Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The streets are crowded, even though dusk has already fallen.

Izuku pulls the zipper of his dark green jacket higher, the hood deep over his face. It’s more reflex than protection.

He knows these corners well, they’re familiar — the little park with the scratched benches, the bakery whose owner used to call him “little detective” when he was a kid, always observing and jotting things down.

The people here have changed.

He has changed.

And Katsuki…?

“Dynamight.”

The name is everywhere.

Billboards, LED ads, mannequins in hero merch.

A symbol of the perfect combination of raw force and disciplined strength.

He’s untouchable.

Unapproachable.

Until Izuku sees him.

It’s not a planned encounter.

He’s on his way back from a pitch — a dull presentation of his designs for a new hero agency. They wanted coldness, simplicity. No soul.

His sketchbook weighs heavily in his backpack, the pages full of scribbles that only show one person:

Katsuki.

Not "Dynamight."

Not the product for the public.

But what must be underneath.

And then:

At the edge of a block, a coffee truck. Black, matte finish, no logo. Two people in front of it.

The third man, leaning casually against the side panel, is wearing sunglasses even though it’s dusk.

Blonde hair, a bit darker than it used to be.

More built. Tougher.

Katsuki.

Izuku’s heartbeat spikes sharply.

He stands on the other side of the street.

He could just walk on.

He could.

But he doesn’t.

His steps slow as his gaze lingers on Katsuki.

Katsuki talks to the vendor, one hand casually in his pocket, the other accepting the cup.

The snap of the coffee lid locking in place cracks loudly in Izuku’s head.

His quirk whispers:

“Lie.”

But he doesn’t know why.

No one said anything.

And yet…

A tingling creeps under his skin, along his spine.

Something isn’t right.

Katsuki turns away from the truck.

His gaze briefly sweeps across the street.

And catches.

On Izuku.

Sunglasses.

Dark lenses.

But Izuku knows.

He knows Katsuki sees him.

Not the designer, not “Izuku Midoriya.”

But him.

Izuku felt the look like a thin, sharp blade at his throat — cold and pressing, as if the mere awareness of being seen could shatter him into a thousand trembling fragments.

His heart stopped. Just for a moment.

Then it beat again — too fast, too loud, pounding in his ears like a desperate attempt to flee. He felt the rising blood pressure in his ears.

He forced himself to calm down, to something that maybe looked like composure on the outside.

His feet moved forward, controlled, with the same precise tension he felt when his hand failed on paper because the thought of him was too strong.

His gaze dropped, away from the other side of the street, away from the solid silhouette holding the matte black coffee cup, away from the eyes behind dark glass that he could still feel.

Izuku turned the corner, as if it had always been his path.

He forced the air deeper into his lungs, the lump in his throat making it hard to swallow.

One step at a time.

The damp evening air pressed against his face as the scent of exhaust and cold concrete wrapped around him.

He counted his steps.

Thirty-two, before he stopped.

One hand gripped the strap of his backpack, knuckles white with tension.

Slowly, he turned.

The street lay quiet.

The coffee truck still there, the few passersby moving like shadows in the blue hour.

But Katsuki was gone.

A cold sensation settled on his neck, like breath too close.

Or imagination.

Probably imagination.

Izuku shook his head.

“Calm down…” he murmured hoarsely into the collar of his jacket, but the words didn’t sound convincing.

Not to him.

His quirk buzzed behind his temples — diffuse, unpleasant.

Nothing had been said. Not a single word.

And yet inside him, the echo of a lie vibrated.

He forced himself onward.

The apartment wasn’t far.

Two streets, one traffic light, the little detour through the alley few people used.

Where the shadows were thicker.

Where it was easier to forget you’d been seen.

The door clicked shut behind him, dull and final.

A brief moment in which the world was shut out, and silence draped over him like an old, heavy cloth.

He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, felt the tiny vibrations of his pulse there, felt the weight in his chest.

The sketchbook landed on the table, its pages falling open on their own.

Involuntarily, his gaze stuck on one drawing.

Katsuki.

Not in a hero mask, not in a battle pose.

Sitting, arms on knees, gaze directed straight at the viewer.

The expression on his face was undefinable.

Between exhaustion and… something else.

Izuku swallowed hard, his fingers tracing the lines.

He had seen him today.

After all these years.

And it had none of the relief he had always imagined.

Something was different.

Deeper. Darker.

And it pulled him in.

Later, under the dim glow of his desk lamp, with his hands finally steady again as he resumed drawing, he heard a faint click.

As if somewhere, a door had opened.

Or closed.

But it was just the old heater in the wall.

Sure.

The apartment was quiet.

Only his own breathing broke the silence, the slow in and out as he tried to convince himself it had been nothing.

A step into the dark hallway, only in socks on the cold floor, and the apartment confirmed what he already knew.

No one here.

No one but him.

A quiet laugh, breathless and hollow, escaped his throat.

Of course no one was here.

He shook his head, ran his fingers through his messy green hair as if that could smooth out the thoughts that kept tugging at him more and more.

His steps led him back to the desk.

The chair creaked softly as he sat down again, elbows resting on the surface, chin pressed into his palm.

And then it was there again.

That pull.

That familiar, sweet poison slowly crawling through his veins, filling him with a tingling burn.

*Kacchan.*

He couldn’t shut it off.

He had tried.

Or so he believed.

But in truth, this—this was the only thing still holding him together.

His gaze drifted to the wall right beside the bed.

A narrow beam of light from the desk lamp cast across it, making the edges of the paper scraps glow faintly, like relics in a display case.

Photos, pulled from deep within the web.

Official press shots, candid moments, paparazzi photos from missions, event appearances.

Between them, newspaper articles, printed newsfeeds, headlines hastily crossed out with marker.

“Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight saves 25 in building collapse.”

“Dynamight: Toughest hero back at rank 2.”

“Katsuki Bakugo speaks on his future as a hero.”

And in the middle:

An old class photo.

Worn, dog-eared.

The colors long faded, but Izuku knew every line by heart.

*Kacchan.*

In uniform.

Hands in his pockets, chin pushed forward with irritation.

That gaze, sharp and proud.

Izuku’s fingers brushed over the picture, skin rough against the matte paper.

“You were never really gone,” he whispered into the empty room.

His voice was barely a breath.

He wasn’t even sure if he’d spoken aloud.

Or if it was just a thought that had shaped itself into sound.

He leaned back, eyes half-closed.

That feeling again—of being watched.

But it came from within.

From his own fixed perception that refused to yield even a fraction.

The drawings on the desk lay open.

Unfinished sketches of Katsuki’s face, the angle of his hands reaching for something, the line of his shoulder blades beneath the black suit.

Even the hero gear—he had drawn it. Dozens of times.

Every detail.

But it wasn’t enough.

Izuku blinked slowly.

His gaze was glassy, his head full.

He wanted more.

He wanted to know.

Wanted to understand what he had felt today.

That lie with no origin.

Why had Katsuki been there?

Why at that place, at that exact time?

And… had he recognized Izuku?

The thoughts merged and tangled into a tight web.

He couldn’t separate them anymore.

His gaze shifted to the camera on the table.

Small. Unobtrusive.

It had sat in a drawer for a long time.

Now it lay there.

Ready.

Like him.

Izuku’s fingers slowly wrapped around it.

His heartbeat steadied the moment he made the decision.

Hours later he lay in the darkness of his bed, the camera on his chest, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

He planned.

The places Katsuki frequented.

What he knew.

And what he thought he knew.

Tomorrow he would find out more.

He had to.

A few days later.

The world outside had taken on the color of old metal, as if it could collapse at any moment. It was cold enough for breath to hang in the air, but not cold enough to stop him from lying still for hours.

Izuku lay on a rooftop.

Flat on his stomach on rough gravel, elbows braced, the camera held in both hands.

The viewfinder pressed to his eye as his heart beat in slow, even rhythms.

He knew how to be still.

How to be invisible.

The apartment was directly across.

Top floor.

Wide windows.

An architect might call it spacious, open design — full of light, urban.

But to Izuku, it was the perfect display window.

And Katsuki had come home early today.

Still in his hero suit, the gauntlets lying on the coffee table as if they had become too tight.

The top undone, heavy straps hanging loosely around his hips.

Izuku’s finger twitched on the shutter as Katsuki ran a hand over his neck, brushing back his hair.

He pressed it.

A soft click, barely audible, echoed in his throat.

The focus sharp on the veins tracing Katsuki’s neck.

It wasn’t the first photo.

Not the first day.

He had already seen patterns.

When Katsuki showered.

When he cooked.

When he kept his hands under cold water longer than needed.

The zoom lens was better than he expected.

Every motion was tangible.

Every detail so close, it felt like Izuku could just reach out and touch him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He didn’t come home until after midnight.

The camera was safely stowed in the bag, the battery nearly empty, the memory card full.

His hands were numb from the cold, but it didn’t matter.

He locked the door, stepped into the darkness of his small apartment, and placed everything on the table—carefully, almost ritualistically.

Shoes off.

Jacket over the chair.

The camera placed right next to the sketchbook.

Izuku took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together before switching on the printer.

The hum had become familiar.

Comforting.

A mechanical heart beating in rhythm with his own.

The first images slid out of the machine, still warm in his hands.

Katsuki, hair wet, a towel draped over his shoulders.

Katsuki, fingers brushing his lips as if lost in thought.

Katsuki, staring out the window.

It was always hard to tell where he was looking.

Whether he was searching for something. Or someone.

Izuku laid the photos out on the floor.

Lined them up. A mosaic of skin and shadow, of movements he understood.

Or believed he did.

His gaze drifted to the wall.

The old class photo was almost completely covered, but he knew exactly where it was.

He sank to his knees, then lower, laying flat on his stomach, cheek pressed to the cold floor as his hands reached for the next photo.

“Kacchan…”

The name slipped from his lips like sugar.

Sweet. Painful. A little sticky.

He laid himself down among the photos, fingertips gliding over the paper as if stroking skin.

The lines of his drawings, the contours of the photos—blurred before his eyes.

It was warm.

Too warm.

His breath fogged the glossy surface of a photo, Katsuki’s face half-obscured as Izuku slowly turned his head.

His fingers found the hem of his shirt, pulled it up.

The other hand moved lower.

He kept his eyes closed, but the images were there.

In his mind.

On the floor.

On his hands.

He heard his breath grow heavier, felt tension rise and release again in endless, addictive waves.

“Kacchan…”

Again.

A little more desperate.

A little dirtier.

His teeth sank into his lower lip as he came, quiet, almost trembling, and for a moment, everything was black.

Then he breathed again—long, staggered breaths—and let his head rest against the cold wood.

Later he just lay there.

The photos around him.

One or two stuck lightly to the sweat on his back.

But he didn’t mind.

He felt empty.

Not free.

Never free.

Just hollow.

But tomorrow he’d be there again.

Maybe a little closer.

Izuku knew the rhythm now.

The consistency of the days, the precise repetition.

Like a well-oiled machine, Katsuki’s routines ran—meticulously planned, with no room for irregularities.

It was a choreography of efficiency and control, and Izuku watched it day after day, until the patterns became as familiar as his own heartbeat.

Every morning, Katsuki left his apartment at exactly six-thirty.

His first coffee—black, no sugar—he picked up three blocks away at the plain cart, whose owner greeted him with a curt nod.

Then training, on the roof of the Dynamight Agency—mostly alone, sometimes with other heroes, who never came too close.

And when he returned in the evening, it always followed the same routine.

Shower.

Cook—rarely order in.

Usually something simple, but protein-rich.

Then he read reports or wrote them, in total silence that wrapped around him like glass.

And in between: nothing.

No visitors.

No encounters lasting longer than a brief exchange.

No laughter.

No trace of closeness.

Izuku had recorded every movement.

He knew Katsuki trained longer on Mondays, double-checked reports on Tuesdays, never answered the phone on Wednesdays—even when it rang.

Thursdays, he returned late—an assignment, recurring, always in another city.

Fridays, Izuku noticed, he cooked for himself.

Not one of his quick meals from the week, but elaborate dishes, spending over an hour in the kitchen.

And sometimes, he left a window slightly open, as if inviting the city in to show he didn’t care if it watched.

Izuku knew all this because he had seen each of those moments.

Through the lens of his camera, which he now held almost like a weapon.

An extension of his own will.

A silent promise to himself:

He would understand Katsuki.

He would possess him completely.

Sooner or later.

He had made a folder, carefully organized.

Date, time, details.

A calendar on the wall showed his next opportunities.

And on each of those days, he drew more.

Photos were no longer enough.

His hands wanted to feel, to create.

The lines on the paper grew harder, sharper.

It wasn’t admiration anymore.

It was hunger.

At night, Izuku lay awake, imagining Katsuki walking down the hallway.

Steps—heavy, deliberate.

Standing at his door.

Pressing the handle.

Entering.

Without words.

Without questions—just pushing him deeper into the bed.

That vision became a ritual—every time the darkness grew so thick it nearly swallowed him whole.

One evening, as the sky sank into a dirty gray, Izuku decided to move closer.

A plain hoodie, inconspicuous, hood pulled low.

The camera in an old shoulder bag—ready but hidden.

His steps were calm as he set out.

He knew when Katsuki left the building, knew the route he took.

Today was Thursday.

An assignment in the next city. He wouldn’t return before nine p.m.

Plenty of time.

Izuku slipped into the shadows of the entrance area, observed the security system, the display, the handprint scanner.

Too early to do anything.

Not yet.

Not close enough yet.

But the approach was inevitable.

He would cross that threshold.

It wasn’t a question of *if*, only *when*.

Later, as he printed the latest photos in his apartment, his hands trembled.

Not from fear.

Not even from excitement.

But from anticipation.

In one of the images, Katsuki stood at his apartment door, keys still in hand, gaze straight ahead.

For a split second, Izuku had believed he was looking his way.

That he *knew*.

Maybe he did.

Maybe Katsuki had seen him long ago.

Maybe he just let him be.

A game.

A dance only they understood.

Izuku taped the photo above his bed, on the wall, among the others.

His fingers paused at the edge of the paper.

Then he leaned his forehead against it.

Closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Slowly.

Kacchan was so close.

So warm.

And someday…

Someday he would touch him.

Nights passed differently than the days.

While the city outside produced its endless, muffled hum, Izuku sat in the midst of his work—surrounded by empty coffee cups and the flat, constant glow of his desk lamp.

The light carved sharp edges into the dark, let his shadow stretch long across the floor, where the photos were spread—meticulously arranged and yet chaotic in their quantity.

His fingertips were rough, small cuts from the ever-sharper edges of his tools.

He no longer saw them as tools, but as extensions of what he had long become.

An observer.

A hunter.

Chapter Text

But not to destroy. No, it was about something else. He wanted to understand. He wanted in. To where no one else had been. To where Kacchan was alone. Beside the sketchbook, whose pages were slowly filling with anatomical studies of Katsuki's hands, his arms, the angle of his jaw, now lay other things. Three house locks, nearly identical to those of the entrance door to Katsuki's apartment. He had spent days reading up in forums, had downloaded schematics he never believed would exist. But they did. There was always someone willing to talk for the right price. Izuku didn't have much, but it was enough. He had gained access to information he shouldn't have had. Instructions. Prints of key profiles. And most importantly: the exact setup of the fingerprint scanner installed on the door. An electronic practice lock now lay before him.

His fingers slid precisely over the casing as he pushed the pick into the keyhole. It clicked softly, barely audible. Then another click, deeper, more satisfying. He smiled, thin, his eyes half-closed. Another lock, heavier, more complex. But he repeated the motion, patiently, with the meticulousness that had long become second nature to him as an artist. He read lines. He read materials. He understood mechanics, just as he understood muscle tensions. It was all just another code. On the floor lay a fingerprint scanner. An old model, bought through dark channels. Not exactly the same as the one Katsuki used – too new, too expensive – but close enough. Close enough to learn. He pressed his own hand on it, watched the red light up. Access denied. Of course. But he had understood the technique. A print. A print of what was alive. But there were ways. Heat. Moisture. A replica. Izuku ran his finger over the gel pad he had prepared. His gaze was focused, sharp, as if he could already feel the outcome. In the corner of the room, now on the small sideboard, stood the old class photo. The corners were worn, but the face that looked at him remained unchanged. He had always resembled him.

But now… now he was getting closer. So much closer. Izuku leaned back in his chair, his hands on his thighs, his breathing shallow. His gaze drifted to the clock. Two more hours until Katsuki returned. He knew it, because he always knew. He knew the routes, the rhythm. He had read the live tickers, followed the missions. He knew when Katsuki would leave. When he would return. And when he would sleep. Slowly, he stood up, pulled the dark sweatshirt over his head, laced up the boots tightly. The gloves were ready, fitting snugly, fingertips open, so he could retain the sensitivity of his skin. In the pocket: a small jar with powder and a plastic wrap rolled in a sleeve. His movement was calm, controlled. His eyes empty. Clear. Purposeful.

Today, he would take a close look at the lock. Maybe he would touch it. Maybe more. It was just a door. An obstacle that was only built to be overcome. He stepped into the hallway, locked up quietly behind him. The city did not sleep, but neither did Izuku. The night weighed heavily over Musutafu as Izuku stepped into the shadows of the apartment complex, whose top floor had been the address of Dynamight for almost a year. The building appeared plain, sober, and functional from the outside, but that was just a façade – the security was top-notch, the architecture so well-thought-out that even an experienced burglar would think twice before trying their luck here. Izuku was not a burglar in the traditional sense. He was not a thief, not a criminal. At least, that's what he told himself. Not while he crouched along the back of the house, where surveillance cameras had blind spots because the light from the lanterns reflected too strongly there.

He had been waiting for weeks for this moment. Katsuki was on a mission – not unusual for a Thursday evening – and his return was foreseeable, but not so soon that he had to rush. Everything was prepared, each step thoroughly considered, the items checked, practiced, and finally stored in their correct order in his pockets. There was no haste in his movements, no uncertainty as he crept to the entrance of the upper floors, a passage meant only for residents and their guests.

The door, of course, was not open to him, which he had not expected. A state-of-the-art locking system, consisting of biometric scanners, an access card, and a traditional key lock as an additional safeguard. Triple security. Katsuki Bakugo did not live in an open world, that had been clear to him weeks ago when he began to study the layout of the security measures. Nevertheless, Izuku had managed to memorize the architecture of the mechanics so well that now, as his fingers slowly and methodically dusted the powder over the control panel in his gloves, it felt as familiar to him as his own sketch lines.

He worked quietly, almost reverently, as he spread the fine powder over the gel-like surface. The particles settled on the tiny residues left by Katsuki's fingertips. He knew his hands well – from his drawings, from the photos he had taken, from the memory of how they had clenched into fists to beat him in their childhood. Those hands had shaped him, and now it was almost ironic that they opened the way for him.

The prints slowly emerged, tiny in their details, fine branching of the skin lines. Izuku breathed in softly through his nose, felt his heart beat slower, deeper, as if it were resting in harmony with his cautious movements. It was no longer excitement, but concentration.

Carefully, he placed the thin film over the cleaned area, pressing it gently with his flat hand against the spot where Katsuki's print was most apparent. The film was special – a sensitive, adhesive membrane that oriented itself to the surface differences and captured the structure so finely that he could make a copy in a few hours that came close to a real print. Close enough to fool a system, if you knew what you were doing. Izuku knew.

He slowly peeled off the film, rolled it up with utmost care, and put it in the cylindrical container that would protect it from any touch, dust, or temperature changes. It was a job that required patience – no trembling could show, no false step, or it would all be for nothing.

When he was finished, he let his fingertips rest on the door for a moment, right next to the scanner. The surface was smooth and cool, yet in his mind, he imagined what it would be like if Katsuki opened the door. If he stood behind it. If the force of his presence hit him, as real as the last time they had stood face to face before Katsuki turned away from him and stepped into a world to which Izuku no longer had access. Until now.

His thumb stroked the metal, a nearly tender caress, as if he could feel where Katsuki regularly laid his hand. Izuku closed his eyes, just for a breath, imagining that he still felt the warmth. That this touch was no longer separated by a door, no longer by a border.

But that was for later. It was not yet time.

He inhaled deeply, held the breath in his lungs, counted quietly to five before letting it slowly escape. Then he drew his hand back, slid the tool into the inner pocket of his sweater, and stepped back. The way was prepared. Not open yet, but that was only a matter of time.

The night was still young as he retraced his steps, each one carefully placed, shoulders lowered, eyes forward, without haste. His fingers clutched the edge of his bag, and in it lay the film, with which he would soon have the access he had long dreamed of.

Later, in his apartment, he spread everything out on the table. The notes, the plans, the film. He sank into the chair, elbows on the table, face in his hands, and for a moment, there was just silence, the steady thumping of his heartbeat, reminding him that he was still alive. Not for himself – but for him.

Katsuki was his reason to breathe, to work, to be. And soon, he would show him. Soon, he would truly touch him.

The apartment was quiet, except for the soft hum of electronics, which Izuku barely noticed anymore. He sat on the floor, knees bent, back against the cool wood of the wall, while the desk lamp cast a warm, flat beam of light across the room. The shadows fell softly over the scattered documents, over the tools, the diagrams, and sketches that spread like an organic web over the table and the floor. But he didn't really perceive any of that now.

His gaze was fixed solely on the large image he had created a few hours earlier. A brilliant high-gloss photograph of Katsuki, compiled from multiple sources, edited, and finally printed in poster size. The print was flawless. The sharpness, the light, the perfect reproduction of the details – as if he was standing right in front of him. Katsuki wore no helmet. His hair appeared softer than Izuku ever remembered, the skin on his neck taut, his lips slightly open as if a breath had just escaped. His eyes, red and cold, seemed to fix Izuku directly, as if he could see him through the paper.

He let his fingertips slowly glide over the image, feeling the smooth, almost cool surface of the print under his calluses. The lines, the contours of Katsuki's face, the tense muscles of his neck, the slight elevation of his collarbone. He was so sure he knew exactly what that skin would feel like, how warm it would be if his fingers could bury themselves in it.

His touches became slower, almost reverent, as he gently took the poster with both hands and sank to his knees before it. The air in the small room seemed to thicken, grow heavier, as his breathing became more irregular. He spread the image on the floor, carefully smoothing out the edges, as if to honor it, before he leaned over the flawless paper.

"Kacchan..." he whispered hoarsely, the word barely more than a breath in the silence, as his hands slid to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. The skin on his own body was heated, almost uncomfortably so under the pressure of his own longing, yet it was a familiar pain, one he had known for a long time.

He sank deeper, letting his knees part, as his right hand slowly wandered lower, imagining it was Katsuki whose gaze rested on him. Those red eyes, sharp, cold, filled with something Izuku could never quite grasp. Whether it was contempt or recognition, hatred or something else, no longer mattered. It was enough that it existed. That he existed.

The sounds that escaped his throat were muffled as he touched himself, slowly at first, then with more force, his gaze repeatedly fixed on the image that stared back at him. He imagined that it was Katsuki's hands that were rough, unyielding, like back in school—not kind, not gentle. That had never been needed. He wanted nothing gentle. Not now. Not from him.

The movements became more urgent, uncontrollable, and his breath now rough as his free hand pressed against the image, tracing the lines of muscles, over the face that looked at him as he pleasured himself more rapidly.

Finally, his body tensed, muscles in his back tightening hard, and a soft, staccato sound escaped him—Kac-chan—as he climaxed, his hot, sticky load landing directly on the image, leaving glossy streaks across Katsuki's face, his throat, as if he had glazed him. For a moment, Izuku was motionless, his breath heavy, his forehead against the cool floor, while his hand still lay on the stained paper.

He forced himself to calm, slowly retracting his fingers, observing what he had done. The white traces on the flawless gloss print looked almost like a form of possession. As if it was now unequivocally his.

With a trembling hand, he reached for a cloth, wiping slowly and carefully over the glossy surface, as if he did not want to damage the image, as if it were more than just a piece of paper. More than a substitute for what he still lacked.

But that would not be the case for much longer. He would soon be with him. Not in thoughts. Not in photos. Not in his imagination. Soon it would be real. And then nothing would stand between them.

Izuku slowly stood up, took a deep breath, and stepped back. His gaze lingered on the image, which he had smoothed out and pinned back to the wall. He absentmindedly licked his dry lips.

"I'm coming, Kacchan..." His voice was soft, almost a promise.

Izuku was precise. Not only in his drawings, in the fine lines and shadows but also in the methods he used to gain access. Access to things that remained closed to others. Access to him. The preparations had taken weeks, every decision was well-considered. It was no longer a spontaneous obsession, no impulsive urge that threw him off track. It was control. Discipline. And if anything had defined Izuku in recent years, it was that: complete, ruthless control.

