Chapter Text
Overhaul is a simple man, that is a fact of life all his subordinates must know. He has simple desires and even far simpler distastes. The world, its impurity, quirks and heroes and a society that has become reliant on things so wrong, it is only that which he cannot stand.
When he comes across a young boy - plain, unassuming, energetic but able to control it, with a head always bowed, eyes never leaving his bright red shoes - Overhaul hardly spares him a glance, really. That is, until he recognizes those shoes and what they mean.
Now, Overhaul has always known of the quirkless. Sad things that they are, they should be the peak of society, will be the peak of society once he has remodeled it. And yet, they are not, and the quirkless that Overhaul has run into - pitiful, sad, tainted - Overhaul would never dare to even touch.
The quirkless have few means of survival. Begging for scraps on the streets, theft, selling themselves off to whatever quirked person would dare place their hands on them. Mutants, heroes, villains, it never mattered, that is a fact most of society knows.
The quirkless will do anything to survive. That is not something Overhaul is willing to overlook.
They are tainted, willingly tainting themselves.
But Overhaul, in all his years, has never seen a quirkless child.
And children are notoriously innocent.
Untainted.
Izuku doesn’t remember what happened. He makes sure to stay away from strangers, to avoid people in general, really, and always get home on time.
His mother's adamant about that, that he get home before the sun set, and he always does.
(It's not like he has anything else to do. Out in the world, there are only bullies and perf quirked and mutants that would only ever put him down because there was no one else below them. His shoes give him away to anyone that dares to look, and he knows what they mean. To him and to them.)
He always goes home right after school (if he isn’t getting beaten by Kacchan and his lackeys, or upperclassmen who want to ”have a go, but we’ll wait for the rest when you’re a bit older. Get over all your crying by then, would you? I don’t want you slobbering all over my-”)
Izuku’s always careful and races home as fast as his small body will take him.
So, really, he doesn’t know what he did wrong to wake up disoriented and confused, very clearly not in his home, and in a bed far too clean. The edges are crisp and tucked in too tightly to be comfortable, with sheets over-washed and scratchy and a pillow too dense under his head.
The room’s bare, boring, and Izuku knows he should be scared, and he is, but he’s also curious.
Curiosity killed the cat, his mom always says that.
He knows it’s because he’s too curious for his own good, getting too close to hero fights, asking too many questions about people's quirks, being too annoying and too attentive and seeing too much and people don’t like that, please be careful, sweetie.
He is careful, he is, but he wants to know things. He wants to know how they work, why things happen, wants to know where he is and if he can open that door and see.
He slips out of the bed - a struggle, really, he’s far too skinny and weak and it feels like it’s been ironed and stretched and tucked as tight as the fabric will allow - and drops himself down onto the cold stone floor. He’s barefoot, the cold almost too cold, burning the soles of his feet. And he’s not in his school uniform; he’s in something he’s seen in TV shows, the gowns they wear at hospitals.
The breeze travels up his legs and he closes them. Immediately.
Where is his underwear?!
Face hot and burning, knees pressed tightly together, he turns to the door.
His bag’s gone, there’s nothing else in the room other than the bed, and he wonders if he should stay in case someone brings a change of clothes. Maybe this is a hospital. A weird, sketchy one, but a hospital nonetheless.
Maybe it’s one of those quirkless hospitals! He’s heard of those, seen them on the forums, where people tell him that there are places he can go if he gets hurt too badly.
He doesn’t think Kacchan’s burns count, but he almost went to look for one, once.
Before he can really decide, too stuck in his head, one hand crossed over his chest, the other pinching his lip, the door opens.
It's silent in its swing, the hinges well cared for. He almost misses it.
He does not, however, miss the shadow cast over him.
Looking up, there’s a man. He’s big, scary, with a medical mask on his face and severe looking eyes.
He looks at Izuku like he’s a test subject, a specimen to be analyzed.
Suddenly, Izuku feels all the more bare, like the man can see everything that he is: naked underneath the gown and the curious fear in his eyes.
“You’re awake,” he says, and Izuku gulps, throat and chest tight as he tries not to breathe too loud.
Later, when the door closes and he’s left with a bowl of soup and told that someone will come by to clean you later, he’ll realize that he never said anything.
He also didn’t try to run.
The young boy - Izuku Midoriya, he learns the name when he sees his mother on the news, frantic and terrified for her child but clearly all alone - is small. Young.
Innocent.
He’s eleven. He knows this already but he asks the boy anyway, asks as he dunks him in too hot water that has a hint of bleach.
The boy sputters and cries and his skin reddens with each swipe of the brush. He begs for answers and each time he asks something, Overhaul just dunks his head. Again, and again, and again.
By the end, he’s a wet mess, skin bright red and burning, eyes squinted from the chemicals and bright red streaks burn of his skin where Overhaul had pressed the brush down a bit too hard.
His back, his front, his legs, his thighs, inner thighs, especially. Soft, sensitive skin that Overhaul needs to make sure is clean. Is perfect.
If he’s going to touch it, he needs to know that it will be pure and clean and untainted.
The kid’s eyes go vacant partway through, and while he continues to cry from the pain and the confusion, he doesn’t ask questions.
He’s malleable, pliant, even, and Overhaul fights the smirk off his face.
(Something coils in him, shooting low and hot with a rush of blood and want and need- but not yet. Soon, but not yet.)
He cleans thoroughly, with soap and bleach-water and his brush, and other things as well.
When he spreads the boy’s legs, however, he gets a response.
“No!” The boy shrieks, eyes going wide, a spark in them he’d lost, face blanching even underneath all the rubbed-redness of his cheeks (cleancleanclean, he needs to be clean-)
Overhaul will not have it.
He flips the child (he’s small, so, so small, and Overhaul’s hands encircle his entire ankle, almost his entire thigh, but there’s some meat there, some give of fat and muscle.) The boy sputters, inhaling water - he can fix that later - as Overhaul exposes him to the cold air. Thin arms bang against the sides of the bathtub as the boy struggles to lift his head above the water, convulsing and gasping for a breath. His words are a garbled, wailing mess that Overhaul ignores.
He needs everything to be clean.
