The floral scent of Inko's perfume curdled into something medicinal in the tense living room air. Izuku's confession—'I'm your son'—hung between them, then shattered against the wall of his mother's trembling, desperate plans for therapists and interventions. Katsuki watched the light drain from Izuku's green eyes, replaced by a familiar, gut-wrenching hurt.

Inko’s hands fluttered, her voice a high, pleading wire. “We can find someone, sweetheart. A specialist. There are… paths. We can help you feel right again.”

Izuku’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. He took a step back, his shoulder bumping the bookshelf. The sound was small. Final.

Katsuki’s own hands, scarred from saving the world, curled into fists at his sides. Not in anger at Izuku. Never at Izuku. It was a volcanic, protective fury, heating the whiskey-heavy air around him. He moved before she could finish her sentence about 'corrective paths.'

His voice cut through, low and final. “Stop.”

Inko blinked, turning her pinched face toward him. “Katsuki, this is for her own good. We have to—”

“You don’t get to say ‘we.’” Katsuki stepped between her and their son. His shadow fell over Izuku, a shield. “You heard him. He told you who he is. That’s the end of it.”

“She’s confused! She’s sick!” Her voice broke, clinical calm shredding into a sob. “My baby is sick and you’re just standing there!”

Katsuki didn’t raise his voice. The quiet in it was worse. “The only sickness in this room is your refusal to see him.” He turned his head, just enough to see Izuku in his periphery. The boy was shaking. “Go pack a bag. Right now.”

Izuku didn’t move. His wide eyes were fixed on his father’s back. “Daddy…”

“Now, Izuku.”

The command, firm but not harsh, broke the paralysis. Izuku fled the room. His footsteps on the stairs were too fast, stumbling.

Inko stared at the empty space where her son had been. “Where are you taking her?”

“Away from you.” Katsuki finally looked at her fully, his crimson eyes holding nothing she would recognize. “We’re done. I’ll have my lawyer contact you tomorrow.”

She stumbled back as if struck. The wringing of her hands stilled. For a second, there was only the hum of the streetlamp outside, painting the dust motes in the air. Then her face hardened, the kindness gone, replaced by a cold, clean hatred. “You’re stealing my daughter!”

“No,” Katsuki said, already turning toward the hallway, toward the sound of drawers opening upstairs. “I’m saving my son.”

Katsuki didn’t let Izuku go back downstairs. He met his son on the landing, took the overstuffed duffel bag from his trembling hands, and guided him out the side door to the waiting car with a palm pressed firmly between his shoulder blades—a solid, silent anchor. Inko’s voice, sharp and pleading, cut through the night from the front porch, but Katsuki’s body was a wall, and he didn’t look back.

The engine of the luxury sedan purred to life, sealing them in a bubble of quiet leather and conditioned air. Katsuki drove with a focused intensity, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to turn up the heat. “You’re shivering,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Izuku wasn’t cold. He was vibrating, every nerve alight with the aftershock of loss and the terrifying safety of his father’s presence. He stared at his own hands in his lap, the freckles standing out against his pale skin. “My books,” he mumbled, the words thick. “My laptop. All my notes…”

“We’ll get new ones.” Katsuki’s tone brooked no argument. “Anything you left in that house is just stuff. It can be replaced. You can’t.”

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, a river of gold and neon. Izuku watched them, feeling untethered. He’d never seen his father like this—a force of nature, carving a new path through the wreckage with sheer, unshakeable will. The car slid silently into the underground valet of a towering glass hotel, a place Izuku had only ever seen in magazines.

The penthouse suite was not a room; it was an entire floor. The elevator opened directly into a living space of minimalist elegance, all soft gray tones and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering skyline. A single, vast bedroom lay beyond, dominated by a bed that looked like a cloud.

Katsuki dropped the duffel bag by a sleek sofa. “Home for now. Until I find us a proper place. Just us.” He walked to the window, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the city. “You hungry?”

