The knock came three times—firm, deliberate, not the casual rap of Eijiro letting himself in. Izuku's hand stilled on the half-packed duffel bag, heart stuttering. Nobody knocked like that. Nobody knocked at all on this farm. He crossed the living room in six steps, yanked the door open, and the air left his lungs in a single broken rush.
Katsuki stood on the porch in dark jeans that hugged his thick thighs, a deep red flannel rolled to his elbows, the top two buttons undone. His ash-blond hair was tamed—still spiked, but intentional. In his calloused hands, a bouquet of wildflowers: black-eyed Susans and lavender, tied with twine. He looked nervous. Katsuki Bakugo looked nervous, jaw tight, crimson eyes darting sideways before they finally landed on Izuku's face.
"You're staring, brat." His voice was rough, cracked at the edges. He thrust the flowers forward like they were burning him. "These are for you. Obviously."
Izuku took them on instinct, fingers brushing Katsuki's, and the contact sent electricity up his arm. The flowers smelled like summer—like the fields past the barn, like the meadows Katsuki never walked him through but always pointed to from the porch. "Papa, what—" His voice broke. "You dressed up. You're wearing jeans. Real jeans."
"I know what jeans are, I own several pairs." Katsuki's ears were red. "I'm taking you out. Tonight. Before you—" He stopped, worked his jaw. "Before tomorrow. Get in the truck."
Izuku didn't ask questions. He set the flowers on the entry table, grabbed his lightest jacket, and followed Katsuki to the old pickup idling in the driveway. The passenger door creaked when Katsuki opened it for him—opened it for him, like a gentleman in a movie—and Izuku climbed in, thighs bare against the warm leather, heart hammering so loud he was sure Katsuki could hear it.
They drove in silence for twenty minutes, past the fields Izuku had learned to love, past the treeline where the creek ran, past everything familiar and into a part of the property Izuku had never seen. Katsuki's hand rested on the gear shift, close enough to touch.
Katsuki pulled off the dirt road onto a clearing—a flat expanse of grass surrounded by wild oaks, the sky bruised violet with the dying sun. And there, in the truck bed, was a setup that made Izuku's chest ache: a thick mattress layered with quilts, pillows propped against the cab, a lantern casting warm light over a woven basket. A blanket was spread with plates, glasses, a bottle of something that caught the last light.
"Eijiro packed it," Katsuki said gruffly. The silence rushed in—crickets, wind through grass, the distant low of cattle. "The food. I can't cook for shit, you know that." He turned to him, and his eyes were softer than Izuku had ever seen them. "But I wanted—fuck. I wanted one night. Before you go. Just us. No barn, no hay, no audience. Just you and me and the stars."
Izuku's vision blurred. Tears slid hot down his cheeks before he could stop them, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, laughing wetly. "Papa, you can't just—you can't do this to me. I'm supposed to leave tomorrow. I'm supposed to be strong." His voice cracked into a whisper. "How am I supposed to leave you after this?"
Katsuki reached across the seat, calloused thumb catching a tear, smearing it across Izuku's freckled cheek. "You're not." His voice was gravel and tenderness, cracked open. "You're not supposed to leave. You're supposed to come back. Every break. Every summer. Every chance you get. This farm—it's yours now, baby boy. And I'm yours. However long I've got left."
Izuku knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that the words were a lie he’d let himself believe because the truth was unbearable. Katsuki’s heart couldn’t give him breaks and summers and chances. It could give him tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning if he was greedy. But Izuku forced the knowledge down, swallowed it with the lump in his throat, and focused on the man before him—the wildflowers in the cab, the lantern light, the way Katsuki’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for the picnic basket.
The meal was simple: cold chicken salad, fresh bread, cheese cut into uneven cubes, strawberries so ripe they bled juice at the touch. Eijiro had packed it all with care, a bottle of lemonade sweating in the cooling air. They ate in the truck bed, cross-legged on the quilt, the lantern casting long shadows across Katsuki’s face. Izuku watched him chew, watched the way his jaw worked, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. Every second felt stolen.
