The Bakugou home is silent except for the grandfather clock in the hall, a heavy, judgmental tick-tock that measures the distance between the kitchen and the living room. Izuku stands at the sink, his hands submerged in soapy water, the round, firm swell of his belly pressing against the counter’s edge. He’s six months along, and the uniform he’d once used as a weapon has been replaced by soft, stretched-out sweats that do nothing to hide the proof.
Inko watches him from the kitchen table, her nursing scrubs still crisp. “You’re glowing,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
Izuku doesn’t turn. “Morning sickness finally stopped. That’s all.”
“That’s not all.” The chair scrapes as Inko stands. She comes to stand beside him, not touching, just looking at his profile, the curve of his jaw, the way his green curls fall against his neck. “You won’t tell me who he is. You won’t tell me anything. I’m your mother.”
“It doesn’t matter who he is.” Izuku’s voice is flat, final. He pulls a plate from the water, rinses it under the tap. The water is loud in the quiet.
“It matters to me.” Inko’s hand lifts, hovers near his arm, then drops. “Are you safe? Is he… kind to you?”
Izuku’s breath hitches. He thinks of Katsuki’s hands, possessive and rough, mapping the stretch of his skin. The way his Daddy’s voice goes dark and reverent when he whispers about the life they made. “He takes care of me.”
“That’s not an answer, Izuku.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He shuts off the water, reaches for a towel. The movement shifts his weight, and his free hand comes thin to rest on the lower arc of his belly, a protective, unconscious gesture. Inko’s eyes track the motion, and something in her face fractures.
“You’re keeping secrets in my house,” she whispers. “You and your father both. He’s been… different. Distant. And you’re…” She gestures, a helpless flutter of her hand. “You’re here, but you’re not.”
The floorboard creaks in the hallway. Katsuki fills the doorway, still in his coaching gear, a duffel slung over one shoulder. His sharp red eyes sweep the scene—Inko’s worried posture, Izuku’s tense back, the intimate space between them. His jaw tightens.
“Talking about the weather?” Katsuki’s voice is a gravelly intrusion.
Inko turns, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just mother-son talk. You’re home late.”
“Film review.” His gaze locks onto Izuku, who still hasn’t turned around. “Nerd. Come help me with these plays in the study. Need a second set of eyes.”
It’s a flimsy excuse. They all know it. Izuku drops the towel. “Okay, Coach.”
He moves past his mother, and as he does, Katsuki’s hand comes up. It doesn’t land on Izuku’s shoulder. It slides, possessive and deliberate, down the curve of Izuku’s back, over the swell of his ass, a claiming stroke hidden from Inko’s view by the angle of their bodies. Izuku shudders, a full-body tremor he can’t suppress.
Inko sees it. She sees the shudder, sees the way Katsuki’s hand lingers, sees the dark, hungry look that passes between them in the hallway’s shadow. The clock ticks. Her smile dies completely.
“Don’t be up too late,” she says, her voice hollow.
Katsuki doesn’t answer. He guides Izuku down the hall, away from the light of the kitchen, into the deeper dark.
The study door clicks shut behind them, a soft, final sound in the dark-paneled room. Katsuki doesn’t lock it. He drops his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy thud and turns. His hands are on Izuku before the echo fades, gripping his hips, lifting him onto the broad, polished surface of the desk. Papers scatter. A tablet clatters to the floor.
“Daddy—”
“Shut up.” Katsuki’s voice is a raw scrape. He pushes the soft fabric of Izuku’s skirt up higher, a flash of green rucked around his waist against his pale, freckled skin.
There are no panties. There haven’t been for months.
Katsuki’s own zipper is a harsh rip in the silence. He shoves his pants and briefs down just enough, and his cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking, curving heavily against his stomach. He doesn’t stroke it. He doesn’t need to.
He steps between Izuku’s spread thighs, his hands rough on the inside of his son’s knees, pushing them wider. The round, hard swell of Izuku’s belly rises between them, a taut curve Katsuki’s eyes drink in before he looks down, lines himself up. The head of his cock nudges against wet, swollen heat.
Izuku gasps, his head falling back. “Please.”
Katsuki drives into him. One brutal, deep thrust that sheathes him completely, that makes the desk shudder and Izuku cry out, a sharp, choked sound that’s half pain, half relief. He’s so fucking tight, even now, stretched and used and carrying his child, he’s still so tight around him.