His fingers rested on the casing of the card reader as if it was the first time, although he had practiced on his replica dozens of times. He knew exactly where the vulnerabilities were. Not in the code, not in the software, but in the hardware itself. A fine line, barely thicker than a hair, ran through the connection between the two metal contacts inside the casing. That was where he had to apply.

Two metal strips, thinly bent, precise. They had already been in his jacket pocket, warmed by his body heat, so the material wouldn't behave too stiffly. He inserted them calmly, hearing the barely perceptible scraping as the tip made contact. His breathing was shallow, his pulse calm—the hands worked mechanically as if they were no longer part of his body.

It took exactly twenty seconds. He had timed it. He knew when to apply voltage. Between 6.4 and 6.7 volts—he had calculated it to the tenth. The current had to be low. Too much, and the device switched to emergency mode. Too little, and it did nothing. He balanced it with the certainty of a man who never doubted that his calculations were correct.

A soft, barely audible click. The display flickered briefly, the green LED went out. Just as planned.

Izuku smiled faintly. A smile that had little to do with joy. It was confirmation. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

He lifted the small cylindrical container from his pocket, opened it with careful, practiced movement. The film with Katsuki's fingerprint was clean, flawless. He had checked it multiple times, under different lighting conditions, scrutinized every line for its sharpness. Now he placed it over his own palm, pressing it gently with the other hand until it adhered like a second skin. Warm enough, moist enough.

His own pulse would beat through the thin layer, just plausible enough for the sensors. Izuku raised his hand, hovering it above the scanner for a moment. A final breath. Then he lowered it. The device flashed red once—a jolt of fright he had anticipated—then the light switched to green. Access granted.

His fingers twitched almost imperceptibly as he tackled the mechanical lock. Not from hesitation, but because this moment marked the threshold he had worked towards for so long. The lock pick was already between his fingers. The movements were precise, practiced. He felt the subtle differences in the metal's tension, the tiny clicks as the pins gave way. The lock opened with a smoothness that was almost disappointing.

Izuku held the handle in his hand. His palms were dry, his breathing still shallow, yet something inside him vibrated. A soft, sweet hum that coursed through his veins. It wasn’t nervousness. It was anticipation.

The door slid open noiselessly. The corridor behind it was dark. Cool. Clean. The air was tinged with something metallic, a barely perceptible scent of sweat and powder—a smell that was immediately familiar to him.

Izuku stepped in, letting the door slowly close behind him, feeling the soft click in his back. No going back.

His steps were silent. The socks on the smooth floor muffled any sound. He moved slowly, almost reverently, as if entering a sacred space whose rules he knew but would never speak aloud. Every object, every surface here was familiar to him from the photos he had taken. But it was different being here now. Being here now.

The jacket lay over the chair in the kitchen. As always. The shoes were neatly placed by the door. Katsuki's order was military, efficient. But it was not sterile. Not uninhabited.

Izuku let his fingers glide over the backrest of the chair. Over the rough material of the jacket that smelled of the outdoors. He pressed his face against the fabric for a moment, deeply inhaling the scent. Powder, sweat, something bitter that settled on his tongue.

He slipped off the gloves, tucked them into his pocket before he ventured deeper into the apartment. The living room was minimalist. A sofa, dark gray, a broad window front facing the city. The table was bare except for a tablet laid open with reports.

The bedroom. The door was half-open. Izuku entered, slowly, quietly, as if a wrong step could shatter the moment. The bed was made. Exactly. The pillows symmetrical. But Izuku knew it would be different when Katsuki slept. He had seen it.

He stopped in the middle of the room, staring at it for a long time. His fingers twitched slightly, then he slowly reached for the pillow, lifting it, resting his cheek against it. It was still warm. A lie, he knew. A delusion. But his body believed it.

His hands glided further, over the blanket, then to the edge of the bed. He sat down, carefully, as if not wanting to wrinkle anything. But it was too late. He was already here. He was already part of it.

Izuku leaned back slowly, lay still for a moment before turning onto his side. He folded his hands under his cheek as if he wanted to sleep. But he did not close his eyes. He stared at the door, imagining it could open at any moment. That Katsuki would stand there. That his gaze would rest on him, cold, expectant. Maybe surprised. Maybe not.

He let his thoughts circle slowly, indulgently. He was here. Inside. Finally.

The apartment was bathed in a muted semi-darkness, more than just shadowy contours where the silhouettes of furniture and objects stood out. Only the weak light of the city struggling through the floor-to-ceiling windows gave the room a silvery edge, as if drawing him from the inside out.

Izuku stood motionless in the corridor for a moment after the door had quietly closed behind him. His fingers still rested on the handle, as if needing to reassure himself that it wouldn't betray him. But the soft click had already faded, swallowed by the thick, warm silence that prevailed.

He breathed in through his nose. Slowly. Deeply. The air was heavier, denser than outside. A faint scent of burnt dust lingered in it, perhaps from the explosions Katsuki regularly produced. It was a smell that reminded one of metal, of gunpowder blackness, of sweat, mixed with the subtle fragrance of expensive cleaning agents. An unexpected warmth lay in the apartment, one that wouldn't have been expected from him—Katsuki didn't live coldly, not sterile. He operated in perfection, but this was… lived in.

Izuku absorbed every nuance as if he wanted to store every part of Katsuki on a molecular level. It was almost as if he had already entered these rooms. He had studied them so often, in photos, in his sketches, in his dreams. But now it was real.

He moved quietly, his socks sliding over the smooth floor as he entered the kitchen. His fingertips glided slowly over the cool surface of the counter. There lay a block of knives. Simple, heavy, a tool—nothing more, nothing less. But Izuku brushed the inside of his wrist over the handle of the largest knife, as if he could feel an echo of Katsuki's palm.

The coffee machine on the counter blinked softly. 12:00. He wondered if Katsuki ever found that annoying. If he ever set that blinking clock.

He pushed the thought aside and moved into the living room. The sofa was exactly as he knew it. Dark grey fabric, deep and wide, with a cushion on the right side. That's where Katsuki always sat. Not in the center. Not on the left. Always there.

Izuku slowly sank into the cushions, first on the edge, then deeper until his hip rested exactly where the fabric fibers had gently sunk. He closed his eyes for a moment. Inhaled. The warmth, the darkness, the almost physically tangible echo of him that still hung in this room—it wrapped itself like a blanket over Izuku's senses.

He could imagine Katsuki sitting here. How his muscles tensed under the skin when he leaned forward, maybe with a glass in hand, maybe just his thoughts, heavy and unspoken. Izuku imagined that he sat across from him. Or beside him. That he could hear the sound of his breath, calm, deep, controlled.

But the silence was broken. A dull thumping. Not loud, but clear. As if something heavy were pushed against a wall. Metallic, a dark, scraping sound that echoed.

Izuku held his breath. He slowly sat up, turned his head back toward the kitchen. There was nothing. He was sure Katsuki was not yet back. He had monitored every movement, checked every route. It wasn't possible.

But the sound had been there.

Cautiously, quietly, he moved. He went back to the kitchen, circled the counter, checked every cabinet door, every drawer, listened. No more sounds. Only the muted breathing of his own body, which now seemed too loud to him.

His gaze slid to the wall behind the kitchen. Smooth. Nothing stood out. Nothing moved.

Yet the feeling that he was not alone remained.

He returned to the bedroom. Slowly, as if the darkness felt denser there. His steps became more cautious, his fingers on the wall as if wanting to anchor himself.

The cabinets were as he knew them. Wide, ceiling-high, the wood dark, matte varnished. He stepped closer, his fingers on the handles, and slid the sliding door aside. The shirts hung lined up, orderly, sorted by color. Suits next to them. Expensive fabrics, fine cuts.

Izuku pushed them aside, took a deep breath. The scent of fresh laundry mixed with a hint of something he could only describe as "Kacchan."

And then he saw it. Behind the suits: another sliding door. Narrow, set into the back wall of the closet, so perfectly made that one could overlook it unless one knew exactly what to look for. Or if one wasn't careful enough.

Izuku placed his hand on the edge, felt an indentation, barely noticeable, for the fingertips. His skin tingled. The dull thumping could have come from here.

He pressed. The door moved slowly to the side, a soft cracking in the mechanism.

Behind it lay darkness. A room. Or a corridor.

The air that hit him was cooler, smelled of metal, sweat—more intense than anything he had felt in this apartment before. And something else. Something that made him shudder.

Chapter Text

Izuku stood in the doorway.
His heart beat slowly, firmly.
He believed he had known Katsuki.
But whatever was here...
...was more.
He stepped inside.

Izuku's fingertips glided along the smooth wall, mechanically searching for a switch as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He felt the fine irregularities of the plaster until his fingers detected a small indentation—a switch, plain, inconspicuous. Without thinking, he pressed it.
A soft click.
Then the hum of fluorescent lights before they flickered on with a harsh, cold light, and finally stabilized.
The room brightened, a clinical, pale blue enveloping everything, the light reflecting off the shiny tiles that covered the walls, floor, and ceiling. A sterile, smooth blue that seemed too friendly, too harmless, as if it was meant to soothe something that could not be soothed. Yet this impression shattered immediately.
Izuku took a moment to understand what he was seeing.
In the center of the room, directly beneath a massive metal plate in the ceiling, a heavy chain hung down. Thick, gleaming pieces of cold steel, roughly welded, bore the weight of a structure clearly meant for more than mere support. At its end dangled iron handcuffs. Not the light models used by the police. These were heavy, bulky, their steel matte and rough.
At least eight kilograms, Izuku estimated.
The weight was not an accident—it was intentional.
The handcuffs were clamped around the wrists of a young man.
He was naked except for an old, worn pair of shorts, his body hanging half-kneeling, half-dangling in the middle of the room.
His arms were lifted by the handcuffs, the shoulders stretched to an inhuman angle that would have looked painful even in a relaxed state.
Now, however... now it was torture.
His legs were still on the floor, but barely, his knees trembling in a constant, uncontrollable jerking as if trying to carry the rest of his weight and at the same time escape the pain.
Izuku froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
The man had bruises all over his body.
His skin was a map of violet-blue marks, transitioning into various stages of healing.
Freshly struck marks lay next to scarred, healing lines, as if someone had systematically ensured no spot was missed.
In some places, the skin shone as if it had been recently disinfected, in others it was crusted over, dried blood tracing thin lines across his ribs, his stomach.
A cut at the corner of his mouth, not deep but fresh, still gaped open, the blood on it dark red.
His face was gaunt, the cheekbones sharply pronounced, and his jaw hung loose for a moment as if he lacked the strength to close it.
But then—slowly—the man's eyes opened.
Murky gray, laced with burst capillaries.
They fixed on Izuku.
No panic.
No cry for help.
Just eye contact.
An expression of... recognition.
The man slightly lifted his head, the muscles in his neck visibly tensed, trembling under the effort, even this small movement cost. Blood clung to his temple, dried on his neck, seeming to merge with the sweat into a cracked crust.
Izuku stood motionless.
Something cold spread within him.
Not fear.
Not even horror.
But a dull, incredulous amazement.
He did not know what he had expected.
He only knew it had not been this.
The man's gaze remained on him, as if he wanted to say something.
But his lips did not move.
Perhaps he could no longer.
Perhaps he did not want to.
Izuku took a step closer.
The soles of his socks slid over the tiles, the sound barely audible, yet it cut through the silence like a scalpel.
The man followed every movement with his eyes, slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out if Izuku was a threat—or a salvation.
Izuku stopped, just a meter away.
He forced himself to breathe.
Slowly, controlled, as he had learned when his quirk threatened to overwhelm him.
But here there was nothing to feel.
No lies.
Only pain.
His fingers clenched into fists, then relaxed again.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
Not because he was scared.

And perfection was the only thing that decided life or death in this situation.
He had missed the silent alarm.
A tiny sensor, barely larger than a button, hidden in the mechanics of the doorframe.
An electronic betrayer, whose silent flashing was all that Katsuki had needed.
Dynamight had been informed as soon as Izuku had set his first foot into this apartment.
He was never alone.
Not really.
The crackling of the key was the first real sound that snapped Izuku out of his trance-like state.
The fine muscles in his neck tensed as he heard the click of the latch as the massive apartment door opened.
A heavy step on the parquet floor.
No rush.
No surprise.
Just determination.

And then—
The dull sound of heavy boots entering the hallway, the slight shifts of the air as someone entered the territory Izuku had unlawfully made his own.
A pale light shone through the half-open door into the hallway.
The gap through which Izuku could no longer ignore reality.
And the next moment, it was too late.

The cabinet doors burst open, a ruthless crashing as Katsuki broke through.
He was still in his hero outfit, the rough black reflecting the light of the fluorescent tubes in cold reflections.
The orange accents glowed like brands on his skin.
A bang followed—the suits, carefully hung, flew into the room with him, scraps of expensive fabrics hurtled through the air.

And then—
The sound that would haunt Izuku in his dreams later:
"AP-SHOT!"
It was not the loud, destructive version that tore apart building facades and villains.
It was the precise, focused variant.
Small.
Sharp.
Target-seeking.

Izuku felt the heat before he heard the explosion.
A targeted strike.
Above both ankles.

The pain was like a glowing knife slicing through flesh and bone.
Both legs gave out as if the tendons had been severed.
He was lifted from the floor, flew a bit through the air, before his head hit the cold tiles.
The dull crash of his skull against the hard floor reverberated through his body, light exploded behind his eyes, his ears rang.

A piercing, metallic taste filled his mouth as blood ran from the lip into the gums.
Yet, he was still conscious.
Somehow.

He saw Katsuki leaning over him, the black rubber polymer of his hero outfit glistening with sweat and soot.
The mask had been removed.
The face underneath was…
Not angry.
Not surprised.
But razor-sharp focused.
Every line of his body was designed for destruction.

His right hand reached for a surgical hammer, neatly placed alongside other tools on a metal tray.
Scalpels, clamps, needles.
All meticulously arranged.
Katsuki grabbed the handle, swung it up without hesitation.
The hammer was not heavy, designed to split bones with minimal effort.
His strength, combined with Katsuki's arm…
Izuku knew his skull could shatter in fractions of a second.

"Kacchan!"
His voice was hoarse, brittle, but loud enough.
His breath burned in his throat as he spoke, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
He pulled down the hood that had fallen over his face, freeing his tousled hair, his eyes wide open, green and desperate.

"It's me! Izuku!"
The hammer paused.
For a fraction of a second.
Katsuki's gaze remained fixed on him.
The eyes were narrow, sparkling, red, sharp as shards of glass.

The weight of the air changed.
But the chain above them still swayed, the man on it groaning softly.

Izuku gasped for air.
His legs burned, the pain made him dizzy, but he forced himself to stay awake.
His hands were empty, defenseless, spread as if in surrender.

Katsuki said nothing.
Not yet.
But the hammer remained in the air.
For seconds.
For centuries.

Then Katsuki slowly exhaled through his nose.
The sound was more a growl than a breath.
He lowered the weapon, not out of mercy—more as if pondering where to strike next.

"Izuku?" he finally said.
The voice was deep.
Dangerously quiet.
"What the hell… are you doing here."

It wasn't a question.
It was a death sentence waiting for its final word.

Izuku's breath came in gasps, as if the explosion in his legs had taken not only his ability to walk but also control over his body. The pain blazed hot, wild, a ceaseless burning that had settled in his nerves. His fingers trembled, clenched, as his chest rose and fell, too quickly, too shallowly.

Yet his eyes remained fixed on Katsuki.
On his face, which was almost motionless, only the veins at his temples pulsed slightly. The red eyes glowed in the bright light of the room, as if his gaze alone could burn him.

Izuku struggled for words. They came out brittle, almost childishly weak from his lips, though his throat was dry and sore.
"I… I wanted to be with you, Kacchan…"
His voice broke, trembled so much that he barely believed what he said, even though it was the most honest truth he had ever spoken.
Tears now ran hotly down his face, mixing with the blood at his chin, dripping quietly onto the cool tiles beneath him.
"I… I love you…"

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still.
A moment in which only the soft humming of the fluorescent lights could be heard, the irregular, pressed breathing of the young man who still hung from the chain, his bloody mouth half-open, unable to make even a sound.

Izuku waited.
Perhaps for understanding.
Perhaps for the slightest trace of mercy.
But Katsuki's face did not change.
The calm, the precision in his gaze remained as before, unyielding.
Only a crooked grin stole across his features, cold and disdainful.

"What kind of shit is this?"
His voice was hoarse, deep, crackling like the afterglow of an explosion.
Katsuki shook his head slowly, as if he could hardly believe what he heard—or as if he had known it all along and finally got the confirmation he needed.

Then, without warning, he turned to the side, a single fluid motion where power and deadly control merged.
The surgical hammer in his hand had not hesitated for a second—and crashed with full force against the head of the young man who hung from the chains.
An ugly, wet sound.
A dull thud as bones splintered, flesh gave way.
The man's eyes widened one last time, then the light in them went out abruptly.
His body jerked, but it was more a reflex than life, before it went limp and now hung motionless from the restraints.

Blood ran in a dark trail down his face, dripping onto the light blue tile floor already speckled with old, brown stains.
The room grew tighter.
Colder.
Katsuki took a deep breath, as if he had just truly freed himself.
Then he stepped back, his gaze refocused on Izuku.
Slowly, he lowered the hammer, swinging it casually in his hand like a toy as he approached.

"So," he began, his teeth slightly bared as if tackling a particularly difficult task, "you want to be with me, huh?"
His voice was deeper than before, darker, almost a growl that vibrated through the tightness of the room.
He stopped in front of Izuku, crouched down, his elbows resting on his knees, his free hand slowly, almost tenderly, stroked over Izuku's blood-smeared face.
His glove was rough on the fingertips, which slid over Izuku's cheek.
He held him by the chin, firm, not brutal, but in a way that Izuku could not avoid his gaze.
The red eyes pinned him down.
There was no pity.
No understanding.
Only curiosity.
And something else.
Something that slowly pierced Izuku's chest like a hot blade.

"Little green-haired bastard," Katsuki murmured, as if tasting how the words felt.
"You want to be with me."
A slight snort.
"You want to love me."
His tongue glided over his lips, dry, almost annoyed.
"Do you even know…" He leaned closer, his breath hot on Izuku's skin, "…what that means?"

The hammer clicked softly as Katsuki placed it on the floor.
He let go of Izuku's chin, only to then slowly run his hand through the tangled, sweaty hair.
His grip tightened.
Not cruel.
Not yet.
But brutally honest.

"If you're with me…"
His voice softened to a hoarse whisper.
"…there's no turning back."
The fingers dug deeper into Izuku's hair, pulling his head back slightly so he had to look into his eyes.
"No lying. No excuses. No whining."
His mouth was close to Izuku's ear.
"Just what I say."

A sharp inhale.
"Understood, Deku?"

His grip tightened, nails scratching the scalp.
Izuku felt the throbbing in his legs, the pounding in his skull, but all that really mattered was this moment.
This breath.
This voice.
And the decision hanging in the air.

Izuku felt Katsuki's fingertips like an iron band on his jaw, felt the pain in his neck from the relentless position Katsuki forced him into. He gasped softly, his breath quick and shallow, his entire body trembling uncontrollably, fear sharpening his senses to overstimulation. The words came from him brittle, barely audible at first, then louder because he believed it had to be louder so that Katsuki wouldn't misunderstand.

"I'll do whatever you say, Kacchan…" His voice was hoarse, the trembling barely under control. He swallowed, the blood tasted bitter on his tongue. "But please… please don't kill me."

His voice nearly broke at the end, the last vestiges of composure dissolving like a layer he had maintained for too long. Tears ran hot down his cheeks, he felt them drip over Katsuki's fingers, still firmly resting on his face. Izuku looked up at him, his eyes wide, pleading, open, the last bit of hope there that his Kacchan might, deep down, still be the boy he had known since their childhood. The boy he had loved, unchanged.

But whatever Izuku was looking for was no longer to be found in Katsuki's eyes.
Only something cold, sparks behind a gaze that had seen and done too much.
A hint of amusement flickered in his features, his mouth twisted into a crooked grin that knew no warmth.

"Well," said Katsuki, and his voice was calm, as if he were teaching someone, explaining a mundane truth, "motivation is everything."

Izuku closed his eyes the moment he felt the movement.
Katsuki released the grip in his hair only to pull his arm back.
No hesitation.
No further command.
It was an action that came as naturally as if he had rehearsed this sequence a hundred times.

"But I think…" Katsuki's voice was soft, almost regretful, "…you should sleep now."

Izuku couldn't even respond.
Katsuki's fist came at him in a swift, precise motion, the sound of the strike was dull and wet, an ugly crack as knuckles met bone.
Izuku saw one last flash of light, felt his head jerk sideways, the impact with the hard tiles immediate and brutal.

A sharp blow to the back of his head, a searing pain, then darkness.
The world tipped away beneath him, as if someone had yanked the floor out from under him.
He fell into nothingness.
No thoughts.
No pain.
No light.
Only emptiness.
And cold.

Katsuki stood motionless for a moment, looking down at Izuku's motionless body, his breathing steady.
He slowly lowered his fist, shaking out the hand slightly, the knuckles reddened but unharmed.
His red eyes were alert, sharp.

"You're such a damn idiot, Deku," he murmured, more to himself than to him.
Then he straightened up, turned around, and reached for the key on the wall.
The chains of the dead swung quietly in the background, metal scraping against metal.

It was time to clean up.
And to prepare his new guest…
his new possession…

Darkness.
At first, there was only darkness.
Thick, heavy, warm from within, as if it were enveloping him protectively. A deceptive peace, fleeting, because somewhere at the edge of this darkness was a sound.
A regular, dull thumping.
His heart.
Or was it the pain?

Izuku blinked slowly, as if his skin was too thick, his eyelids too heavy. The light was harsh, stabbing into his eyes as if he had kept them closed for too long.
A shiver ran through his muscles as he tried to move, but the impulse ended abruptly in a stabbing pain that shot up from his legs and stole his breath.
A soft, uncontrolled whimper escaped his throat, barely more than a gasping sound.
He forced himself to breathe slower. Slowly. Deeply.
His head felt as if it had been slammed against a wall multiple times.
It throbbed dully behind his temples, the pounding seeming to worsen with every heartbeat.

He tried to organize his body, to take in his surroundings.
His skin felt the rough fabric of a thin mat beneath him. Cold, in some places slightly damp, as if it had absorbed sweat and blood.
The tiles around him were still cool, despite the warmth hanging in the air.
His arms... heavy.
A pulling, hard, metallic.
As his fingers slowly twitched, he felt it.

Chains.
The iron cuffs were tightly closed around his wrists, too tight, the pressure pressing on the bones.
He tugged slightly, perhaps reflexively, but immediately the weight of the chain tightened and pulled painfully at his shoulders.
He was tethered to the massive metal ring in the ceiling, the same one that the other... the other boy...
A shudder ran through him.
The thought forced him to open his eyes wider.

The world was blurry.
Slowly, contours emerged from the milky haze.
The light blue tiles.
The clinical light of the fluorescent tubes that cast everything in pale gray.
And then... the bag.
Black, shiny, heavy.
Pushed against the wall side, like forgotten luggage.
Izuku knew what was inside, even if his mind still refused to comprehend it.
He blinked hard, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, even though they burned.

His legs were next to register.
Burning, both of them.
A stabbing, pulsating pattern of pain that brought him to the brink of consciousness just at the thought of moving them.
Something had been done.
He didn't know what exactly, but the pains were too uniform, too intense, to be just the wounds from Katsuki's AP-Shot.
Perhaps Katsuki had treated them to keep him alive.
Perhaps he had done more.

Izuku slowly lifted his head.
Every millimeter was agony.
His breath trembled, his lips were dry, cracked.
And then he saw him.

Katsuki sat in the corner of the room, on a simple, old folding chair.
His Hero Suit was gone.
Instead, he wore a plain, dark tank top that displayed the muscle strands of his arms, black pants, barefoot.
The gloves lay neatly on the table beside him, along with a glass of water, a metal tray with instruments, and… his phone.

Chapter Text

Katsuki scrolled slowly with his thumb across the screen as if he had all the time in the world. His expression was blank, focused. He seemed relaxed. Almost… satisfied. He noticed Izuku's movement. Without haste, without surprise, Katsuki looked up at him. His red eyes caught the light and reflected it back, as if there were embers in them. His gaze was quiet, scrutinizing, as if considering how far he would let him go. "Ah." Katsuki's voice was calm, almost casual. "Awake again."

