Chapter Text
Katsuki was no stranger to bad habits. Even as a child, he’d done things most people would call harmful. He simply had too much anger and needed a way to let it out. Izuku had been his perfect muse, a small boy who seemed to follow him everywhere, always on his tail, lowly muttering.
At the start, it had been somewhat calming for Katsuki, the hushed whispers providing white noise while he was with the boy. Somewhere along the way, the hum had changed into nails scratching along a chalkboard.
Katsuki couldn’t take it, so he blew up. His small feet spun around, kicking up dirt behind him as he glared daggers at Izuku. His brain conjured up the face of his mother after she struck him, and Katsuki did his best to match it.
The blonde still couldn’t remember what was said that day, only that he had stormed off expecting Izuku to never speak to him again. Soon after Katsuki had been found, instead of cutting him off like expected, Izuku was the one to apologize.
It left Katsuki baffled. The boy had just come back to him with open arms and not a trace of hate on his freckled face. They continued their day like nothing had happened. It stuck with Katsuki, the realization that he could be cruel, and Izuku would still come back. From then on, Deku had become his bad habit.
When his quirk came in, Katsuki had been ecstatic. The miniature explosions from his hands sent a deep thrill through his body with each pop. Unfortunately, his palms weren’t the only thing more prone to blowing up now. His quirk only made his explosive nature worse. The adrenaline in his body heightened his emotions, and Deku wasn’t enough anymore.
Katsuki had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the dorms. On one side, the hag couldn’t criticize his every move. On the other hand, hiding things became a lot harder.
The first day in the dorms felt almost like a fever dream. There weren’t any predatory eyes or smacks for being “disrespectful,” but the lingering anxiety almost made it worse. There was a thrum in his heart at the end of the school day, just to be met with classmates and shitty movies. It seemed that his body couldn’t take the hint. It felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though there wasn’t one.
All this anxiety needed a place to go, which was where he ran into another problem, his extracurricular activities. Many people pegged Katsuki as a delinquent, usually his dialect being the first sign. When he claimed to want to be a hero, people started to just see him as an asshole instead of a punk. After all, why would someone who engaged in illegal activities like that want to become a hero?
In the end, he had ruined All Might. It wasn’t like he was cut out to be a hero anyway. Wednesday rolled around, and the anxiety in him had not quelled. Along with the nightmares and guilt, he was practically begging for a reprieve.
Smoking had never been a problem back at home. Katsuki would just sneak out through his window and light a joint in a back alley. Not the safest, sure, but it let him relax. Returning home with a buzz in his head and tired eyes had always been the best way to end the day. With the dorms, sneaking out was almost a suicide mission, and smoking indoors would get him booted immediately.
So, other means it was.
After making his decision, Katsuki dragged himself from his bed, glancing at the clock on his nightstand as he did so. He breathed a sigh of relief, noticing it was only a bit after nine. Sometimes he would lose hours just staring at his ceiling.
He swiftly crossed his room and crouched down in front of his dresser. Carefully, he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a jacket wrapped around a plastic water bottle.
The first swig was always the worst, no alcohol dimming the taste, just the harsh burn of the liquid running down his throat. He always found it funny how, when you drank, you tasted alcohol less. It seemed like a sick joke, making it easier and easier to drink yourself to death.
The vile burn seemed to strip the anxiety away, leaving a blank slate of ash and calm. Even though he was just one shot in, the calmness of knowing what was going to happen left him feeling free. Standing up, water bottle in hand, Katsuki crossed his room once more and flopped down on his bed.
Sitting up, he took another large swig of the vodka. Katsuki screwed the cap on before tossing it beside him and fumbling around for his phone. Quickly, he tapped in his password and opened Spotify. The playlist he chose was familiar. He set down his phone and reached for the bottle again.
Six shots later, Katsuki started to realize just how fucked up he was. He couldn’t tell if it was because he skipped dinner or if his tolerance was just low from not drinking recently. It was probably a mixture of both.