“You’re staring again.” Katsuki’s voice was gruff, but his ears burned red. He didn’t look up from the bread he was tearing.
“I know.” Izuku smiled, small and fragile. “I’m trying to memorize you.”
Katsuki’s hand stilled. He set the bread down, reached across the blanket, and curled his calloused fingers around Izuku’s wrist. The touch was light—barely there—but it said everything his mouth couldn’t. Izuku turned his hand over, let Katsuki’s thumb trace the blue veins beneath his skin.
They finished eating in a silence that wasn’t empty. The stars began to punch through the violet sky, one by one, and the lantern flickered when the first real breeze of night rolled over the field. Izuku set his plate aside and shifted closer, knees brushing Katsuki’s thigh. He didn’t plan the kiss. His body simply leaned, and Katsuki met him halfway.
Soft. That was the word that surfaced through the haze of Izuku’s mind. The kiss was soft in a way their others hadn’t been—no teeth, no rush, no desperate claiming. Just the press of lips, the warmth of breath, the slow drag of Katsuki’s tongue against his. Izuku’s hand found the open collar of Katsuki’s flannel, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to rest against the thrum of his pulse. It beat strong, too strong for a dying man. Izuku kissed him harder, tasting salt.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing shallow. Katsuki’s forehead pressed to Izuku’s, their noses brushing. The air between them was charged and quiet, and Izuku could feel the weight of everything unsaid settling in his chest like a stone.
“This is wrong.” Izuku whispered it, not as a confession but as a fact. “You’re my grandfather. I’m supposed to go to college, find a boy my age, have a normal life. This is—” He stopped, throat tight. “But it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
Katsuki’s hand came up, cupping Izuku’s jaw, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. His crimson eyes were wet, catching the lantern light. “I spent twenty years running from what I did to your grandmother. I told myself I deserved the isolation, the sickness, the loneliness. Then you showed up at my door, and I—” He exhaled, shaky. “I ain’t got time left to pretend this isn’t the best thing that ever happened to me. Wrong or not. You’re my soulmate, Izuku. I know it. I’ve known it since the first day you showed up on my doorstep.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. He pressed his forehead harder into Katsuki’s, eyes squeezed shut. The word echoed in his chest—soulmate—and he let it settle, let it root. When he opened his eyes, they were clear. “Then make love to me tonight, Papa. Not just fuck me. Make love to me like you mean it.” He pulled back just enough to meet Katsuki’s gaze, letting the vulnerability show. “I want to remember this forever.”
Katsuki stared at him, and for a long moment, the only sound was the wind through the grass and the distant chorus of crickets. Then he nodded, slow and reverent, and lowered Izuku onto the quilt, the lantern casting their shadows into one.
The sound that hit Izuku first wasn't touch—it was the absence of urgency. Katsuki's weight settled beside him on the quilt, the truck bed springs creaking once before falling silent. Lantern light painted the underside of Katsuki's jaw, the hollow of his throat, the way his hands found the hem of Izuku's jacket and paused, asking permission without a single word.
Izuku nodded, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his lips, and Katsuki peeled the fabric away slow—so slow Izuku felt every millimeter of air against his skin. The jacket fell beside them. Then the shirt, lifted over his head, catching on his curls until Katsuki freed them with a gentleness that made Izuku's eyes sting. Katsuki's palms slid down his arms, his ribs, his waist, mapping him like he was memorizing the shape of every bone.
"You're so beautiful, baby boy." Katsuki's voice was low, scraped raw. His thumb traced the curve of Izuku's breastbone, then dipped lower, following the trail of freckles that disappeared beneath his jeans. "Gonna take my time with you tonight. Gonna remember every inch."
Izuku's hands found the buttons of Katsuki's flannel. He worked them one by one, knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath, and when the fabric fell open, he pressed his palm flat against Katsuki's chest—felt the steady thrum of that failing heart, the one that had already outlived every doctor's prediction.