He set the phone down on the table, leaned back, and casually crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze slowly wandered over Izuku's body. Just shorts. No blanket, nothing to warm him. His skin was covered with pale imprints, marks of the chain, sweat glistening on his temples. Katsuki snorted softly. "You've slept for a long time," he finally said. "I was almost about to worry." The smile that flitted across his lips was anything but friendly. Izuku swallowed. His mouth was dry, his throat burned. He forced his voice to return. It didn't come back right away, just a rough croak escaped him, an attempt to address Katsuki. To plead. Or to understand. Katsuki shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Don't talk." His voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "Just listen." He stood up slowly, controlled, each step on the tiles quiet, precise. He stopped in front of Izuku, examining him closely as if he were a work in progress. A sculpture yet to be finished. A project. His gaze lingered on Izuku's eyes. "This," he said quietly, "was your decision." His fingers reached for the chain, lifted it slightly so that it tightened. A quick, sharp tug at Izuku's wrists made him gasp. "You wanted to be with me, Izuku."

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "So here you are." He let go of the chain, stepped back, and shook his head slightly. "You have no idea what that means." Then he walked back to the table, took the glass of water in his hand. He lifted it, turned it in his fingers, the light refracting in the clear liquid. Katsuki looked at Izuku again. "Thirsty?" he asked. His voice was neutral. Almost kind. But his gaze said something else. Something that made Izuku's blood freeze in his veins. Izuku tried to swallow, but his throat was as rough as sandpaper, and it felt as though even this small reflex was a torment. The bitter taste of blood still clung to his palate, his breath rattled softly in the dry silence of the room. The weight of the chain around his wrists made it impossible to raise his arms. Every movement caused a dull pull in his shoulders and a razor-sharp pain in his legs. But his gaze stayed fixed on Katsuki.

He had his eyes open as wide as he could, even though they burned from dried blood and sweat. The world was a little blurred, but not enough to lose the details. Katsuki stood in front of him, just a few meters away, the glass of water in his hand. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, but something else lurked in those deep red eyes. Something Izuku couldn't name – a controlled coldness, a calculating observation, as if Katsuki was testing how far he could break him without completely destroying him. Not yet. Not immediately. Izuku opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his lips were dry, cracked, the tongue too heavy. No words came out. Just a sound. A throaty, desperate Mmh that sprang from between his lips. His head, still feeling dizzy, moved slowly. A slight nod. Barely visible. But it was all he managed. For a moment, nothing stirred in the room.

Even the hum of the fluorescent tubes seemed to pause. Katsuki's gaze remained on him. The red eyes glimmered in the artificial light, like two fires, deep and burning. His mouth twisted into a crooked grin that showed neither joy nor sympathy. Rather, as if Izuku had done exactly what he had expected. Not too early. Not too late. Exactly according to plan. "Fine," Katsuki said quietly. His voice was velvety, controlled, dangerously calm. He moved closer, the water still in his hand, while with the other he tugged at the chain that was attached to Izuku's wrists. Not hard. Not to hurt him. But enough to straighten him up. The pull forced Izuku to sit up, the burning muscles in his back aching instantly. His legs protested violently, but he clenched his teeth, only flinching, but not letting himself sink back into the mat. He held himself up. Somehow. Katsuki crouched down slowly next to him. His knees barely audibly grinding on the tiles, his body appeared completely calm. No muscle twitched, no movement was superfluous. He raised the glass to Izuku's lips. The cold of the glass startled him, tingled on his dry skin, before the water slowly trickled against his lips. "Drink," Katsuki commanded calmly. It was not a suggestion. Not a request. A command, quiet but unavoidable. Izuku opened his lips slowly, painfully, and the first swallow nearly made him gag. The water was ice cold. It burned in his throat, though it was meant to provide relief. He coughed briefly, the shaking uncontrollable, but Katsuki held the glass steady. Not a drop was wasted. "Slow down, Deku," he said, softly, almost amused. "You're no parched dog." Yet his gaze remained hard. A warning, not a challenge.

Izuku continued to drink. Each small gulp he took greedily, even though it was difficult. The water did little to combat the nausea that festered in his stomach, the throbbing in his head, but it brought him back. Back to the moment. Back to him. Back to Katsuki. When the glass was empty, Katsuki set it aside slowly. His gaze still lingered on Izuku. He stood up again, stood before him, arms crossed, looking down from above. His shadow fell on Izuku, dark and heavy, like a second blanket that enveloped him. "That was your first favor," Katsuki said quietly. "You've earned it." A pause. His head tilted slightly to the side, the red eyes glowed. "But if you want to be here... really want to be here...," his voice grew deeper, more dangerous, "then you'll have to learn what that means." He stepped back to the table, his movements fluid. The instruments there cast cold light back, the metal shone sharply. "Food," he then said calmly, "you'll get when you've earned it." His gaze slowly wandered over Izuku's body. "And sleep..." A grin. "You can sleep when I say you can." Katsuki sank back onto the folding chair, leaned back, his gaze never wavered. He watched Izuku like a predator that was in no hurry. His foot tapped slowly. Rhythmically. Relentlessly. Izuku breathed shallowly, his head ached, but in his thoughts there was only one thought: He was here. He was with him. And he had wanted it.

The silence was filled only by Katsuki's calm breathing and the soft creaking of the folding chair on which he sat, while he stared at Izuku unwaveringly. These eyes, deep red, glimmered in the cold neon light of the room, as if something impatient, moody lay therein – or perhaps pure boredom, as if Izuku was nothing more than another way to pass the time. Then Katsuki's voice came. Abruptly, razor-sharp. The tone was derogatory, but carried that hoarse edge that always came when he was transitioning to something more serious. "Really, Deku..." He snorted softly and shook his head as if he himself had to marvel at what he was about to say. "That you're into guys? Should've known sooner." His voice remained rough as he leaned forward, both elbows on his knees while he scrutinized him as if he was evaluating a failed pup. "As skinny as you are..." His grin was thin, not a bit friendly. "…do they even find anything to like about you?" The question hung in the air, lurking. Not because Katsuki expected an answer. But because he knew that Izuku would say nothing, could say nothing, without losing the balance he was painstakingly maintaining. But the balance was not to last. Not here. Not with him.

Katsuki moved with the sudden, self-evident swiftness of a predator. He stood up, a single fluid motion, then leisurely stepped closer. The chains on Izuku's wrists clinked softly as Izuku instinctively tried to pull back, but the limitation was merciless. Katsuki knelt before him, his gaze from this closeness more intense, a glowing red that seeped through him as if he were dissecting him, layer by layer. Then Katsuki reached out. His hand landed without warning on Izuku's thigh, fingers spread wide, firm, the calluses on his palms rough against Izuku's skin. Katsuki held him there for a moment, still, feeling the warmth under his fingers, the flat, fast pulse that hammered against his thumb base. Then he moved the leg. Once. Back. A matter-of-fact checking, as if he were testing the mobility of a tool or checking the condition of a machine. Izuku gasped softly, unable to suppress the shudder that coursed through him. It wasn't the pain at that moment, not the raw violence. It was the way Katsuki looked at him – as if he were property. Something that belonged to him. Something he was examining. His gaze fell automatically, almost guided by a remainder of a reflex he could never fully suppress. And there he saw it. For the first time, truly. His legs were bound. Neatly. Firmly. Wide, medical bandages wrapped around the ankles, enclosing the shins, up just below the knee. At the joints, thicker layers were carefully wrapped so that the pressure remained even, without cutting off the blood supply. No makeshift emergency solution. This had been work. Experienced hands had done this. The bandages were fresh. Not blood-soaked, although underneath lay a heat that told Izuku the wounds were worse than they seemed.

The pain had long since made that clear, but this… this was care. A type of care that had nothing to do with pity. It was functional. So he would survive. So he would stay. Katsuki let go of his leg as if he were satisfied with the examination, slowly stood up again. The red eyes remained on him, as if still scrutinizing. Then he snorted again, as if all this only moderately impressed him. "Well," he murmured, more to himself, "at least you're not completely fucked." A short, harsh laugh followed. "Not yet." He went back to the table, picked up the glass he had set down earlier. He drank from it himself, in slow gulps, then let his hand fall as if nothing had happened. His gaze remained alert, fixed on Izuku like a knife waiting for the next cut. "So, Deku," he began after a pause, his voice indifferent as if he were talking about the weather, "you wanted to be here." He set the glass down quietly on the metal tray, the soft clinking echoing between the tiles. "Now you are." Katsuki stepped closer again, slowly, his step intentionally heavy enough that Izuku felt it before he heard it. "Show me if you're worth it." Katsuki's movements were controlled, efficient – as if he were performing a task, no hurry, no unnecessary effort. With a sudden but razor-sharp precise movement, he placed his hand on Izuku's sternum, just below the ribcage, and pushed his upper body back against the cold tiles.

The chain clinked softly as Izuku's arms, still fettered, were pulled over his head. They lay there outstretched, wrists fixed to the iron rings, while the limbs lay heavy and numb on the ground. Izuku gasped softly, not just because of the pain that each movement in his injured legs triggered, but also because of the sudden proximity. The cold of the floor crept up his back, yet it was nothing compared to the intense heat that immediately flooded him as Katsuki knelt over him. His thighs framed Izuku's hips, his weight not fully on him, but enough that Izuku was fully aware of the presence of his body. Every inch radiated raw power, firm, unyielding, as if Katsuki could press him into the ground with a mere thought. The light from the fluorescent tubes above them was harsh, but it seemed to burn in Katsuki's eyes – those intense, deep red eyes, in which there was no hesitation. Only a controlled, calm calculation. He looked at Izuku as if he had long belonged to him, as if there was no doubt that this moment had to come exactly like this. As if Izuku had never been anything other than this: a trophy. A toy. A confession. Katsuki leaned closer, his breath grazing Izuku's skin, warm and sharp at the same time, mixed with the unmistakable scent of smoke – the harsh aroma of burnt powder, mixed with a heat that didn't come from the air but from himself. Underneath lay something else, something metallic sharp that reminded Izuku of sweat and something he could never name, but that was so much a part of Kacchan that it almost numbed him.

"You said you love me, Deku," Katsuki murmured, his voice rough and low, barely more than a muffled sound vibrating directly at his ear. His lips touched the sensitive skin below Izuku's jaw only for a moment before he extended his tongue. The touch was unexpectedly warm. Slowly, but with the precision of someone who knew what he was doing, Katsuki licked over Izuku's neck. The moist trail burned on his skin, as if he were leaving a mark that could no longer disappear. The rough texture of his tongue was palpable as it glided over the thin skin at the nape of the neck, and Izuku felt his muscles involuntarily twitch, his breath quicken. Katsuki's hands supported themselves on Izuku's shoulders, his weight approached, heavier on him. Izuku could feel the firm tension of the muscles in Katsuki's arms, the warmth emanating from his body, it seemed to envelop him like a shell, making him forget the cold floor beneath him. But that was only a fleeting sensation. Because the pressure on his neck, the tongue that then loosened, and the weight above him left no doubt that Katsuki was in complete control. No escape. No leeway. Katsuki sat up a bit, but only so far that his eyes remained directly in Izuku's field of vision. The red pupils were narrowed, glinting dangerously in the light as he slightly tilted his head, as if he needed to examine him once more, assess him, dissect him. And then came the voice. Quiet, calm, controlled, like a knife slowly being driven into the skin. "So, Izuku…" A whisper almost, but infinitely close. "Tell." He let the word hang in the air for a moment, as if it were becoming heavier. "Do you really love me?" His gaze left no room for doubt.

It was not a game. It was an invitation. A test. And Izuku knew that every answer, every word that now left his lips, would decide more than just the moment. The chain clinked softly as Izuku instinctively clenched his hands, though they were fettered. He could feel Katsuki's breath on his lips, felt the pressure of his body, the coolness of the chain at his joints. And the heat inside him that, despite everything, would not subside. A moment of silence hung in the air, dense and heavy, like a taut string that could snap at any moment. The fluorescent tubes hummed softly above them, their cold light reflected off the smooth tiles and cast pale reflections over the angular features of Katsuki's face. He stared at Izuku, unmoving, as if he had made time itself stand still while he waited for the answer. Izuku felt his throat dry up, even though he had drunk the water earlier. It did nothing against the burning that rose within him. His lips trembled, his heart beat wildly against his chest, each beat a dull drumbeat that made him deaf. The words formed only slowly in his head, as if he had to pull them from a dark, viscous fog. His mouth opened slightly, the voice initially fragile, barely more than a whisper, a tormented breath.

"Yes… Kacchan…" The syllables slid slowly from his tongue, weak, trembling, as if he had to force each one to find its way over his lips. "I love you." A confession that was more than a confession. It was a capitulation. A truth that had always been there, but now – raw, naked, vulnerable. The words hung for a heartbeat in the air, heavy and inevitable. Katsuki did not move immediately. His red eyes remained fixed on Izuku's face, piercing him, searching his features for what he wanted to hear – perhaps for a lie, perhaps for weakness. But Izuku was telling the truth. Every damned letter of it. Katsuki blinked slowly. His grip on Izuku's shoulders became firmer, not painfully, but more definite. He let his face sink closer, so close that their foreheads almost touched. His breath was hot on Izuku's skin, mingled with his own, shallow panting that Izuku could barely control. A soft snort came from Katsuki, hardly more than a rough, amused noise deep in his throat. "Shit, Deku," he murmured, his voice rough and deep, "you're really sick." But that didn't sound like an accusation. Not even like mockery. More like a statement.

Like something that pleased him. Katsuki let his fingers slowly slide from Izuku's shoulder over his chest, along the ribs, slowly, probing. He felt the tremors, the twitches under the skin, the heart that pounded wildly as if it wanted to break out. His thumb briefly stroked an old scar that Izuku had gotten at some point – insignificant to others, yet Katsuki paused there for a moment. His touch was hard to interpret: not tender, not cruel. Only demanding. Testing whether Izuku had told the truth. Katsuki raised his head a bit again, looked at him again. The glimmer in his eyes was even more intense than before. "Then you'll stay here." A statement, not a question. Irrevocable. Final. His grip on Izuku's chest tightened, as if to remind him that there was no way back. His body weight pressed Izuku deeper into the cold floor, although the warmth that emanated from Katsuki was anything but cold. It was a promise. And a threat. "Say it again." His voice was soft, almost a command in a whisper. "Say it to me, Deku." He wanted to hear it. Wanted Izuku to repeat it, not because he didn't believe it – but because he wanted to own it. The confession. What Izuku was. What remained of him.

Izuku lay on the cold floor, the chain on his wrists uncomfortably pulling, but in that moment it was just a distant sensation. The dull throbbing in his head faded against the here and now, against the weight on his body and the gaze that drilled into him, as if it were laying his innermost being bare. Katsuki was still kneeling over him, the powerful thighs taut on either side of his hips, the warm presence of his body so close that Izuku hardly knew where he ended and Kacchan began. Katsuki demanded it again. Not as a request. Not as a wish. As a command. A silent, iron command that left no room for doubt. Izuku took a shallow breath, felt his throat constrict before he forced the words to form again. This time they came clearer, with a bit more strength, although his voice was still hoarse and weak, marked by thirst, pain, and exhaustion. But there was more.

Chapter Text

Something that even surprised him. Determination. Or was it acceptance? He no longer knew. "I love you, Kacchan." The words seemed almost out of place in the silence of the room. Not because they were insincere. But because in this environment, in this darkness, in this room where the metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air, they felt unbelievably naked and pure. But they were real. More real than they had ever been before. Perhaps that was why.

Katsuki did not react for a moment. His red eyes rested on Izuku, his gaze was impenetrable, as if he were weighing something. The hand that still lay on Izuku's chest felt the quicker heartbeat, the fluttering that was almost too violent to be healthy. But Katsuki did not smile. Not immediately.

Then, at last, his lips moved. A crooked grin, more a display of teeth than joy. His hand slowly moved up from Izuku's chest, traveling to his throat, his fingers gently encircling it, not pressing, not violent. Just a touch. A reminder that he could close it anytime.

"Good," Katsuki said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "You're learning."

His thumb slowly traced the sensitive skin under Izuku's jaw. A nearly tender gesture, all the more disturbing in contrast to the tension that hung in the air.

Katsuki leaned forward again, his face coming so close that Izuku could feel each breath. The hot breath that brushed over his lips smelled of smoke and sweat, something burned and relentless. "Never say that to anyone else again," Katsuki murmured, his voice burning like a whisper of flames. "You belong to me."

A statement that allowed no discussion. No room for contradiction. It was not love as Izuku had once imagined it. Not the bright feeling from his childish dreams, but something darker, rawer. Something that bound, just as the iron rings around his wrists.

Katsuki still held his throat tightly. Then he slowly let go, stood up, smoothly transitioning from a kneeling to an upright position. He glanced at the mat, at the body that lay at his feet, as if checking that everything was in its place.

"You rest now." A command, nothing else. "When I come back, I want you to prove something to me."

He turned away, reached for the tray on the table where the tools were neatly arranged. His gaze no longer fell on Izuku. But Izuku knew it was not disinterest. It was control.

Katsuki left the room through the narrow sliding door behind the cabinet, unhurried, without haste. The body in the black bag still lay there, motionless, a reminder of what could happen if one failed.

Izuku lay alone on the mat, his arms still stretched over his head, his joints numb and cold from the metal. His legs still burned, but the pain had become duller. The throbbing in his head slowly faded.

But in his chest throbbed something else. A wild, restless echo of what he had just said. I love you, Kacchan. And somewhere within him, Izuku knew that those words would keep him here. Forever.

Izuku lay motionless for a moment, the metallic echo of Katsuki's footsteps still ringing in his ears, long after the sliding door had quietly and definitively closed. The air in the room was now oddly static – the sounds ceased, no voice, no command, no breath except his own. Only the steady hum of the lamps above him and the faint, barely audible creaking of the chains when he breathed or twitched.

Slowly, with a caution that stemmed more from exhaustion than fear, he drew his arms toward himself, as far as the heavy chains allowed. The joints were sore, the raw metal had left marks on his skin – pressure marks, abrasions, small cuts. Yet the movement brought some relief, as the weight of the shackles was taken from his wrists and rested on the mat.

Izuku moaned softly, a rough, almost toneless sound, as he turned onto his side. Every inch was laborious, his muscles felt as though they were shredded, his legs were weak, throbbing painfully under the tight bandages. But he eventually managed to move away from the smooth, cold tile floor to the rougher, somewhat softer surface of the mat.

The cold of the tiles had seared into his skin, a clammy feeling that only slowly faded. The mat was not much warmer, but it at least offered some cushioning. With an exhausted sigh, he settled there, feeling his heart still beating too fast, as if trying to prevent him from truly relaxing.

He closed his eyes. But immediately the bright light blinded him, even through the thin lids. The fluorescent tubes hummed steadily above him, the cold, sterile white piercing through the darkness he sought. It was uncomfortable, almost painful.

Slowly, Izuku turned his head to the side until the lamps no longer shone directly on his face. The difference was minimal, but it was enough to ease the burning. His cheek rested on the rough surface of the mat, cool and slightly scratchy, but after everything, it felt almost pleasant.

The chains rattled quietly once more as he moved his arm, then it was silent. His breathing was calm, though shallow, as he kept his eyes closed and tried to block out everything else – the pain in his legs, the cold in his fingers, the dull throbbing at the back of his head. And the certainty that he was now here. Trapped. But not unwillingly. He had said it. And he had meant it. I love you, Kacchan.

A final flicker of thoughts passed through his mind before exhaustion slowly took over. He did not know how much time had passed. He did not know how much time he had left before Katsuki returned.

But for that moment… he let go. He drifted into a leaden tiredness, no longer fighting it. A dark, dreamless sleep, heavy and deep, enveloped him while the light continued to burn mercilessly and the chains around his wrists were the only weight that still tethered him to reality.

A soft metallic clinking accompanied Izuku's first tentative blink as he slowly came to. The light in the room was still relentlessly bright, the steady hum of the fluorescent tubes hardly less intrusive than before. Yet this time his body felt a bit lighter, not quite as foreign and battered as upon the last awakening. The pain in his legs was still there, dull, throbbing, as if pulsing with his heartbeat. But it was bearable. For the moment.

His head turned sluggishly to the side, his cheek still resting on the rough mat. The cold of the tiles was not as biting this time. Only the shackles on his wrists reminded him that this was no dream.

A soft, snuffling noise drew his attention forward. Izuku opened his eyes a bit more. Katsuki was sitting again in his folding chair in the corner of the room, his elbows propped on his knees, staring unwaveringly at him. His red eyes appeared even more piercing in the harsh light, as if they could see right through Izuku. He looked like someone who had waited a long time, yet had not lost a second of his patience.

"Ah." Katsuki's voice was calm, almost mocking, a dismissive twist at the corners of his mouth accompanying the soft sound. "Finally awake."

The way he said it left no doubt that it would have been utterly indifferent to him whether Izuku had slept another hour, a day, or a week.

Katsuki leaned back a bit, placed an arm over the back of the chair, his gaze briefly dropped to the object in his other hand before he almost casually laid it on the metal table in front of him.

A photo. An old class photo. Faded, corners slightly torn. Izuku recognized it instantly.

It was the picture from middle school. The entire class, in that staged pose, as the teachers always wanted. Katsuki was in the front row, arms crossed, the usual, dismissive grin on his face. And Izuku… Further back, a bit too stiff, with a smile that never really reached his eyes. It had been one of those photos that Izuku had always treasured like a treasure. A last proof of a time when he and Katsuki had been… something else. At least in his eyes.

His own eyes widened as they focused on the photo. The shock, the naked realization of what it meant for this photo to be here now, made his breath catch.

Katsuki noticed it, of course. He laughed softly. Not a friendly laugh. More a dark, dismissive snort.

"It was at your place, Deku." He pronounced the name like a taunt, a bitter echo of the past. His gaze lowered again, his fingers gliding over the edge of the table, as if caressing the cold metal.

"Was really cute. Your little green-haired psycho cave."

Katsuki straightened up a bit, tilted his head slightly as if studying Izuku's reaction with scientific interest.

"Walls full of pictures of me… Newspaper articles, interviews, screenshots from some heroic shit actions..." A short, sharp laugh. "Even my fucking food preferences you wrote down neatly. You little stalker."

He casually reached into the inner pocket of his shirt and pulled something out. Izuku couldn't hold his breath, even if he wanted to. His lungs worked mechanically as his eyes stared incredulously at the next object.

Katsuki pulled out one of the drawing books. Black, worn from constant use. He opened it, flipped through slowly, as if seeing it for the first time, although Izuku knew that wasn't true. The pages were overcrowded. With sketches. Drawings. Some rough, others detailed to the last. And all showed him. Katsuki.

In uniform. In civilian clothes. Fighting. Sleeping. Smiling. Crying – only in Izuku's imagination, understand. And other things… More intimate. Things Izuku never wanted to show anyone. Now, here, exposed like open wounds.

Katsuki let the book fall open on the table, the pages flopped open as if trying to hide themselves. But there was no hiding anymore.

"You're really sick," Katsuki said again, this time calmly, without mockery. It was a statement. Not an insult. Not a judgment. He looked at him with the same coolness with which he looked at everything that belonged to him.

"But you know what?" His fingers drummed softly on the open book. "I like that. This devotion." His red eyes flickered dangerously, a gleam somewhere between amusement and possession. "You've given me everything you are. Without me having to ask for it."

He leaned forward slightly. The muscles in his forearms tensed as he braced himself with one hand on the table.

"Let's see what I make of it."

Izuku felt his heart race. The chain on his wrists clinked softly as he instinctively twitched, though he knew it was futile. His gaze wandered between the old photo, the opened drawing books, and Katsuki's calm, lurking figure.

Katsuki was here. Everything was now visible. Nothing more hidden. And yet… Izuku was still here.

He knew it all along. Now he understood it.

And Katsuki just grinned. Waited for his reaction. Waited for what came next.

The seconds stretched in Izuku's perception, as if the air in the room became heavier, denser, while Katsuki stood up slowly. His movements were fluid and purposeful, without any hurry, but also without hesitation. A predator that already knew its prey was secure. Izuku followed him with his eyes, unable to look away, unable to blink, as Katsuki silently approached.

His boots made hardly any noise on the smooth tiles, although Izuku could hear every noise, every soft scraping as if it were directly in his head. The red eyes rested on him, glowing under the light of the neon tubes, as if searching for weaknesses, as if mirroring every thought in his head.

Katsuki knelt calmly beside him. No trace of haste. No tension. Only absolute control. He reached for the heavy chain that still nestled around Izuku's wrists and tugged at it a little. The sound of rattling metal made Izuku flinch, though the grip was not harsh. Katsuki's fingers slid over the lock on the shackle – practiced, almost casual. A metallic click followed, then another.

The shackles sprang open. For a moment, Izuku felt the lack of weight on his arms almost painfully. The heaviness of the chain, which had kept him in the same position for hours, was gone, but the numb limbs, the pressure marks on his joints, and the deep red impressions remained. His arms fell slowly to his sides, limp, heavy, uncontrolled.

