.
“You’re getting quicker at this,” he said.

Katsuki didn’t speak.
Didn’t move back when Masaru set the bottle down and stood.

The first touch was on his jaw — not rough, but possessive. The second was at his shoulder, guiding him down until his knees met the carpet.

It was automatic now.
The push, the pull, the way Masaru’s hands moved like they knew him better than he knew himself.

Katsuki didn’t fight.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even close his eyes.

When it was over, he stayed on the floor, head down, hands loose at his sides.

Masaru looked at him for a long moment.
“You’re almost there,” he said. “Couple more times, and you won’t even remember what it was like to be anything else.”

Katsuki’s chest tightened, but he said nothing.

Because he was starting to believe it.

⸻

Later, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling until it blurred.
The house was quiet.
Masaru was asleep downstairs.

He could get up.
He could leave.

He didn’t.

Because if Masaru was right — if there really was nothing left to save — then maybe it was better to let him finish it.

At least then, there’d be nothing left to hurt.

Chapter Text

It was late.
The kind of late where the whole house felt hollow, every sound stretched thin in the dark.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his knees, staring at the floor until the grain in the wood blurred.
He could hear the faint clink of glass from downstairs — Masaru’s mug.
Still awake.

His stomach twisted.
Not from fear.
From knowing what he was about to do.

He stood.
No hesitation this time.
His bare feet made no sound on the stairs.

⸻

Masaru was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, half-lit by the weak yellow bulb above the sink.
He didn’t look surprised when Katsuki stepped in.
Didn’t even ask why.

“You again,” he said, setting the mug down.

Katsuki nodded once. “Do it.”

Masaru raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“You know.”

Masaru’s smirk was slow, deliberate. “You think you can just walk in here and tell me to take you apart?”

Katsuki met his eyes. “If you’re going to break me, do it right.”

The silence that followed was worse than any blow.

Then Masaru stepped forward, closing the space between them in two strides, his hand already at the back of Katsuki’s neck, forcing his head down.
The grip was harder than usual — a promise.

“You asked for it,” he said.

⸻

It didn’t start with words after that.
It started with impact.
The sharp slam of Katsuki’s back into the wall, the drywall giving just enough to leave a dent.

From there, it was relentless.
Every move sharper, harder, more deliberate than before.
Masaru’s hands found every bruise, every healing mark, pressing, twisting until Katsuki’s breath broke.

The belt came out.
Not just to bind, but to choke.
Every pull made his vision spark white at the edges, his knees threatening to give out, his pulse roaring in his ears.

He didn’t fight.
He let himself be shoved, bent, held down.
When his shoulder screamed from being wrenched too far, he didn’t try to stop it.
When the edge of the counter bit into his ribs, he leaned into it.

Masaru noticed.
Of course he noticed.

“You really do want this,” he said, voice low and almost amused.

Katsuki didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at him.

The rest blurred into a single, unbroken sequence — pain layered on pain, control so absolute it didn’t need to be spoken. Masaru didn’t rush. He dragged it out, made sure every second stayed with him.

By the time it was over, Katsuki was on the floor, back against the cabinet, belt still around his neck like a leash left slack. His breath came shallow and uneven, his arms limp at his sides.

Masaru crouched down, tilting his head. “Almost there,” he said. “One more like that, and you won’t even remember who you were before.”

He stood, leaving Katsuki on the kitchen floor, the sound of his boots fading into the dark.

⸻

Katsuki didn’t move for a long time.
He could still feel the belt against his throat, even after it was gone.
He could still hear the words.

And somewhere under the ache, the bruises, the heat in his chest,
he wondered if maybe that was what he wanted all along.

Chapter Text

Katsuki heard the voices before the knock.
Three of them — low, laughing, easy in a way that made his stomach knot.

Masaru opened the door wide, clapping one of the men on the back as they stepped inside. The smell of cigarettes and beer filled the hall before they even took off their coats.

“Katsuki,” Masaru called over his shoulder, “come here.”

He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as the men’s eyes went to him almost immediately.

“This him?” one asked.

Masaru’s smirk was slow. “Yeah. That’s him.”

The others looked him over openly, their laughter dying into something quieter, heavier.

Masaru stepped beside Katsuki, a hand on his shoulder, thumb pressing just enough to guide him forward. “He’s been… trained.”

One of them chuckled low. “Does he listen?”

Masaru’s grip tightened. “Show them.”

Katsuki’s pulse roared in his ears. His feet moved without hesitation, standing where Masaru wanted him.

“Hands.”

Katsuki held them out. Masaru turned them palm-up, letting the faint scars and dark wrist marks show.

One of the men whistled under his breath. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”

Masaru’s voice was calm, almost conversational. “Doesn’t fight anymore. Doesn’t need to.”

The men exchanged looks — some amused, some approving.

Masaru guided Katsuki into the living room, seating him on the edge of the couch like he was arranging a prop. “Stay there,” he said, and Katsuki stayed.

The rest of the evening was a haze of noise — the scrape of chairs, the low hum of conversation, the occasional glance thrown his way. Every time one of them looked too long, Masaru’s hand would return to his shoulder, a reminder of who he belonged to.

When they left, the house smelled like smoke and sweat and stale beer.

Masaru lingered in the doorway, watching the taillights fade down the street, before turning back to Katsuki.

“They liked you,” he said. “Next time, you’ll do more than sit there.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Masaru smiled faintly. “Good.”

Chapter Text

The smell of beer hit him first.
Then the laughter.
Too many voices for the house to feel like it was his anymore.

Masaru’s boots thudded against the floor as he came into the kitchen, three men behind him. They spread out like they belonged here, tossing jackets on chairs, cracking open cans that hissed in the dim light.

Katsuki was at the sink, drying the same glass for the third time.

Masaru didn’t bother with a greeting.
“Come here.”

Katsuki set the glass down and crossed the room. Masaru’s hand found the back of his neck, guiding him toward the living room.

“You all remember what I told you,” Masaru said over his shoulder.

One of the men grinned. “We’ve been looking forward to it.”

The air shifted. Heavy. Thick. Katsuki’s chest tightened before anything even touched him.

Masaru sat down on the couch and pulled him closer, positioning him in the center of the room. His friends leaned forward in their seats, the way people do when they’re about to watch something they’ve been promised will be worth it.

Masaru’s grip on his arm tightened. “Show them you’re as well-trained as I said.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.
He didn’t move either.

The first hand that wasn’t Masaru’s landed on his shoulder. The pressure was different — unfamiliar — but it carried the same message: stay still.

More hands followed.
Different grips.
Different weight.

The room blurred at the edges. He heard their voices — low, approving, cruel — and the sound of his own breath, uneven against the noise.

Masaru didn’t stop them.
He directed them.

The minutes stretched until they lost shape. The sounds in the room became a single, suffocating hum — shifting bodies, fabric moving, boots against the floor, the occasional burst of laughter.

Katsuki’s focus narrowed to the carpet under his feet, to the feeling of the fibers digging into his skin, to the thought that if he just stared hard enough, maybe the rest of the room would dissolve.

It didn’t.

⸻

When it was over, the men leaned back, casual again, their voices returning to that easy, conversational tone like nothing had happened. One lit a cigarette. Another went to grab another beer.

Masaru was the only one still watching him.
He reached out, tilting Katsuki’s chin up so their eyes met.

“See?” Masaru said, his voice almost proud. “You’re good for more than just me.”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Masaru let go and stood, leaving him in the middle of the room while the others laughed about something else entirely.

The smell of smoke and beer was thicker now. It clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin.

He didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe deep.
He just stood there until Masaru told him to leave.