The first time Izuku thinks he’s going to die, it’s after that, that-
He’d rather not think about it. His skin felt stripped clean of it’s first layer, torn and bloody where the rough bristles of the brush had dug in too deep (everywhere, it was everywhere, really, and nothing he said stopped it, nothing he did, he was so weak, so useless, he was-)
No, no, he doesn’t want to think about it, he-
He’d been burning, with bleach and soap and everything in between, and he’d thought the man - not a doctor, not a hospital and not a doctor - might listen, if he was polite and nice and- and then he’d begged and pleaded and burned.
And then the man forced himself between his legs and Izuku had never felt so violated.
Scream if anyone touches you there, that’s what his mother had told him, scream.
He tried, he did try, if anyone asks. He screamed and drowned and inhaled bleach and felt hands touching places they weren’t supposed to touch. He thrashed and he fought as those gloved hands held him by his legs and spread him apart and touched everything as if he owned it.
He thought he was going to die.
Bleach in his skin, his cuts, his eyes, his lungs, his- his-
I’m going to die, is the only coherent thought he has, between everything being muted and burning and the strange feeling of not being there at all.
And he welcomes it. A part of him feels bad, a part of him hopes his mom lets go and continues on, maybe finds another husband and has another kid and forgets about her little, useless Izuku.
So, he closes his eyes and feels himself take in a searing, burning, painful breath.
And then a hand, bare, unlike the gloves that had manhandled him so roughly, touches his skin.
And something happens that is much, much worse.
(Lesson One: Screaming doesn’t help.)
Overhaul takes his time. First step was done: the cleaning, a simple, rough thing (and then he had to overhaul him. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit too rough, but the boy would learn. Next time, the boy would learn-) and he can move on.
The boy’s compliant but scared, trembling as Overhaul walks him (don’t make me drag you, Boy-) to a different place later that same week.
When the child sees the table, he freezes, joints locking in place and eyes impossibly wide.
The image sets a fire low in his gut, stirring something that Overhaul holds back.
For now.
Gruffly, he forces the kid onto the table. And he goes, scared and trembling so badly his knees knock, but, with a push, he lays on the table.
He stares up at him with those big green eyes, tears shining and wetting his dark lashes, small mouth parted. In a plea, in a prayer, Overhaul isn’t certain.
But Overhaul is his God now, and the only prayers he will adhere to are ones from obedient, pliant, willing disciples.
This quirkless child is not yet one.
So, he takes him apart. He starts slow and works in silence, scalpel in gloved hand as he peels back the skin of his arms, legs, chest.
He hears whimpers, sobs, little gasps of pain and shock followed by a leg jerk or two.
He’s surprised the child isn’t wailing or screaming. He peaks up a few times, seeing eyes tightly shut, silent tears rolling down his temples and into his hair, teeth pressing deep, red lines into his soft lip. Nose scrunched in pain as he digs blunt fingernails into the hard table below.
And yet, he doesn’t scream.
Smiling (aching, burning, and quite, quite pleased), Overhaul continues.
He decides that he may continue until the boy breaks, or, perhaps, to confirm that he already has.
By the time he’s opening up the boy's chest, blood staining too-pale skin and traveling far up his own arms, he can’t keep the smile off his face.
He wonders if the boy can see it, in the scrunch of his eyes, in the heat of his cheeks as he prods and measures and weighs and looks into everything that the boy is, scraping bone samples and taking more and more blood.
When he looks at the boy’s face, his eyes are open. Unseeing, dull green stares up at the ceiling. He can’t tell if the boy is breathing or when he might have stopped, but still he stares.
The boy’s plain, yes, but he’s not bad to look at. Soft, round edges, freckles - a blemish, perhaps, but the only one on his perfect, quirkless skin - and wide eyes quick to grow wet.
And still, the boy never screamed.
So, he puts him back together and calls it a day.
Izuku wanders when he can. His room is small - ten paces on the northern wall, seven paces on the western, ten paces on the southern. On the eastern wall, two paces to the bed, five up it, three along its front, five down it, and two paces back to the northern wall - and unbearable, all gray and stone and white, bed sheets always ready and tight.
His feet are always cold, he’s always cold. But he’s gotten used to it, he thinks, though his toes sometimes look a little too blue and his fingers ache from the chill, but he hasn’t complained.
(Lesson Two: Don’t complain.)
He knows what will happen if he does something wrong, something Overhaul doesn’t like.
The feeling of tearing apart, of one's very essence being ripped to shreds. Of tendons and muscles and bones stretching and bending and pulling apart to become a splatter of red on the ground. Of coming back together and feeling far too small and far too big and far too wrong. Of feeling like tendons and muscles and bones and body aren’t your own, don’t work quite right anymore, but you aren’t entirely sure as to why.
(Lesson Three: Obey Overhaul.)
There isn’t much to do, but he doesn’t mention it.
When Overhaul comes by again (he visits, sometimes. He’s strapped Izuku to the table twice more and has cleaned him more than that, excessively so. But he's been good. He's quiet. He lets Overhaul clean where he wants and Overhaul thanks him by not using bleach, just soap. And when Overhaul goes between his legs, Izuku lets him, and when Overhaul tells him to turn around, Izuku does. And now, when Overhaul brings him back to his little room, Izuku may be rubbed raw but he doesn't bleed, and if he does, it isn't nearly as bad as the first time. He's whole and it's enough,) Izuku stands to greet him.
(Lesson Four: Always greet Overhaul.)
He sees the corner of the man’s eye crinkle.
Izuku is not fooled into thinking it is a smile. It is a smirk, that of a predator, and it just makes him feel cold (he’s always cold, so cold. His insides, his chest, his fingers and his toes and heart. Clenched tight and cold. Muted and gone.)
Overhaul takes a turn Izuku isn’t expecting and for the first time in a long while - how long has he been here? He doesn’t know. Days pass and there’s no way for him to count, between getting overhauled and passing out for who knows how long. He never bothered trying to count - he feels something akin to fear lock up his chest.
It’s tight, it’s suffocating, and he hesitates in his next step.
Overhaul notices.
The man pauses and looks over his shoulder and Izuku can’t. breathe.