Izuku shook his head, then realized his father couldn’t see. “No. Thank you.” His voice was small in the expansive quiet. He hovered near the entrance, feeling like he’d track dirt on the pristine carpet. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a hollow, aching fatigue. And beneath that, a shameful, familiar heat began to coil low in his belly, sparked by the sheer dominance of the man standing at the window.

Katsuki turned. His crimson eyes scanned Izuku, missing nothing—the bowed head, the tense line of his shoulders, the wet tracks on his cheeks. He crossed the room in a few strides and didn’t stop. He pulled Izuku into him, one arm wrapping around his back, the other hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Izuku stiffened, then melted, his face pressing into the cool leather of his father’s jacket.

He didn’t speak. He just held him, a solid, unmovable presence. His thumb stroked along Izuku’s temple, wiping the tears away with a rough, deliberate gentleness.

“Look at me, kid.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, the command felt more than heard. He forced his gaze up, meeting those sharp, knowing eyes from the shelter of his father’s arms. The concern in them was a hot needle straight to his core.

“You did nothing wrong.” Katsuki’s voice was low, each word a press of his lips against Izuku’s hair. “You hear me? Nothing. This is on her. And I’ve got you.” His hand slid from Izuku’s head to cup his jaw, his thumb sweeping once more under his eye. “That’s the only thing that matters from tonight on.”

A tremor ran through Izuku. The words, the touch, were a balm and a brand. His father’s unwavering certainty, the fierce, physical protectiveness—it was everything he needed.

The silence in the penthouse was a living thing, thick and watchful. Katsuki’s arms were still around him, a fortress Izuku never wanted to leave. He felt his father’s chest rise and fall, a steady rhythm against his cheek. “Come on,” Katsuki murmured, his voice a low rumble Izuku felt in his bones. He guided Izuku away from the window, through the open archway, toward the only bed.

Izuku’s breath caught. The king-sized expanse of white linen seemed to swallow the room. “There’s only…” he started, the words dying in his throat.

“It’s plenty big,” Katsuki said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He gave Izuku’s shoulder a final, grounding squeeze before releasing him. “Go get changed. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”

Izuku moved on autopilot, his feet silent on the plush carpet. The en-suite bathroom was a marble cavern, stocked with expensive, unfamiliar toiletries. He avoided his reflection in the mirror. He changed into the soft gray sweatpants and t-shirt left out for him, the fabric smelling faintly of his father’s detergent—clean and sharp. When he emerged, Katsuki was already in a pair of black sweatpants, his broad chest bare, the scars and defined muscle of his torso a landscape Izuku’s eyes skittered away from. He was pulling back the thick duvet on the vast bed.

“Come on,” Katsuki said, not looking up. He climbed in on one side, leaving a yawning expanse of cool sheets between them.

Izuku slid in on the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lay rigid on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. The space between them felt like a chasm. Then the bed shifted, and Katsuki’s warmth was suddenly right there. His father turned onto his side, facing him. A heavy arm draped over Izuku’s waist, pulling him gently until his front was flush against Katsuki’s chest.

“Breathe, kid,” Katsuki murmured into his hair. His warm, rough palm settling between Izuku’s shoulder blades. He began to rub slow, firm circles. “Just sleep.”

The touch was comforting. The heat of his father’s bare skin against his face, the solid wall of his chest, the rhythmic pressure of his hand—it was safety. Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to match the steady rise and fall he felt against his cheek. The scent of him—clean sweat and that sharp, masculine soap—filled Izuku’s lungs. The protective cage of his father’s arms was the only real thing in the world. Slowly, the rigid tension bled from his muscles. He went boneless, sinking into the warmth. The last thing he felt was the scratch of stubble against the crown of his head as Katsuki pressed a kiss there.

Sleep took him, deep and black.

