Monday morning smells like sweat and floor wax. The fluorescent lights buzz a headache into Katsuki’s skull before first period even starts. He slams his locker shut, the sound echoing down the row.

“Hey.”

Eijiro is there. Not smiling. His spiky red hair seems dull under the harsh light. He’s holding his own books too tight.

“What.” Katsuki doesn’t turn, just leans a shoulder against the cool metal.

“Have you seen Mina?”

Katsuki’s eyes cut to him, sharp and red. “Why would I?”

“She was with you Friday. In the storage closet.” Eijiro’s voice is low, careful. “After you… you know. She didn’t answer any texts all weekend. Didn’t show for her shift at the convenience store yesterday. Her mom called my house last night asking if I’d seen her.”

A beat. The buzzing light fills the silence.

Katsuki’s jaw works. The lie forms, smooth and immediate. “She never showed.”

Eijiro blinks. “What?”

“The storage closet. She stood me up.” Katsuki shrugs, the picture of bored irritation. “Waited ten minutes. Got pissed. Took care of it myself.”

“You… finished by yourself?” Eijiro’s brow furrows, his grip on his books tightening. “In the storage closet?”

“Got a problem with that?” Katsuki’s voice is a low challenge. He pushes off the locker, looming over his friend. “I was pissed. Needed to blow off steam. So yeah, I jerked off in the dark thinking about fucking someone who actually has the balls to show up. Happy?”

The raw, crude detail hangs in the air between them. Eijiro’s cheeks flush faintly. He looks down the empty hall, then back at Katsuki. “Her mom said she left to meet you. Her phone was last pinged near school.”

“Then she bailed,” Katsuki snaps. His heart hammers against his ribs. “Maybe she got a better offer. Maybe she realized fucking me was a bad idea. How the hell should I know?”

“Denki vanished after you,” Eijiro says, his voice dropping. “Ochako vanished after you. Now Mina’s gone, and she was supposed to be with you. That’s three, man.”

“Coincidence.” The word tastes like ash. “You’re seeing shit that isn’t there.”

“Am I?” Eijiro’s usually bright eyes are shadowed, serious. “I’m not saying you did anything. But someone is. And it’s happening around you.”

A cold trickle slides down Katsuki’s spine. He thinks of the boiler room door. The hallway outside his bedroom. The paint—or not-paint—on his mom’s skin in a dream that felt too real. “You accusing someone?”

Eijiro holds his gaze. He doesn’t look away. “Your mom likes me. You know why?”

Katsuki goes very still. “Don’t.”

“Cause I don’t look at you like that. He told me that once. Said he was glad you had a friend who wasn’t… distracted.” Eijiro takes a slow breath. “He’s protective, Katsuki. Really protective.”

“He’s my mom.” The defense is automatic, fierce. “Of course he’s protective.”

“This isn’t normal protective.” Eijiro shakes his head. “This is… people disappear protective.”

Katsuki’s hand shoots out, fisting in the front of Eijiro’s uniform. He pulls him close until their faces are inches apart. “Say it. Say what you’re thinking.”

Eijiro doesn’t fight the grip. His voice is calm, quiet. “I’m thinking you need to ask yourself where you were Saturday morning. Really.”

The world tilts. The buzzing in the lights swells, filling Katsuki’s skull. He sees clean sheets. Sunlight. A phantom ache deep in his hips. The metallic scent of something that wasn’t paint.

He shoves Eijiro back, releasing him. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

Eijiro stumbles a step, straightening his shirt. He looks at Katsuki not with anger, but with a pity that’s worse. “Just be careful, man.”

He turns and walks down the hall, his footsteps echoing.

Katsuki stands alone, his knuckles white where they grip the locker’s edge. The lie about Mina feels flimsy now, a paper shield. He stares at the scuffed floor tiles, the static in his head resolving into a single, deafening question: Mommy?

The plan crystallizes in Katsuki’s skull during third-period calculus, sharp and cold as a shard of glass. Test the theory. Use bait. The bait’s name is Yo Shindo.

He finds him after school in the nearly empty gym, shooting free throws alone. The squeak of sneakers on polished wood echoes. Yo is a trans guy with a mop of messy black hair and freckles dusting his nose. From behind, the slope of his shoulders, the way he holds his neck—it’s a cheap copy. A ghost of his mother.