Katsuki stood silently for a moment over him, as if weighing whether to say anything else. But he did not. He turned around and walked back to his chair, the same languid, sovereign movement. He settled into the folding chair, the soft creaking of the metal cutting through the tense silence.

Then Katsuki spread his legs a bit wider, leaned forward with his upper body. His elbows rested on the table, his hands interlocked, his chin relaxed on them. He looked as if he had all the time in the world. As if this were nothing, as if it were an ordinary afternoon in his office. Yet there was that tension lurking in his shoulders, in the posture of his hands, in the sharp cut of his gaze.

"So, Deku," began Katsuki, his voice calm, almost negligent, as if he were discussing the weather while looking at the opened drawing books in front of him. He flipped through the pages with a finger, his gaze, however, stayed on Izuku. "So you're completely in love with me."

The words sounded dismissive, yet they carried that rough, dark note that Izuku had long known. Not mockery. No amusement. Rather… possession.

Katsuki leaned even further forward, tilted his head to the side. His red eyes slowly slid over Izuku's bare body, stopping at his hands, at the way he tried to sit up but was pressed back down by exhaustion.

"Then…" Katsuki drew out the word, as if savoring it, "show me."

A brief pause. Then, with a voice that was deep and cutting, without any warmth:

"Do it to yourself now, Deku."

The words fell like a weight into the room. Not spoken maliciously, not challenged – it was simply an order. Calm. As a matter of course. Like a command that was not one, because there had never been an alternative.

Katsuki did not move further. He just watched. His posture was almost relaxed, but the expression in his eyes was razor-sharp, alert, ready to analyze any reaction. It was not just a test. It was a demonstration. A demonstration of how much of Izuku was already broken.

The warmth of the room, the pressure of the light above them, the cold of the tiles under the mat – all blurred behind the burning perception of Katsuki's gaze, forcing him to act. To prove what he had said. To show that his love was no lie. That it was nothing more than what Katsuki wanted to make of it.

Izuku's hands trembled slightly. His breathing became shallower. But he knew, there was no other answer. No other option.

Katsuki's body posture remained casual, as if he had all the time in the world, yet there was something impatient, something threatening in the way his red eyes fixed on Izuku. He let his fingers rhythmically drum on the table edge, a steady, muffled sound that echoed through the room like the ticking of a clock, each second a countdown that slowly approached its end.

Then, without changing the posture of his body, his gaze slid sideways over his shoulder, to where the black bag lay on the wall. Heavy, motionless. A silent witness to what was happening here. Or rather: a monument.

His eyes lingered only a moment on the lifeless bundle before returning. Sharp, precise. He fixed Izuku again, as if the brief gesture were a silent promise – or a warning.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, a dull, almost bored sound escaping his throat. Yet in the calm lay a razor-sharp threat. The muscle at his jaw twitched as he briefly clenched his teeth.

"Come on," he finally said, and his voice was deeper than before, carried by a patient hardness that allowed no contradiction. He tilted his head slightly to the side, the light of the fluorescent tubes catching in his hair and casting pale reflections on his angular facial features. "What are you waiting for?"

He spoke slowly, each word with a clarity that left no doubt that this was not an offer, but an inevitable command. His fingertips stopped drumming the table edge and instead rested quietly on the surface, as if he were leaning back to watch what was about to happen.

Then his mouth twisted into a narrow, tooth-baring grin that looked anything but friendly. "I won't tell you again…" He let the end of the sentence hang in the air, dropping the last word like a blow. "You little psycho."

The echo of those words hung in Izuku, burning deeper than the neon lights, deeper than the pain in his legs. Katsuki had drawn his line. And Izuku knew what awaited on the other side if he crossed it. Or if he hesitated.

Katsuki's gaze was patient. But not indulgent. A predator ready to strike as soon as his toy failed.

The air in the room seemed to shimmer, as all Izuku heard was his own shallow breath and the soft clinking of the chains that still hung from his wrists, even though the locks were open. He could no longer ignore the tension in his body. The fact that his heart raced. That his fingers trembled.

And that Katsuki said nothing more. Because he didn't have to. Everything was already decided. It was up to Izuku to move. Or let it happen.

Izuku's hands trembled as he tried to sit up. The faint, weak warmth of the thin mat beneath his back did nothing against the feeling as if the cold of the tiles still penetrated him. He forced himself to spread his legs a bit, as much as he could, though the pain shot through his joints like a searing spike. His breath came in gasps, his heart raced, but it was not just fear that paralyzed him. It was the absolute humiliation.

He wanted to do it. He had to do it. Not just because Katsuki demanded it. But because he had always wanted it. The closeness. The attention. The chance to finally be seen. Yet his body refused. He was weak. Trembling. The muscles did not obey, the trembling of his hands prevented any clear movement, and his breathing was so shallow that he felt dizzy.

It was like standing on the edge of an abyss, and although he wanted to jump, his legs could not execute the command.

Katsuki watched him motionlessly from the chair. His red eyes moved sluggishly over Izuku's twitching arms, over his cramped chest, then lower to the legs that hesitantly tried to find some posture. But nothing happened. Only that pathetic attempt.

Katsuki's expression barely changed. But something flared in his eyes. Impatience. Contempt.

A soft, barely audible tseh escaped him. Then he straightened up a bit, pulled his torso away from the table, and let his elbows drop. His voice was dry, cutting, laced with mocking cold that burned sharper than any strike.

"Unbelievable." His gaze remained fixed on Izuku, as if he would like to dissect him with his bare hands. "Not even that can you manage."

Katsuki slowly shook his head, as if he had to remind himself to be patient. But it was not patience. It was contempt that slowly fell over him like a heavy shadow.

"Stop." The two words came sharp and hard. A command, not a suggestion. "No one can stand to watch this."

He leaned back casually in the chair, his gaze dismissively sweeping over Izuku. "Well... as shitty as you look..." He snorted softly, a silent laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Figures."

Then he stood up definitively. No hesitation. His gaze was again calm, calculating. The game was over. For the moment.

"So, Deku." He stepped away from the chair, which squeaked slightly on the tile floor. His steps were calm, his back straight, as he walked past Izuku without looking at him. "The shackles stay off."

He stopped in front of the sliding door, his head only slightly turned.

"If you leave this room..." His voice lowered, becoming dangerously soft, almost a whisper. "...I'll break your legs."

A pause. Then: "If you leave the apartment..." He turned his head a bit more, his red eyes flashing. "...I'll put an AP Shot through your damn head."

The words hung in the room like the smoke of an explosion. Katsuki opened the door, stepped out, and closed it without haste. No bang. No dramatic slamming. Just the calmness of someone who knew his threat had not gone unheard.

The minutes that followed stretched endlessly. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the humming of the fluorescent tubes and the soft metallic rustling of the loose chains when Izuku breathed restlessly.

Chapter Text

He was alone. But not free. He did not dare to move. Every tingling in his arms, every painful throb in his legs was just another proof that he was still here. And that there was no escape. Not now. Not ever. The door opened again. Quietly, but with a definitive certainty, as if Katsuki had never been gone for more than a few seconds. His steps were weightless again, controlled. In one hand he carried a bento box, plain and closed, in the other a bottle of water. He walked up to Izuku, did not sit down, but quietly knelt next to him on the mat. He placed the box without a comment on the tiles, directly in front of Izuku's face. He put the water bottle next to it. Everything precisely aligned, as if he cared about exact order. Then Katsuki stood up again, grabbed the folding chair, positioned it closer to the wall, offset so that he had a better view of Izuku, and sat down, one leg over the other, elbows casually resting on the chair back. His gaze was calm. But alert. Unyielding. "Eat," he said curtly. One word, not an offer. A permission. He watched Izuku, every movement, every reaction, as if he wanted to see how deep the humiliation went, how far Izuku would go to keep his place. The air was heavy. The choice was his. Or was it even still? Izuku lay still for a few more seconds, his gaze fixed on the bento box as if he needed to make sure it was really in front of him. The corners of the container were plain, functional, no unnecessary decorations. But the smell that slowly reached him was warm and familiar. Fresh rice, roasted meat, steamed vegetables – nothing special, yet it felt like a promise of normalcy, of something that was not made of pain and cold alone. Slowly, he propped himself up a bit, supporting himself with his aching arms. His shoulders burned from lying in the same position for too long, the shackles had left deep marks, yet he forced his muscles not to tremble as he sat up. He pulled the bento box closer, his fingers carefully gliding over the smooth surface before he opened it. A soft click, then the lid swung open. The warm steam hit him, carrying with it a scent that nearly brought tears to his eyes.

He could not remember the last time he had eaten in peace. And yet he knew that peace did not exist here. Not anymore. Izuku lowered his gaze, and almost mechanically, as if it was ingrained deeper than any fear, he murmured softly: "Itadakimasu." The words were barely more than a whisper, weak, brittle, but clear enough to cut through the heavy air. A soft snort came from Katsuki. Not the usual mocking laughter, but something else. An acknowledging sound. He raised an eyebrow, the red glimmer in his eyes sharpened as if he had discovered an interesting detail he hadn't anticipated. His mouth twisted into a thin grin that marked the boundary between amusement and possession. "Tch...," came softly from him. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely intertwined. "Didn't think you'd be so well-behaved, Deku." His voice was calm, almost amused, but underneath lay the ever-lurking promise of something else. Something waiting. Something that could strike at any moment. Izuku reached for the chopsticks, neatly placed on the side next to the box. His fingers were stiff, still trembling slightly as he picked them up and tried to hold them in the usual manner. But exhaustion, trembling, the hindrance of his still numb hands made it difficult. The chopsticks wobbled uncertainly between his fingers. He just managed to spear a piece of vegetable, which then slipped between the chopsticks and fell back into the box. He bit his lip, tried again, his breathing quickened with concentration. But his muscles felt like pudding, the fingers gave way, and the chopsticks finally slipped completely from his hands. They clacked softly onto the tiles, a hollow sound that seemed louder in the silence of the room. Izuku hesitated only a moment, then slid his fingers toward the box, ready to grab the food with his hands. It didn't matter to him, in that moment. He needed the nourishment. His body screamed for it. And somewhere he believed that Kacchan might allow it. That it would be... okay. But just as Izuku's hand stretched out, Katsuki's voice cut again into the silence. Calm. Firm. No need to raise his voice, for the sharpness was in every word. "Forget it, Deku." Izuku paused. His gaze snapped to him, fingers still stretched out, shoulders flinching involuntarily. Katsuki leaned back casually, the leg again crossed over the other. His hands hung loosely at the sides of the chair, but his eyes remained razor-sharp on Izuku. "If you want to eat like a dog..." His words were slow, well-placed, as if speaking to a particularly slow student. "...then I'll treat you like one." His gaze deliberately wandered over Izuku's body, measuring him from head to toe, pondering whether he wanted to do it today. "You eat with the chopsticks." A pause. The tension became palpable. "Or like a damn street mutt." His voice was not loud. But it was inescapable. An ultimatum. Katsuki looked at him, trying to figure out what Izuku was. Human. Or animal.

And Izuku knew: No matter how he decided – Katsuki would accept it. He would use it. The chopsticks lay on the floor, just a few inches away, the light faintly reflecting off their polished wood. The bento was still open, the steam beginning to fade. Izuku's hands were still trembling, his throat was dry. And Katsuki was still waiting. Still. Izuku remained motionless for a moment. The words Katsuki had just spoken seemed to resonate within him, as if they had vibrated a deep, invisible string inside him. It was not just a command, but a verdict. And Izuku knew that the decision he was about to make had inevitable consequences. His gaze slowly moved to the chopsticks on the floor. The plain wood glowed faintly in the sterile light of the fluorescent tubes, as if mocking him. They lay there, no arm's length away, yet felt further away than anything else. The mat beneath him scratched uncomfortably against his bare skin, the cold from the tiles seeped through the thin layer and made him shiver again. His fingers still trembled as he slowly reached out his hand. The chain that had previously bound his wrists now lay loose beside him. It coiled on the floor like a living snake, sluggish but full of latent threat, as if it could clamp down again at any moment. Every time Izuku accidentally brushed the chain, it jingled softly, a thin, warning sound that whispered: Move correctly. Do as you're told. He ignored it as best he could. With an effortful motion, he gathered the chopsticks. They felt cooler than they should, and his fingers were stiff. The etched grooves designed to prevent slipping chafed uncomfortably on the tender tips where the skin had been worn raw by friction and pressure. But that didn't matter. Slowly, almost mechanically, he forced his fingers to hold the chopsticks correctly. He remembered the thousand times his mother had shown him how to do it properly. How she had gently guided his small fingers. Now there was no one to help him. Now it was just him. And Katsuki. And the snake by his side, the loose chain, waiting for him to make a mistake. Izuku forced his body to be still, even though his muscles burned and the tendons trembled. With a shallow breath, he lowered the chopsticks into the bento box. At first, it was just a simple piece of rice that he picked up. The chopsticks closed uncertainly, but they held. He slowly brought it to his lips, the trembling of his hand barely under control. His breath was short and shallow, his throat still dry, but he opened his mouth and pushed the bite inside. The rice tasted almost like nothing. But it was food. It was energy. It was a signal. Katsuki said nothing. He just watched. His gaze was heavy, lurking. A mix of control and possession. As if he had known that Izuku would make the right choice. Or hoped that he wouldn't.

Izuku continued to eat slowly, forcing himself to maintain control over his fingers with each bite. The chopsticks almost slipped from his hand several times, but he caught them each time. His stomach cramped at the first few bites, not because the food was bad, but because his body refused to believe that something like nourishment still existed. But with every bite, it got easier. A little. Slowly. The loose chain beside him lay heavily on the tiles. Sometimes his elbow brushed against it, and the metal swayed quietly against the floor, as if reminding him that this freedom was not truly real. It watched him, that's how it felt. Or was it Katsuki's gaze that made the metal so heavy? Katsuki barely moved. He sat there, one arm over the chair back, the other leg casually crossed over the knee. His gaze was alert, clear, almost clinical in its attention. But eventually, after a few minutes, his mouth twisted into a thin grin. A dark, dangerous grin. "See, you can do it," he said softly. He leaned forward a bit, elbows resting on his thighs. "You are capable of learning, Deku." A sharp laugh followed. No mockery now, but recognition. But not the kind of recognition Izuku had ever wanted. Katsuki let his hand circle the backrest, as if playing with an invisible string, his gaze still fixed on Izuku. "Let's see how long you can keep this up." Izuku continued to eat. Slowly. With the chopsticks. Because he knew: Anything else was not an option.

Time seemed to stretch during the meal, as if it had wrapped itself around each individual bite, each trembling grip of the chopsticks, every slow, almost mechanical chewing reflex. Izuku felt his stomach filling heavily, although the amount was modest. But for his weakened body, it was more than he had received for… he couldn't remember how long. His hands slowly sank into his lap, the chopsticks still clutched, as if he was unsure whether he was allowed to let them go. His fingers ached from the effort, cramped slightly, and the pressure exerted on his wrists burned dully. The bento box in front of him was completely empty. No grains of rice, no crumbs of vegetables remained. Everything was gone, as if there had never been anything there. His gaze slowly shifted to the side. There it stood. The water bottle. Condensation droplets traced slow paths over the cool plastic. The soft cracking of the plastic, slightly deforming under the pressure as the temperature difference eased, was the only sound Izuku could hear – apart from the dull thumping of his own heartbeat. He swallowed hard. His throat still felt dry, scratchy, as if each breath was dragging sandpaper up and down his throat. His stomach begged for water, his head throbbed dully in time with this hunger. And yet he dared not reach out. Katsuki had said nothing.

He still sat there, silent, lurking, and Izuku felt his weight on the atmosphere like a storm cloud, heavy and electrically charged. The chain, lying loose beside him, seemed in that moment to curl even tighter around him, as if to signal that it only took one wrong step. Izuku remained frozen. His fingers twitched slightly, his throat moved unconsciously in another dry swallow. His eyes clung to the bottle, but his body did not obey him. Not without a sign. Not without permission. And then it came. The voice was sharp, dry, and relentless. Katsuki had not moved, not in the slightest, but his voice cut through the tension like a sharp blade. "Drink already, you idiot." No patience. No compassion. Just the terse, cutting weight of a command, like a slap in the silence. Izuku's heart jumped. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he had really heard that – or if his own mind had whispered it to him because the craving for permission had grown too strong. But as he tentatively turned his head, he saw that Katsuki was looking at him. Those red eyes. Like glowing coals, from which no warmth came, but only an all-penetrating presence. He watched. He waited. Izuku swallowed again and forced his hand to move. Slowly, deliberately, as if the bottle were a trap. His fingers wrapped around the cool plastic, felt the cold against his skin, sensed how the water inside sloshed slightly as he lifted it. The movement made his weakened muscles tremble again, but he ignored it, forced himself to maintain his grip. He raised the bottle to his lips. The plastic was cool, the first sip of water that ran down his throat was almost painful. He paused, forced himself to drink slowly. Slowly. Obediently. Nothing that would stand out. The water tasted like nothing. And yet it was the most precious thing he possessed at that moment. Katsuki did not lean forward, did not speak another word.

He just watched. His gaze did not change – neither hardness nor softness, but simply that cool expectation. But in his silence was something that Izuku understood. That was the rule. The boundary. The game. And he had accepted it. As Izuku set the bottle back down, he placed it carefully back on the tiles, exactly where he had taken it from. His hands then rested motionless in his lap, his eyes lowered. Yet inside, his heart raced. And his thoughts were a single, seething whisper: He was still here. He was still alive. He had done it right. Katsuki said nothing further. He just sat there, as if it all had been meant to be. But in those red eyes flickered for a fraction of a second something. Something Izuku could not interpret. Not yet. Katsuki continued to watch Izuku, his red eyes as sharp as knives, as if he had analyzed every breath precisely. The air in the room was heavy, the metallic scent of the chain, the cool waft of the water on Izuku's lips – all seemed to mix with the electrifying tension that Katsuki himself emitted. His gaze was just about to narrow, as if he wanted to say something, give another instruction, perhaps make an assessment. But before he found the words, it was Izuku who broke the silence. "Gochisousama-deshita," Izuku said quietly. The words came out flat, rough, his voice was still hoarse. But they were there. A polite, almost humble ritual, which even now was deeply ingrained in him. A gesture of respect. A gesture of submission. Yet it was honest. Honest enough that it made Katsuki pause for a moment. Katsuki's gaze slowly slid back to him. There was something in his eyes – a brief flicker, a tiny crease forming at the corners of his mouth as his face contorted into a grin. It was not mocking, not cruel. It was… satisfied. Or at least amused. "Good boy, Deku," Katsuki said in a voice that was rough, but not as cold as before. A tone that hovered somewhere between reward and command. "And now stand up." His gaze narrowed slightly. "You stink." Katsuki stood up, his chair scraped softly over the floor as he pushed it back. With two steps, he was at Izuku. Without another word, he grabbed Izuku's upper arm roughly, yet not unnecessarily harshly. His fingers closed firmly, warm, inexorable, as if they were steel cables wrapping around him.

He effortlessly pulled Izuku up, ignoring the slight stumble as his legs gave way underneath him. The bandages on the ankles held, but the pain flared up like an open flame. Izuku groaned softly, tried to bear the weight himself, but Katsuki gave him little time to catch himself. Katsuki led the way, his grip firm on Izuku's arm, pulling him along. Not like a prisoner, but like something that belonged to him, that he moved wherever he wanted. His steps were calm, purposeful. Izuku stumbled several times, but Katsuki paid no attention. He did not slow down. He just continued pulling. They reached the bathroom. A stark contrast to the rest of the apartment – bright, luxurious, sterile, but not cold. The tiles were smooth and shiny, held in a subtle gray, with golden fixtures that sparkled even in the dim light. The large rainforest shower dominated the room. A modern monstrosity of glass and steel, with multiple controllers that resembled a control panel more than a simple shower. The mirrors on the walls reflected the scene from various angles, almost distorting it as if it were an installation in a museum. But this was no artwork. This was Katsuki's domain. He led Izuku under the showerhead, let him simply sink there, as if he were a piece of luggage. Izuku kneeled down, his legs gave out anyway, the matte tiles were cool, but not unpleasant after the heat of the room before. Katsuki squatted beside him, his gaze impatient, his fingers slid to Izuku's hips.

With a jerk, he pulled down his shorts. The fabric was clammy, dirty, only reluctantly letting go, but Katsuki did not hesitate for a second. He pulled them completely off his body, dropped them carelessly to the floor. Then Katsuki stood up, operated one of the controllers on the wall, and immediately the water came on. It poured in a warm, heavy cascade from the ceiling, a dense, uniform rain that enveloped Izuku immediately. The water was pleasantly tempered, not too hot, not too cold, but the amount was overwhelming. It washed over his shoulders, back, legs, made his hair stick wetly to his face. The droplets slid in dense streams along his skin, washing away the dried blood, sweat, and dirt. A stream that carried everything away – at least on the outside. "The shower gel is in the corner," Katsuki stated tersely. His voice was calm, almost business-like. He nodded towards the bottle neatly lined up with other products – high-end, expensive brand product, with a scent of fresh lemon and spicy wood. "Clean yourself, Deku." He turned away, took a few steps back to the door, his posture relaxed as if he had just completed a task that interested him little. Yet his gaze remained sharp as he turned around one more time. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes." There was no threat in his tone. But Izuku knew what it meant. What was expected of him. And that there would be no second invitation. Then Katsuki left the bathroom, the door closing with a muted click behind him. Izuku remained alone in the warm, rushing water, naked, exposed, and yet for a moment… cleansed. His gaze slowly drifted to the bottle in the corner. Time was running. And the water washed everything away – but not the chains in his head.

The water continued to pour down on Izuku, warming his skin, his bones, as if it were a healing weight washing away all the dirt, dried blood, and sweat from the past few days, slowly, relentlessly. The hot steam enveloped the room, fogging the cool tiles, making the air moist and dense, but not uncomfortable. For a moment, Izuku forgot where he was. He focused only on the water, on the warmth, on the sound of the steady rain beating down on his neck and shoulders.

He lifted his arms, slowly and still with some heaviness, but no longer trembling as before. The movements felt foreign, almost cautious, as if he needed to remind his own body that it belonged to him. His fingers grasped the bottle of shampoo at the edge of the shower. The label was simple, black and white with golden accents, high-end, minimalist. The scent that hit him as he opened the bottle was cool and fresh—citrus with a deep, woody base note that immediately reminded him of Katsuki. A blend of warmth and something sharp.

Izuku poured a small amount into his palm, rubbed it slowly into his hair, his scalp. The sensation was almost painfully pleasant as his fingers massaged the shampoo into his hair. The warm water helped to spread the foam, which slowly ran down his face and neck. He repeated the process patiently, with a precision that almost bordered on ritual. He rinsed it out, then took the shower gel, washed himself thoroughly, his neck, arms, torso—everywhere where dirt and blood had clung. The dark spots on his skin dissolved, turned into reddish-gray streaks that the water effortlessly carried away.

With each movement, each stroke of his hand over his own skin, his breathing became calmer. Not free, but bearable.

When Izuku finally stood up, water streamed over his body, ran over the wounds on his legs, caressed the soaked bandages. The heat had driven the cold from his bones, at least temporarily. His skin was reddened from the warm water, his hair hung heavily and dark green, slapped against his forehead as he slightly lifted his head.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, the door opened again with a quiet click. Izuku heard footsteps on the tiles, the confident sound of shoes that showed no hurry. Katsuki entered, and without being deterred by the dense steam filling the room, he went straight to the water control. He turned the valve, which gave way with a quiet snap. The water ceased immediately. One last, heavy drop fell on Izuku's shoulder before it went completely silent.

Chapter Text

Katsuki's gaze slowly swept over Izuku's wet body, scrutinizing and assessing as if he were inspecting an object he had just repaired. He nodded slightly, his lips twitching almost imperceptibly. "You look clean." His voice was calm, devoid of mockery, yet there was a satisfied tone, or at least a recognition, in his voice. He stepped closer, his movements controlled, grabbed Izuku firmly by the upper arm—still warm and slippery from the water—and pulled him to his feet. Izuku's legs trembled slightly, the bandages around his ankles soaked through and hanging heavily. Katsuki noticed immediately. "Your bandages got wet." It sounded like an accusation, although Izuku knew it wasn't his fault.

Without another word, Katsuki led him by the waist through the room to a chair in a corner of the bathroom—a simple, light wood chair with a smooth, cool seat. He pushed Izuku down onto it, his hands heavy on his shoulders, the warmth of his skin a reminder that he could push him down again anytime he wanted. Izuku sat, his thighs sticking to the smooth surface, as water trickled down his calves. The chain that had been around his wrists was gone, but its traces still felt fresh.