The dream begins with the roar of an explosion and the smell of burnt sugar. Izuku is falling, the city a blur of lights below him, the wind screaming in his ears. Then a hand, gloved in black and orange, snatches him from the air. Dynamight’s arm is an iron band around his waist, hauling him against the hard plates of his hero costume. They land on a rooftop garden, a hidden oasis of manicured shrubs and stone benches under a starless sky. His father sets him down, his grip lingering.

“You’re safe now, kid.” Dynamight’s voice is a distorted growl through the mask’s modulator, but the eyes behind the visor are Katsuki’s—sharp, focused, entirely on him.

Izuku’s heart hammers against his ribs. The gratitude is a physical ache, a pressure in his chest that needs release. “You saved me,” he breathes, his own voice sounding far away.

“Always will.” His father reaches up, the movement deliberate, and unclasps the mask. It comes away, revealing Katsuki’s face—the stern mouth, the sweat-damp ash-blond hair. He’s still in the full suit, the powerful lines of his body sheathed in reinforced fabric.

The need coils, hot and urgent, in Izuku’s gut. It’s not a thought; it’s a compulsion. His fingers, trembling, go to the complex fastenings at his father’s waist. “Let me… let me thank you, Daddy.”

Katsuki doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop him. His crimson eyes watch, heavy-lidded, as Izuku works the clasps. The front panel of the suit gives way, and Izuku’s breath catches. His father is already hard, his cock thick and heavy, curving up against his stomach. The scent of him—clean sweat, nitroglycerin, pure male heat—washes over Izuku, dizzying.

Izuku drops to his knees on the cool stone. The reality of it—the size, the weight in his hand, the faint pulse he feels against his palm—sends a shock of pure, slick heat between his own legs. He doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward and takes the head into his mouth.

Katsuki lets out a sharp, punched-out breath. His hand comes down to cradle the back of Izuku’s head, not forcing, just holding. “That’s it,” he rumbles, the hero-growl gone, replaced by his own low, rough voice. “Use your tongue.”

Izuku obeys. He licks a slow stripe along the underside, tasting salt and skin, feeling the prominent vein throb against his lips. He opens wider, taking more, the stretch of his jaw a sweet ache. His own hips shift on the ground, a silent, desperate friction against nothing.

“Look at me.”

Izuku’s green eyes flutter open, watering slightly. He looks up the long line of his father’s body, meets that burning crimson gaze. Katsuki’s expression is intense, possessive, a little wild. “You take it so good,” he says, his thumb stroking Izuku’s cheek. “My good boy.”

The praise goes straight to Izuku’s core, a lightning strike of pleasure. He moans around the fullness in his mouth, the vibration earning him a low groan from above. He works his head, bobbing slowly, learning the shape and weight of him, every slide of his lips a filthy, worshipful prayer. His free hand drifts between his own thighs, pressing hard against the damp fabric of his sweatpants.

Katsuki’s hand tightens in his hair, not pulling, just holding him in place. “Take it all, baby boy,” he growls, his voice stripped raw. “Show me how good you are for me.”

Izuku’s eyes water as he forces himself down, the thick head of his father’s cock pressing against the back of his throat. He gags, tears spilling over, but he doesn’t pull back. He breathes through his nose, the scent of him overwhelming, and sinks lower until his nose is buried in coarse blond hair, his lips pressed to the very base. He’s full, impossibly full, every inch of his mouth claimed.

“Fuck,” Katsuki rasps, his hips giving a shallow, involuntary thrust. “Look at that. Taking your daddy’s whole cock.” His thumb swipes a tear from Izuku’s cheek. “My perfect boy.”

The praise burns through Izuku’s shame, transforming it into pure, slick need. He moans around the intrusion, the vibration drawing a ragged groan from above. He pulls back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening tip. He doesn’t stop. He dives back down, setting a rhythm, bobbing his head with desperate hunger, his own hips grinding against the cold stone for any friction.

“That’s it,” Katsuki encourages, his voice a low, rough soundtrack to the wet, obscene sounds filling the rooftop garden. “Use that pretty mouth. Just for me.”