Katsuki leans against the doorframe, blocking the light. “Shindo.”

Yo turns, the ball clutched to his chest. His eyes—a familiar, wrong shade—widen. “Bakugou?”

“You still want it?” Katsuki doesn’t move. His voice is flat, offering nothing.

Yo’s throat works. He’s heard the stories. The warnings. The disappearances. His gaze flicks over Katsuki’s broad chest, the undone top button of his uniform. “Want what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Katsuki pushes off the frame, crossing the court. The space between them shrinks. “You’ve been staring since freshman year. You followed me to the convenience store last month. You bought the same shitty energy drink I did.”

A flush creeps up Yo’s neck. He doesn’t deny it. “So?”

“So I’m bored.” Katsuki stops a foot away. He can smell the kid’s sweat, the sharp tang of adolescent want. “My place. Tonight. No strings. Just fucking.”

Yo’s breath hitches. The basketball slips from his fingers, thumping dully on the floor. He looks so much like Izuku in this light, the hopeful tilt of his head, the way his lips part just slightly. It makes Katsuki’s stomach twist. “Seriously?”

“You got five seconds to say yes.” Katsuki’s eyes are red coals. “Or I walk.”

“Yes.” The word bursts out of Yo, raw and too eager. “Yeah. Okay. Your place.”

Katsuki nods, once. He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket, a hastily scribbled address. He holds it out, not letting go when Yo’s fingers brush his. “Seven. Don’t be late. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.” Yo’s voice is a whisper, his fingers tightening on the paper. “I’ll be there.”

Katsuki turns and walks out of the gym, the echo of the bouncing ball fading behind him. The trap is set. The bait taken. Now he just has to see what, or who, comes to spring it.

The front door clicks shut behind Katsuki, the sound swallowed by the warm, savory smell of ginger and garlic frying. Home. His sneakers hit the polished floor with a familiar thud. He can see the curve of his mother’s back through the kitchen archway, Izuku moving with efficient grace over the stove.

“I’m home,” he announces, dropping his bag by the stairs. His voice is casual, a practiced flatline.

“Welcome back.” Izuku doesn’t turn, but his tone is a smile. “Hungry? I’m making mapo tofu. Your favorite.”

Katsuki walks into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He watches Izuku’s hands, the sure chop of green onions. The domestic peace is a thin veneer, and he’s about to throw a rock through it. “Yeah. Smells good. Got a thing tonight, though. Someone’s coming over.”

Izuku’s knife stills for a half-second. Then it resumes its rhythm, a steady, sharp tap against the cutting board. “Oh? A friend from school?”

“Something like that.” Katsuki reaches into the fridge, pulls out a cold water bottle. The condensation is instantly slick on his palm. “A date. He’s spending the night.”

The tapping stops. Izuku sets the knife down, carefully, and turns. His face is calm, open, curious. His eyes are green and deep, and they hold Katsuki’s without blinking. “A date? That’s new. You usually don’t do dates.”

“Got bored of alleys and supply closets.” Katsuki takes a long drink, his throat working. He doesn’t break eye contact. “My bed’s more comfortable.”

“I’m sure it is.” Izuku wipes his hands on a dish towel, a slow, deliberate motion. “What’s his name?”

“Yo. Yo Shindo.” Katsuki watches his mother’s face for a flicker, a tell. “Same age. A trans guy. Freckles.”

Izuku’s expression doesn’t change. It’s like giving a name to a statue. “I see. And he’s… spending the night? That’s quite a commitment for you, Kacchan.”

“It’s just fucking, Mom. Don’t make it a thing.” Katsuki’s jaw tightens. The word ‘Mom’ comes out harder than he intended, a challenge.

“I’m not making it anything.” Izuku turns back to the stove, stirring the simmering pot. The steam rises, framing his profile. “You’re an adult. You can have whoever you like over. I just want to be sure you’re being safe. You have condoms?”

“Always.”

“Good.” Izuku ladles the tofu into a bowl. The action is precise, gentle. “And you’ll be respectful of the house? No messes?”

“He’ll be gone by morning.” The promise hangs between them, heavy and deliberate. A test. A thrown gauntlet.

