The train smelled like dust and old fabric, the kind of lingering scent that settled into everything after an hour of rattling through countryside that blurred past the window in streaks of green and brown. Izuku pressed his forehead to the cool glass, watching his own reflection ghost over the fields beyond — round cheeks, freckles smudged like constellations, green eyes that had been too wide since he'd stepped onto this train two hours ago.
Your grandfather needs help, Izuku. He's getting older and he’s asking for help, so please go take care of him. His mother's voice played on a loop in his skull, patient and firm, the same tone she'd used when she told him he'd have to quit the part-time job at the convenience store. It's just for the summer. Before you go off to college, you’ll never have to see him again after this.
"Never," he muttered under his breath, hating how his voice cracked on the word. "Dramatic much?"
The train lurched and he grabbed the edge of his seat, knuckles going white. He'd packed light — a duffel with clothes, his laptop, a notebook he hadn't written in since junior year. Everything else was still in his room, boxed and labeled and waiting for September, when he'd leave for the city and be someone who'd never spent a summer trapped in the middle of nowhere with a man he'd never met.
What he knew about Katsuki Bakugo could fit in a thimble. His mother never talked about him. Not once. Not at birthdays, not at holidays, not when Izuku had asked about grandparents in third grade and she'd gone quiet in that way that meant don't ask again. The only reason he even knew the man's name was the envelope that had arrived six weeks ago, return address scrawled in shaky handwriting — a single page, brief and gruff, asking for help.
"He's proud," his mother had said, folding the letter back into its envelope with hands that didn't quite tremble. "Stubborn. He won't tell you he needs anything, so you'll have to watch and figure it out yourself. That's how he is."
"Why didn't you ever visit him?" Izuku had asked, and the silence that followed had been so thick he'd almost taken it back.
"It's complicated," she'd said finally. And then, softer: "He's not an easy man to love, Izuku. But he's my father."
The train shuddered to a stop at a platform that wasn't much more than concrete and a rusted sign reading Musutafu Station. Izuku grabbed his duffel and stepped off into air that tasted different — clean and green and heavy with the weight of mountains on every side. No buildings taller than two stories. No convenience store on the corner. Just a gravel road leading away from the platform, disappearing around a bend lined with overgrown shrubs.
He stood there for a long moment, duffel hanging from his shoulder, heart doing something stupid in his chest. The sun was starting to slant toward late afternoon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked once before falling silent.
"Okay," Izuku whispered to himself, adjusting his grip on the bag. "Okay. You've got this. It's just a summer. It's just some old guy who needs help." He started walking, gravel crunching under his red sneakers, the weight of the unknown settling into his bones like a second skin.
The gravel road curved, and the farmhouse came into view—but it wasn't just a house. It was a whole operation stretching across acres of green: horses flicking tails in a paddock, chickens scratching in the dirt, a few cows lowing somewhere in the distance. Izuku stopped walking, duffel sliding off his shoulder. His mother had said "help around the house" like it meant watering a few plants or dusting. Not this. Not a whole working farm that a sick old man was somehow running alone.
He pushed forward anyway, gravel crunching under his sneakers, past a rooster that eyed him like it was deciding whether to attack. The front porch was wide and weathered, scattered with tools and a pair of muddy work boots. He climbed the steps, heart doing something stupid in his chest, and knocked on the screen door. The sound rattled through the quiet afternoon.
A beat of silence. Then a voice from inside, rough and gravel-throated: "Yeah, hold your damn horses." The voice wasn't what Izuku expected—not thin and reedy like he'd pictured for a sick old man. It was deep. Solid. The kind of voice that came from a chest that could hold a lot of air.
The door swung open, and Izuku's brain stopped working entirely.
The man in the doorway was a monument. Broad shoulders filled the frame, a chest carved from a lifetime of physical labor stretching the fabric of a loosely tied robe that hung open down the center. His skin was tanned, stretched over muscle that looked dense and hard, a smattering of gray hair dusting his pecs before trailing into a dark happy trail that disappeared beneath the knotted waistband. His face was sharp—strong jaw dusted with stubble, ash-blond hair spiked and untamed, and eyes the color of wine that pinned Izuku where he stood. This man didn't look sixty-five. He didn't look fifty. He barely looked forty, and Izuku's mouth went dry as he realized he was staring at his grandfather's bare chest.