Katsuki turned away, stepped to a built-in wall closet, opened it with a quiet click, and purposefully reached for what he needed. A stack of fresh, white bandages. A medical scissor, its steel dull in the light. He tested the sharpness of the blades with a quick snap in the air, a soft, almost threatening hiss. Then, he neatly arranged everything on the shelf next to the sink. Without turning around, he tossed a white towel over his shoulder to Izuku. The soft cotton fabric hit his chest and slid into his lap. "Dry yourself off." A command, spoken calmly, with the expectation of immediate compliance.

Izuku looked at the towel for a moment, as if processing the request. Then, slowly, he lifted his arms and began to dry himself. The towel was warm, soft, high-quality—like everything in Katsuki's world. He ran it over his shoulders, chest, and arms, gradually continuing the process. The drops lessened, but the trembling of his hands remained.

Meanwhile, Katsuki slightly opened the scissors, letting the blade glide over the edge of the bandage, as if preparing for surgery. His movements were efficient, calm. Routine. Izuku knew that Katsuki would soon be standing next to him again. And it would be about more than just fresh bandages. But for the moment, it was just the towel. Just his skin. Just the anticipation tightening around him with every breath.

Izuku sat on the simple wooden chair, the warm towel loosely in his hands, while drops from his body fell onto the tiled floor. The bathroom air was still filled with moist steam, slowly starting to condense on the shiny surfaces of mirrors and fixtures. Yet, Izuku barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on Katsuki, motionless, almost lost. He watched every movement of the blond man with a mix of fascination and caution. The way Katsuki controlled the scissors, as if they were an extension of his own will, the thoughtful, almost elegant pulling at the bandages he prepared, the way his fingers touched every object, as if it was natural that everything belonged to him.

For a moment, Katsuki appeared almost calm, almost ordinary, but Izuku knew better. He himself was still dripping wet. The towel lay half-heartedly on his shoulders, his movements when drying off were erratic, as if he were paying more attention to the man before him than to the task at hand. The moisture gathered in his hair, forming drops that ceaselessly slid down his cheeks and neck, slowly along his collarbone, and eventually onto the floor.

Izuku felt that this would not go unnoticed. Yet his body did not quite obey him. Or perhaps it was his willingness to move that had gone missing. Maybe he was hoping for something. Maybe for a touch, maybe for... what exactly? He was not sure anymore.

Katsuki, of course, noticed. He didn't even need to look to know that Izuku hadn't followed the instruction. But when he put aside the scissors with a quiet click and turned around, his movement was calm, almost sluggish. His gaze, however, was something else entirely. Hard. Cutting. Calculating.

He approached Izuku, his steps even, the bare soles on the tiles barely audible, but every movement carried weight. When he stood in front of him, he did not let a moment pass. His hand shot up, quick, precise. The flat of his hand slapped against Izuku's cheek, not brutally, but sharp enough that his head jerked to the side. The sound of the slap echoed softly in the damp room, mixing with the quiet dripping of water continuing to fall from Izuku's hair. "I told you to dry yourself off." Katsuki's voice was deep, calm, yet vibrated with suppressed impatience. It was not anger. Not even really disappointment. It was a clear reminder of who set the rules here.

Katsuki stepped closer, his hand remained on Izuku's face after he had hit him. His fingers rested on his cheek, warm, firm, the pad of his thumb pressing against his chin, forcing him to look straight again. In Katsuki's red eyes was something difficult to interpret. No rage, but something deeper. A challenge. An affirmation. Or a claim of ownership. "And answer when I'm talking to you, Deku." His voice was just a whisper, yet it carried a threat in it. No shouting, no outburst. A command, delivered in a voice that would need no second prompting.

Izuku swallowed hard. The skin on his cheek where Katsuki had hit him burned, but the warmth of the hand now touching him was more intense than the pain. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in short intervals. He forced his lips to move, though his voice sounded weak, faint. "Yes, Kacchan..." The words came out hoarse, barely more than a whispered rasp, but they were there. And they were honest. He did not know what else to say. Only that he had to obey. That he wanted to.

Katsuki watched him for another moment, as if needing to make sure that Izuku truly understood the gravity of his words. Then he let him go. Slowly. Almost casually. He stepped back and nodded briefly at the towel. "Then continue." No warmth. No understanding. Just the expectation that Izuku knew his place.

Izuku reached for the towel again, this time with a bit more force, a bit more urgency. His hands moved the fabric over his body, drying arms, legs, torso, while he felt Katsuki's gaze demanding each movement. The droplets ceased. The cold gave way to the dry warmth of the room.

Katsuki turned back to the cabinet, took the prepared bandages and scissors. He was calm, controlled, as if this were a routine procedure, not a psychological game.

But Izuku knew: Nothing was routine. Everything was a test. Every move mattered. And he had to pass them all.

Katsuki waited silently as Izuku continued to dry off. There was no rush in his gaze, but no hesitation—just that penetrating, patient expectation that forced Izuku to carry out each of his movements deliberately. The room was still filled with moist steam, but no water dripped from Izuku's body anymore. He was dry, at least enough to satisfy Katsuki.

Suddenly, Katsuki approached again. Without warning, he grabbed the towel that Izuku still held between his hands and pulled it away with a fluid, quick movement. The fabric brushed briefly over his skin, robbing him of the last illusion of control in the same instant. Katsuki tossed the towel carelessly aside, where it landed with a dull thud on the floor, curling up like a lifeless heap of fabric.

Katsuki knelt wordlessly in front of Izuku. The movement was smooth, controlled, and although his touches were not unnecessarily rough, he left no doubt about who had the upper hand. With a rough-looking efficiency, he took the scissors, spread the blades, and placed them precisely on the old, soaked bandages. "Hold still," he muttered, not as a request, but as a command. The blade slid through the fabric like soft skin, the quiet tearing and snapping of the scissors echoing in the damp silence of the bathroom. Piece by piece, the bandages fell from Izuku's legs, leaving bare skin that looked pale and tender at the places where the material had pressed in. The wounds underneath were red, some still weeping, with swelling that made it clear how fresh some of the injuries were.

Without a change in expression, Katsuki reached for the bottle of disinfectant, a cool, metallic spray head gleaming in the light. He shook the bottle once, then positioned it. A cold spray mist hit the open spots. The burning came instantly, sharp and stabbing, like small needles penetrating Izuku's skin. He flinched noticeably, unable to completely suppress a hiss through clenched teeth.

Katsuki saw it, but he said nothing. He just waited until the reaction had subsided, then reached with the same precision as before for the fresh bandages. His hands were practiced, routine. He secured the wraps carefully, wrapping them in even movements around Izuku's ankles and shins, the material tight, but not so tight as to constrict. Every touch had something methodical about it, as if Izuku were an object being repaired.

But it was more than that—Katsuki treated him like his property. Something that needed to be cared for, so that it worked. So that it served him.

After the bandages were securely in place, Katsuki checked the fit with a final press of his fingers on the knots. Satisfied, he stood up, not even stretching, though his posture nearly resembled a predator that had come back into motion after a long rest. Without hesitation, he grabbed Izuku's arm, his fingers wrapping around it firmly. Not painfully, but in a way that left no room for discussion about what was happening next.

He pulled him to his feet, giving him no time to wobble or think. Izuku's feet almost slid over the floor, the warm light of the bathroom fading as Katsuki pulled him through the door and into the hallway. The corridor was silent, stark, the walls painted in a dark, earthy tone, subdued lighting leading them further into the apartment. Katsuki didn't speak, his steps remained calm, purposeful. Eventually, they reached the bedroom.

The room was large, minimally furnished, the walls in muted gray tones. The massive bed dominated the room, covered with black bed linen, neat, perfect. No wrinkles, no disorder. Katsuki led Izuku to the edge of the bed, then let him go. "Sit on the bed, Deku," he ordered tersely. No volume, no shouting. It was as if he expected that Izuku would have done so long before he had even said it.

Izuku sat down slowly, his body still heavy and tired, his skin tight from the warmth of the water and the freshly applied bandages. The bed beneath him was unusually soft, but he dared not lean back. Katsuki was already on his way to the closet. He opened it with a quiet click, as if a secret chamber was being opened, and purposefully pulled something out. On a box that stood in the closet lay clothes, neatly folded. He grabbed two pieces and threw them carelessly to Izuku.

The first was a crop top, black T-shirt. The fabric was soft but snug, the cut so brief that Izuku's stomach would inevitably remain exposed, even if he lowered his arms. The second was a pair of simple, well-made blue sports shorts, as functional as they were plain—yet they were also slightly too brief. Nothing that seemed humiliating in any form, but it was clear: This clothing was not made for hiding. It was made to show. To control. "Your clothes are just trash," Katsuki commented dryly. "Put these on."

He still stood in front of the closet, arms crossed over his chest, while his red eyes fixed Izuku expectantly. He didn't wait for questions. Not for pleas. Only for obedience. Izuku sat there, the fabrics in his hands, as the room again became heavy, charged with that inevitable expectation. And the choice was no longer a choice. Not here. Not with Katsuki.

Izuku's fingers trembled barely as he accepted the clothes. His hands glided over the fabric, which felt cool and soft, like a foreign skin he was supposed to slip into. He held them a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing their significance. But ultimately, he knew: There was no choice. Not really.

Slowly he lifted his head, his gaze sweeping Katsuki, who still stood with crossed arms in front of the closet, every muscle tensed, though his posture appeared casual. Those red eyes, which never forgave anything. They challenged and warned at the same time. "Yes, Kacchan…" The words came out quietly, hoarsely from Izuku's throat. Not hesitating, but carried by the acceptance of what was inevitable. What might even be right. For him.

Katsuki barely changed his expression at the response, but there was a brief, almost satisfied glimmer in his gaze. He said nothing, just waited. Izuku lowered his gaze, pulled the T-shirt over his arms. The fabric was cool as he pulled it over his head, and it immediately clung tightly to his shoulders and chest. When he pulled it down, it barely reached his lower ribs, leaving his stomach exposed, the skin still slightly reddened from the hot water. His fingers trembled slightly as they picked up the blue shorts. He slid them carefully over his freshly bandaged legs, his teeth clenched as the movements pulled at the wounds. But he made no sound. He adjusted the shorts, which were so short that they nearly completely exposed his thighs.

When he was finished, Izuku placed his hands in his lap, his posture upright, knees together, toes on the floor. He was sitting on the bed as Katsuki had told him. His gaze was lowered, not out of shame—more out of concentration. As if he wanted to miss nothing. No command, no tone of voice.

Katsuki observed him for a long time, as if reassessing him, testing how deeply Izuku had entered into his game. Eventually, he moved closer, let his arms fall, and stepped up to the edge of the bed. His lips twisted into a narrow, self-satisfied grin. "Much better, Deku." His voice was softer than before, but it carried a sharpness, as if every word left a cut.

Katsuki let his gaze glide over Izuku, from top to bottom, slowly, as if he needed to make sure everything was in place. Then he leaned forward, his hand placed on Izuku's jaw, forcing him to look up. The red eyes blazed close, barely a breath away, and in them lay something possessive. Something irrevocable. "You belong to me, Deku." The words were not a threat. They were a fact. Immutable. Katsuki's thumb swept once over Izuku's cheek, not gently, but as if he were imprinting that this was his property.

He straightened up, let go of Izuku's chin, but the impression of his fingers burned afterward. Katsuki took a half step back, the grin became narrower. Colder. "If you do what I say, then we're going to have a lot of fun." The word "fun" rolled almost mockingly off his tongue, as if it were a promise that Izuku might not fully understand yet. But he understood enough. "If not…" Katsuki tilted his head slightly, his gaze briefly darting to the wall behind which the cold room lay. The room with the tiles. The chain. The traces that Izuku would never forget. "...then you'll end up next door. On the tiles." His voice lowered, became darker, heavier. "Clear?"

Izuku breathed shallowly, feeling the weight of those words deep in his chest, where they settled like a weight. His throat was dry, but he managed to move his lips. His gaze slid back to Katsuki's eyes, and although everything in him advised against it, he nodded slowly. Then he murmured: "Yes, Kacchan… clear."

Katsuki examined him for another moment. He seemed satisfied. At least for now. And Izuku knew that "now" was all he had. For a moment. There was an unnatural silence in the room for a moment. The air was heavy, filled with the warmth of the bathroom and the inevitable presence of Katsuki. Izuku sat on the bed, the tight shirt stretching over his chest, the blue shorts cutting into his thighs, while he kept his gaze on Katsuki. He knew that every movement, every twitch of Katsuki's eyes, every nuance in his voice could mean that the direction of their dynamic was changing. And he didn't want to miss a moment, any hint of what might happen next.

Katsuki stretched casually, as if he had been waiting all day for this moment. His fingers gripped the collar of his black shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift move, so that his tousled, blond hair flew wildly in all directions. The muscles of his upper body tensed as they did, each one defined from years of intense training and fighting. Scars ran across his skin, traces of old injuries that crossed the tendons and rib arches, pale lines on tanned skin. It was a sight that radiated strength and danger alike—and possession.

Without haste, Katsuki let the shirt fall to the floor, as if it were nothing but trash. Then he reached for the waistband of his pants. His gaze remained relentlessly on Izuku, watching to see if he looked away, if he hesitated. But Izuku held firm, his hands firmly placed on his thighs, although his throat became dry and his heart raced.

Katsuki slid his pants and boxers down his hips, the clothes sliding to the floor in one smooth movement. He stepped out with a calmness as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Naked, self-assured, completely unimpressed by his state, as if he knew exactly how dominant he was—and he was.

Every inch of his body spoke of control, and Izuku felt how his own control slipped away further and further. "So," Katsuki said, his voice deep and almost casual. But it was that casual manner that cut sharper than any shouting could ever do. "It's late. And I had to deal with your shit here." He snorted softly, a sound somewhere between amusement and frustration, as if he was still weighing whether Izuku was more trouble or worth.

Katsuki approached the bed, the muscles of his thighs playing under the skin with every movement. His red eyes were now darker, as if they had withdrawn the embers within them, ready to explode them at the right moment. His hands gripped his hips, then slowly lowered again as he stood in front of Izuku, only an arm's length away. For a moment, he said nothing. He just let his presence work. A wall of power, of dominance, that clamped around Izuku like invisible chains.

Then came the command. Clear. Calm. Irresistible. "Get into bed, Deku." The words hung in the air like electricity, waiting to be discharged. It was not a suggestion. It was not an invitation. It was the next level in a game that Izuku no longer controlled.

Izuku nodded slowly. His fingers dug into the duvet, cool and smooth under his palms. With a slow, hesitant movement, he pushed back, his legs still heavy and painful, but he moved. He lay down on the mattress, surprisingly soft, the contrast to the cold of the bathroom almost overwhelming.

He lay on his back, his hands flat at his sides, his gaze on Katsuki, who was still standing and watching him. Waiting. Judging.

Izuku forced himself to breathe calmly. But his heart beat so loudly he heard it rush in his ears.

Katsuki finally moved, sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand casually gliding over Izuku's chest, letting his fingertips rest on his collarbone. He said nothing more. He didn't need to say anything more. He had already said everything. And Izuku was exactly where he wanted him.

It was as if the world stood still while Izuku lay on his back, his eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling, yet his entire perception was directed at Katsuki. Every breath seemed louder than it should be, every heartbeat vibrated through his entire body, a dull pounding he couldn't control. The mattress under him was soft, but it felt as if he were lying on knives—sharp-edged memories of what was and what would come.

Katsuki moved without haste. He pushed the heavy, dark gray duvet aside, the rustling of the fabric almost threatening in the otherwise complete silence of the room. The air smelled of freshly laundered bed linen, a hint of lemon and metal—this familiar scent that always surrounded Katsuki. Without another word, he lay down next to Izuku, the bed barely giving under his weight, as if it carried him as effortlessly as he controlled everything else.

With a casual self-assuredness, Katsuki pulled the duvet over them both, letting it reach up to their hips while his movements seemed calm and weightless. There was no uncertainty in his gestures. No hesitation. Only that cold, unshakeable clarity with which he did everything.

Izuku immediately felt the warmth of the other body. Katsuki was like a living furnace, radiating heat that enveloped him, forced him to breathe deeper than he dared. The mattress between them virtually disappeared as Katsuki moved closer to him, keeping him within reach, as if he no longer needed to hold him because he already belonged to him.

Katsuki's arm wrapped securely but heavily around Izuku's waist, pulling him closer effortlessly. The muscles of the other man pressed against Izuku's side, warm and unyielding, the skin smelling of soap and smoke, like something that had just burned and was now waiting only for embers. Katsuki's hand lay flat on his back, the fingers barely moving, but their presence was all-encompassing. It was a hug if the word could be stretched to include violence. A hug that meant possession. There was no coldness in this touch, only absolute control.

Katsuki's head dipped slightly, his breath warm against Izuku's ear as he spoke. The voice was rough, quiet, almost confidential, yet what resonated within it left no doubt that it was not about gentleness. "Is this how you imagined it all along, Deku?"

The question hung in the darkness, heavy and relentless. His fingers pressed a bit harder against Izuku's back for a moment, as if to test whether he would respond or simply break under the pressure.

Izuku swallowed. His body was stiff, his breathing shallow. But there was no escape. His forehead rested almost against Katsuki's collarbone, he could feel the beating of the other's heart, steady, calm. He could smell how Katsuki smelled of heat and power, as if he were the center of a fire no one could extinguish.

He understood the question. And he knew there was only one answer. Only one truth that he could speak, no matter how broken it sounded.

Izuku lay still in Katsuki's arms, pinned between his body and the heavy duvet that lay like a second skin over him. The warmth from Katsuki's skin penetrated through the thin material of his crop top, making him shiver, though there was no reason for cold.

Chapter Text

His throat was dry, heart pounding relentlessly, but he forced himself to keep breathing. Even. Calm. As calm as was possible in this situation.

But there was something else.
Something that had never disappeared.
A whisper in his head that never went silent.
His quirk.

The ability that had followed him since childhood, had helped him—but also tormented him.
Lie Detector.

Whenever someone lied, Izuku knew it.
Sometimes through a feeling in his gut, sometimes a tingling on his skin, sometimes a barely perceptible flicker in his awareness.
But it was never precise.
Never clear.

And now, pressed so close to Katsuki, with his warm breaths brushing past his ear, Izuku felt his quirk speaking to him.
He knew that what Katsuki said wasn’t a lie.
Not a single word of it.

You belong to me, Deku.
If you do what I say, we’ll have fun.
If not, you’ll end up on the tiles.

It was the truth.
Clear as glass.
Unyielding.
Inevitable.

That realization drove into his heart like an icy shard, despite the heat surrounding him.
And it left no space for hope.
No rescue.
No lie.

Katsuki’s hand still rested on his back, fingertips still, as if they followed a rhythm of their own.
His voice came again, deep and vibrating right at Izuku’s ear, sending a shiver down his neck.

“Good boy, Deku.”

The words stretched into the darkness, as Katsuki pulled him a little closer against his body.

“Tell me what you’ve been wanting to say all this time.”

It sounded almost gentle—almost like an invitation.
But Izuku knew better.
This wasn’t an offer.
It was a demand.

And his quirk told him:
Katsuki would know the truth.
As always.
He would accept nothing less than real.

Izuku swallowed hard.
His heart beat even faster, like it was panicking.
But there was no escape.
There was only this moment.
And him.

His breath was hot as he finally responded—slow, trembling, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper lost against Katsuki’s skin.

“I… I’ve been wanting to tell you…” A shallow breath, then he forced the words out—words that had been burning inside him for years.

“That I love you, Kacchan.”

It was the truth.
Naked.
Brutal.
Irreversible.

And his quirk was silent.
No warning, no twinge, no flicker.
That was what he had always known.
And now, finally spoken.

Katsuki was silent.
A moment too long.

Then Izuku felt the low, dark laugh.
A quiet rumble in the other man’s chest—so close that Izuku could feel it more than hear it.

“I figured.”

Katsuki’s fingers slowly moved along his back, tracing a faint line along his spine.

“Idiot.”

He said it softly, almost… tenderly.
But that meant nothing here.

“But now you’ve finally said it.”
The fingers stopped, resting low on his back.
“And now it’s mine. Got it?”

A moment of silence.
Just their breathing.
Just the pounding of their hearts—one steady, the other racing.

Izuku nodded slowly. His voice barely left his lips.

“…Yes… Kacchan.”

Katsuki pulled him closer.
And Izuku knew—none of it was a lie.

Katsuki said nothing for a while, as if absorbing Izuku’s answer, claiming it, engraving it into a truth that could not be undone.
His fingers rested warmly on Izuku’s back, the touch heavy and possessive, while the silence between them thickened. Not empty—but charged.

Izuku felt like each breath pulled him deeper into this moment, bound him tighter to the reality Katsuki had created for him.

Then Katsuki moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.

His hand glided upward from Izuku’s back, fingers tracing his spine until they reached the muscles in his neck.
His grip tightened.
Not painful—but demanding.
A claim of ownership etched into flesh, even without blood.

Izuku gasped as Katsuki’s fingers wrapped around his neck.
The heat of the touch, the weight holding him in place, made him freeze—made him falter.
His heart raced. His thoughts were a mess.

But his body…
His body obeyed.
As always.

Katsuki pulled him closer.
A sharp, decisive tug that knew no hesitation.
And then there was no distance.
No separation between them.

Katsuki’s lips crashed against his.
Hard.
Impatient.

Exactly as Izuku had imagined.
Or feared.
Or longed for.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant.
It wasn’t a request.
It was a taking.
A command.

Izuku’s mouth opened against Katsuki’s because he had no other choice.
Because he never had.

The other’s lips were hot, rough from battles fought.
The skin on his cheeks carried the warmth of a body that always burned, always fought.
Katsuki’s breath was heavy, controlled—but Izuku could feel the strength behind it, lurking in every move.

The hand on his neck held him in place, forced him to stay still, as Katsuki kissed him like he had already claimed him.
This wasn’t a kiss born of romance.
It was hunger.
It was dominance.
It was possession.

Izuku felt his fingers clench into the bedsheets, even though he knew—there was nothing to hold on to.
Nothing but this moment.
Nothing but Katsuki.

His heart pounded against his ribs, thoughts dissolving into the heat surrounding him.
And when Katsuki pulled back slightly—just to look at him—his red eyes were dark, glowing, possessive.

“This is how you imagined it, isn’t it?”

The voice was rough, low, vibrating in Izuku’s ears like both a threat and a promise.

Izuku nodded slowly, his lips burning from the kiss, his throat dry—but the words came anyway.

“…Yes, Kacchan.”

Katsuki grinned—not mockingly, but with the certainty of a victor.
His fingers stayed on Izuku’s neck, caressing the skin there just barely, a constant reminder of who held him.

“Good.”

A single word. Heavy and final.

Then he pulled Izuku back into him—tighter now, deeper into his warmth, his control.
The kiss came again.
Harder.
Slower.
More relentless.

With a soft, nearly inaudible click, Katsuki pressed the small switch at the side of the bed. The reaction was immediate: the bedroom light went out, and a velvety darkness settled over the room.

The dark wasn’t cold or empty—it was heavy, almost tangible, as if it wrapped around everything that existed between them.

A last faint glow from the LED contours along the wardrobe disappeared, leaving only the warmth of their breath and the contact of their bodies.

Izuku lay still, his heart pounding too fast, too loud in the tight space of his chest, blood rushing in his ears.
But he didn’t move.
The darkness didn’t blind him to what was happening.
He could feel Katsuki as clearly as if he were being watched—even without light.

Katsuki’s grip didn’t loosen.
On the contrary—
In the darkness, it felt even surer, even more natural.

With a fluid, calm motion, he pulled Izuku closer.
As if he were nothing more than an object being placed where it belonged.
A toy.
A stuffed animal.
Something held at night—because it belonged to him.

Izuku’s body followed the pull, his face coming to rest against Katsuki’s chest, right over the steady beat of his heart.
The rhythm was almost soothing.
Almost.
But not really.

Katsuki’s arm lay heavy across his back, his hand resting at Izuku’s waist.
The fingers didn’t move—no searching gesture, no playful motion—just that firm hold, like a clamp keeping him exactly where he belonged.

The blanket was pulled up to their hips, warm, dense, heavy—another weight reminding Izuku of where he was.
Of who he belonged to.

Katsuki said nothing else.
No command.
No further question.

He simply lay there.
His breathing steady. Almost calm.
His head rested on the pillow, and Izuku could feel the muscles in his body relaxing.

Not because he let go.
But because he didn’t have to exert control—
He already had it.

There were no more words.
Because everything had been said.
Because nothing else was necessary.