(Lesson Three: Obey Overhaul.)
They keep walking.
Overhaul takes them to a different room. This has a different bed, sheets white but they don’t look as scratchy. Not as tightly pressed to the bed by a meticulous hand. And there’s a cover, too, a dark blanket draped atop it. And pillows, more than one, that look soft and welcoming.
There’s a bathroom, too. He can see it, and while it doesn’t have a door, just an archway that connects the two rooms, Izuku doesn’t mind.
There isn’t much else but Izuku doesn’t need anything else. He’d been in the other room with far less.
And so, with a little command from Overhaul to head towards his new bed, he does.
Overhaul had done all his tests, had checked every crevice of the boy, had taken sample after sample and analyzed them underneath a microscope and found one fact that he’s cross referenced over and over, pondering it through many sleepless nights:
The boy is untainted.
His Perfect Little Thing is everything he hoped it to be, everything he didn’t know he needed.
He watches how his Perfect Little Thing sits atop the bed. He’s hesitant, small and skinny and pale, with small hands that press lightly against it, testing how soft it is, the give of the springs, the texture of the blanket. He even touches the pillows, soft mouth parted in awe at the give they have.
Overhaul had bought them himself; he only wanted the best for this room. He deserved the best, his Perfect Little Thing.
As he watches, his Perfect Little Thing practically splays itself across the bed. Not quite, but he can’t help it. The poor excuse of a gown rides up his legs. Pale, thin things that Overhaul knows he could break with a twist of his wrist but does he know, truly? No, not yet, but something in him, something twisted and cruel that tugs his face into a smirk, that makes his chest tight with need, wonders. Wonders if he's right, wonders what else he can try, knows that he can and will and needs to. He wants to touch, to hold, to own-. The gown rides up those thick thighs, the frayed bottom of the gown lightly dragging across the smooth, unblemished skin.
For how long he’s kept the boy, not yet a year, just a few months, he hasn’t given him a different gown.
His Perfect Little Thing had asked, once, though it was more of a confused little, will I get another one? and he had let the complaint slide.
Just that once.
He’d grabbed the boy by the baby fat of his cheeks, squeezed together in one hand until his pink lips were smushed and pursed, looking foolish and dumb and scared. He stared up at him, eyes wide and lashes wet, and Overhaul felt the tremble in his little jaw. He felt the bones creak, too, as he’d squeezed a little harder, and watched how the young thing winced, flinching but unable to pull away.
“You will accept what I give you,” he told him, and the boy, chest heaving with too-quick breaths, nodded, and Overhaul deemed that he needn't do more than that.
The gown is fraying. It’s grown thinner, weaker with each time Overhaul has had to fix it. Cleaned from blood, bleach, all manner of stains he didn’t want his Perfect Little Thing walking around with.
And with it, it’s stretched. The collar falls down far too low and the sleeves are hardly even there anymore - he wonders if the boy tore them off, but he decides he could let the boy have that, too - and with every timid sweep across the bed as his Perfect Little Thing touches his blanket, Overhaul gets a flash of a pretty pink nipple on pale, freckled skin, untouched and hard in the cold of the room.
(He keeps the rooms cold. Not too cold, but cold enough, and every time he picked the boy up from his little room, he could see those little nipples poking out from under his thin gown, hard and present. The boy had long grown used to him, though, and stopped bothering to cover them long, long ago.)
When Chisaki walks up to the edge of the bed, his Perfect Little Thing hardly acknowledges him. He presses those small hands into the pillow, a different one, this time, eyes alight at the give.
And then he moves and shifts to face the pillow, and the gown rides up-
-and up and up and up-
Chisaki has seen the boy naked an innumerable amount of times. Has strapped him to the table gownless, cold in the open air, arms and legs spread in whatever direction he pleased (nipples always so perky. He itched to bite and claim and own). And he’s bathed him, too, harshly and without pause. The boy had grown used to it enough that he knew when to turn, when to reveal himself.
He no longer flinches at Chisaki’s prodding when he cleans every crevice there is to be cleaned on his perfect, smooth skin.
But in this bed, Chisaki watches the gown rise and show that smooth, round, clean ass, and his Pretty Little Thing bends a knee, crawling a little away from him, the front of the gown falling to the bed so Chisaki can see everything.
That ever-present heat, coiling and writhing, crawls through him, settling low in his gut.
His Perfect Little Thing.
He reaches, a touch so soft that it has the little thing pausing, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, blinking up at him through those thick, dark lashes.
“Overhaul?” He asks, soft lips parting in question as Chisaki wraps his hand around his ankle, fingers touching.
He's small. He's innocence. He is the embodiment of perfection and he is His.
And then he pulls and his Perfect Little Thing yelps, a shocked, strangled thing as he’s dragged to the end of the bed.
He stares, eyes wide and fearful as Chisaki towers over him, so small Chisaki feels like he could snap the boy in half.
He wouldn’t, though. And if he did, he would just fix him.
He grabs his Perfect Little Thing by his chin, holding tight enough that the boy couldn’t possibly look away if he tried, and as he crawls onto the bed, overshadowing the small boy and settling himself between those bare thighs, he whispers,
“Call me Chisaki.”
Chisaki finds that no matter how often he takes his Pretty Little Thing, spreads his legs wide and pleasures himself through cries and screams - he’s screaming again, how odd. And while Chisaki used to not like it, he likes the tears, likes biting salty cheeks and drinking the misery on his Pretty Little Things face, twitching inside of him with each fearful clench - it’s never as good as that first time.
The first time, when his Pretty Little Thing looked at him with a fear he hadn’t seen since the first month. When he’d pressed against his chest, weak, pitifully, and begged with a stream of nononono, so tight it almost hurt.