“Fuck,” Katsuki grunts, his hips already pistoning, setting a desperate, punishing rhythm. The wet slap of skin fills the room, loud and obscene. “Fuck, you feel that? Taking all of me. My cock in my pregnant boy.”
Izuku’s hands scramble for purchase on the slick wood. “Yes—Daddy, yes—harder—”
“You want it harder?” Katsuki snarls, bending over him, one hand fisting in green curls, the other splaying possessively over the curve of Izuku’s belly. He can feel the firmness of it, the life inside, as he fucks into him. “You came in here smelling like her. Smelling like soap and worry. You let her touch you?”
“No—she didn’t—ah!” Izuku’s back arches as Katsuki angles deeper, hitting a spot that makes his vision white out. “Only you, Daddy, only you touch me—”
“Damn right.” Katsuki’s thrusts are losing all finesse, pure animal need. His balls slap against Izuku’s ass with every drive. Sweat drips from his brow onto Izuku’s chest, soaking into the thin cotton of his shirt. The small, swollen peaks of Izuku’s tits are visible through the fabric, dark and hard. Katsuki lowers his head, takes one into his mouth through the shirt, biting down on the stiff nipple.
Izuku screams, his hips bucking. “She knows! Mommy knows something!”
Katsuki releases the wet fabric with a pop. He doesn’t stop moving. “Let her know.”
“What?” Izuku’s eyes are glazed, his mouth slack.
“I said let her fucking know.” Katsuki pants the words against his son’s throat. “You think I care anymore? You’re full of me. You’re full of my kid. She can listen. She can watch through the goddamn keyhole for all I care.”
He punctuates the last word with a particularly vicious thrust that makes Izuku sob. The sound is loud. Unmistakable. Katsuki grinds into him, deep, letting the wet, filthy noise of their joining fill the air. He wants it heard.
“Scream for me,” Katsuki growls into the sweat-damp skin of Izuku’s throat, his hips a relentless piston. “Let the whole fucking house know who you belong to.”
Izuku obeys. A raw, ragged scream tears from his lungs, high and desperate, echoing off the study’s wood-paneled walls. It’s followed by a broken string of pleas. “Daddy—please, I can’t—it’s too much—!”
“You can.” Katsuki slams into him, the desk legs scraping against the floor with a shriek of protest. “You take it. You take all of it.” His hand slides from Izuku’s belly to his chest, palming the small, swollen breast through the soaked shirt, thumb grinding against the hard nipple. A thin, white droplet beads and stains the fabric. “Fuck. You’re leaking for me.”
Outside the door, in the shadowed hallway, there is a sharp, indrawn breath. Then silence.
Izuku’s eyes, glazed with pleasure, snap toward the sound. He freezes. “She’s there.”
“I know.” Katsuki doesn’t stop. He leans down, his mouth against Izuku’s ear, his voice a dark, thrilling promise. “Let her hear what I do to you. Let her hear how good I make my boy feel.” He drives deeper, his cock pulsing inside the hot, clenching tightness. “Scream again.”
Izuku’s next cry is a sob, louder, layered with shame and a dizzying edge of exhibition. It’s answered by a soft, choked sound from the hall—a hand slapped over a mouth, maybe, or a stifled gasp.
Katsuki laughs, a low, rough sound of pure triumph. “That’s it. That’s my good boy.” He fucks him harder, the wet slap of their joining a brutal, rhythmic counterpoint to the grandfather clock’s steady tick. “You feel how deep I am? You feel how full you are? Of me. Of my kid.”
“Yes—Daddy, yes—” Izuku babbles, his own hands coming up to clutch at Katsuki’s broad back, nails digging through the fabric of his polo. His hips meet every thrust, his body arching, the round curve of his belly pressed tight between them. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come—”
“Not yet.” Katsuki’s hand slides between them, his thumb finding Izuku’s swollen clit. He presses, circles, relentless. “You come when I say. You come with my cock buried in you and your mother listening at the door. You understand?”
Izuku nods, frantic, tears streaking from the corners of his eyes. The pressure is immense, a coil wound too tight. He’s trembling, his thighs shaking where they’re hooked over Katsuki’s hips.
The study door flies open.
Inko stands in the frame, her face a mask of horror, her mouth open on a scream that hasn’t yet found sound. Her eyes lock on them—on Katsuki’s broad back, on Izuku’s legs wrapped around his waist, on the obscene, wet connection between their bodies.