"Papa." His voice broke on the word. He kissed the chest, and felt Katsuki's hand cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls.
They shed the rest of their clothes in a silence that felt sacred—the rasp of denim against skin, the clink of a belt buckle, the soft thud of boots hitting the truck bed. When they were both bare, the lantern light caught the planes of Katsuki's body, the broad shoulders and the sparse hair on his chest, the thick thighs and the heavy cock already half-hard against his thigh. Izuku lay back on the quilt, legs parted, open and waiting, and Katsuki lowered himself beside him.
Katsuki's mouth found his throat first—soft, open-mouthed kisses that dragged down his neck, across his collarbone, over the swell of his chest. He paused at each nipple, circling with his tongue until Izuku gasped, then moved lower, trailing heat across his stomach, his hips, the inside of his thighs. Every kiss was deliberate, worshipful, like Katsuki was praying with his mouth. When he reached the junction of Izuku's thighs, he looked up—crimson eyes meeting green—and said, "Look at me, baby. I want you to watch."
Izuku watched, gaze locked on Katsuki's face as his grandfather lowered his head. The first touch of Katsuki's tongue against his cunt was gentle—barely there, a slow drag through his folds that made Izuku's thighs tremble. Katsuki hummed against him, the vibration sending sparks up his spine, and then his tongue pressed deeper, circling his clit with a patience that bordered on agony. Izuku's fingers found Katsuki's hair, gripping the ash-blond spikes, and he heard himself whimper—high and desperate—as Katsuki licked into him like he was tasting something sacred.
The world narrowed to the wet heat of Katsuki's mouth, the scrape of stubble against his inner thigh, the low sounds Katsuki made against his skin. Izuku felt the coil building, slow and inevitable, but Katsuki pulled back before he could crest—lips slick, chin wet, eyes dark with tenderness. He crawled up Izuku's body, kiss by kiss, and when their mouths met, Izuku tasted himself on Katsuki's tongue. The kiss was deep and unhurried, Katsuki's hand cupping his jaw, and Izuku melted into it, into him, into the lantern-lit night that felt like forever even though forever was a luxury neither of them had.
When they finally broke apart, Katsuki's forehead pressed to his, breath mingling warm and shared. "I love you," Izuku whispered, and the words felt like a homecoming. "I love you, Papa."
Katsuki's breath hitched against his ear. His hand slid from Izuku's jaw down his chest, palm flat over his heart, like he was feeling it beat beneath his palm. "I love you too, baby boy." The words came rough and raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "I love you so fuckin' much it scares me."
Izuku's throat tightened. His hands found the broad curve of Katsuki's shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there, and he pulled him down into a kiss that said everything his voice couldn't. Katsuki shifted, weight settling over him, and Izuku felt the heat of his cock against his thigh—thick and heavy, already slick with anticipation. He spread his legs wider, an invitation that needed no words, and Katsuki answered with a slow roll of his hips, positioning himself at Izuku's entrance.
Katsuki didn't rush. He held himself above Izuku, forearms braced on either side of his head, crimson eyes locked onto green. The tip pressed against him—just the tip—and Katsuki paused, letting Izuku feel the weight of the moment. "Look at me," he whispered, and Izuku did, watching every flicker of emotion cross his grandfather's face as he pushed forward, inch by inch, filling him with a slowness that bordered on reverence.
Izuku's mouth fell open. The stretch was familiar now, but the tenderness changed everything—made every millimeter feel like a confession, like Katsuki was spelling out his love inside him. He felt his body yield, felt the heat spread from his core to his fingertips, and when Katsuki bottomed out, hips flush against his, they both let out a breath that sounded like surrender. "Papa," Izuku breathed, and the word was a prayer.
Katsuki stayed still for a long moment, letting Izuku adjust, letting the sensation settle into something they could both hold. His thumb traced the curve of Izuku's cheek, smearing a tear Izuku hadn't noticed falling. "You feel that?" Katsuki's voice was barely audible. "That's me. All of me. Right where I belong."