"You Inko's kid?" The voice again, gruff and impatient, pulling Izuku back to the surface. Katsuki Bakugo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the movement making the robe gape wider. Izuku's eyes dropped—couldn't help it, like a reflex—following that line of graying hair down, down, past the hard planes of his stomach, to where the robe hid everything Izuku's suddenly desperate imagination was filling in.
"I—yes. I'm Izuku." His voice cracked on the second syllable. "I'm your... I'm here to help. For the summer." The word grandson lodged in his throat and died there. It tasted wrong in his mouth. Like a lie. Like something he shouldn't say while his eyes were tracing the shape of this man's body like he was starving for it.
Katsuki grunted, crimson eyes sweeping over him once—slow enough that Izuku felt it like a physical touch. "You're small." A pause. "Come in. Don't let all the damn flies in." He turned, not bothering to close the robe, and Izuku caught the shift of his muscles, the way the fabric swayed and revealed a flash of thick thigh. His body reacted before his brain could catch up—heat pooling low in his gut, a slick pulse between his legs, his nipples tightening against the fabric of his cropped hoodie.
He was wet. Already. Standing on his grandfather's porch, watching the man's back disappear into the dim house, and his pussy was clenching around nothing, desperate and confused and so hot it scared him. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Izuku grabbed his duffel and stepped over the threshold. The screen door creaked shut behind him, sealing off the afternoon light, leaving him alone in the dark cool of the house with a man who was supposed to be his grandfather and a body that had very different ideas about what it wanted.
The screen door had barely clicked shut when a blur of fur and motion exploded around the corner of the house, a streak of brown and white that hit Izuku square in the chest before he could register what was happening. His duffel flew out of his hand, smacking against the floorboards, and he went down hard on his back, the breath punched out of him as a wet tongue immediately started mapping his face with frantic, ecstatic enthusiasm.
"Wh—" Izuku gasped, hands coming up automatically, fingers sinking into thick fur. A dog. An Australian shepherd, blue eyes bright and wild, tail wagging so hard his whole hind end swayed with it. The dog whined, high and happy, and licked a stripe across Izuku's mouth before going for his ear. "Okay—okay, hi—hello—" He was laughing now, breathless and startled, the dog's paws pressing into his stomach, its whole body vibrating with the joy of discovery.
"DYNAMY!"
The bark was thunder, splitting the quiet of the house. Katsuki's voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the chaos. The dog's ears flattened, but his tail kept going, tongue still swiping across Izuku's cheek like he couldn't help himself. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, crossed the floorboards. "I said off, you mangy shit." Hands grabbed the dog by the scruff, hauling him backward, and Izuku's eyes tracked the movement automatically—up Katsuki's arms, past his broad chest, following the line of his body as he leaned forward.
And then the robe gaped.
The tie had loosened with the motion, the fabric falling open like a curtain parting, and Izuku's breath stopped somewhere in his throat. He saw everything. The thick slabs of Katsuki's thighs, dusted with gray hair, spread as he braced himself to pull the dog away. The heavy, low-hanging sac nestled between his legs, dark and full and so there, so undeniably male. And rising above it, even at rest, even soft—a cock that had to be ten inches. Uncut, the foreskin pooled dark against the head, thick as Izuku's wrist, hanging heavy and obscene between those powerful thighs. It was monstrous. It was the most beautiful thing Izuku had ever seen.
Heat slammed through him like a fist. His pussy clenched, so hard it was almost painful, and he felt the slick flood between his legs, soaking the fabric of his shorts. His mouth went dry, his tongue heavy, and he couldn't look away—didn't want to, even as his brain screamed that's your grandfather, that's your grandfather, look away you sick fucking pervert—
"The hell's wrong with you?"
The robe snapped closed. The vision vanished. Izuku blinked, dazed, to find Katsuki staring down at him, one hand still gripping the dog's scruff, the other holding the robe shut. That sharp crimson gaze was narrowed, suspicious, reading him like a page. The dog—Dynamy, apparently—whined and tried to squirm back toward Izuku, tongue lolling.
Izuku's voice came out wrecked, barely a whisper. "Nothing. I—I didn't—" He scrambled upright, hands shaking, feeling the wetness between his legs like a brand. "Your dog just—he surprised me, that's all." The lie tasted like ash. His body was still thrumming, his nipples hard against his cropped hoodie, his thighs pressing together in a desperate, unconscious bid for friction.