Izuku feels the tension coiling in the thick muscle under his hands, feels the heavy balls draw up tight. He knows what’s coming. A frantic, possessive need overrides everything. He pulls off with a slick pop, chest heaving. His green eyes are wild, desperate, fixed on his father’s face. “Daddy,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “Please. I need… I need you.”

His trembling fingers hook into the waistband of his own sweatpants and underwear, shoving them down over his hips in one frantic motion. The cool night air hits his wet, exposed cunt. He’s dripping, his folds swollen and aching. He spreads his thighs wider on the stone, presenting himself, his whole body trembling with offering and need. “Fuck me. Please, Daddy, I need you to fuck me. I can’t… I need it.”

Katsuki’s crimson eyes blaze, drinking in the sight. A low, animal sound rumbles in his chest. He doesn’t speak. He just moves. His big hands grip Izuku’s hips, hauling him up from his knees, turning him, bending him over the smooth stone bench. The cold surface bites into Izuku’s forearms. He hears the rustle of fabric as his father kicks his own suit the rest of the way down.

Then the broad, hot head of his cock is there, nudging against his soaked entrance. Izuku whimpers, pushing back against it, begging wordlessly.

“Tell me,” Katsuki demands, his voice a gravelly command against the shell of Izuku’s ear. He doesn’t push in. He just holds himself there, a torturous, promised pressure.

“I need you inside me, Daddy,” Izuku sobs, the words torn from him. “Please. I’m yours. Please fuck me.”

Katsuki drives forward.

The stretch is immense, blinding. Izuku cries out, a sharp, broken sound as his father sheathes himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust. He’s filled, stretched to a perfect, burning ache. He feels every inch, the brutal, claiming fullness stealing the air from his lungs.

“That’s my baby,” Katsuki snarls into his neck, his hips pulling back and slamming home again. The pace is punishing from the start, no gentle build, just a hard, driving rhythm that rocks Izuku forward with every snap of his hips. The slap of skin on skin echoes in the quiet oasis.

Izuku’s vision whites out at the edges. He’s babbling, a stream of “Daddy, yes, please, more,” into the stone. His clit, throbbing and hard, rubs against the bench with every thrust. The pleasure is a live wire, frayed and sparking, coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. His father’s grip on his hips is iron, sure to leave bruises, and the thought makes him clench down hard.

Katsuki groans, his rhythm faltering for a second. “Fuck, you’re tight. So fucking good for me.” He leans over, his broad chest plastered to Izuku’s back, his mouth hot on his shoulder. “Cum for me, baby boy. Cum on your daddy’s cock.”

The command, the filthy praise, is the final spark. The coil snaps. Izuku shatters, a raw, screaming cry tearing from his throat as his orgasm rips through him. His cunt convulses around the thick intrusion, milking it, and he feels a hot gush of release soak his thighs and the stone beneath him. He goes limp, held up only by his father’s relentless grip and the deep, pounding strokes that don’t stop.

“That’s it,” Katsuki grunts, his own control fraying. His thrusts become erratic, deeper, harder. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Izuku feels him swell, feels the pulse deep inside him. With a final, guttural groan, Katsuki buries himself to the root and spills, hot and endless, flooding Izuku’s clenching heat. He collapses over him, his weight a crushing, perfect anchor, his breath hot and ragged against Izuku’s neck.

They stay like that, joined, panting in the silent garden. Katsuki’s hand comes up, rough fingers tilting Izuku’s face to the side. He kisses him, deep and claiming, tasting himself on Izuku’s tongue. “My good boy,” he murmurs against his lips.

Izuku jolts awake with a gasp, his heart slamming against his ribs. The hotel room is dark, the sheets tangled around his legs, damp and clinging. His aching cunt throbbing with the ghost of a stretch that never happened.

It was all just a dream that left his underwear very wet.