Lazily, he smiled to himself while reaching for his phone again. The music was still playing, but his brain didn’t seem to be registering it. Looking down, his phone screen was slightly blurry. He paused the music and checked the time.
It was eleven, and Katsuki was now faced with a difficult option. He could go to sleep now and get a good night’s rest; the downside being the hangover that was sure to come. Drinking might not have been his favorite, but he knew how it interacted with him. If he fell asleep drunk, he would wake up with a pounding headache and nausea. The only way to counteract that was by going to bed after sobering up.
Katsuki hated sobering up. Actually, hate wasn’t a strong enough word, he fucking loathed it. The anxiety came creeping back slowly until he was forced to fall asleep missing the floaty feeling. Weed was better. Sometimes he just smoked to fall asleep. There was no problem with falling asleep high, except maybe sleeping a bit longer. The cure to that was an alarm. There was no cure for a hangover.
Remembering the sick feeling of anxiety, Katsuki pushed the water bottle under his pillow and plugged his phone in. He’d feel like shit tomorrow anyway. Who cared if there was a headache layered on top of it?
A shrill alarm sounded, and Katsuki shot up from his bed. Before he could even think, nausea bubbled in his stomach. His eyes widened in realization of what was about to happen, and he leaned over, grabbing the trashcan next to his bed and releasing the acid in his stomach. Not much came out except some green bile that left his throat feeling raw.
He panted for a few minutes, heaving into the trashcan a few more times before deciding it was enough. Tears prickled in his eyes from the effort, and his body felt weaker than it had in days. Katsuki grunted as he set down the trashcan, making sure to tie the plastic bag and mentally noting that he’d have to replace it later. Finally able to think, Katsuki looked over at his clock, which displayed 6:42 a.m. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slowly pushed off the tangled blankets and got out of bed.
There was still a good amount of time before he had to be at school, and what better way to spend it than on the bathroom floor?
Given the headache pounding in his skull, the blonde probably should have laid back down and tried to get a few more minutes of sleep. But his habits usually helped with headaches anyway, so what was the point?
After rifling through his room and shucking off his pants, Katsuki was ready. The cool metal of the blade pressed into his skin, silencing the pounding in his skull.
It shouldn’t have felt this good.
Most people flinched when you talked about cutting yourself. when you said it how it was. Instead of “self-harm” or something sugar-coated and soft, when someone said they slit their wrists, suddenly the person was wrong. Messed up.
Katsuki disagreed.
If it was so bad, he wouldn’t have felt like this after dragging a razor into his pale skin. The pressure built until he swiped in one quick motion, pain clouding his swirling thoughts.
The moments spent sitting on his floor, blood flowing from his thigh and wrist, were always the best. Sometimes in class, he would daydream about the calm lull that settled over him, the weightless feeling from the exhaustion. It was like nothing he had ever tried.
Back when Katsuki was younger, he had burned himself. It had begun as punishment. When he failed a test or forgot to train, he used his quirk. The explosions were small at first, just popping sparks from his palms as he lightly pressed them to his hips. But over time they grew bigger, calloused skin protecting the thin flesh beneath.
When he had to press as hard as he could just to feel the burn, he decided he needed a new method.
Thinking back on it, Katsuki wasn’t sure why he had chosen a blade. It had seemed so vulgar to his younger self. Burning himself with his quirk was one thing, mutilating his own flesh with a knife was something else entirely.
But he had ended up with small cuts along his thighs, some of them not even bleeding. It had been the most at peace he had felt in a while, much more peaceful than an explosion against his skin.
Cutting became less of a punishment and more of a solution. It dulled him to the point of being manageable. If he felt like he was going to smash someone’s face in at any second, he could excuse himself and slash at his body instead. The red pouring from his milky skin calmed his nerves. His breathing steadied. He could continue on.