Katsuki's eyes stayed on him for a long, loaded second. Then he grunted, looking away. "Dynamy’s friendly. Too friendly. He'll calm down once he gets used to you." He released the dog's scruff, and Dynamy immediately padded back to Izuku, this time gentler, shoving his wet nose into Izuku's palm. "He's a good judge of character, usually." The implication hung in the air, unspoken but felt.
Izuku's hand trembled as he stroked the dog's head, feeling the coarse fur under his fingers, grounding himself in something that wasn't the memory of that thick, heavy cock swinging between his grandfather's legs. "Dynamy," he repeated, and his voice cracked on the name. "You named your dog Dynamy."
"Yeah." A pause. The corner of Katsuki's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Figured it was funny. Little mutt that thinks he's tough. Gets into everything." He turned, and Izuku watched the robe shift across his shoulders, catching a glimpse of the muscled curve of his lower abdomen before he disappeared further into the house. "Your room's at the top of the stairs, second door on the left. Don't touch anything you don't need to."
Izuku stood there, rooted to the spot, Dynamy’s wet nose still pressed against his palm, his pussy soaked and aching and so desperate it made his knees weak. He was supposed to be here to help. He was supposed to be a good grandson. But the only thing he could think about—the only thing his body wanted—was getting on his knees in front of that man and finding out what ten inches of grandfather tasted like.
Dynamy’s nose found Izuku's crotch before he could stop it—wet and insistent, shoving hard against the damp fabric of his shorts. The dog inhaled, deep and deliberate, and then his tongue was out, swiping across the soaked seam like he'd discovered something delicious. Izuku yelped, hands flying down, shoving at the dog's broad head. "No—Dynamy, stop—" His face burned, the wetness between his legs suddenly the loudest thing in the world, broadcasted through canine senses he couldn't control.
Dynamy whined, tail still going, tried to shove his nose back in. Izuku scrambled upright, legs pressed together, hands shielding his crotch like that would undo the damage. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he couldn't look at Katsuki—couldn't bear to see what was on that weathered face. "He's—he's friendly," Izuku managed, voice thin and reedy, "you said—"
"Yeah." Katsuki's voice was flat, unreadable. He'd turned at the commotion, one eyebrow raised, crimson eyes flicking between Izuku and the dog. A beat of silence stretched, thin and sharp as wire. Then he grunted, shaking his head. "He's a weird mutt. Probably got your scent all over from tackling you." It was an out. A gift-wrapped excuse that Izuku grabbed with both desperate hands.
"Yeah. Probably. That's—that's exactly it." Izuku's laugh came out too high, too fast, and he pressed his thighs together hard enough to feel the slick friction. "So, uh—the tour? Where's everything in the house?" Change the subject. Change everything. Pretend that dog hadn't just licked his soaking pussy through his shorts like it was honey.
Katsuki stared at him for another long second, something flickering behind those sharp crimson eyes—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion—before he turned, robe swaying around his thick thighs. "Follow me. Don't touch anything." He moved through the farmhouse with the ease of a man who'd lived in it for decades, pointing with calloused hands at rooms Izuku barely registered. "Kitchen. You'll cook. Pantry's through there. Living room. Don't put your feet on the coffee table."
Izuku followed, his brain split in two—one half cataloguing the layout, the creaking floorboards, the faded photographs on the walls, the other half fixed entirely on the way Katsuki's robe pulled across his broad shoulders, the way his back muscles shifted with each step, the way the fabric swayed and parted just enough to flash glimpses of thick, hairy thigh. His pussy clenched again, a desperate, aching pulse, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.
"Bathroom's there. Upstairs is two bedrooms and a storage room you don't need to go in." Katsuki stopped at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister, looking back at Izuku with that sharp, assessing gaze. "I got ranch hands that help with the heavy work. Yo Shindo and Eijiro Kirishima. They handle the livestock and the maintenance. You're not here for that." He paused, jaw tightening. "You're here to make sure I don't fucking keel over."
"Shindo and Kirishima," Izuku repeated, the names sliding into his memory, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere dark and wet and wrong. His grandfather's hands, rough and calloused, gripping his hips. His grandfather's mouth, that gruff voice telling him to get on his knees. His grandfather's cock, that monstrous, beautiful, ten-inch cock, sliding past his lips, filling his throat, stretching him open until he couldn't breathe—
"You listening, kid?"