He clenched around Chisaki, the movement eased by spit and blood and little else. He’d screamed and begged with garbled, choked words while Chisaki had crushed the little thing beneath him. Had taken him in every way he’d desired. Had stuffed his fingers in his mouth and pinched that pretty, pink tongue, shoving his fingers down his little throat until he’d drooled and gagged, and fucked him for as long as he liked. Even after expelling his load, even after covering his Pretty Little Thing in blooming red, sucking that perfect, smooth skin and biting his chest. Even after his little thing had passed out from the pain of it all (oh, but it was not just pain. There was pleasure, too. Chisaki made sure of it. He had explored the boy’s every crevice, after all. He could find his prostate with precision, knew how sensitive his little chest was, especially in the cold. Knew how to stroke and tease and make his Pretty Little Thing enjoy it, even when he’d plead for him to stop. No, Chisaki was not going to stop; he could never stop,) he took his fill and kept taking.
His Pretty Little Thing bloomed beneath him, blushing down to his nipples, little cock leaking as he’d fucking into him, pale, smooth legs bouncing with each thrust, thin ankles on his shoulders or held above him in one hand, pressing his knees to his chest or holding his ankles above his head, finding angles that make his Pretty Little Thing scream (wailing, sobbing, music to his ears that, had anyone else done it, Chisaki would have dealt with promptly. But when he sees his Pretty Little Thing with tears in those big eyes, pink lips wet and swollen, open in a permanent gasp, cries punched out of him with every thrust, Chisaki finds that heat swell in him, darker and deeper, coiling in his gut in ways it never has before with each little cry his little thing gives. Every time he cried out that he was 'too big, I'm too small, pleasepleaseplease,' it just makes him go harder.)
The begging only makes him want more.
And he can have it; he can take it. It's his to take and there's nothing his Pretty Little Thing can do to stop him.
But the one thing he truly wants, he can’t have.
He takes him again; of course he does. He tries new things, makes lubricant from the boy’s own body, straps him to the table and extracts what he wants because nothing should taint his Pretty Little Thing, nothing, and he can’t taint himself.
He takes every first the boy has to offer until there are none left. He fucks him in the bathroom, against the wall, in the bed and the bed and the bed. In the shower and the bathtub and against the sink and the door and in the archway.
The boy is so small, so weak, and no matter how often he beats against Chisaki’s chest, no matter how much he cries, with snot and tears and drool staining the sheets below, Chisaki never stops.
(He takes everything. And if something tears because Chisaki’s gotten excited, putting everything he can into his Pretty Little Thing, using him in ways he’d never dreamed of using anyone else, bending him into different angles, pressing him tight against every surface, holding him down by his neck, his back, his legs, squeezing those milky thighs, cries turning to screams turning to wails turning to broken, pained whimpers, Chisaki knows he can just fix him. Can put him back together like a gift to himself, perfect and waiting once again.)
But when Chisaki takes his last first of the boy (his throat, so wet, so warm, and sure, there’s snot but there’s drool, and the boy is nothing but pure and clean, so he will accept a little mess from his Pretty Little Thing, because when he says ‘swallow,’ his Pretty Little Thing obeys. Always,) when he takes that final thing, he feels something he hasn’t in a long time:
Bored.
But he can’t be, not with the perfect thing lying in that bed, waiting for Chisaki to take him at any point in the day (perhaps he could fuck him in front of someone. But no, then they would see his Pretty Little Thing and that boy is his and no one else’s. Maybe he could string him up, but it would be the same. That’s the problem.) He’s done everything. Everything he could think of, everything he’d ever dreamed of doing to the boy, he’s done.
And that body has become used. By him, of course, and he made sure it hadn’t been used by anyone else, but even with his quirk, Chisaki can’t rewind time. He can’t turn his Pretty Little Thing back into that tiny, untainted quirkless perfection he’d grabbed all those years ago.
Regardless of what he might like, his little thing will grow, will remain tainted by his own hand, and Chisaki can do nothing to stop it.
And then Eri comes along.
At first, Chisaki thinks it’s too good to be true, but there’s Eri, and when she, in a crying fit, rewinds an apple back into a flower, Chisaki feels something stir within him. Something dark and dangerous. All he can picture is the perfect little body, pale and untainted without a blemish to be seen, not even a hint of any of the marks Chisaki has laid upon that small body, and Chisaki burns.
(Lesson One: Screaming doesn’t help you’re allowed to do it now)
(Lesson Two: Don’t complain begging doesn’t count, but it doesn’t do anything)
(Lesson Three: Obey Overhaul Chisaki)
(Lesson Four: Always greet Overhaul Chisaki)
(Lesson Five: Always Call Overhaul Chisaki)
(Lesson Six: You can’t fight it)
(Lesson Seven: Always clean up)
(Lesson Eight: He won’t let you die.)
Izuku notices right away when Chisaki doesn’t come by. He always comes by, the intervals are never long you always pass out, you don’t know how long you lay there before he comes back in and he hasn’t been by, even when he was asleep.
He would know does know, did know. Has woken up to aching muscles and red nipples and bruises on his thighs. More often than he'd like, he wakes up with the feeling of something he doesn’t want to think about, dripping out of him, slowly, getting into the sheets. Something he’d have to clean out, unless Chisaki wanted him to leave it there, but he wouldn’t know. So he’d laid there, tired and confused, limbs feeling like static as he stared at the ceiling, waiting for Chisaki to return. When he had, he’d learned that he was supposed to clean up.
Oops.
(Lesson Seven: Always clean up.)
He doesn’t remember what he used to feel like, not anymore. He feels used, violated, and his dreams are tainted with the feeling of hands and cock and tongue. Of mouths biting and sucking and scrapping, and it feels real, always feels so real that he jolts awake, expecting to see Chisaki there, looming over him, mouth on his chest and hand between his legs, one of his own knees thrown over Chisaki’s shoulder (sometimes he is there, looming and smiling. Sometimes he’s prepping him - a nicety because Chisaki doesn’t always want to prep him. Doesn’t always use his fingers, doesn’t always want to go up to more than two before deciding that it’s enough. He likes the tightness, he'd said, teeth teasing his nipple, always biting too hard as if he couldn't quite help himself. He likes the face he makes when he goes in too early or too dry, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it - and sometimes he’s already in him, thrusting until the bed’s hitting the back wall and his body’s jolting with each movement, mouth already open in a gasp, lips swollen from things he vaguely remembers in a dream.)