Izuku finally looks at him again, a soft, almost sad smile touching his lips. He picks up the bowl and holds it out. “Here. Eat something before your… date. You’ll need your strength.”

Katsuki takes the bowl. Their fingers don’t touch. The porcelain is scalding hot. He stands there, holding the heat, watching his mother wipe down the already-clean counter. The trap is baited. The spring is coiled. And for a terrifying second, Katsuki can’t tell which of them is standing in it.

The knock comes at seven on the dot. Three sharp raps against the front door. Katsuki is already at the foot of the stairs, a coiled spring in a dark t-shirt and low-slung sweats. He doesn’t look back at the kitchen, where the soft clink of dishes tells him Izuku is listening. He yanks the door open.

Yo stands on the step, washed in the yellow porch light. He’s changed out of his uniform into tight black jeans and a thin gray hoodie. His freckles stand out against his pale skin. He smells like cheap body spray and nervous sweat. “Hey.”

“Inside.” Katsuki steps back, a curt gesture. Yo shuffles past him, his eyes darting around the neat, dim foyer. “Shoes off.”

Yo bends to untie his high-tops, his fingers fumbling. Katsuki watches the line of his back, the way his hoodie rides up. He doesn’t look like Izuku in motion. He’s all jittery energy, where Izuku is still water. “Your house is nice,” Yo whispers, straightening.

“Upstairs. Now.” Katsuki doesn’t offer a tour. He turns and takes the steps two at a time, the old wood creaking under his weight. He hears Yo’s lighter, quicker steps behind him, a frantic little echo. His bedroom door is ajar. He pushes it open, steps inside, and doesn’t turn on the overhead light. The only illumination comes from a dim lamp on his desk, casting long shadows across the rumpled bed.

Yo hesitates in the doorway, a silhouette. “So, we’re just…”

“You know why you’re here.” Katsuki faces him, his expression unreadable in the low light. “You wanted this. You said yes. So stop fucking stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.” Yo’s voice gains a thread of defiance. He steps inside and closes the door with a soft click. The sound is final. He meets Katsuki’s gaze, his chin lifting. “I just want to hear you say it. What you’re gonna do to me.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across Katsuki’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m gonna fuck you. Hard. Until you forget your own name. That specific enough for you, whore?”

Yo shivers, a full-body tremor. His lips part. “Yeah.” He pulls his hoodie over his head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. His chest is lean, pale, scattered with those familiar freckles. His hands go to the button of his jeans. “You gonna watch, or you gonna help?”

Katsuki crosses the room in three strides. He slaps Yo’s hands away from his fly. “I do the undressing.” His fingers make quick, brutal work of the button and zipper. He shoves the jeans and boxer briefs down Yo’s thighs in one rough push. Yo stumbles back, catching himself on the edge of the mattress, his legs bare, his cunt already glistening in the lamplight.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” Katsuki murmurs, more to himself than to Yo. He hooks a finger inside him, a quick, clinical probe. Yo gasps, his hips jerking forward. “Pathetic. You been thinking about this all day?”

“Since you looked at me in the gym,” Yo breathes, spreading his legs wider on the comforter. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Since you told me to come over. I’ve been dripping. Wanted your big cock in me. Wanted you to ruin me, Bakugou.”

Katsuki stands, pulling his shirt off. His muscles flex in the shadowed light. He pops the button on his sweats, lets them fall. His cock springs free, thick and heavy and already fully hard, the foreskin pulled taut over the flushed head. He tears a condom packet from the box on his nightstand with his teeth. He sheathes himself with practiced, efficient motions, never breaking eye contact with Yo, who is watching, rapt, his own hand drifting between his legs.

“Don’t,” Katsuki commands, his voice a low growl. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say. You take what I give you.” He climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing Yo’s hips. He leans down, his face inches away. “You’re just a hole for me to use. You understand?”

Yo nods, fast, his breath coming in short pants. “Yeah. Your hole. Use it. Please.”