Then he moved—a slow, deep pull of his hips, dragging against Izuku's walls with a pressure that made stars flicker behind his eyelids. Izuku's hands slid down Katsuki's back, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine, feeling the flex of muscle as Katsuki pushed back in. Their hips met with a soft, wet sound, and Izuku arched into it, into him, into the rhythm that built between them like a heartbeat finding its pace.
There was no urgency. No frantic grabbing or desperate gasps. Just the steady roll of two bodies learning to move as one—Katsuki's thrusts deep and unhurried, his forehead pressed to Izuku's, their breath mingling in the space between kisses. Izuku wrapped his legs around Katsuki's waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and the angle shifted, let Katsuki hit deeper, and Izuku's whimper was swallowed by Katsuki's mouth.
"I want to remember this," Izuku whispered against his lips, voice cracking. "Every second. Every time you move inside me." He felt Katsuki's cock throbbing, felt the way his rhythm stuttered for just a moment. "When I'm in my dorm, alone, I want to close my eyes and feel you."
Katsuki's thrusts slowed, almost stopped, and he pulled back just enough to meet Izuku's eyes. His own were wet, lantern light catching the sheen on his cheeks. "Then feel me," he said, voice broken and fierce and full of love. "I'm gonna be right here, baby boy. Every time you close your eyes. Every time you touch yourself. It's gonna be me, filling you up, loving you." He pushed in deep and held, the pressure perfect, the moment infinite. "I ain't ever leavin' you."
Izuku felt the orgasm build slow and deep, not the usual desperate peak but a rolling wave that spread through his whole body. His cunt clenched around Katsuki's cock, pulsing in rhythm with his heart, and he heard himself sob Katsuki's name as he came—a quiet, shuddering release that didn't break their rhythm. Katsuki followed a moment later, hips pressing flush, grinding deep as he spilled into him with a groan that sounded like relief, like coming home, like every lonely night he'd spent on this farm was suddenly worth it for this single perfect moment.
The world settled around them like a held breath finally released. Izuku could feel Katsuki softening inside him, the slow pulse of his spent cock still buried deep, still connected, like his body had no intention of letting go. The cum was warm between his thighs, leaking around the seal of their joined bodies, and Izuku didn't want to move, didn't want to break the perfect weight of Katsuki above him.
But Katsuki shifted first—slow, careful, his arms sliding under Izuku's back and cradling him as he rolled onto his side and brought Izuku with him. The slide of his cock leaving Izuku's body felt like a small death, a loss so profound his breath caught, but then Katsuki resettled them, Izuku draped across his broad chest, and he felt Katsuki's hand guiding his head into the crook of his neck.
"Stay," Katsuki murmured against his hair. "Just stay like this a minute."
Izuku nodded, his cheek pressed to the warm skin above Katsuki's heart. He could hear it—that stubborn, failing rhythm that was running on borrowed time. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He counted the beats like a rosary, like a prayer, like if he counted enough of them he could will them into permanence.
Katsuki's hand found the lantern and turned it off. The darkness didn't descend—it opened. The sky above them exploded into light, stars punched through the velvet dark in constellations Izuku had never seen outside of textbooks. The Milky Way arced overhead like a river of silver dust, and the world fell away—the truck, the field, the farm, the future—until there was nothing but the infinite sky and the warm body beneath him.
"Papa," Izuku whispered, his voice cracking. He had no other words. He pressed his palm flat against Katsuki's chest, felt the steady heartbeat, and let the tears slide silently down his cheeks into the sparse hair on Katsuki's sternum.
Katsuki's hand found his back. Calloused, rough, working-man fingers that had fixed fences and baled hay and clenched around the steering wheel of a truck for decades—and they traced impossible gentle circles across Izuku's spine. The motion was soothing, grounding, a rhythm older than words. Izuku's body relaxed into it, the tension of the past month bleeding out of him with every slow circle.
Then the hand stilled.