His body isn’t his own anymore, too often undone, too often touched, too often used, and he just lays in bed. Lays there all day, looking at the ceiling (the northern wall is fifteen paces, the eastern has five paces, then the portal to the bathroom - which is two paces - and then five more paces. The southern wall has four paces, then the desk, which is three paces across he’d been fucked on it three times, all differently. Chisaki hasn’t dragged him to it since and then eight paces to the western wall.
(He doesn’t walk the western wall; he avoids the bed. He knows it’s bigger than he last but he doesn’t know by how much.
(He doesn’t want to.)
Perhaps Chisaki’s grown bored with him, gotten his fill. Maybe he’ll let him go.
Maybe he’ll kill him.
The thought makes Izuku smile. It doesn’t feel right, not on his face, and he isn’t sure if it really is a smile anymore. Perhaps it’s just a smirk or a tug of his lip. He doesn’t go to the bathroom to check; he doesn’t want to know.
And then the door opens.
Izuku just blinks, the world a muted haze. He hears Chisaki approach - it’s only ever Chisaki - and he knows what the man wants (Lesson Four: Always Greet Chisaki-) but he can’t bring himself to react.
He can’t make himself move, his body having long since not been his own.
Chisaki, however, doesn’t seem to get angry. He sighs, and Izuku can see his beak mask - he doesn’t wear that, not to this room - shake in his peripheral.
“I have a surprise for you.”
Chisaki’s last surprise was the desk, he’d rather not get another one.
But still, with a hand firmly wrapped around his upper arm, fingers touching (it feels different, though. Is he growing? Has he gotten bigger? He wonders if Chisaki’s hands would still touch when he grabs his waist. He hopes not-) he’s dragged up to stand.
His feet touch the cold floor, stinging, but he doesn’t flinch, just lets himself be dragged out of the room.
It’s been a long time since Chisaki’s strapped him to that table. He’s not certain he misses it but it’s better than the boredom of the room (fifteen paces on the northern wall, the eastern wall has five paces-)
He pauses when Chisaki opens a door.
The walk didn’t feel as long as it typically is but everything’s muted, muffled, and time doesn’t feel very relevant anyway.
“This is Eri.”
Chisaki doesn’t call him by name, or any name at all. The only thing he hears anymore other than boy is thing. His Pretty Little Thing, words whispered into his skin or his hair as he takestakestakes.
So, he’s confused, but then he hears a little gasp and looks up from the ground.
It’s a girl. A little girl with long pale hair and big red eyes.
And a horn on her head, like a unicorn only not quite that center.
A child.
At first, a chill of fear shoots through him, gripping him by the heart because there’s a little girl in Chisaki’s compound and he knows, he knows what happens when-
But, no, because she has a horn, so she has a quirk of some kind and Chisaki would never touch someone that has a quirk. So then why was he here? Why were either of them here?
“I will come back later.”
He’s shoved into the room.
It’s not as cold as he’s used to, though the stone floor still hurts.
As he stumbles in, the door slamming behind him, the young girl - Eri - steps back. Her eyes are wide, somewhat fearful but curious.
Curiosity killed the cat. (What's the rest of the saying? 'But satisfaction brought it back'? Izuku knows the cat can be brought back, but in his experience - which is far from limited - he's never breathed again thanks to satisfaction. Greed, possessiveness, power and want, yes, which, perhaps that is satisfaction, but it most certainly is never his own.)
He looks around.
The room is similar to his old one, only she has a bathroom (he’d had to ask, every time he’d had to ask, and if he couldn’t hold it long enough, he was punished with one of those baths. He learned, he learned-) and a little bookshelf by her bed. The bed is smaller than the one he had, but, then again, she’s much younger than he’d been when he’d been taken here.
(How old is he now, he wonders. He never asks.)
“H-hello,” she says, soft and shy. He blinks at her, body still tingling, but she just waits. Just watches.
“Hello.”
“I’m Eri.”
“I know.”
They stare at each other, again. He can’t find it in himself to really be bothered by it too much.
“W-what’s your name?”
He blinks. And then he breathes. And it’s a clean breath, a full breath. His skin tingles, his face buzzes, and he feels something, something he hasn't felt in a long time, as if the haze that had shrouded his very being for far too long lifts, if only a centimeter, and beneath that curtain he can see something he'd never dream of touching.
He feels alive. It hurts to experience, aches something deep in the recess of his body where he'd lost that feeling, where he can only faintly touch it as he finally sees this little girl for who she is, sees her as a person looking up at him rather than as another thing in his day-to-day life.
She’s a young girl. She’s barefoot, like he is, and scared, like he was. His throat goes tight with it all (it's too much too soon and he'd rather bury himself under all his blankets than deal with all this for too much longer.)
She’s young and hopeful and looking at him, to him, and he's sinking underneath it. He's buzzing above it.
It's too much too sudden but he can manage. If he looks at her, focuses on her and not the wave of emotions lapping at his heels, the thoughts he's pushed away for who knows how many months, then he'll be fine.
When he swallows, it’s thick and something pricks at the corner of his eyes. “I’m Izuku.”
“Izu…?”
He smiles. This one feels more normal, feels correct according to muscles he’d long since lost (it's not hard to force, not for her). “You can call me Izu.”
She looks at him for a moment longer, and then she smiles herself. It’s awkward on her face, doesn’t look exactly like the smiles he remembers his mom giving him, and he wonders if that’s his fault.
But he’ll take it; she has a light in her eyes that looks like the one he’d let die, and he knows he’ll protect her if it’s the last thing he does.
Chisaki takes Izuku to see Eri every now and then. He isn’t sure why, not for a long while, but then one day as he’s being taken out, they pick Eri up from her room.
And then they keep walking.
He knows where they’re going, he knows quite well. Eri, terrified but not as confused as he wishes she were, grabs his hand and squeezes. Tight.
He squeezes back.
He watches as she gets strapped to the table like he had been many times before, and he’s never felt so useless (even underneath Chisaki, even beating his too small, too weak fists against his broad chest, shaking and trembling and tired of being suffocated underneath a weight he can't hold, large body pressing him into bed-desk-sink-floor, he'd never felt so weak, so useless.)
Later, when they’ve dropped Eri off - she looks traumatized, looks broken, and she holds his hand on the way but not nearly as tightly - Chisaki talks to him as they walk back to his own.