Katsuki doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow. He grinds deep into Izuku, a possessive, circular roll of his hips that makes Izuku gasp, and looks over his shoulder at his wife. “Took you long enough.”
“K-Katsuki—” Inko chokes out, her hands flying to her mouth. “Izuku—my baby—what are you—?”
“What’s it look like?” Katsuki’s voice is gravel, his breath coming in harsh pants. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, making the desk creak and Izuku cry out. “I’m fucking my son. I’m fucking him pregnant. Again.”
Inko stumbles back a step, as if physically struck. Her eyes are wide, disbelieving pools of green. “No. No, you’re not—you can’t be—”
“Watch.”
In one brutal, fluid motion, Katsuki pulls out and hauls Izuku off the desk. He turns him around, bends him forward, and with a hand fisted in green curls, yanks him back up into a standing backbend, locking him in a full nelson right there in the center of the room. Izuku’s pregnant belly juts upward, a taut, round curve. His skirt falls back down over his thighs, useless.
“See him?” Katsuki snarls at Inko, his cock nudging against Izuku’s dripping entrance from behind. He doesn’t re-enter. Not yet. He lets her look. “See what I did to him? That’s my kid in there. Mine.”
Izuku whimpers, exposed, his face flushed with shame and a terrible, thrilling arousal. “Mommy…”
“Don’t you ‘Mommy’ her,” Katsuki growls into his ear, his voice carrying across the room. “You’re mine. Every part of you.” He looks back at Inko, his red eyes blazing. “You wanted to know who the father was? Here he is. It’s been me. It’s always been me.”
Inko shakes her head, a frantic, jerky motion. Tears spill down her cheeks. “He’s your son. Your blood. How could you—?”
“How could I not?” Katsuki thrusts forward, sheathing himself inside Izuku in one deep, claiming stroke. Izuku screams, his body bowing in the hold. “Look at him. He was made for this. Made for me.”
He sets a ruthless pace, fucking up into Izuku’s held body, each thrust jolting through them both. The wet, slapping sounds are louder now, echoing in the open doorway. Inko can’t look away. Her horrified gaze is trapped on the place where her husband disappears into her child.
“He came to me,” Katsuki pants, driving harder. “Begged for it. Couldn’t stay away. Your sweet boy’s a greedy little slut for his Daddy’s cock. Aren’t you?”
“Yes!” Izuku sobs, his own hips pushing back, meeting every thrust. “Daddy’s slut—only Daddy’s—”
“You hear that?” Katsuki’s laugh is dark, triumphant. “He loves it. He needs it. I’m the only thing that fills him up right.” He shifts his grip, one hand sliding around to splay over Izuku’s belly, pressing down possessively as he fucks him. “Feel that? Your grandkid. Feeling every thrust.”
Inko makes a wounded animal sound. She sags against the doorframe, her strength gone. “Stop… please, stop…”
“Why?” Katsuki grunts, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. Sweat soaks through his polo. “He’s mine. This is mine. You don’t get to tell me no. Not in my house. Not with my boy.”
His hand moves from Izuku’s belly to his chest, roughly squeezing the small, swollen breast through the shirt. Another bead of milk leaks, darkening the fabric. “He’s even making milk for me. His body knows who he belongs to.”
Izuku is babbling, tears and saliva slick on his chin. “Gonna come—Daddy, please, let me come—”
“Come,” Katsuki commands, his own voice strained to breaking. “Come all over my cock with your mother watching. Show her what you are.”
Izuku’s scream is raw, shattered. His body convulses in Katsuki’s hold, clenching violently around the thick cock buried inside him. A hot gush of fluid soaks Katsuki’s pants and drips onto the polished floor between their feet.
Katsuki follows with a guttural roar, his hips stuttering, driving as deep as he can as he empties himself into his son. He holds there, pulsing, for a long, shuddering moment, his face buried in Izuku’s sweaty neck.
Silence crashes in, broken only by their ragged breathing and Inko’s silent tears.
Slowly, Katsuki lets Izuku down, turning him, holding him upright against his chest when his legs buckle. He keeps his arms around him, a cage of possession. He looks at his wife, his expression exhausted, defiant, utterly stripped bare.
“Now you know,” he says, his voice quiet, final. “So what are you gonna do about it?”