Izuku snapped back, heat flooding his face. "Yes—yes, I'm listening. Shindo and Kirishima. Livestock and maintenance. I'm here to take care of you." The words felt filthy in his mouth. Take care of you. His brain supplied an image immediately: Katsuki sprawled in a chair, robe open, legs spread, and Izuku between them, mouth working that thick cock while his grandfather groaned above him. He'd take care of him. He'd take care of every inch.
Katsuki was still watching him, something unreadable in those crimson eyes. "You okay? You look feverish." A pause. "You're not gonna pass out on me, are you?"
"No—no, I'm fine. Just tired. Long train ride." The lie came easier this time, smoother, and Izuku hated how natural it felt. He followed Katsuki up the stairs, eyes fixed on the thick calves flexing with each step, the way the robe parted at the back to reveal a sliver of muscled ass. His mouth watered. His pussy throbbed. His brain, that traitorous, desperate thing, was already picturing it: climbing into that bed with his grandfather, spreading his legs wide, letting the old man see exactly what he was offering. Letting him taste it.
Katsuki pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "Your room. Sheets are clean. Towels in the closet." He stepped aside, and Izuku moved past him into a small, sunlit room with a single bed, a wooden desk, and a window that looked out over the sprawling green fields. A barn in the distance. Horses moving slow in the paddock. It should have been peaceful. It should have felt like escape.
Izuku set his duffel on the bed, hands trembling. His pussy was still soaked, his clit aching against the wet fabric of his thong, and he could feel the slick smear against his thighs with every step. He was ruined. He'd been here ten minutes, and he was already a desperate, pathetic mess for a man who was supposed to be his family. A man who had no idea that his grandson was standing in his guest room, imagining getting on his knees and begging for his cock.
Katsuki lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, filling the frame. "Dinner's at six. Don't be late."
Katsuki made a sound—half grunt, half acknowledgment—and turned to leave. The robe caught on the doorframe for a split second, and Izuku watched, frozen, as the fabric pulled taut across those broad shoulders before slipping. The knot gave way. The robe parted like a curtain falling open at the close of a play, and Katsuki Bakugo stood there, framed in the doorway of his grandson's guest room, completely naked.
Izuku's brain stopped. Every thought, every desperate, filthy image he'd been drowning in, every rationalization and denial—gone. There was only the sight of him. The broad, muscled back tapering to a narrow waist. The heavy curve of his ass, thick and powerful, the kind of ass that came from a lifetime of squatting and lifting and working the land. And between his legs, visible now from behind, that heavy sac swinging low, those thick thighs spread just slightly as he shifted his weight, and that cock—God, that cock—hanging thick and obscene, the uncut head peeking past the foreskin, dark and heavy and so much more than Izuku had imagined.
The silence stretched. Izuku couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. His mouth was open, he realized distantly, and he closed it, but his eyes stayed locked on that spot between his grandfather's legs like a starving man staring at a feast he wasn't allowed to touch.
Katsuki turned, slow and deliberate, and the robe swung back into place as he caught it with one hand. He didn't look embarrassed. Didn't look flustered. Those crimson eyes met Izuku's with a flat, unreadable calm that made Izuku's stomach drop. "Shit," he said, without any real urgency. "Sorry about that. Tie's been loose all day." He pulled the robe closed, cinching it with a casual flick of his wrist, and for one horrible, wonderful moment, Izuku saw it again—that heavy cock disappearing behind the fabric, the dark thatch of gray pubic hair, the thick thighs flexing as he shifted. "Didn't mean to flash you, kid."
"It's—" Izuku's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, feeling the heat crawl up his neck and settle in his cheeks like a brand. "It's fine. I mean—it's not—you didn't—" He was babbling. He could hear himself babbling, and he couldn't stop, the words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to fill the silence, to cover the fact that his pussy was soaking through his thong, that his clit was aching so hard it hurt, that he'd just seen his grandfather's cock and his first thought hadn't been horror or disgust but I want it in my mouth. "Accidents happen. It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine."
Katsuki's eyes narrowed, just slightly, and Izuku felt like he was being dissected. "Right," he said, drawing the word out. "Well. Get settled. Dinner's at six." He turned again, and this time the robe stayed closed, the fabric swaying around his calves as he walked away, his footsteps heavy and unhurried on the creaking floorboards.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Izuku stood there for a long, frozen moment, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, his thighs pressed together so tight the ache was almost unbearable. Then he moved. His hands found the door, turned the lock with a sharp click, and he was stumbling backward, falling onto the bed, his shorts already shoved down his hips, his thong a soaked, ruined mess that he tore off without ceremony.