Izuku lay silently, his forehead gently pressed against Katsuki’s sternum.
The darkness made him feel the heat of the other body even more intensely.
The slight rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest was the only thing that kept him moving.

His hands rested quietly at his sides. He didn’t dare lift them.
Didn’t dare reach for anything.

He was held.
That was enough.

Minutes dragged by.
The silence lingered.

And Katsuki didn’t sleep.
Izuku knew that.
He felt it.

That awareness—alert, waiting, even if the body didn’t move.
Katsuki was resting.
But he was watching.
Always.

Izuku forced himself to breathe.
Calm.
Don’t tremble.
Don’t think.

Just exist.
Next to him.
For him.

Because he was nothing else anymore.
And Katsuki simply held him.

Like his property.
Like his Deku.

The night passed slowly.
Morning crept in as if reluctant to enter the room.
The light was soft, filtered through heavy curtains that bathed the bedroom in a dusky glow.
A pale gray traced the contours of the furniture, sketching gentle lines across the bed, the pillow, the blanket.

It was quiet.
Unnaturally quiet, as if time itself still slept.

Izuku blinked slowly, each movement of his eyelids feeling like an effort.
His eyes were dry, his head foggy, like he was caught between waking and dreaming.
It took several heartbeats before he fully understood where he was.

The soft bed beneath him.
The weight of the blanket on his body.
The warmth at his side.
The skin along his back remembered how tightly someone had held him through the night.

He moved—tentatively, cautiously—as though he needed to test whether he was allowed.
His fingers twitched slightly, then wandered slowly over the sheet in front of him.
His body was stiff, his legs ached with a dull, persistent throb from the wounds and the cramped position he had slept in.

But it wasn’t sharp pain.
More a constant pulsing reminder of everything that had happened over the last hours.
Or days.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed anymore.

Izuku dared to turn his head slightly, his chin shifting only a few centimeters.
He wanted to look around, let his gaze adjust to the morning light, reassure himself that he was truly here and not trapped in yet another fever dream conjured by his mind.

And then he felt it.
A stare.
Hard.
Unmoving.
Fixed on him.

A flicker of confusion—
Then stillness.

His heart clenched, a cold stab cutting through his stomach as he opened his eyes further.

Katsuki lay right next to him.
His face only inches away, resting on the pillow, his blond hair disheveled like he hadn’t bothered with it for a moment.

But that wasn’t what made Izuku’s breath catch.

It was the eyes.
Open.
Awake.
Bright red in the pale light.

They were watching him.
Staring at him.
As if Katsuki had been observing him the entire time.
As if it didn’t matter whether he’d slept or not.

Izuku flinched instinctively, a small jolt running through his body as the realization struck.

Katsuki was awake.
Had been for a long time.
Maybe the entire time.

And he had watched him.

His breath came shallowly, but he couldn’t look away.
For a moment, it was as though time had frozen.

Katsuki’s red eyes remained locked on him—not hostile.
Not threatening.
Just… there.
Unyielding.
Unrelenting.

Then Katsuki moved.
Slowly, but deliberately.

His hand, which had been resting loosely on the sheet, lifted.
It slid along Izuku’s side, settling at his waist.
A steady pressure—calm, not painful, but unmistakable.

He didn’t say anything.
Not right away.

His fingers sank into Izuku’s skin—warming him, grounding him.
Binding him.

And then, after a breath too long, his voice came.
Rough from silence.
Deep from sleep—or perhaps from what he had in mind.
So close that Izuku felt the sound resonate inside him.

“Morning, Deku.”

It wasn’t a greeting.
It was a claim.
A fact.
Like everything Katsuki ever said.

Izuku swallowed dryly.
His throat was tight, but he forced himself to respond, even if his voice was quiet and brittle.

“M-morning, Kacchan…”

Katsuki nodded slowly, his thumb stroking once over Izuku’s skin.

Then the silence returned.

The world held its breath once more.
And Izuku knew—the day had only just begun.
Under Katsuki’s rules.
Under Katsuki’s gaze.

It was strange how clear the world seemed in that moment.
The morning crept gently through the heavy curtains, casting pale contours over Katsuki’s face, making the deep red of his eyes appear muted, but no less intense.

Izuku felt every movement, every touch sharper than anything else around him.
Everything else was blurry.
Unimportant.

There was only Katsuki.

His hand moved.
Without rush.
Without hesitation.

It slid up from Izuku’s waist, the fingers warm, rough—marked by the calluses of a life spent in battle.

The touch wasn’t tender.
It was assessing.
As if Katsuki wanted to feel with his fingertips whether Izuku was really there.
Whether the flesh beneath his skin gave way the way he expected it to.

His thumb brushed across Izuku’s sternum, then traced a slow line down the center of his chest, between his ribs.
Just enough pressure to make the heat of his focus burn into Izuku’s skin.

The path of his hand was deliberate—not searching, but demanding, self-assured.

It moved lower—over the flat of Izuku’s stomach, the soft skin there twitching slightly under the contact, though he forced himself to stay still.

Katsuki didn’t hold back.
His fingers slid further, down past the waistband of Izuku’s shorts, brushing across the top of his thigh—slowly, as if memorizing the sensation for later.
As if this wouldn’t be the last time.

And Izuku breathed shallowly, trying not to tremble under the certainty of that touch.

Eventually, Katsuki’s hand stilled.
His fingers rested heavy on the upper part of Izuku’s leg, and with a minimal shift of muscle, he lifted his head slightly.

The red eyes looked at him—cool, but clear.
The calm within them was like the eye of a storm.
A place where nothing was truly safe.

“Get up,” Katsuki said.
His voice was deeper, rougher—whether from sleep or something else was impossible to tell.

It didn’t need to be loud.
His words were law in this room.

“Make us breakfast.”

Izuku nodded instantly—reflex faster than thought.

His legs felt stiff as he moved, as if the weight of the night still clung to him.
But he slowly sat up, letting the blanket fall from his body.

The soft shirt clung to his chest.
The shorts rode up slightly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Katsuki’s gaze remained on him—expressionless, but Izuku could feel it as if it were a hand on his skin.
A finger pointing him the way, even without force.

He stood—carefully.
The wounds on his legs pulsed beneath the fresh bandages, but they held.

He moved to the doorway, not looking back.

Katsuki said nothing.
Just watched him.
And that was enough.

Izuku left the bedroom. The hallway air was cooler.
He knew where the kitchen was.
He knew what he had to do.

And as his steps moved softly across the floor, he also knew—
Katsuki would hear if he made a mistake.
If he hesitated.
If he didn’t move quickly enough.

The day had begun.

Izuku moved through the hallway toward the kitchen, his steps light, almost soundless.
He knew the apartment now—almost better than he knew himself.
Everything felt familiar:
The layout of the rooms, the rhythm of the morning light pushing through the shaded windows, even the sounds the walls carried.

And yet…
This morning sat heavier on his shoulders than any before.

He knew what Katsuki expected.
He’d known it long before he had ever stepped foot in this place.

For weeks, Izuku had watched him.
At first from afar—hidden on rooftops, behind tinted car windows.
Later, bolder, from closer.
He had memorized Katsuki’s rhythm, studied him, logged every detail like a project he wanted to perfect.

He knew that Katsuki woke up at exactly six a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays for morning training.
That Tuesdays and Fridays he ate later, because patrols often ran long.
That on Saturdays, he preferred oatmeal with banana.
And on Sundays, he drank his coffee black and ate plain rice—because, as he once said in an interview, it “flushes the crap out of the system.”

Izuku knew the times.
The quantities.
Even the quirks.

That Katsuki liked his bread without crust.
That he got annoyed when the avocado was too soft.

He had been so sure.

And yet…

As he switched on the light in the open kitchen and the sterile cleanliness of the space looked down on him like an operating room, a single thought crept in.

A splinter beneath the lens.
An irritation too small to ignore.

He was supposed to make breakfast for both of them.
Not just for Katsuki.

That small, simple truth dug itself into his brain like a shard of glass.
He had trained himself to think only for Kacchan.
To function only for him.
To anticipate him.

And now—
He had to include himself.

Because Katsuki had told him to.

A command.

And if Katsuki gave him that space…
That meant it was a rule.
One that had to be obeyed.

Izuku inhaled slowly.
Forced himself to stay calm.

He opened the drawers—knowing exactly where everything was.
Cutlery, knives, small wooden boards.
Each item placed with precision, like a surgical tray in an OR.

He reached for two bowls, placing them side by side on the dark stone countertop.
The soft clink echoed in his head louder than expected.

His gaze wandered to the fruit bowl—he knew that Katsuki preferred banana on Saturdays.
That he sliced it into six even pieces.
That he liked his oatmeal barely sweetened, just a touch of honey.

Izuku gave a small nod to himself.
He could do that.
He had seen it, recorded it, rehearsed it in his mind dozens of times.

But for himself?

His hand hovered just a moment too long over the oats.

A tiny crack in his otherwise perfect choreography.

Chapter Text

But he forced himself to move.

He prepared a second bowl, identical, except he left out the banana. He didn't actually like bananas. At least... he still believed that.

Water boiled on the induction stove as he let the oats slowly swell. His fingers moved calmly, even though his head was buzzing. He placed the slices of bread into the toaster. Some slices without crust, just as Kacchan liked them. Others he left untouched, for himself.

As the coffee brewed through the machine, his grip on the mug handle was firmer than necessary. Two cups. Black for Katsuki. A little sugar for himself.

And it was then, as he had finished preparing the two trays, that he paused. A brief moment in which he looked at the scene before him. Two places. Two bowls. Two cups. A breakfast that, in its simplicity, formed an almost absurd contrast to the night before.

He picked up the tray with both hands, balancing it carefully. His steps were quiet as he returned to the bedroom. The door had been left half-open. Inside, Katsuki still lay on the bed, on his side, head slightly raised. The red eyes watched him, calm, unyielding, as if he had known exactly what Izuku was doing at every moment.

Izuku entered, placed the tray on the small table with a careful movement. He waited for a word. A command. Something.

And Katsuki said nothing. He just looked at him. A silent nod, barely perceptible. But enough.

Izuku sat down. And knew that he had fallen another step deeper into Katsuki's world.

Izuku slowly sat on the edge of the bed, his movements cautious and controlled. His hands rested calmly on his thighs, fingers slightly curled, as if he needed to remind himself that they belonged to him and shouldn't dig too deeply into his flesh. The atmosphere in the room was dense, as if every movement, every breath made the air heavier.

The tray stood neatly on the small table next to the bed, the bowls and cups aligned precisely. Everything was perfectly arranged—just as Katsuki liked it. The oatmeal bowls steamed softly, thin tendrils of warmth rising into the cool morning air.

Izuku didn't dare move. Not yet. Not before Katsuki did.

He held his breath, even though he appeared completely calm on the outside. Inside, everything was working feverishly: every memory, every observation that had prepared him for this exact moment.

He knew that Katsuki saw it. That Katsuki saw everything.

Katsuki slowly sat up a bit more, his gaze unchanged, fixed on Izuku. His bare chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm as his arm finally extended. The hand reached for the bowl that Izuku had prepared for him. Unhurried. Without haste. As if the entire ritual was self-evident.

The fingers, strong and rough, grasped the ceramic with the same strength they usually used for an AP-Shot. But here, it was controlled, tamed.

He took the chopsticks in hand, moved them fluidly between his fingers, tested the weight. A slight twitch of the eyebrow. Satisfaction. No comment. No reproach.

Izuku observed these tiny movements, absorbed them as if they were precious. And only when Katsuki picked up the first piece of banana with the same precision he applied to everything else in his life did Izuku know that he was allowed.

He lowered his gaze for a moment, closed his eyes briefly as if he needed to concentrate. Then it came. The words that had long since become a reflex for him. Not because it was demanded of him—at least not openly. But because it was right. Because it fit this new, strange life.

"Itadakimasu." Spoken softly. Honestly. Like a promise. Or a vow.

Katsuki's gaze briefly shifted to him when he heard that. Again, that barely visible twitch at the corners of his mouth. A hint of amusement. Or satisfaction.

Izuku took his own chopsticks, forced his fingers to remain calm. He reached for the bowl, almost identical to Katsuki's, and scooped a small portion of oatmeal. The taste was mild, warm. Simple. Beautiful. But it was more than he had had in weeks. Perhaps in months. Perhaps in years.

He ate slowly, his movements calm, controlled. Again and again, his eyes glided to Katsuki, checking, waiting. But the other man simply continued eating. Calmly. Without words. No reproach. No praise. Only that constant presence that enveloped Izuku like the coils of a net.

The shared breakfast was silent. No conversations. No questions. But the silence was not empty. It was a space that Katsuki filled. And Izuku accepted it as it was.

Thus began the day. With a bowl of oatmeal. With Katsuki's gaze upon him. And with a breath that felt deeper inside him than any before.

The bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee hung heavy in the air. The two steaming cups stood side by side on the table, a small island in the otherwise impeccably tidy apartment. The cup in Izuku's hands was warm, almost too hot, but he didn't dare let go. The heat on his palms was the only thing reminding him at that moment that he was still conscious. That this was real.

Katsuki sat casually on the bed, one arm resting on the raised knee, the other hand holding the cup as if it were light as air. His posture was relaxed, almost sluggish, but Izuku knew it was only an illusion. Beneath the surface lurked the tension of a predator, ready to strike at any moment.

Izuku slowly brought the cup to his lips, took a small sip. The coffee was strong, barely any sugar, barely any mildness. But he drank it anyway. He didn't dare make a face.

He felt Katsuki's gaze on him, heavy, hot like the first spark of an explosion. When he slowly raised his eyes, he met the burning red in Katsuki's eyes. Unwavering. Unmoved. And full of intent.

Katsuki took another sip, then placed the cup on the table with quiet precision. The dull sound of it hitting the wooden surface echoed in Izuku's ears.

And then came the voice. Deep, rough, so calm that it seemed all the more threatening.

"From now on, you'll take care of the household, Deku." The words were clear, matter-of-fact. No hesitation. No room for misunderstanding.

"Laundry. Cleaning. Everything." Katsuki leaned forward slightly, the muscles of his upper body tensing only minimally, yet it seemed as if he were a predator preparing for the next move. "Cooking is included."

Izuku swallowed dryly. He nodded, forced his voice into a quiet "Yes, Kacchan," even though his throat felt constricted.

Katsuki smiled. A hint of amusement twitched at the corners of his mouth. But his eyes remained cold.

"If you touch the front door..." His voice became even quieter, almost a whisper. Yet Izuku knew that this tone was deadlier than any roar. "...I'll break your legs."

His hand rose, fingers rubbing slowly, as if he were already envisioning it. The thought of how easily he could break Izuku again. 

And that it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest.

“If you leave the apartment…”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the door that led innocently into the hallway.
“…or try to contact anyone…”

He turned his head back, those red eyes glinting dangerously.
“…you’re done.”

The words fell like cold metal onto stone.
Heavy.
Irrevocable.
Not a threat.
A promise.

Izuku nodded silently.
His fingers clenched around the cup as if it could offer him some kind of hold.
His heart thudded dully against his ribs.
He inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
And forced himself not to tremble.
Not now.
Not in front of him.

Katsuki leaned back, picked up his cup again.
Took another sip.

He looked at Izuku over the rim of the ceramic, as if everything had already been said.
As if he had just dictated the rules of his new life.
Which, in a way, he had.

Then, in a voice almost casual, he continued.

“Today is Saturday.”
He drew the words out slightly, as if reminding Izuku of a simple fact.
“And I still need to deal with your predecessor.”

Izuku felt the blood drain from his face.
His stomach tightened as if someone had grabbed it and twisted it from the inside.

He thought of the body.
The corpse that had lain against the wall of the room the night before.
Stuffed into a bag, but not forgotten.

“He’s already starting to stink.”

Katsuki’s tone was calm, almost bored.
But his eyes didn’t smile.
There was only that flickering ember in them—dangerous, waiting.

Izuku forced himself to swallow.
He didn’t dare ask questions.
He knew that any wrong reaction could send him to the same place.

Instead, he nodded slowly.
“…Understood, Kacchan.”
His voice was barely more than a hoarse breath.

Katsuki finally stood up, leaving his cup behind without care.
His gaze lingered on Izuku a moment longer as he slowly moved toward the hallway.
Each step was deliberate.
Not loud.
But impossible to ignore.

Izuku remained seated on the bed, staring at his cup.
The coffee was still warm.
But it tasted more bitter than ever before.

Saturday had begun.
And Izuku knew the day would demand everything from him.

He slowly lifted the cup again and brought it trembling to his lips, even though his hands were supposed to stay steady.
The coffee was lukewarm by now, but the bitter taste clung to his tongue and burned down into his chest.
He forced himself to swallow the sip, forced himself to ignore the tremble in his chest.

With a soft clack, he set the cup back onto the tray, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the room.

Katsuki watched him for a moment longer as he straightened up.
His movements were slow, controlled—like those of a big cat that had no reason to rush.
The muscles under his skin tensed with every step, as if each one was a warning to the world around him.

A crooked grin appeared on his face, but there was nothing playful in his eyes.
Only the trace of mockery that Katsuki always carried with him.

“Hey, Deku.”
His voice was deep, rough from sleep or disinterest—but the sharpness was still there.
“You little stalker already know where everything is.”

Izuku felt the words resonate inside him.
He had known that Katsuki was aware of his obsession.
That he had known all along.

And yet…
It was different to hear it spoken aloud.

Katsuki continued without pause.
“Then I don’t need to explain anything to you.”

It wasn’t a statement.
It was a fact that left no room even to consider asking questions.

Katsuki turned away, his steps heavy, the bare soles on the cool wooden floor sounding dull but decisive.
Izuku didn’t follow him with his eyes.
He stared at the tray.
At his empty cup.

He only heard the footsteps fading slowly down the hall.
Then the sound of the heavy door to the side room opening.
A brief metallic creak.
The dull rustle of the bag being dragged across the floor.

A smell crept through the hallway, even with the door closed.
Sickly sweet.
Heavy.
Decay.

Izuku briefly closed his eyes, suppressed the gag that rose in his throat.
He knew what Katsuki would do.
What he meant by “taking care of it.”
What he would carry past him.

And he knew that the only thing separating him from that same fate right now…

Was obedience.

“I’ll take care of this,” Katsuki said calmly—almost casually.

He was back in the hallway, dragging the heavy, dark green bag in one hand. His body was bare except for the white cotton pants he had thrown on to protect his shoes. His feet were now tucked into thick boots, ready for the outside.
He pulled a jacket over his shoulders, slowly, as if this were all part of a routine.

“You clean the apartment,” he continued, not looking at Izuku.
He zipped the bag tighter—
The metallic sound cut through the silence like a blade.

“Including the side room.”

The look he gave him then was cold. Calculating.
As if to check whether Izuku truly understood what that meant.

The blood drained from Izuku’s face.
But he nodded. Slowly.

“…Yes… Kacchan.”
His voice was raw. Fragile.
But it came.

Katsuki hoisted the bag over his shoulder like it was nothing.
Maybe, for him, it really was.
He stood tall, gave a final glance over his shoulder.

“I want lunch at twelve.”
It wasn’t a question.
Not a request.
Just another rule.
“I’ll be back then.”

He opened the apartment door.
The heavy lock clicked softly, followed by the muted sound of the door falling into its frame.
His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Silence returned.

Izuku sat there for another moment, his gaze blank, while the echo of Katsuki’s words settled deep in his mind.
His hands were still wrapped around the now-empty coffee cup, its heat long since faded.

He knew what he had to do.
If he wasn’t done by twelve—
He didn’t dare finish that thought.

Slowly, he stood.
His legs felt heavy, as if the weight of the task ahead threatened to crush him.

He picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen.
Washing the dishes, wiping down the counters—that was the easy part.

Cleaning the apartment.
The side room.

His breath came shallow as he moved again.
He knew what had to be done.
He knew it had to be done perfectly.
Because Katsuki would notice.
He noticed everything.

It was Saturday morning.
And this…
was his new life.

The hallway was quiet as Izuku stepped into it.
The sound of his own steps was the only thing breaking the silence—
And even that felt muffled, like the entire apartment had decided to conspire against him.

He stopped in front of the door to the side room.
It was only ajar, a thin strip of stale, cold light seeping through—
pale and gray, as if the room itself rejected any warmth.

He inhaled deeply, but it didn’t help.
The smell was already there.
Sweet.
Damp.

A heavy, metallic trace of old blood mixed with the sharp scent of cold iron.
It was the kind of smell that clung to you no matter how many showers you took.
Izuku knew it already.
But never this close.
Never this intrusive.

Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The familiar creak rang out—louder this time.
His gaze swept across the tiles, cold and glossy under the bluish neon light overhead.

The chain still hung from the ceiling.
Empty now.
Slack and unmoving—like a metal serpent that had lost its bite.

And beneath it…

The stains.

Dark, half-dried puddles.
Streaks of brown-red smeared across the floor.

It spread like some kind of accidental pattern—almost artistic, if it hadn’t been so horrifying.
A dark blotch on the wall.
A spatter on the pale grout between the tiles.

He had seen it.
Now he had to erase it.

Izuku breathed shallowly, refusing to let the stench fill his lungs more than absolutely necessary.
He stepped into the room, feet careful—
Even though the danger was long gone.

His gaze fell on the cleaning cabinet in the corner—
Perfectly organized, like everything here.

Of course he knew what he needed.
He had learned everything about Katsuki.
Even this.

He grabbed the vinegar cleaner, its chemical scent harsh and cutting the moment he opened the lid.
A thick cleaning cloth in the other hand, a bucket of hot water he had already filled in the kitchen.

Slowly, he knelt—
His movements mechanical, like he was operating his body from the outside.

The cloth dipped into the bucket, soaked up the heat—
And then the sharpness of vinegar mingled with the iron tang of dried blood.

He wrung it out, water dripping in heavy, dull drops back into the bucket,
And then he set the fibers against the tile.

He began to scrub.
Circular motions.
Even.
Methodical.

He worked at the stains until the dark traces slowly faded.
Until the red dissolved into the rag, leaving brownish smears across the once-white fabric.

The grout was the hardest part.
The thin lines between the tiles clung to the blood as if they refused to let it go.

He switched to a smaller brush, dipped it in the mixture, began to trace the lines—
Harder.
Faster.

His fingers began to ache, knuckles scraping against the cold porcelain—
But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping into the mix of water and blood.
He knew Katsuki would see any imperfection.
Any trace left behind.
And he knew what that meant.

He swapped cloths when they got too dirty.
Rinsed the brush.
Changed the water twice.

The room began to smell of vinegar—
Sharp and aggressive—
But it couldn’t fully cover the scent of decay.

It was a bitter compromise.
A failed attempt at normalcy.

When he reached the chain, he wiped down every single link.
The dark flecks still clung in spots, sticky and fresh.
He threaded his fingers between the metal, wiped every inch clean.

The metal was cold. Smooth.
But where the blood had dried—
Rough.
Sticky.

He took his time.
Too much, maybe.
But better too much than too little.

Eventually, Izuku stood.
Slowly.
His legs felt like they’d been forgotten.
His hands were red, skin raw, burned from the acid in the cleaner and the friction.
His back ached.

But the room was clean.

The tiles gleamed.
The air was sharper, more caustic from the vinegar—
But most of the rot was masked.

He stepped back, let his eyes sweep the room one last time.
The chain swayed slightly, as if it had mirrored his movements.
The walls were sterile again.
No traces.
No memory.
At least… not visible.

Izuku exhaled slowly.
Then left the room.
Closed the door quietly behind him.

He knew Katsuki would inspect everything the moment he returned.
There could be no mistake.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Never.

He carried the bucket into the kitchen.
Changed the water.
Washed his hands—
But the smell remained.

There was still time until noon.
Time to prepare the meal.
Time to follow the rules.
Time to preserve Katsuki’s world.

The late morning had been a sequence of mechanical movements—precise, efficient.
Izuku had thrown himself entirely into the work, repeating the rules Katsuki had given him like an unrelenting mantra in his mind.

Clean.
Organize.
Cook.
Nothing else existed anymore.

The scent of teriyaki chicken mingled with the warm, comforting aroma of fresh rice, which steamed quietly in the cooker. In the pan, the juicy pieces of chicken glazed evenly in the sweet-salty teriyaki sauce, gently bubbling and forming a delicate layer over the meat.

Izuku worked silently, focused, his hands steady, even though the skin on his fingers was still rough from scrubbing the side room.
He wanted everything to be perfect when Katsuki came back.
No—he had to.
He couldn’t afford a mistake.

When the clock turned to five minutes before twelve, he heard the heavy footsteps in the hallway.
Not hurried.
Not rushed.
A steady, firm pace that filled the apartment before the door even opened.