Katsuki doesn’t kiss him. He doesn’t touch him with anything but intent. He grips his own shaft, guides the broad, rubber-covered head through Yo’s slick folds, notching it at his entrance. Yo whines, high and desperate, his back arching off the bed. “Look at me,” Katsuki says, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Yo’s eyes, wide and glassy, snap to his. Katsuki holds that gaze as he pushes forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. Yo’s mouth falls open in a silent gasp, his body stretching to accommodate the girth. Katsuki watches every micro-expression of shock, of pain, of overwhelming pleasure flit across the freckled face that is so like, and so utterly unlike, his mother’s. He bottoms out, his hips flush against Yo’s, and stays there, buried to the hilt, letting the boy feel every inch.

“Oh god,” Yo chokes out, his nails digging into Katsuki’s forearms. “You’re so… fuck, you’re so big. It’s so deep.”

“You asked for it.” Katsuki pulls back almost all the way, then slams back in. The wet, meaty sound of it fills the room. Yo cries out, a ragged, broken noise. Katsuki sets a punishing rhythm immediately, no warm-up, no mercy. Each thrust jolts Yo up the bed, the headboard tapping a faint, frantic rhythm against the wall. The bedsprings scream.

“Yeah, just like that,” Yo babbles, his head thrashing side to side. “Fuck me, ruin me, give it to me—your cock is so good, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come on your dick—”

“You come when I say you can come,” Katsuki grunts, his own breath starting to saw in his chest. He’s fucking on autopilot, his body working, his mind a thousand miles away. He’s listening past Yo’s moans, past the slap of skin, straining to hear any other sound in the house. A creak on the stair. A shift outside the door. Anything. The trap is sprung. Where is the hunter?

Yo’s legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper. “I’m your slut, Bakugou, your fucking whore, breed me, fill me up—”

Katsuki’s vision tunnels. The dirty talk, the desperate face, the body clinging to him—it’s a poor facsimile, a ghost of what he craves. A cold, clean fury washes through him. He pistons into Yo harder, faster, driving the breath from his lungs. He wants to erase the likeness, fuck it into something unrecognizable. Yo’s pleas dissolve into wordless, sobbing screams as his orgasm rips through him, his cunt clamping down in violent, fluttering spasms around Katsuki’s thrusting length.

Katsuki follows, a harsh, choked sound tearing from his own throat as he spills into the condom, his hips stuttering erratically against Yo’s. It’s less a release than a mechanical function. Emptiness floods in on its heels, colder and deeper than before. He collapses onto his forearms, his sweat dripping onto Yo’s heaving chest. The room is silent except for their ragged breathing and the distant, relentless buzz of the house.

After a moment, Katsuki pulls out. The condom is full, heavy. He ties it off, drops it on the floor. He rolls off Yo and onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling. Yo lies beside him, limp and spent, a sticky mess between his thighs.

The door to his bedroom remains shut. The hallway beyond it, silent.

“I’m not done.” Yo’s voice is raw, breathless. He pushes himself up on trembling arms, his body slick with sweat. He looks down at Katsuki’s spent form. “That wasn’t enough.”

Katsuki doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Get the fuck off me.”

“No.” Yo’s hand fumbles across the nightstand, knocking the condom box to the floor. He finds a single foil packet in the sheets. With shaking, determined fingers, he tears it open. “You said you’d fuck me until I forgot my name. I still remember it.”

Katsuki’s head turns slowly. His crimson eyes are flat, empty. He watches as Yo rolls the fresh condom down his half chubbed length, the touch clinical. His cock twitches, filling again under the insistent pressure. “You’re pushing it.”

“You like it when I push.” Yo straddles his hips, his own wetness smearing across Katsuki’s abdomen. He positions himself, one hand guiding Katsuki’s sheathed tip to his entrance. He sinks down in one slow, agonizing slide, a low groan vibrating in his chest. “Fuck. There.”

Katsuki’s hands come up to grip Yo’s bony hips, not to guide, just to hold. To feel the movement. Yo sets a frantic, bouncing rhythm, riding him with a desperate hunger. The bedsprings shriek a new, higher-pitched complaint. Yo’s head falls back, his throat working. “Yeah… yeah, just like that… your cock is so deep like this…”

“Shut up,” Katsuki grunts, but it lacks heat. He’s a spectator in his own body. He lets Yo use him, lets the friction build, his gaze drifting past the boy’s shuddering form to the closed door. It’s still shut. The house is still silent. A cold knot tightens in his gut. The trap didn’t spring. The bait wasn’t taken.