He also did it when he was paranoid, when he thought the League was back. If he could snap himself back, even briefly, he could ground himself with pain. Some days he still had to use explosions to break out of those episodes. The knives reminded him too much of Toga sometimes.
Then it simply became routine.
If he was happy, sad, angry, numb, anything, he cut.
The feeling was like a drug, and Katsuki would do just about anything for the next fix. With that, his tolerance grew. He needed to go deeper and deeper.
When he had first started, he had used an old pocket knife given to him by his father. He still couldn’t believe Masaru had actually given him a knife.
The pocket knife was nice in the beginning, he didn't have to worry about being too hard since the blade was dull. No matter how hard he sunk it into his skin, it would only just barely tear it enough to let out little drops of blood.
But after a couple of months, it wasn’t enough.
It had happened after a particularly bad day, right after the sludge villain attack. He could still feel the slimy gunk in his throat that night. When he couldn’t claw the feeling out, he turned to the pocket knife. He dug and dug into his skin, but the pain barely registered.
Katsuki had been desperate.
He had almost just jammed the blade straight into his thigh, point first. But before he could commit to it, the blonde stumbled to his feet, the knife clattering to the ground as he tried to steady himself.
He didn’t remember leaving his room. Or going downstairs. Or stepping into the kitchen.
All he could remember was how his hand reached for a knife block. It was inches away from the handle of a knife until something else caught his eye.
A box cutter.
It sat innocently on the counter beside a set of tools.
Katsuki turned sharply and snatched it up with shaking hands. He was panting by now, his gaze locked onto the thin blade. Without thinking, he rushed back upstairs, his brain didn't even register the loud noise of his own footsteps.
Back in his room, the movement had calmed him slightly. The act of getting the blade had given him something to focus on.
But now that he was still again, the slime returned to his throat.
With a low growl, Katsuki shoved his sweatpants down and kicked them aside, his eyes never leaving the blade. He extended it slowly, studying the sharp edge.
A flicker of hesitation crept in.
How much would this hurt? Was this a mistake? What if he went too deep?
The thoughts spiraled until he felt lightheaded. He couldn’t take it anymore. He pressed the blade to his thigh and dragged it across.
At first, there was nothing.
Then pain hit, white and hot, it cleared out every thought in his head.
Katsuki bit down hard, his mouth filling with blood as he stifled a scream. The heat lingered longer than he was used to.
Finally, when it died down he forced himself to assess the damage. Fear lodged in his throat before he looked down, nervous for what he might see.
What was there shocked him a little bit, his eyes widened as he took in the cut. Instead of a thin red line, or the hint of white under the skin, it was yellow.
It wasn't the smooth surface he was used to, the cut looked bubbly. But just as soon as he saw it, it was gone. The wound flooded with blood, thick red spilt over his thigh, hiding the gross texture.
Katsuki couldn’t move. The emptiness that followed was overwhelming and peaceful. A smile spread across his face.
Maybe he was crazy. No sane person would smile at a self inflicted wound like this, no sane person would do any of this in the first place.
But there he was, staring down at the oozing blood with the most genuine smile he’d had in months.
All because of one cut.
From that point on, the pocket knife had been forgotten.
The box cutter became his favorite.
It was almost like when you get a new stuffed animal and you completely forget about your old one. The new one is just so much better.
Most of the cuts he made were much smaller than that first one. He wasn’t in distress most of the time, and he still understood he couldn’t get too heavy-handed.
It continued like that for a month or two, the deeper cuts keeping his spiraling thoughts at bay. Instead of waiting for things to get worse, he began cutting as soon as the first bad thought entered his head. It was efficient. It was perfect.
After a particularly gruesome session, Katsuki looked over his body. The scars were raised and red, some smaller than others. One stood out among the rest, purple, deeper, more pronounced. He recognized it immediately. The one from the night of the sludge villain. He traced it lightly with his fingertips, noting how tender it still felt.