The familiar click of the lock was the signal.

Izuku quickly wiped his hands on the kitchen towel, though they were already clean, and stood up straight.
His eyes were fixed on the stove—
But his attention was entirely on Katsuki.

The door opened.
Then closed again.
Not a word.
Not a sound.

But the room was instantly filled with his presence.

Katsuki entered the kitchen.
His boots had already been removed, the jacket tossed somewhere in the hallway.

Chapter Text

He was wearing only his black training pants again, along with a loose shirt that stretched over his muscular arms.
His gaze swept across the room once.
He smelled it immediately.
That faint, sharp scent of vinegar hanging in the air, mixed with something metallic that wouldn't quite fade.
He smelled him—and he knew Izuku had been working.
Just like he’d ordered.

His eyes lingered briefly on the set table.
The teriyaki was plated, the rice steamed in small, neat bowls.
Nothing was missing.
Everything was prepared.
Just as it should be.

But Katsuki said nothing.
He stepped closer, approached the kitchen table, and set down a small plastic bag he’d been holding.
The quiet rustle of the material sounded strangely soft in the room.
Izuku heard it and risked a glance to the side, without fully turning.

Then he felt it.
The warmth of Katsuki’s body right behind him.
The soft creak of the floor as he stepped closer.
Then arms—strong and firm—wrapped around his waist without warning, heavy hands pressing against his stomach.
He felt the rough skin at Katsuki’s wrists, the calluses on his fingers, the weight pulling him into the body behind him.

And before he could say anything, before he could react, he felt Katsuki’s breath on his neck.
Hot.
Unavoidable.

Then the lips.
Warm.
Rough.
A kiss pressed directly against the sensitive skin at the base of his neck.
Not fleeting.
Not gentle.
A claim—just as clear as everything Katsuki ever did.

“I brought you matcha mochi,” Katsuki murmured into his ear, voice deep and heavy, as if the words carried more weight than they should.
“The ones you always loved as a kid, Izuku.”

The name from his mouth sounded… foreign.
Or maybe too familiar.
Not Deku.
Not an insult.
Not mockery.
Something else entirely.

Izuku swallowed hard, his breath came faster, though he forced himself to stay calm.
His heart pounded wildly, but he didn’t answer right away.
His hands rested still on the counter, while Katsuki’s grip around him tightened.
Not painful—but enough to make clear there was no escape.

“Thank you… Kacchan.”
The words came soft, fragile, but honest.
Like everything he said.
Because he couldn’t do anything else.

Katsuki hummed quietly behind him, a sound somewhere between approval and contentment.
His head rested for a moment on Izuku’s shoulder while his fingers dug deeper into his narrow hips.
Then he slowly pulled away, reached for the plastic bag, opened it, and took out the small box of mochi.
The packaging was simple, high quality, the label handwritten, like he’d gotten it from a small shop Izuku used to love.
Maybe it was even the same one.

He placed it on the counter, right next to the steaming teriyaki, and looked at Izuku.
“After dinner.”
His voice was quiet, but final.
An instruction.
A gesture.

Izuku nodded.
Slowly.
And as they sat at the table, he felt the rules shift once again.
Not softened—but changed.
And that was enough to let him breathe again.
For now.

The silence in the room was almost complete, broken only by the quiet clink of dishes and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
Izuku stood at the table for a moment longer, his hands steady as he filled the bowls with steaming teriyaki and rice.
His movements were precise, instinctively directed to serve Katsuki first—and more than himself. Much more.
It hadn’t been a decision, but a reflex, as though his entire being had already molded itself around this man’s rules and expectations.

Katsuki accepted it without a word, his crimson eyes following Izuku’s every motion, every breath, as he pulled the plate closer.
The chopsticks in his hand moved with the same precision as if they, too, were weapons.
He began to eat as if it were the most normal thing in the world—without haste, without pause.
But with that focused attention Izuku could never quite read.
Whether it was dangerous—or simply fully awake.

Izuku sat down carefully in his seat across from him.
The space between them was narrow, yet it felt wider, as if he had to cross a distance every time that threatened to make him stumble.
He folded his hands quietly, bowed his head slightly, as was proper.
The words came as a reflex from his lips, soft, calm, and just as honest as always.

“Itadakimasu.”

He knew Katsuki noticed these small gestures.
That he liked it when Izuku maintained form.
So he held to it, even though his throat felt tight and hunger stirred beneath the tension.

With calm, deliberate movements, he lifted his chopsticks, took a small portion of rice, and began to eat slowly.
The food was warm, well-seasoned—just the way Katsuki liked it.
And Izuku ate.
Not hurried.
Not greedy.
With respect for the meal—and for the presence at the table.

Katsuki watched him for a moment in silence as he ate.
Every movement of his was powerful, purposeful.
He didn’t bite.
He devoured.
But never carelessly.
He ate like it was just another part of his training.
Efficient.
Focused.

Then, after Izuku had barely taken two bites, Katsuki spoke.
“I saw you’re doing designs.”
His voice was calm, like he was casually commenting.
But Izuku knew better.
The words were calculated.

“For companies. For hero agencies.”
It wasn’t a question.
Katsuki knew.
He had seen the sketchbooks.
The drawings.
The drives.
The life Izuku had built after they had gone their separate ways.

But now came the demand.
A command disguised as conversation.

“Tell me what you make for heroes, Deku.”

Izuku felt his breath catch for a moment.
He lowered the chopsticks, placed them neatly on the edge of the bowl.
Not because he had to.
Because it felt respectful.
Because Katsuki valued that kind of order.

His gaze stayed lowered, not out of fear—or maybe yes—but because it was easier to speak without looking into those burning eyes.

“I…”
His voice was soft, clear, but it took effort not to hesitate.
“I work for a few agencies in Musutafu. Freelance. Sometimes for smaller heroes who don’t have established branding yet.”

His fingers slowly slid over the smooth tabletop.
Calming.
Or maybe just a reflex he couldn’t suppress.

“I design costumes. Logos. Visual concepts.”
He took a shallow breath.
“Sometimes also posters or merchandise…”

The words sounded empty to his own ears.
Like things that belonged to someone else.

But Katsuki didn’t stay silent.

“For who?”
A single word.
Cutting.
Precise.

Izuku barely nodded, forced himself to continue.
“For… Tenya Iida. For Uravity… for a few secondary heroes. Sometimes for agencies in Shizuoka. I’ve also… made concepts for your team.”

The last words came quietly, barely audible.
But Katsuki had heard them.
His chopsticks paused in mid-air.
Then he brought the piece of teriyaki calmly to his mouth and chewed slowly.
His gaze now fully fixed on Izuku.
Waiting.
Curious.
Or maybe assessing.

“For my team, huh.”
It wasn’t a question.
A fact, now laid between them.
Like so many others.

Katsuki set the chopsticks down.
Slowly.
Then he reached for the teacup, took a sip, the movement calm, almost casual.

“Show me later what you made.”
His voice was soft but final.
It wasn’t a request.
Not an invitation.
It was a command.

Izuku swallowed.
Nodded.
“Yes… Kacchan.”

Katsuki smirked.
A cold, calm grin.
But one that maybe—
Maybe didn’t only mean danger.

“Maybe I need a personal designer.”
He finished the tea.
And Izuku knew the rest of the afternoon was already decided.

The room had gone deathly still.
The sounds of chopsticks, of breathing, of clinking bowls had long since faded.
Katsuki had set the empty teacup back down on the table with careless ease, like it was nothing more than a disposable object.
His gaze, however, remained razor-sharp, fixed on Izuku—red and unrelenting, cutting through him like a hot wire slicing the toughest armor.

Izuku had folded his hands quietly in his lap after putting the chopsticks down.
The taste of teriyaki still lingered on his tongue, sweet and salty, but it felt like a foreign object in his mouth.
The knot in his throat tightened as he realized Katsuki wasn’t just looking at him.
He was analyzing him.
Weighing him.
And had already come to a decision.

Katsuki leaned back in his chair, the muscle in his jaw twitching barely noticeably as his fingers ran slowly along the edge of the table.
A soft scraping sound that echoed in Izuku’s head like a loud, threatening tone.

“You’re not going to make anything for those other damn idiots anymore.”
The words came quiet, but each one was so precise, so clear, that Izuku instinctively shrank a little.

Katsuki continued, his voice not rising, but the intensity thickening like the air itself was becoming heavier.
“You love me.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
A fact Izuku could no longer deny.

He had said it.
He had screamed it that night, in the darkness, under Katsuki’s hands, under the weight of a reality that had closed around him like chains.
And Katsuki knew.
As always.
He knew.

“I saw all your drawings.”
A quiet snort.
Not mocking—more like someone who couldn’t believe how far another person had gone.
Or rather: how deep someone was willing to sink.

“The pictures.”
His gaze didn’t change.
It remained the same.
Unmoving.
But Izuku’s stomach turned cold.

The fear mixed with something else—something he didn’t want to name.
Something that burned hotter than it should.

“Bet you jerked off to them.”
Katsuki took his time with the sentence, tasting the words, savoring them.
They came sharp, hard, yet laced with a cruelty that was more than just malice.
There was ownership in it.
Satisfaction.
And maybe—maybe some twisted kind of understanding.

He let the silence stretch intentionally.
He wanted the reaction.
He wanted to hear it.

Izuku felt his body respond before his mind had even caught up.
His breath came faster, his cheeks burned.
His hands, clenched too tightly in his lap, had knuckles pale from tension.
And still, he said nothing.
Not right away.

Katsuki didn’t let him look away.
That red gaze pinned him down, demanded he stay steady.
Or drown.

Izuku swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening like a chain pulling closed.
Then came the answer.
A whisper at first.
Barely a breath.
But it was the truth.
As always.
Because he couldn’t lie.
Not to himself.
Not to Katsuki.

“Yes, Kacchan.”
His voice was hoarse, shame mixing with something he couldn’t name.
Or didn’t want to.

“I… imagined it.”
A confession.
An admission.
Word by word.

“How you look at me. How you…”
He faltered, his throat dry, yet the words came anyway.
“…touch me.”

Katsuki’s grin wasn’t a real smile.
It was triumph.
Like he had taken something that had always belonged to him.

“Good.”
A single word that sealed everything.

His gaze slid slowly down Izuku’s body, inspecting him like a new possession brought into his life.
Something earned.
Or taken.

“Then you won’t have to imagine it anymore.”
The words were little more than a growl.
A promise.
Or a threat.
Maybe both.

Katsuki stood up.
Slowly, controlled.
His hands rested loosely at his sides, but Izuku knew what they could do.
What they would do.

“Clear the table.”
A command, offhanded, as if nothing had just happened.
“Then bring me the designs.”

He turned and walked toward the couch in the living room.
His steps were calm.
But the air remained heavy.

Izuku sat for another moment.
The heat on his face hadn’t faded.
And something in his chest beat too loudly.

He stood up.
Reached for the dishes.
His hands were steady.
Routine.

Izuku worked quickly, his hands moving mechanically as he cleared the remains of lunch.
The bowls and plates clinked softly as he stacked them, careful not to make unnecessary noise.
The water ran quietly in the sink as he washed everything, each motion so practiced and precise it felt like a program running in his head.

He dried each item individually, returned them exactly where they belonged.
In Katsuki’s world, the kitchen was a place of order, and Izuku knew any mistake would be visible here.

Once the counters gleamed, the trash was emptied, and the sink stood spotless, he dried his hands.
His skin was raw, sore from the vinegar cleaner he’d used that morning—but he barely felt it anymore.
Not now.
Not anymore.

He took a deep breath as he turned toward the living room door.
Katsuki was waiting behind it.
Or maybe what had become of him.

Izuku made his way there, his steps light, nearly soundless.
The floor under his bare feet was cool, but each stride carried a clarity born from deeply rooted self-control.

He entered the living room with lowered eyes, but they immediately searched for Katsuki’s figure.
He was there—sprawled on the wide leather sofa, one arm draped casually over the backrest, the other holding his phone.
His red eyes were on Izuku before he even fully crossed the threshold.

Beside him, neatly arranged on the low coffee table, was a stack of papers, folders, and binders.
His things.
Everything Katsuki had taken from his apartment without asking.
Every notebook, every portfolio, every USB stick.

Izuku stepped closer, knelt beside the table, legs folded neatly beneath him.
His hands slid over the stack, rearranged the folders, opened the first one.
His movement was quiet, almost reverent—though these things no longer truly belonged to him.
They were already part of Katsuki’s collection.
Like everything about him.

He pulled out a few drawings.
Large, carefully crafted concepts on high-quality paper.
Colored designs, ink illustrations, posters, sharepics for social media—visuals used by hero agencies for campaigns and events.
He held them up so Katsuki could see them easily.

“This one was for Tenya Iida,” Izuku explained softly, his voice calm, though his heart beat faster under Katsuki’s burning gaze.
“He wanted a campaign for traffic safety. I used stylized lines to emphasize movement… and the colors are intentionally blue. Trust and authority.”

He pulled the next folder, opened it with careful fingers.
“This was for Uravity. A kids’ event. I designed the figures light and round so they’d feel friendlier. Softer fonts… brighter colors, pinks and whites to highlight her brand.”

Izuku walked Katsuki through the pages.
He spoke of symbolism, color theory, logo placement on costumes and posters.
Every line had a reason.
Every color choice was a decision.

He showed him a concept he had designed for heroes specializing in rescue work—large-format posters with bold reds, strong symbols, and clear, concise messages.
“Here, readability matters more than artistic expression,” Izuku said.
“People need to understand it within seconds.”

Katsuki said nothing.
Not immediately.
He watched Izuku as he spoke, as his fingers moved across the designs like he was touching something sacred.
His eyes were sharp, focused—absorbing every detail.
Not just the drawings, but Izuku’s posture, his voice, the subtle tremors in his hands when he revealed something personal.

“And that?”
Katsuki’s voice came low, calm.
He pointed to a notebook Izuku had set aside.
A thick, worn sketchpad, bound with a black elastic.

Izuku hesitated.
His fingers rested on the cover.
He knew what was inside.
He knew Katsuki had already seen it.
But he undid the band anyway.
Opened the pages.

Drawings.
Of Katsuki.
Only of him.

Katsuki training.
Fighting.
Sleeping.
Some of the sketches were rough, quickly done.
Others detailed, with delicate ink work—almost intimate.

Izuku swallowed.
“This… was never meant for any agency.”
His voice was barely a whisper.

Katsuki reached out, took the book, flipping slowly through the pages.
His expression didn’t change.
But the grin tugging at his lips was dangerously calm.

“I figured.”
He closed the book with a firm motion and set it on his lap, fingers still resting on the cover.

“From now on, you only work for me.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
It wasn’t a request.
It was a decision.

“My colors. My campaigns. My name.”
His eyes locked onto Izuku’s.
“Understood, Deku?”

Izuku nodded.
Slowly.
“Yes… Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s grin widened, the red in his eyes glowing faintly with something fierce, something final.
He leaned back like the matter was settled.
And it was.

“Then start tomorrow.”

Izuku lowered his gaze back to the designs in front of him.
His hands rested calmly on the paper.

He knew: this was his new project.
His only client.
His owner.

Chapter Text

The quiet click of the remote was the only thing that broke the oppressive silence. The screen of the large television flickered on, bathing the living room in a cool light. A news channel played, the anchor’s voice muffled, as if it were nothing more than background noise in a world that had long since found its own, distorted order.
Katsuki sat casually on the sofa, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His arm rested on the backrest as if every inch of the room belonged to him. And Izuku knew that it did.
Katsuki’s gaze lingered on the television for a moment, but when Izuku hesitated, he turned his eyes back to him. The red shimmered in the flickering light of the news images-intense, commanding, as clear as an order before any words had been spoken.
“Come here, Izuku.”
His tone was calm, as if he had never done anything else but call him. But it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a summons to be obeyed.
Izuku felt his heart skip a beat, then start pounding twice as fast.
He stood slowly, carefully setting down the sheets and sketches on the table, though his hands nearly trembled on their own.
He moved deliberately. Every step felt controlled, like walking on thin ice, and yet it had become instinct. Just as he was now.
When he reached the sofa, Katsuki made a barely noticeable motion with his hand-Izuku should sit.
Izuku sank down beside him, just a few inches away.
The warmth radiating from Katsuki was almost tangible, like a weight resting on Izuku’s shoulders.
And then, just as he had barely sat down, Katsuki pushed a small box of mochi into his lap.
The packaging was plain, made of recycled paper, hand-labeled-just like it used to be.
He recognized it instantly.
That tiny store downtown had always sold them like this.
A piece of the past he never thought he’d see again-and now it was here.
“Eat,” Katsuki said quietly, not looking directly at him. His eyes followed the movements on the TV, but Izuku knew he was watching him.
Always.
Constantly.
“Your mochi. The ones you used to stuff your face with as a kid.”
There was a flicker in Katsuki’s voice. Not soft. But something bordering on memory.
Or possession.
As if he’d gotten them just for him, amused that Izuku still liked them.
Izuku swallowed; his throat was suddenly dry as he touched the package.
He opened it slowly, hands barely trembling.
Inside lay the small green balls, perfectly shaped, their surfaces still slightly damp from fresh rice flour.
He picked one up between his fingers-familiar, soft, almost comforting.
His gaze slid to Katsuki, seeking a sign, another permission-but there was only that cool look that said: You know what to do.
Izuku brought the mochi to his mouth.
The first bite was chewy, sweet, the familiar taste of matcha slowly spreading across his tongue.
It was strange.
It tasted…
Like before.
Like home.
But it felt completely different.
He chewed slowly, the room silent except for the low murmur of the news anchor and the faint squish of the mochi as he took another bite.
He ate a second one, faster this time.
Then another.
Katsuki was watching him again.
His gaze drifted to Izuku’s mouth, then to his hands holding the small green spheres.
“Good.”
A single word.
Almost offhand.
But it sounded like praise.
Katsuki leaned back, closed his eyes briefly as if to relax.
His arm fell casually over the backrest, fingers brushing-accidentally or deliberately-against Izuku’s shoulder, barely noticeable.
Izuku felt the tension in his body slowly easing.
He continued eating.
Each mochi slowly.
Exactly the way Katsuki expected.
The television kept flickering.
But Izuku only heard Katsuki’s breathing beside him.
Felt the warmth of the hand resting on his shoulder.
And for this moment...
For this fleeting moment...
It was quiet.
There was a strange calm in the room as Izuku continued eating the mochi. Each bite was slow, cautious. His hands held the rice balls like something fragile, though his fingers clearly knew how firmly he could grip them. The sweetness of the matcha filling spread warmly across his tongue-a memory of simpler times, before everything... tipped.
Katsuki’s hand lay casually on the sofa’s back, his index finger tracing small, absent-minded circles over the bare skin of Izuku’s shoulder where the cropped shirt exposed it. The touch was minimal. No force, no grip. Just a sign of possession. Or maybe a silent reminder that he was there. Always there.
The soft murmur of the news anchor gave way to the muted tone of a weather report. But Katsuki no longer paid the screen any attention.
His eyes were on Izuku now-bare, direct. Those red eyes were hard to endure when they focused on you, so close, so intent. They looked too deep, as if they could reach through skin and flesh into thought.
Izuku felt it.
Felt the heat rising in his neck as he realized Katsuki was watching him.
Not casually.
Not by chance.
Deliberately.
Precisely.
Like a sniper with his finger on the trigger.
Katsuki barely moved.
His gaze was lazy, almost relaxed.
But his voice cut through the silence when he spoke.
“Tell me, Izuku…”
A hint of amusement played on his lips, as if he were about to tell an anecdote.
But the words that followed were anything but casual.
“…have you ever had sex with a guy?”
The sound Izuku made was barely more than a breath snapping.
Not because he choked-because for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.
His hand still held the half-eaten mochi in mid-air, frozen, as the words echoed in his head.
Sharp.
Cutting.
Unavoidable.
His eyes flickered, then dropped as he tried to maintain control.
But the blood rushed hot to his face.
He knew Katsuki saw it.
Knew that this was the point.
“No…”
Izuku’s voice was rough, too quiet, barely a whisper.
He lowered his hand, set the mochi slowly back into the box, his fingers trembling slightly.
“I… I’ve never had anyone.”
The truth tasted bitter in his mouth.
He had never allowed it.
Never wanted it.
Never managed it.
Because there had only ever been one person.
And that person had been unreachable.
Until now.
Katsuki’s mouth twitched slightly, as if the answer didn’t surprise him.
His fingers rested still on Izuku’s shoulder for a moment, then slowly slid down his neck.
“Tch.”
A low, drawn-out sound.
“Figures.”
His fingers paused on Izuku’s collarbone, applying minimal pressure, as if feeling the shape beneath.
“No wonder you cling to my pictures.”
His voice was deeper now, gaining weight.
“But I wonder…”
He leaned in, so close Izuku felt his breath on his temple-warm and rough, with a hint of coffee and something sharper that was just Katsuki.
“Would you even know what to do if you actually touched a man?”
Izuku’s breath caught again.
His lips parted slightly, as if to answer, but the words stuck in his throat.
Because he didn’t know.
Because he had never learned.
Because Katsuki was right.
He shook his head slightly.
His whisper was hoarse.
“No…”
Katsuki grinned-broad this time, unrestrained.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Something in between.
“Then I guess you’ll have to learn.”
His hand moved further, cupping Izuku’s chin, forcing him to lift his head and look at him.
The red eyes glowed-hungry.
But they were calm.
Unshakable.
“And I’ll teach you.”
The air between them was heavy.
The hum of the television sounded far away.
Izuku swallowed.
He couldn’t lie.
Not to himself.
Not to him.
“Okay… Kacchan.”
And Katsuki laughed softly.
Low.
Dark.

It was just a soft vibration, barely audible against the stillness of the room-Katsuki’s phone, lying carelessly on the coffee table, began to move, the dull buzz immediately drawing his attention.
His hand left Izuku’s chin as he reached for the device, eyes narrowing as he glanced at the screen.
A deep, annoyed sound escaped his throat-a half-suppressed growl, as if the message had caught him in the worst possible mood.
“Great…,” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and reluctant acceptance. His thumbs slid across the screen, unlocking the phone with the ease of someone handling a weapon.
Then his eyes flicked to Izuku, who still sat silently beside him, the half-eaten mochi in hand, the box on his lap.
“That red-haired idiot is seriously coming over in a few hours.”
He said it like an accusation against the entire world.
But there was something calculating in his gaze as he studied Izuku.
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching visibly beneath the skin as he thought through what exactly that meant.
Katsuki swung his legs off the couch, standing in one fluid motion that showed no effort at all.
He was already two steps ahead, as always, his mind working while his eyes fell back on Izuku.
“Alright,” he said shortly. The decision was already made.
“Change of plans for today.”
He stepped to the table, grabbed his keyring, twirled it through his fingers once, then turned toward the bedroom.
“We’re going shopping.”
The word hung in the air like an order.
And that’s exactly what it was.
“Clothes. For you.”
His voice sharpened, almost cutting.
“Can’t have you looking like a damn pansy when Kirishima shows up later.”
There was a hint of mockery in his tone, as if the idea alone was already laughable-as if it were an insult to have Izuku near him in this state, at least with someone else watching.
From the bedroom came the scrape of a closet door, the dull rustle of fabric.
Katsuki returned not a minute later, a bundle of clothes in hand.
One of his old pairs of pants-dark, durable fabric, worn at the knees but still solid.
Along with a simple black jacket. Functional. No logos. Nothing flashy.
He tossed the clothes at Izuku’s feet, where they hit the floor with a heavy thump.
“Here. Take that.”
His eyes glinted impatiently.
“Put it on.”
It wasn’t an invitation.
It was a deadline.
Izuku slowly set the mochi box down on the table, his hands reaching for the pants-still warm from Katsuki’s body.
He stood, undressed without hesitation, as if he’d long since understood that shame had no place here.
The shorts slid down, the cropped shirt followed.
He stepped into the pants, pulled them up. The fabric was a little loose at the hips, but the belt Katsuki wordlessly tossed at him fixed the issue quickly.
He put on the jacket. It was heavy on his shoulders-but warm.
He didn’t close it.
He waited for the nod. For approval.
Katsuki watched him with arms crossed, the weight of his gaze leaving no doubt that he took in every detail.
After a moment, he grunted softly.
“Looks fine.”
He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, clipped the keys to his belt, and stepped toward the door.
His hand was already on the handle, but he turned around one more time.
His gaze was sharp. Cold.
Unequivocal.
“You screw up…”
The words came slowly. Clearly.
He stepped closer-suddenly nearer than Izuku expected.
His hand gripped Izuku’s jaw, forced him to look at him again.
“…you’re done.”
Katsuki’s thumb brushed once across Izuku’s cheek, as if testing something one last time.
Then he let go. Stepped back.
“Got it?”
Izuku swallowed.
His voice was calm, though his heart was racing.
“Got it, Kacchan.”
A short, satisfied grin tugged at Katsuki’s lips.
Then he pulled the door open.
“Let’s go.”
And Izuku followed him.
Like always.