“Do you know what her quirk is?”
Izuku stays silent for a short moment, unsure of if this is some sort of test he’s about to fail. But he knows the worst that could happen, so he answers, “no.” It had been a bright light, Chisaki's eyes had shined in the way they do when he gets excited, and that was all. It wasn't a lot to go on.
“She can rewind time.”
Izuku doesn’t know what to make of that, so, he doesn’t respond.
“I want you to help her train it.”
That pulls the floor right out from under him.
Chisaki gives Izuku whatever he asks for to train Eri. Food so she doesn’t overwork her quirk too much and can reenergize if she does, and plants.
He wants to use plants to help her get control of it.
Izuku learns to stay at a bit of a distance when, after getting frustrated and upset, she accidentally rewinds a moment of his own time. It had tingled across his skin and he'd been quick to step out of the reach of her quirk, calming her down from a distance. It’s weird. He feels… younger, though he’s certain it’s not by much. Not a year, perhaps a few months. Over time, it works. Eri gets better and every time she rewinds a dying plant back to green and stops it there, she smiles brighter and brighter his way.
It makes his chest ache as he praises her and reads her a bedtime story before Chisaki comes for him.
Before long, Eri has good control of her quirk.
He just wishes he’d have asked why.
“Can she control it?” Chisaki asks one day as they’re walking back to Eri’s room.
Izuku nods, “She’s doing great.”
“Can she control how far back she goes.”
“She can. She’s very careful about it.”
The air grows charged when he says that, though he doesn’t know why. But then they’re shoving into Eri’s room and Eri eeps at the intrusion.
And then, with a sinking heart and a tightness in his throat, Izuku notices how Chisaki doesn’t leave.
“Eri,” he says, and she looks up at him with wide, scared eyes, “I want you to rewind Izuku by eleven months.”
Eri pauses at that and looks at Izuku, head tilting cutely to the side.
Izuku can’t breathe.
His Perfect Little Thing is back. He’s… younger. Definitely eleven again (eleven! Small and pure and untouched by anyone! Again!) but perhaps a few months younger than when Chisaki had first picked him up?
No matter, it’s all the same to him.
He drags the boy back to his room once she’s done, not waiting for her to ask any questions as he races back.
There’s no time to waste.
His little thing is still paralyzed, but no doubt he knows what has happened.
Chisaki is already prepared for it.
When he throws the boy onto the bed, he bounces, smaller than he’d been moments ago, and Chisaki can see it. The baby fat of his cheeks is back in full force, eyes wider than ones he’d looked into earlier that day, bigger than they’d been in months.
He’s so small it’s reminiscent of when he’d first come across the boy, small enough to break, pale but with freckles still prominent, as if he’d been out in the sun more recently than months prior.
He’s staring up at Chisaki with those pretty pink lips that are no longer bitten raw. He’s sitting there, legs already spread (not that he knows it, no, but he’d long since trained the boy out of keeping his knees closed) and chest heaving.
The low cut of his gown (old, fraying, he’d stopped wearing it for a time but put it back on to see Eri) shows the pale expanse of his chest. Saliva pools in the bottom of Chisaki’s mouth at it, seeing no evidence of him on the boy.
Untouched. Pure. Untainted.
Chisaki doesn’t know how long he’s been fucking the boy, his Pretty Little Thing. The small pucker of his ass is red, the rim raw and used and gaping, clenching around his two fingers but already having been used to more.
The boy’s a mess beneath him. There’s drool across his cheek, smeared on the sheets below - they’ll need to be replacing the sheets again, he notes - alongside snot and tears.
It’s been all too long and Chisaki is ravenous.
He pinches a reddened nipple, watching how the little thing arches, a strained sound pulled from his throat, choked off.
He’d already screamed so much, voice raw and strained, little mouth still open and gasping.
He strokes his prostate, watching with keen eyes how he pants, little ah, ah, ahn’s, leaving his mouth even if he might not want them to. He's glistening, pale freckled skin covered in a sheen of sweat that makes him look ethereal, makes him look like a treat, laid bare for Chisaki and Chisaki alone.
Chisaki swallows, licking his lips at the sight. Heat coils in his gut, pooling and filling his cock for another round (and another and another and another.)
He rolls the little nipple in his fingers (so small. So new) and brings his mouth to the other. Licking and biting and sucking until the boy beneath him is writhing and gasping with it.
“Hah- ah- Chi- Chisah-” he gasps, blubbering through tears and drool. Pale little fingers tangle themselves in the ruined sheets, trembling from overstimulation as Chisaki bruises his prostate. “Puh-plea- please, not- not- there, Chisaki, plea-"
He removes his hand from the nipple and immediately grabs the boys little cock. It’s dripping, his own spend having long since dried against his stomach. He strokes and the boy gasps, back arching up into him as he pants, sweat glistening, eyes squeezing shut.
“Nonono, please, Chisaki, I can’t, I can’t-”
“You can,” Chisaki says, evenly, stroking the poor abused thing, the small cock red but the tip almost purple with need. “I know you can.”
He’d already tested it, after all.
So he bites, he sucks at the boy's nipples and strokes his prostate, adding a third finger as he curls, and the boy wails. His back arches more, impossible, and Chisaki feels him come. It’s weak, a dry orgasm - that, Chisaki will forgive - and he feels it pitifully hit against his own navel, his own cock - far larger, hot and dark - before the boy falls back.
He’s panting, mouth wet and lips reddened from kisses and bites and being shoved on his cock over and over and over.
His eyes threaten to slip shut.
Chisaki bites his nipple.
With a yelp, those eyes fling open, though, they don’t look at him. He’s panting, looking up at the ceiling, a certain haze in his eyes, cheeks blotchy from crying, a red flush having overtaken his entire body. Every breath is heavy and hiccuped, neck limp as his head lolls side to side, too heavy to pick up.
Perfect, Chisaki thinks as he grabs one of those ankles. Small, his fingers touch again, and he watches how those red-rimmed eyes watch his own foot. Small, pale leg moving not of his own accord, his body too limp, too tired for him to do little more than watch as Chisaki places it on his shoulder.