“You’re not even trying,” Yo pants, his movements becoming sloppy, erratic. He slams down harder, trying to elicit a reaction. “Come on, Bakugou. Fuck me back. Make me feel it.”

Katsuki’s fingers dig into the flesh of Yo’s hips, hard enough to bruise. He bucks his own hips upward once, a brutal, jarring thrust that punches a sharp cry from Yo’s lips. “That what you wanted?”

“Yes! More!” Yo’s eyes are wild, pleading. “Just like that. Please.”

Katsuki does it again, and again, falling into the mechanical rhythm. The slap of skin fills the room, a vulgar metronome. He focuses on the sensation—the tight, wet clutch, the burn in his thighs, the sweat stinging his eyes. He tries to lose himself in the physicality, to drown out the screaming quiet from the hall. But the silence is louder.

Yo comes with a shattered sob, his body seizing, his cunt fluttering wildly around Katsuki’s cock. Katsuki follows, his release a dull, distant throb. Emptiness, vast and cold, rushes in to claim the space the pleasure vacates. Yo collapses forward onto his chest, a dead weight, breathing in ragged, wet gasps.

Katsuki doesn’t push him off. He stares at the door, listening to the absolute quiet of the house. The trap was perfect. The bait was laid. And nothing happened. A sick, creeping relief wars with a sharper, more terrifying fear. If Izuku didn’t take the bait… then maybe Eijiro was wrong. Maybe his mother was just his mother. And maybe the disappearances were just a coincidence.

Katsuki flips him over without a word, his movements rough, efficient. He drags Yo up onto his knees, the boy’s back arching, presenting himself. Quickly changing condoms, slick and glistening. Katsuki spits into his own palm, slicks himself again, and pushes back in with a single, brutal shove. Yo’s cry is muffled by the comforter. “You wanted more,” Katsuki snarls, setting a pace that is pure punishment, each thrust driving Yo’s hips into the mattress. “You got it.”

“Harder,” Yo gasps, his voice wrecked. “Come on, is that all you’ve got?”

It’s a challenge, a stupid one, and Katsuki takes it. He fists a hand in Yo’s hair, yanks his head back, and pounds into him until the bedframe groans in protest against the wall. The sound is obscene—wet, slapping, relentless. Yo is sobbing, begging, his words dissolving into nonsense. Katsuki doesn’t hear them. He’s chasing a feeling that keeps receding, a release that won’t come, his mind on what’s in the house beyond his closed door. It remains empty. Silent.

They go for hours. Positions change. Condoms are replaced. The room fills with the thick, salty smell of sweat and sex. Yo’s body gives out long before Katsuki’s rage does, but the boy keeps pushing, taking it, demanding it, a desperate glint in his eye like he’s trying to prove something. Katsuki fucks him against the wall, his feet barely touching the floor. He fucks him on his side, a slow, grinding rhythm that makes Yo whimper. He pulls out, strips the rubber off, and orders Yo to his knees. “Suck me clean.” Yo does, with a devotion that feels like worship, his tongue lapping at the sweat and pre-come and the faint, lingering taste of latex until Katsuki is hard again.

“Why won’t you look at me?” Yo slurs later, sprawled on his back, his body a map of bruises and bite marks. The sun has been down for hours. The house is a tomb. “You look at the door more than you look at me.”

Katsuki, sheathing himself with another condom, doesn’t answer. He climbs over him, sinks in one last time. This thrust is slower, deeper, final. He doesn’t close his eyes. He watches Yo’s face contort, watches the tears leak from the corners of his eyes, watches him come apart silently this time, his body seizing in exhausted, overwhelmed waves. Katsuki follows, his own climax a hollow, shuddering aftershock. Emptiness isn’t the right word anymore. It’s a void. A confirmation. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and drops it onto the growing pile on the floor.

He collapses beside Yo, not touching him. The boy is already asleep, his breathing ragged and shallow. Katsuki stares at the ceiling, listening to the absolute, damning quiet of the house. The trap was perfect. The bait was taken, used, and discarded. And nothing happened. The fear settles in his bones, colder than any anger. If his mother didn’t come… then maybe he really is just his mother. And maybe the disappearances have nothing to do with him at all.

Katsuki falls asleep to the silence of the house.