Izuku followed Katsuki out into the cool hallway. The ceiling lights flickered briefly as the door clicked shut behind them. Outside on the street, the late afternoon was busy-crowds moving through the city, traffic humming, the soundscape filled with voices, honking, and the drone of city life. The city pulsed with energy-but to Izuku, everything felt muted.
He stayed just slightly behind Katsuki, who walked with effortless certainty toward the parking lot. His car-a sleek, black SUV-gleamed in the filtered sunlight. Katsuki unlocked it with a click, sliding into the driver’s seat without looking back.
Izuku climbed in quietly, pulled the door shut, and glanced at the dashboard. The seats were premium leather, the air smelled of coffee, engine oil, and something unmistakably Katsuki.
The ride began smoothly, the engine purring under Katsuki’s steady hand as he navigated the streets with the same control he applied to everything in his life.
“So, we’re getting you something decent. I don’t want you looking like a damn hobo when Kirishima shows up,” Katsuki growled, eyes fixed on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other cracking the window.
Izuku just nodded. He knew there was no point in objecting-and no room for it either.
“Something plain. High quality. Black, dark blue, or gray. I swear, if you wear anything green, I’ll throw you out of the goddamn car,” Katsuki added dryly, and Izuku wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
He decided not to test it.
After a half-hour drive, they pulled up in front of a high-end shopping mall. Not a regular department store-this was the kind of place frequented by wealthy businesspeople, celebrities, and Pro Heroes. Izuku knew the name. It wasn’t a place he ever imagined going voluntarily.
Katsuki got out first, slamming the door behind him, shooting Izuku a look. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”
Izuku hurried after him. The automatic doors opened with a breeze of expensive, filtered air. The store was large, elegant-subtly lit shelves holding neatly folded shirts and designer jackets. Salespeople in tailored suits watched them discreetly but didn’t approach too quickly.
Izuku felt out of place.
Katsuki, on the other hand, looked like he belonged there.
He moved straight to the menswear section, his eyes sweeping across the racks before pulling a few pieces and glancing over them.
“Here,” he finally said, throwing a stack of clothes into Izuku’s arms. “Try these on.”
Izuku blinked. “Uh, Kacchan, I-”
“Move it, Deku, I’m not spending all day here.”
Izuku pressed his lips together and hurried into the changing room.

Izuku changed slowly, sliding a pair of dark blue slacks up over his hips. They were tailored, slim-cut, but comfortable. He added a simple black shirt-tight-fitting, but not restrictive. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt... strange.
He had never worn anything like this before. Never looked at himself this way.
“Deku!” Katsuki’s voice echoed from outside, followed by an impatient knock. “Move it!”
Izuku took a deep breath and opened the door.
Katsuki’s gaze swept over him immediately-assessing, critical. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“Hm.”
A sound that could mean everything or nothing.
Then he stepped forward without warning, grabbed the collar of Izuku’s shirt, tugged him a bit closer. Izuku froze, feeling the heat of Katsuki’s fingers on his skin.
“Stand up straight, you damn coward,” he growled as he smoothed the collar.
Then he let go and looked him over again.
“Fits. Try the other stuff.”
Izuku obeyed, tried on different combinations while Katsuki flipped through other clothes himself. Everything was dark, high-quality fabric-simple but modern.
When Izuku tried on a pair of fitted black pants and a thin turtleneck, Katsuki snorted and grinned.
“That almost looks like you belong somewhere.”
Izuku didn’t know if it was a compliment or not.
When they had finally decided on several outfits, Katsuki piled the clothes on the counter while Izuku slowly reached for his wallet.
But Katsuki just scoffed, already pulling out his black credit card and tossing it to the cashier.
“Deku, do you seriously think you’re paying for this?” His gaze was full of scorn. “You belong to me. So your damn wardrobe belongs to me too,” he said quietly to Izuku.
Izuku swallowed, his fingers tightening around his wallet.
He didn’t say anything.
The saleswoman scanned the clothes with professional detachment, packed everything carefully into large, plain shopping bags.
“Thank you for your purchase, Dynamight.”
Katsuki took the bags without another word and walked to the door.
Izuku followed. As always.
When they reached the car, Katsuki threw the bags in the back seat and turned to Izuku.
“Put that on,” he ordered, pointing to one of the simple combinations.
Izuku only nodded and obeyed.
When he was done, Katsuki leaned against the car, looked at him for a moment before speaking again.
“From now on, I want you to only wear these clothes.”
His gaze was sharp.
“The old stuff-I’ll throw it out. Got it?”
Izuku felt the heaviness in his chest, but he knew it was no use to argue.
“Got it, Kacchan.”
Katsuki grinned. Satisfied.
“Good. Then let’s go home.”
And without another word, he got in the car.
Izuku followed.
As always.
The car rolled smoothly into the underground garage beneath Katsuki’s apartment complex. The headlights slid over bare concrete walls and the clean lines of expensive vehicles. Katsuki pulled into his reserved space with precise, controlled movements-like finishing a mission.
A final, muted click as he turned off the ignition. The engine fell silent, and an almost oppressive stillness settled in the closed garage.
Izuku sat motionless in the passenger seat, his fingers clenched around the shopping bags’ handles. His new clothes felt foreign against his skin-too high-end, too smooth. Not his world. But now they were his. Or rather: they were Katsuki’s. And that meant Izuku wore them.
Katsuki got out first, the door closing with a soft thud. His footsteps echoed quietly on the concrete as he walked up the stairs to the apartment door without looking back. Izuku hurried after him, the bags in both hands.
The hallway felt longer than usual, but the keycard buzzed as Katsuki unlocked the door, and they were back in the space that felt more like a prison than a home.
Inside, the heavy door closed behind them with a final, hollow click.
Izuku knew they were back in Katsuki’s domain.
Every step, every sound belonged to him.
The silence was different than outside-here it was intentional, controlled, dictated by him.
Katsuki tossed the keys carelessly onto the sideboard and turned to Izuku as he placed the bags next to the couch, as neatly as possible.
Katsuki gave him a quick once-over, his red eyes gliding from head to toe as if checking that everything was in place.
Then he said curtly:
“Put on some sports socks.”
Izuku blinked briefly, but understood immediately. His eyes flicked to his legs, to the bandages still visible under the new pants when he moved or sat.
The white wrappings were a sign.
A flaw.
Something that might raise questions.
“Then the bandages won’t show.”
Katsuki’s voice was calm, but there was something in it.
A wordless command that left no room for discussion.
“And it’s clear that you won’t tell Kirishima anything.”
The words fell like a weight onto Izuku’s shoulders.
Not that he’d ever thought about it.
But Katsuki left no doubt what would happen if he did.
Izuku nodded.
“Understood, Kacchan.”
His voice was quiet but clear.
He immediately took off his shoes, stepped over to the wall cabinet where Katsuki kept his sports gear.
He found a pair of black athletic socks, thick enough to cover the bandages completely, and pulled them over his narrow feet.
They reached his calves, reliably hiding his ankles.
Katsuki watched him, arms crossed.
When Izuku finished, he stepped closer, gave him another look-over.
The posture, the clothes, the socks-everything fit.
To Katsuki.
“Good.”
The word was brief, accompanied by a nod.
“You’re my personal designer,” Katsuki finally said.
His voice sounded almost casual, but the sharpness in it was razor-thin.
“That’s why you’re here. If Kirishima asks, that’s what you tell him.”
His gaze narrowed.

Chapter Text

“You're working on new concepts for my branding. A rework for next year. That’s why you’re staying here.”
A thin smile—cold and calculating.
“That’s what he believes. Because it makes sense.”
Izuku nodded again.
“I… yeah. I understand.”
He knew Katsuki wouldn’t tolerate mistakes.
Not in this facade.
Not when Kirishima was involved.
A person who had always stood by Katsuki—and perhaps the only one he still respected.
Katsuki stepped closer, grabbed Izuku’s chin, forced him to lift his head.
His thumb brushed over Izuku’s lips—roughly enough to leave no doubt: this wasn’t affection.
A final test.
“You’re my Deku.”
The words were a statement, not a claim of ownership, but an irrefutable truth.
Then Katsuki let go of him, as if the conversation was over.
“Fix your hair.”
He turned and walked to the kitchen.
“And get your shit out. I want to see sketches before Kirishima shows up.”

Izuku exhaled slowly, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, and tried to organize his thoughts.
He was Katsuki’s designer.
This weekend.
For everyone else.
But to Katsuki himself, he had long since become more than that.
He knew.
And he accepted it.

The afternoon passed in an atmosphere both stifling and routine. Izuku sat at the large, heavy dining table in the living room, which Katsuki had cleared off for him—so neatly, it seemed the table had never been used for anything but work.
Before him were several sheets of high-quality sketch paper, fine markers, precise rulers, everything arranged with the kind of meticulousness Katsuki expected.
His hands moved calmly and methodically. The lines he drew were confident, his movements almost meditative. A new hero costume for Dynamight was beginning to take shape—an updated silhouette, angular and functional, with subtle armor on the shoulders and a more tapered waist.
The colors were darker than his current outfit: the black deeper, the orange richer.
A symbol of control. Of power.
Izuku was shading the metallic gauntlets when his hand trembled slightly. But he paused, inhaled deeply, and corrected the line as if nothing had happened.
Katsuki lay stretched out on the couch, one arm draped casually over the backrest. He still wore that simple shirt, clinging to his muscular frame, and loose dark pants that hung low on his hips.
In his other hand was his smartphone, his thumb lazily swiping across the screen.
Every now and then, he glanced up—throwing brief, assessing looks at Izuku’s work, but saying nothing.
His silence wasn’t negligence.
It was the kind of quiet that carried as much weight as any command.
Izuku felt it in every stroke.
Every sheet he filled was a test.

Minutes stretched into hours, and Izuku kept working in silence.
The sound of the pen against paper was the only thing audible in the vast room.
Even the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen seemed to hold its breath.
Then, suddenly, a sharp chime broke the stillness.
Not loud—but in this atmosphere, almost shrill.
Izuku’s hand froze, the pen hovering above the paper, as his heartbeat quickened for a moment.
Katsuki moved like he’d been expecting the sound.
He lowered the phone, stood without haste, and walked to the sideboard.
With a tap on the wall-mounted console, he activated the camera.
A live image appeared—crisp and clear.
Kirishima.

The redhead stood outside the door, his usual wide grin visible even through the lens.
He wore casual clothes, an open jacket over a black shirt, and waved casually into the camera.
“The idiot’s here,” Katsuki said, a mix of indifference and purpose in his tone.
He turned slightly toward Izuku, his gaze assessing.
“Get ready, Deku,” he grunted.
“You know what to say.”
His eyes lingered a moment longer on Izuku—searching for doubt—and found none.
Izuku merely nodded.
“I’m your designer. I’m working on your new concepts.”
Katsuki smirked faintly.
It wasn’t a friendly smile.
More like satisfaction—like he’d checked his property and found it intact.
“Good boy, Deku.”
He swiped across the display and unlocked the door.
A faint click was heard, followed by the low buzz of the door opener.
Katsuki walked to the door, his posture relaxed but ready.
Before opening it fully, he cast one last evaluative glance over his shoulder at Izuku.

Izuku now stood by the table, neatly dressed in fresh clothes, his socks carefully covering his bandages.
His hands lay calmly beside the drawings, arranged like a professional portfolio.
And his face bore nothing that would raise questions.
Only focus.
Only the mask of the designer.

Katsuki opened the door.
“Kirishima.”
The door swung wide, and the first thing that entered was the redhead’s bright voice:
“Ey, Bakugo! Man, it’s been forever! Thanks for having me!”
Izuku swallowed silently.
The game had begun.
And he knew—
He couldn’t afford a single mistake.

The door opened fully, and a breeze of cool air swept into the hallway, followed by the broad-shouldered presence of the man who had been waiting outside.
Eijiro Kirishima crossed the threshold with a carefree grin, his teeth flashing as he pushed the red-dyed strands from his forehead.
His build was just as impressive as Izuku remembered from the news—broad shoulders, strong arms, everything about him solid, befitting a hero named Red Riot.
Yet despite his intimidating physique, his aura was open, almost too friendly for someone known for unwavering resolve and uncompromising strength.
Izuku had only seen him on television, in newspapers, and viral clips of heroic rescues.
He had always been the radiant one—the warm one—a hero who made people feel safe.

Now he stood in the doorway, taller than Izuku had imagined, his boots squeaking faintly on the floor.
He raised a hand in greeting, fingers curling into a loose fist, like he was about to throw a playful punch.
But Katsuki blocked him before he could take another step.
“Tch. Invitation, my ass.”
Katsuki’s voice was rough, irritated in that casually brutal way Izuku had learned to interpret.
His lips curled into a mocking grin.
“You invited yourself, Shitty Hair.”

Kirishima laughed loudly, scratching the back of his head like he knew Katsuki was right.
“Ey, come on, Bakubro, you never invite me. Gotta take matters into my own hands if I wanna see you.”
Katsuki snorted and stepped aside, letting the bigger man enter.
“Well. You’re here now. Got company in the living room.”
Kirishima’s brows lifted, surprised but curious.
“Oh? Company? Who?”
His tone was genuinely interested, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Katsuki would let anyone else into his place.

Izuku heard every word as if he were standing beside them.
His heart beat faster, though his hands remained steady on the table.
He forced his breathing to stay even.
His eyes stayed on the drawings, but he heard Kirishima’s heavy, confident footsteps drawing closer—
And then, there he was.
Red Riot.
One of the greats.
A pro hero known for being unshakable, unbreakable.

Izuku stood slowly, turning to face him as calmly as he could.
His gaze was respectful, but he forced himself not to stare.
He had only known Kirishima from screens. But now he stood right in front of him—unaware of who Izuku really was.
Kirishima blinked once, then stepped closer, his smile warm and open.
“Oh! A guest! Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt!”
He held out his hand, and Izuku automatically reached out to shake it.
The grip was firm and warm—not painful, just honest.
“I’m Eijiro Kirishima,” he said with a grin, like that wasn’t obvious.
“Or Red Riot, if you only know me from TV.”

Izuku forced a small, polite smile.
“Midoriya Izuku. I’m…”
He glanced briefly at Katsuki, who leaned against the wall, arms crossed, observing.
“…the new designer for Dynamight. Working on his new concepts for next year.”
The words were calm, rehearsed.
They were true.
At least on the surface.

Kirishima nodded in approval, letting go of his hand.
“Oh, nice! Bakugo’s got an eye for detail—makes sense he’d bring someone like you on board.”
He laughed again, that same open, genuine laugh that felt strangely out of place in a home that smelled more of control and danger than of camaraderie.
“And he’s just got you set up here?”
He was curious, not suspicious.
Just surprised.
As if knowing Katsuki never let people get close.

Katsuki pushed off the wall, walking past them into the kitchen.
“Didn’t wanna deal with the nerd running back and forth all the time. More efficient this way.”
Kirishima grinned again, as if that explanation made perfect sense.
“Yeah, yeah! Sounds like you.”

Izuku exhaled slowly.
The game was fully underway.
And for the moment, it was going to plan.
But he knew:
It would take only a single slip—
And everything could fall apart.

Izuku stood at the large dining table, his hands resting calmly beside the neatly arranged sheets of sketches. The lines he had drawn still lay fresh on the paper—dark and precise. But his full attention was now on Kirishima, who stood across from him, grinning broadly and radiating an energy that was almost contagious. Almost.
Red Riot’s presence was even more overwhelming up close than Izuku had expected from the media. Solid, strong, upright—there was nothing artificial about his smile, nothing calculated in his gaze.
And it was exactly that openness that made Izuku nervous.
Because open people sometimes saw more than you wanted them to.

Kirishima’s hands rested casually on his hips, his eyes wandering from Izuku to the papers on the table. Then his face lit up even more, as if he had suddenly remembered something.
“Oh! Midoriya, right?” he said, his voice a little louder than the room's atmosphere really allowed. “Heard something about you!”
Izuku barely flinched. He hadn’t expected Kirishima to know his name—at least not connected to his work.
“Iida got his new branding from you, right?”
The words hung in the air.
Not accusatory, more admiring.
And yet Izuku felt like he had suddenly been shoved into a spotlight.

He forced himself to smile—practiced, professional.
The kind he wore in client meetings.
When things were normal.
When they happened outside these four walls.
“Yes,” he answered quietly, his voice controlled. “I worked on his rebranding last year. New logo, color concept, social media visuals. Most of it went live in spring.”
Kirishima nodded enthusiastically.
“Thought so! It looked really cool. Iida was super hyped. Kept going on about how smooth the whole process was.”
He patted Izuku on the shoulder, the gesture friendly, though his hand was heavy.
Izuku barely reacted.
He forced himself to stay still.
Not to tense up.

Kirishima’s easy warmth felt almost dangerous in this place.
Too at odds with the cold control Katsuki kept everywhere.
From the corner of his eye, Izuku saw him—
Katsuki was now leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, a glass of water in hand, watching them.
His gaze looked neutral.
At least on the surface.
But Izuku knew him well enough to sense what simmered behind those red eyes.
Calculation.
And maybe the faintest trace of possessiveness.

Izuku lowered his eyes slightly as he turned back to Kirishima.
“Thank you.”
The word came out honest, though it weighed on his tongue.
“Iida is… a great client. Very organized.”
Kirishima laughed at that.
“Yeah, that sounds like him.”
He dropped into the armchair without hesitation, tossing his jacket over the sofa back like he owned the place.
“And now you’re working for Dynamight. That’s pretty big, huh?”
His tone was friendly, not mocking.
But Izuku heard the implication:
How did you, of all people, end up here?

Katsuki spoke before Izuku had to.
“I need someone who knows what they’re doing. Who doesn’t mess around. And he had time.”
His voice was blunt, practical.
But there was something in he had time that sent a chill down Izuku’s spine.

Kirishima simply nodded.
Seemed satisfied with the answer.
No suspicion.
Just that unshakeable trust he had in his old friend.
“Then you’re in good hands, Midoriya.”
Another grin.
“If Bakugo lets you work on something, you’ve gotta be good.”
Izuku gave a faint smile.
“I hope so.”
His voice stayed calm, but his pulse quickened.
Because he knew:
Every passing second had to be flawless.
Because Kirishima was too kind.
Too observant.
And Katsuki was still watching him.
Closely.
Waiting.

“So,” Kirishima asked next, leaning forward to glance at the table, “what are you working on?”
Izuku exhaled slowly.
He showed him what he was supposed to show.
“A new costume for Dynamight. Modified armor pieces. Reduced weight, better mobility. Improved gauntlets for precision strikes.”
Kirishima let out a soft whistle.
“Damn. Sounds well thought-out.”
Then he shot a quick glance at Katsuki.
“You’re really letting him take over the design? Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Katsuki took a sip of water and set the glass down with a quiet clink.
“If it turns out crap, I can still fire him.”
A fleeting grin—meant everything and nothing.
Kirishima laughed.
“Classic.”

Izuku briefly looked down at his sketches.
The lines were clean.
Perfect.
Exactly as they needed to be.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
With Katsuki.

The room was bathed in warm light filtering in through the wide windows, reflecting off the spotless surfaces. The atmosphere felt almost relaxed—at least on the surface.
Kirishima sat casually in the armchair, his elbows resting on the sides like he belonged there.
Maybe he did.
To him, Katsuki was still just Bakugo—his longtime friend. Someone he had been through fire with.
One of the few people he thought he truly knew.

Izuku had returned to his place at the table, sitting straight, his hands resting on the sketchpad, his head slightly bowed.
But his gaze was sharp.
He was listening.
To everything.
Every shift in tone. Every subtle cue.
It was like an internal scanner that never stopped working, even while his hand idly held the pen.

Katsuki still stood at the kitchen island, his empty glass in front of him, his hands braced against the counter.
He looked relaxed, but it was the kind of ease that could snap into movement at any second.
His red eyes were calm, almost lazy as they studied Kirishima—
But Izuku knew better.
It was a predator’s calm.

Kirishima grinned, his voice casual, familiar.
“So, man… Bakubro. Number Two in the rankings this year.”
He whistled again, leaning forward as if offering praise directly.
“Feels like you’re even busier than before.”
He smirked.
“You still sleep? Or are you living in your damn office now?”

Izuku gave a fleeting glance to Katsuki.
He’d wondered the same thing.
When did Katsuki sleep?
Did he sleep?
In all the weeks Izuku had stayed here, he’d only seen him rest a handful of times—always after pushing himself past exhaustion.

Katsuki snorted, a low, rough sound that hovered between sarcasm and agreement.
“Sleep’s for people who can afford to screw up.”
He straightened, stepped slowly into the living room, and dropped into the armchair next to Kirishima, one arm slung lazily over the backrest.
“And I’ll get that Number One spot. Whether Mirio’s up there or not.”

His voice was steady—not loud, but heavy with weight.
A quiet threat wrapped in absolute certainty.
The way someone spoke who knew it was only a matter of time.

Kirishima laughed again, throwing his head back.
“Yeah, that sounds like you. Classic Bakugo.”
He looked over at him, his eyes warm but not blind.
“But Mirio’s the clear successor to All Might, right?”
His tone was curious, not provoking. A genuine question.
Maybe also testing the waters of Katsuki’s ambition.

Then, grinning, with a spark of challenge in his eyes:
“Or do you want the Number One spot too?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was dense.
Katsuki leaned back, his gaze fixed on a point in the room like he was actually considering the question.
But Izuku knew he wasn’t.
He’d had the answer for years.

Katsuki’s red eyes slid over to Kirishima.
The smile was barely there.
Cold.
Hungry.
Almost a promise.
“I want everything.”

The words were quiet.
Simple.
But they echoed.

Kirishima didn’t look surprised.
He laughed again, loud and honest, breaking the weight of the moment.
“Shit, man, you really haven’t changed.”
Then, with a nod of approval:
“But hey, if anyone can pull it off—it’s you.”

Katsuki shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
But Izuku knew better.
It mattered.
Everything mattered to him.

Izuku kept his eyes on the sketchpad, but his thoughts circled the conversation.
Katsuki would climb to the top. No matter the cost.
And he himself—
He was now part of that system.
A cog in Katsuki’s machine.

Did he want that?
He already knew.
Yes.

Kirishima leaned back again, folding his hands behind his head.
“Well, if you wanna be Number One, you’ll definitely need a designer.”
A playful glance toward Izuku.
“And Midoriya looks like he takes this job pretty damn seriously.”

Katsuki grinned.
A dark, approving grin.
“He knows what happens if he doesn’t.”

Izuku gave a small nod.
His hands stayed calm.
“I’m doing my best.”

Kirishima looked pleased.
At least for now.
But Izuku knew—the pressure was rising.
And Katsuki wouldn’t wait.

The atmosphere remained thick—yet on the surface, it seemed relaxed. At least to an outsider.
Kirishima sat deep in the armchair, his hands folded behind his head, as if he were simply enjoying the last few minutes of peace before heading back out into the chaos of hero life.
His broad, open grin hadn’t changed, even after the heavy exchange with Katsuki.

Izuku still sat at the large table, his sketch papers laid out precisely before him. His posture remained proper, his fingers still curled around the pen, even though he hadn’t added a single line in minutes.
His eyes were lowered, as if focused on the ink—but in truth, every word spoken in the room registered with the intensity of a silent alarm.

Katsuki sat in the other armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually over the back. In his other hand, the now almost empty glass.
His red eyes moved slowly, watching Kirishima with a predator’s patience.
Then Kirishima asked,
“So, Bakubro…”

His voice was easygoing—almost too easy.
“What’s the plan today? Just chill with Midoriya here, or…?”

A quick glance toward Izuku followed. It wasn’t judgmental. Just curious.
He was trying to keep the mood light, as if this whole setup—Katsuki with a live-in designer—was something perfectly ordinary.
But the question hung in the air.

For a moment, no one answered.
Only the hum of the refrigerator could be heard, a faint, almost exaggerated sound in the silence.
Then Katsuki placed his glass down on the side table. The dull clack echoed louder than it should have.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and his gaze sharpened.

“Depends.”
His voice was rough, like always.
“What’d you have in mind? Booze? Training? Getting nostalgic?”

There was a flicker in his red eyes—not quite hostile, but definitely not soft.
More like a challenge.
Kirishima laughed, louder now. That deep, open laugh everyone knew from his interviews.

“Ey, you know what?” he said, his grin wide. “I figured we’d knock some sense into each other again. Training. Just like old times.”