(He's exhausted, delirious. Everything is moving, shifting around him, and so out of his control. He feels like he's watching it happen rather than having it happen to him. The edges of his vision flex, a fuzzy black curling towards the center as everything moves and sways and shifts around him, and he's just there, a little spot of time that feels too slow and too fast. He can't grasp it, can't hold onto anything, and so he sits there, breaths heavy and heart pulsing in his ears, his fingers, his-)
“Chi-saki, please…” Chisaki has made him come more than he can count and he’s done. His muscles tremble out of his control, weak and pitiful tremors that Chisaki can no doubt feel. Everything hurts, everything aches, although he can't locate from where. His ass, his thighs, covered in lovebites and hickies, his chest, his neck?
Everywhere, claimed and marked and owned, through bruises and bites indented into his very soul.
He pants, heavy and weak, and tries to focus on Chisaki above him.
“You’re mine,” Chisaki says, low, voice graveled and dark as he tucks his thumb against his palm. “Mine.”
The boy’s delirious, each breath a struggle, heavy and hiccuping, hands shaking and body numb.
He hadn’t even noticed when the fourth finger entered him.
“Chisah… wha…?”
His eyes widen as he feels Chisaki move, pressing into him. He gapes, mouth falling open, wide with wet, feverish gasps.
“Chisaki, no, nonono, I can’t- I can’t-”
“You can.”
They both know he can.
“No- nonononono- ”
He keens, eyes squeezing shut as Chisaki pushes.
“It hurts, Chi-SAHK-”
He chokes on a scream, head thrown backwards to show the long expanse of his throat. Pale, pure, but darkened with bites, places where Chisaki couldn’t help himself.
Chisaki’s fist pops in and his Pretty Little Thing takes it, he takes it.
“S-stop, Chisaki, Chi-” he gurgles and Chisaki moves his fist inside of him. The boy must be feeling every shift, how Chisaki presses against his prostate, how the muscles squeeze and flex and tremble with no give. His wrist is thick, unyielding, and Chisaki feels those insides fluttering around him. It’s sucking him in and pushing him out. The boy's every tremor, every shift, every breath and Chisaki can feel it all.
This is his favorite pastime, petting places for him and him alone. They hardly even belong to the boy, just Chisaki. He feels every shift, how the body shifts to accommodate, how, if Chisaki presses like just so - a choked, pained, breathy sound - something moves. Chisaki has touched it all (and he will again and again and again.)
He flexes his fingers, forcefully moving themselves as the boy chokes out garbled, wordless noises. With every twist, his knuckles brush that prostate and it tears hiccuped moans from him.
“H-hah… please… Chisaki, please, I-”
“You can.” Perhaps a bit too harshly, hand still in a fist, he shoves in further.
The boy screams. It’s hardly a scream at all, reedy and far too weak as he pants. “I can’t, I… h-hah, ah- ahn-”
His hair is plastered to his pale face, green curls sticking in all directions as he deliriously tries to look at everything and nothing.
Chisaki twists his arm again, feeling how the boy clenches, how he fights back a moan and a scream, strained and thin.
Chisaki pushes the leg on his shoulder, bending the boy further.
He sputters, gagging on the feel of it all, insides growing tighter, breaths getting faster, drool smearing on flushed, freckled cheeks. He tries to pull away. “N- no, Chi-” he cuts himself off with a high pitched whine that borders on a scream, both stuck in his torn, abused throat, his leg pressed high, knee practically touching his shoulder.
The other leg twitches and Chisaki itches to bite it, that pale skin, the thick thigh…
“P-please, I’ve- I’ve been, h-hah, I’ve been g-good, Chisaki, I…” he pants, hair sticking to his cheeks, hands uselessly spread out beside him.
He looks like a saint, splayed out beneath him, taking everything that’s given to him. Small body quivering. In pain, in pleasure, delirious with it and so out of control.
Chisaki leans forward - the boy lets out almost a squeak, a reedy exhale, pressure being forced within him, that arm shifting as he moves - and licks the long column of that pale throat, tasting salty sweat and tears. He sucks at the collar, biting the flesh there, unblemished, as if he’d never touched it before, and he hasn’t, not this body, young and pliant and perfect.
He hardly pays attention to anything else, and only when the boy gives quick, pitiful little gasps does he lean back.
His race is red, far redder than before, freckles standing out dark, eyes squeezed shut and soft, wet mouth open in little h-hah, hah, hah’s, as he flexes and tries to relax around his fist.
Ah, right. His fist.
Taking pity on the boy, he slowly pulls it out and lowers his leg.
He’s gasping, ass clenching as he moves, almost as if his body wants him to keep it in (well trained, but this body isn't used to it. Perhaps it's the boy himself, knowing that it might be better to stay like that but unable to sustain it.)
It’s tempting but Chisaki has other plans.
It pops out and the boy’s leg twitches. It’s hardly a movement at all, a weak, pitiful thing.
He’s gasping, panting, small, pale chest rising and lowering in big, stuttered movements.
Chisaki lets him. Take a break, that is, and strokes his cock.
His cock is wet and hard, his refractory period short, something he’d perfected early on in his time getting to know the boy’s body, but he has other things to try. Sure, he’s taken all of the boys firsts, but now they’re rewound, this body still has everything left to give, and Chisaki intends to take.
Looking down at the boy, wet with sweat and tears and drool and a little bit of red leaking out of his puffy, abused hole, Chisaki grows harder and harder, want and need and something savage coiling low in his gut. He breathes heavily, stroking slowly as he pictures his little toy and the things he will do to it (he'll bathe him, cock buried deep as he cleans his thick, curly hair. He'll bring his laptop to do work and have the boy sit beneath the desk, nose pressed to his pelvis, throat flexing and tight around him, forced to swallow and breath in only him, only Chisaki. He'll do as he pleases and then more. He needs more toys, needs different rope. He'll even ask the boy, sat on his cock, reaching so deep the boy can't breathe, he'll show him pictures and let him choose what he'll buy next, give his Perfect Little Thing a choice in the matter. Or, maybe, let him think he has one.
Yes, that sounds better.)