"You're shakin', baby boy." Katsuki's voice was rough, but soft. His palm flattened against Izuku's back, feeling the tremors that wracked his small frame. "Talk to me."
Izuku's throat locked. He pressed his face harder into Katsuki's neck, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and sex and the faint musk of the flannel he'd discarded. He wanted to bottle this smell. He wanted to carry it with him to that sterile dorm room, to that empty bed, to the life that was waiting to swallow him whole.
But he couldn't. He couldn't do it. The thought of leaving was a physical weight in his chest, a stone lodged behind his ribs, and the closer the morning came, the heavier it grew.
"I can't do it." The words came out muffled, half-swallowed by Katsuki's skin. "I can't leave."
Katsuki's hand resumed its stroking, slower now, like he was trying to soothe a wild thing. "It's just one night, baby. We got—" his voice caught, the lie dying before it fully formed. "We got tonight. We got tomorrow mornin'. We got—"
"No." Izuku pushed himself up, hands braced on Katsuki's chest, looking down at his grandfather's face half-lit by starlight. His own face was wet, tears tracking silver paths down his freckled cheeks. "You don't understand. I can't go back to that life. I don't want it. I never wanted it."
Katsuki's brow furrowed. "You're eighteen. You got a scholarship. You got—"
"I had nothing." Izuku's voice broke open, raw and bleeding. "I had nothing before you, Papa. Do you understand that? I graduated high school and it was like the world just... ended. No invitations. No job. My mom looked at me like I was a stranger she was stuck housing." He laughed, bitter and wet. "She still calls me by my deadname. Have you noticed that? The whole summer, she's never once called me Izuku."
Katsuki's hands came up to frame Izuku's face, thumbs catching the tears that wouldn't stop falling. "I noticed."
"I lost all my friends when I came out." Izuku's voice dropped to a whisper, the shame and the grief bleeding through. "They didn't know what to do with me. With the girl who wanted to be a boy. So they just... stopped calling. Stopped texting. I was alone, Papa. So alone I used to lie in my bed at night and pray I just wouldn't wake up."
Katsuki's breath hitched. His grip on Izuku's face tightened fractionally. "Izuku—"
"And then my mom shipped me here." Izuku's tears dripped onto Katsuki's chest, warm and endless. "To take care of a grandfather I'd never met. And I walked up those steps and you opened the door and you—" He choked, fresh sobs tearing through him. "You looked at me. Really looked at me. And you said, 'So you're the boy my daughter's been hiding.'"
Katsuki's eyes went wide. His thumbs stilled on Izuku's cheekbones. "I remember."
"No one had ever called me that before." Izuku's voice broke into a thousand pieces. "No one had ever seen me and just... accepted that I was a boy. You treated me like a man from the first second. Like I was—like I was normal. Like I was worthy." He pressed his forehead to Katsuki's, breath ragged. "You were the first person in my whole life who made me feel like I existed."
Katsuki's own eyes were wet, starlight catching the sheen on them. His hands slid from Izuku's face into his curls, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. "Baby boy," he breathed against Izuku's lips. "My baby boy."
"I can't go back to that life, Papa." Izuku shook his head, curls brushing Katsuki's chin. "It wasn't a life. It was waiting to die. You're the only dream I've ever had." He pressed his hand to his own stomach, fingers splayed over the soft skin. "This baby—our baby—is my dream now. My future. I'm not giving that up for a degree I don't want."
Katsuki went completely still beneath him.
The night air suddenly felt thin, cold, charged with something electric and terrifying. Izuku watched Katsuki's face—the furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips, the way his crimson eyes searched Izuku's like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had just rearranged itself.
"What did you say?" Katsuki's voice was barely a rasp.
Izuku took a shuddering breath. He let his hand rest over his lower belly, the gesture instinctive, protective. "I'm pregnant."
The silence stretched. A barn owl called in the distance. The wind whispered through the tall grass. And Katsuki stared at him, frozen, the hand in Izuku's curls gone slack.