Katsuki wanted to go that deep again.
He mulled it over, where, when he could do it. Not now, obviously. He had just finished. He should give himself time to heal first. But after a few days, he could do it again, if he really wanted to. Then he stopped.
The thought made something in his chest twist after a minute.
Before, he could’ve justified it. Framed it as stress, as necessity, something he needed to function. He could probably convince a few people it made sense, that it was bad yes but he wasn't crazy. But this… this was different. Sitting there, calmly planning the next time he would carve himself open, he realized something. He was terribly fucked up.
The realization almost made him stop.
And, for a while, it did.
He threw the box cutter away. Without it, he couldn’t hurt himself, simple as that. He tried his hardest to ignore the spiraling thoughts.
Safe to say, he lasted three days.
Three days before the itch came back, crawling under his skin, louder than before. By the time he gave in, the relief hit harder than it had in weeks.
It almost felt like the first time again. The calm was so intense he ended up passing out before he was able to clean the blood off him.
Oh well.
Still, he was pissed off. Using a kitchen knife wasn’t the same. It didn’t glide the way he wanted. It didn’t go deep enough.
Frustration built quickly.
He missed the box cutter.
When the blade refused to go deeper than the dermis, he knew he needed something better. So he went looking. He searched online, digging through forums until he found what he needed.
Razor blades.
The realization felt almost stupid. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner. But the moment he saw the pictures attached, images of clean, deep cuts, any embarrassment disappeared.
The depth. The precision.
It was intoxicating.
Three days later, he got them.
He slipped a pack into his sleeve at a convenience store, not willing to deal with questions at home. Buying a pack of razor blades when you don't shave would probably be a dead giveaway. The whole walk back, his pulse hammered in his ears.
Once inside, he went straight to the bathroom. That was when doubt crept in.
He stared down at the blade in his hand, remembering the images he’d seen. Some of those cuts had been deep, too deep.
What if he went too far?
What if he didn’t stop?
Even through all of this, he hadn't wanted to die.
He needed to stop being a pussy. It’ll be fine, he was totally in control and everything would be okay. The thought of bleeding out was just him being paranoid. It was completely fine.
His grip tightened. After a few steadying breaths, he pressed the blade lightly to his thigh and dragged it across.
The first thing he noticed was the lack of pain. It had almost just felt like a sting.
When he looked back at the cut, it was the cleanest he had ever made. The edges tapered off and it was completely straight, for a moment, he just stared at it.
It was almost beautiful.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped him. He could barely contain the manic excitement pouring from his veins, kind of like the blood.
Then he pressed harder. The second cut bit deeper, and the tension in his shoulders melted away. A smile tugged at his lips as the familiar calm settled in.
It was perfect.
There wasn’t a single con to razors. They were cheap. Easy to hide. Sharp enough to do exactly what he wanted. He could take them everywhere, get them everywhere, and use them everywhere.
Now he understood why people swore by them. They really were the best.
And they were just so sharp, so perfectly sharp. They sliced through just about anything, sometimes if he held one wrong he'd accidentally slice his finger without noticing.
He didn’t just cut his thighs anymore.
His body was covered, wrists, stomach, hips, shoulders, even his back. The thighs were just the easiest place to reach so they had the most scars.
If anyone ever saw him like this, they’d probably panic. Maybe even call someone, convinced he was trying to kill himself.
But that's silly, after all, this is the most beautiful he's ever felt in his life. Why would he kill himself now after just getting started?
Katsuki looked down, the new wounds bleeding. Some of them crossed over old cuts, reopening them in gruesome fashion. The blood trailing over his thighs captivated him. The blade clattered to the floor as he took both his hands, they pushed and pulled at the wound. Something inside him begged that they would bleed more.
The loud boom of Kirishima's alarm in the room over brought him back from his head. Katsuki shot up, ignored the pain in his legs, and set out to start a new day.