He can't wait anymore, cock hard and red and pulsing in his hand. So, to the musical please of no, please, s-stop, plea- Chisaki flips that small body around, grabs him by his hips - fingers touching around his waist - and pulls him onto his cock in one, swift movement.
If the boy could still scream, he would, but he’s left with choked, garbled sounds, face smushed into pillows Chisaki will need to replace. He claws at the fabric, little fingers scraping against the headboard as if that would save him. But he’s weak, Chisaki can see it in how his arms tremble, how they drop, limp and tired, onto the bed below.
Chisaki decides to take some pity on the boy and spends the next hour slowly rocking, in and out, the bed frame hitting the wall on every other thrust when he gets ahead of himself, gets a bit too rough as the body below him, so small and pliant, tightens around his cock.
He arches so perfectly beneath him, so used, so pliant, so good. Those tired muscles, used and sore, still flutter around him even if not as tight as before. They're still soft and warm and wet with lube made from its own body and Chisaki throws his head back and groans.
Finally, when he releases for the last time into that small body, body drawn tight and fingers pressing deep into the small of that back, into the thick flesh of his ass and the bony edges of his hips, he spills inside. The boy twitches, writhes, but doesn't pull away. Just lets out a little choked sound as his insides grow warm, flooding into him one final time.
Chisaki pants above him, hot breath fanning over the back of his neck, the flat of his tongue licking up the sweat gathered there. He presses against his back, one large, broad hand flattened against his chest, a thumb pressed to his aching nipple, pinky pressing to his stomach, threatening to go lower- please, no, please, he'd say, but he doesn't have the energy and his muscles jump under the scarily soft touch, no more.
So he shudders, and he waits, feeling each heaving breath and each rumbling exhale has Chisaki licks his back and kisses his shoulders, as he scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck and sucks one final mark, right at the base of it.
When he pushes off, Izuku slumps, heavy and tired into the bed below, eyes already shutting.
He’ll be back the next day, of course, and they’ll do all the firsts in the bathroom next. Chisaki's already making a list of things he needs to get. As he puts his clothes back on, he looks around the empty room. They need a bench, and a chair, at the very least.
The opportunities are endless and Chisaki will forever take every 'first' he can from the boy.
Izuku doesn’t hate Eri. He doesn’t; he never could.
He also wishes he would never see her ever again.
He loves her, he does, and every time she sees him, she manages to smile. He wishes he could do the same but Chisaki’s always at the door, arms crossed and waiting for her to rewind him and sweet, innocent Eri always does.
It makes it easier for her, she says as she places a hand on his arm. He doesn’t overhaul her anymore, doesn’t have to, and she has enough control of her quirk that now her scars are gone.
She's happy, better, and even though she knows the drill, hopping over to him the second that door opens please take longer, please hesitate, don't do it with a smile, Eri, I know you don't know but please- and placing a hand on his arm, she still talks his ear off about the few things she'd done and Izuku listens.
He should be happy for her, he is happy for her. But every time he sees her, she reverts him back to eleven and then goes back to sitting in her room, by herself, with her little shelf of books she can somewhat read and her bathroom that has a door.
And he knows Chisaki uses her, he knows he’s up to something, but it still makes a part of him angry, a part of him hurt, when he’s dragged back to do it all over again.
Izuku is eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen- eleven, and age has never felt more like a number. He’s eleven when Chisaki takes him, he’s something else when he’s strapped back to that table.
Chisaki takes him apart sometimes, when he lets Izuku get a bit older.
(Spaces out fucking him, too, as if it’s important to not do the same thing twice. He’d figured that one out early on when Chisaki couldn’t help but fuck him for three days straight, excited and stressed and needy, doing everything he’d pleased. Izuku had passed out three times and always woke to Chisaki above him, doing something else. He’d been rewound once they’d finished even though Eri had already done so three days prior.
When she'd looked to him, confused and worried - the bruises nowhere near healed - he didn't say a word. Neither of them did.)
He feels like a bug stuck on a board, poked and prodded as Chisaki learns more about his body, about the effects of puberty that Izuku will never fully go through, about hair growth and quirkless bodies and everything he can.
And once he’s seen enough, he takes him back to Eri and undoes it all again.
Izuku doesn’t hate Eri, he doesn’t. In fact, he’d almost say he loved her if not for the bitterness in his heart every time he sees her.
He cares for her, he does.
But it’s a bad day when she runs away
Chisaki’s rough that day. He takes Eri back, makes her rewind him, and when he drags Izuku back, Izuku just knows.
Chisaki’s angry, and Chisaki always tries not to be angry. Always tries to be in control.
Izuku doesn’t remember it fully. It’s a haze of pain, of roughness, but he thinks he broke a bone. Thinks Chisaki used everything he had. Strapped him to the bench and headboard and desk, threw him around like a doll and had his way and left rope burns all over. Wrists, ankles, chest and thighs and neck- everywhere.
He remembers choking. Remembers a hand around his throat - one, just one - and a fist in his gut. Remembers bleeding but not from where. Remembers something vibrating in him and screaming, crying, wailing. Remembers something being shoved down his throat and being folded in half too far, too far- and bites on his thighs and his neck.
He remembers Chisaki the most. He remembers his face, red with rage, as he’d taken him again and again and again, punching himself into him until he’d felt Chisaki in his lungs, until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He remembers begging and tearing the sheets and crying because he didn’t know he didn’t know she was going to do that, he swears he didn’t KNOW-
He asks Eri not to run away again. She’d looked at him, heartbroken, with wide, wet eyes, but he hadn’t left until she’d agreed.
She’d learn.
(Lesson One: Scream when in bed and cry and beg and-)
(Lesson Two: Take whatever He gives and don't complain, never complain)
(Lesson Three: Obey Him immediately and without question)
(Lesson Four: Be ready for Him but not too ready, don't prepare)
(Lesson Five: Call Him by His name and nothing else)
(Lesson Six: Don’t fight, just take it's all you're good for)
(Lesson Seven: Stay clean cleancleancleancleanclean)
(Lesson Eight: You won’t die he won't let you)
(Lesson Nine: Don’t make Him angry whatever it takes)
(Lesson Ten: Don’t try to escape.)