"I didn't know how to tell you." Izuku's words spilled out, nervous and fast. "I thought—I didn't want to put pressure on you. And I wasn't sure at first. But my period was late, and I snuck into town last week, bought ten tests, hid them in the barn. I took all of them, Papa. All ten. Every single one was positive." He laughed, wet and hysterical. "I think I'm the most pregnant person in the world."
Katsuki's hand slid slowly from Izuku's hair down his shoulder, his arm, until his palm came to rest over Izuku's hand on his belly. His fingers were trembling. The great, calloused, work-roughened hands that had held Izuku down and fucked him until he screamed were shaking like leaves in a storm.
"A baby," Katsuki breathed. The word hung in the air, fragile and impossibly heavy. "I'm gonna be a father."
Izuku nodded, fresh tears spilling. "At sixty-five." He tried to laugh, but it came out a sob. "It's comical, right? The universe has a sick sense of humor."
Katsuki's eyes finally met his. And they were overflowing. The old man—the gruff, guarded, bristling old man who had spent twenty years punishing himself—was crying openly, tears cutting tracks down his weathered cheeks and pooling in the hollow of his throat.
"Izuku." His voice cracked on the name, raw and reverent. "You're—you're carrying my baby."
"Yes."
"Our baby."
"Yes, Papa."
Katsuki made a sound—a broken, shuddering exhale that turned into something between a sob and a laugh. His arms wrapped around Izuku and crushed him to his chest, holding him so tight Izuku could barely breathe, but he didn't care. He buried his face in Katsuki's neck and felt the old man's body shake with tears.
"I thought I'd lost everything," Katsuki whispered into his hair. "I thought I'd spend the rest of my life alone, paying for what I did, and then you showed up, and now—" He pressed a desperate kiss to Izuku's temple. "Now I got a grandson. And a baby. And—" He pulled back just enough to look at Izuku, eyes wild with wonder. "And I got someone to live for."
Izuku's breath hitched. "Papa—"
"I ain't dyin'." The words came fierce, almost angry, like Katsuki was daring the universe to argue. "I ain't dyin', Izuku. I'm gonna fight like hell to see this baby born. To see 'em grow up. To give you the family you never had."
Izuku's sobs came harder, body shaking, and Katsuki held him through every one, rocking him gently in the truck bed beneath a sky that had never looked so vast or so full of possibility.
"I love you," Izuku choked out. "I love you so much I thought it would kill me."
Katsuki kissed his forehead, his nose, his wet cheeks, his lips—soft, reverent kisses that tasted of tears and hope. "I love you too, baby boy. More than I ever thought I could love anything again." He pressed his palm flat against Izuku's belly, warm and solid. "And I love this baby. This impossible, beautiful, comical baby." A laugh broke through his tears, rough and real. "I'm gonna be a daddy at sixty-five."
"A very hot daddy," Izuku sniffled, and they both laughed—broken, hysterical, beautiful laughter that echoed across the empty field and up into the watching stars.
They lay tangled together as the night deepened, Katsuki's hand never leaving Izuku's stomach, tracing lazy circles over the skin that held their secret. The Milky Way wheeled slowly overhead, indifferent and eternal, but beneath it, two lives had just collided into something permanent. Something that couldn't be unmade.
Izuku pressed his lips to Katsuki's chest, over his heart. "Tomorrow I'm calling my mom. I'm telling her I'm not coming home."
Katsuki's arm tightened around him. "And college?"
"It'll be there in a few years." Izuku tilted his head up, finding Katsuki's eyes in the starlight. "But you won't be. Not like this. I'm not wasting a single second I have left with you."
Katsuki's jaw tightened, a fresh sheen of tears glistening in his eyes. But he nodded, slow and solemn. "Then we got a lot of livin' to cram into the time we got left, baby boy."
His grandfather's heartbeat thrummed steady beneath his ear. His child thrummed silent and secret beneath his palm. And Izuku Midoriya—who had arrived at this farm with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heart—realized he had everything he would ever need.