His fingers found his clit before his brain caught up, swollen and slick and aching, and he let out a sound that was half sob, half moan as he touched himself. His other hand shoved his hoodie up, his crop top following, and he stared down at his own body—his small, soft tits, his puffy pink nipples hard and desperate—and imagined it was Katsuki's rough, calloused hands on him. Katsuki's mouth. Katsuki's cock.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word raw and broken, his fingers working in tight, frantic circles. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" He was so wet he could hear it, the slick sound of his fingers sliding through his folds, and he pushed one inside himself, then two, gasping at the stretch, imagining it was that thick, monstrous cock splitting him open. His hips bucked against his own hand, and he bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, trying to stay quiet, trying not to let the whole house hear how desperately his grandson was touching himself to the memory of his naked body.
His orgasm ripped through him, sudden and brutal, and he bit down on his own arm to choke the sound, but his pussy kept clenching, kept pulsing, and then he felt it—hot and wet, splattering against the hard wood floor beneath him. He heard it, the sharp patter of his own release hitting the grain, dripping off the edge of the bed, and he couldn't stop, couldn't breathe, just kept pumping his fingers inside himself as his hips jerked and his cum sprayed across the planks in thick, messy streaks. His arm gave out, and he collapsed onto the mattress, trembling, breathless, the taste of copper still sharp on his tongue, his ears ringing with the sound of what he'd done.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his pussy still twitching, his mind already circling back to the same filthy, forbidden thought. Dinner at six. He had three hours. Three hours to figure out how he was going to sit across from his grandfather and pretend he hadn't just come undone at the sight of his cock.
He should stop. He knew he should stop. His fingers were still moving, still circling that swollen clit, and his pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty and so fucking wet he could feel it dripping down his thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath him. But his hand wouldn't stop. His hips wouldn't stop. His brain, that traitorous, ruined thing, kept playing the same loop over and over—Katsuki's robe falling open, that thick uncut cock swinging between those powerful thighs, the way he'd just stood there, unashamed, like he was used to being seen. Like he wanted to be seen.
Izuku came again, a broken, strangled sound tearing from his throat as his back arched off the bed, his pussy clenching hard around nothing, and he felt the hot gush of his release splatter against his stomach, his chest, the hardwood floor. The puddle was growing—he could see it from the corner of his eye, a cloudy, milky pool spreading across the aged wood, catching the afternoon light that slanted through the window. Three hours. He had three fucking hours, and he was already a mess, already ruined, already so far past shame that the word didn't mean anything anymore.
His hand found his clit again before his orgasm had fully faded, oversensitive and raw, and he whimpered at the contact but didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His other hand drifted up, pinching his nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it was hard and aching, and he imagined it was Katsuki's mouth—that gruff, weathered man with his calloused hands and his sharp crimson eyes, bending Izuku over this bed and spreading him open, sliding that thick cock inside until Izuku couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't be anything but full. "Please," he whispered, the word cracking, and he didn't know if he was begging his own body or begging the universe or begging the image of his grandfather that was burned into the back of his eyelids. "Please, please, please—"
He lost count. Three? Four? Five? Time dissolved into a haze of slick fingers and aching clit and the wet, obscene sound of his own release hitting the floor. The puddle spread wider, catching the light, a testament to how badly his eighteen-year-old body wanted a sixty-five-year-old man. His thighs were slick, his sheets ruined, his thong a discarded rag somewhere on the floor. And through it all, the image stayed—Katsuki in that doorway, naked and unashamed, those crimson eyes meeting Izuku's like he knew. Like he was waiting for Izuku to make the first move.
Finally, exhaustion overtook him. His hand fell away, trembling, slick with his own arousal, and he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. The puddle on the floor was impossible to ignore—a large, cloudy smear across the wood, catching the light, smelling of him. He'd have to clean it up. He'd have to face his grandfather at dinner with a straight face and pretend he hadn't spent the last three hours coming undone to the memory of that man's cock.
But right now, all he could do was lie there, shaking, his pussy still twitching, his mind already counting down the minutes until six o'clock.