Izuku's chopsticks hovered over the grilled fish, trembling slightly. He set them down before Katsuki noticed. Or maybe Katsuki had already noticed — those crimson eyes missed nothing. They'd been tracking him all through dinner, sharp and unreadable, like a man reading a book he'd already finished. He knows, Izuku's mind supplied. He saw how you looked at him. How you're still looking. The miso soup steamed between them, fragrant with seaweed and tofu, and Izuku watched Katsuki's throat move as he swallowed, watched the way his jaw worked as he chewed, and thought about that throat, that jaw, that mouth wrapped around — stop, stop, stop.
"You eat like a bird." Katsuki's voice cut through the spiral. Gruff. Flat. Not quite annoyed. "Something wrong with the fish."
"No! No, it's perfect, I just —" Izuku's cheeks burned. He grabbed his chopsticks again, stabbed at the fish, shoved a piece into his mouth. Too fast. Too desperate. He chewed, swallowed, nearly choked. Katsuki watched the whole performance with the same flat expression, one eyebrow ticking up a millimeter. God, he's so beautiful, Izuku thought, and the shame of it pulsed hot in his chest, hotter between his legs. He's your grandfather. He's sick. He needs help. And you're sitting here fantasizing about his — Izuku's thighs squeezed together under the table, a reflexive clench that did nothing to ease the wet ache.
You always this jumpy?" Katsuki asked. He leaned back in his chair, the motion pulling the robe open at his chest. The fabric parted, just a little, just enough. Izuku saw the line of his sternum, the soft dusting of gray hair, the dark shadow of his nipples. His mouth went dry. *Look away. Look away.* He couldn't. "Or is it just me?
"I'm not — I mean, I'm just — it's the first day." Shut up, Izuku. Shut up before you say something you can't take back. He grabbed his water glass, drank, nearly spilled it down his chin. "I want to make a good impression. For my mom. She's worried about you."
Katsuki let out a rough bark of laughter—short, surprised, like he'd been caught off guard by something genuinely funny. "Worried about me." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, I bet she is." The bitterness in his voice was a thin blade, barely sheathed. He set down his chopsticks and leaned forward, forearms on the table, those crimson eyes boring into Izuku's. "You don't need to lie to me, kid. I know my daughter hates my guts. Hasn't called in fifteen years. Never sent a photo. I didn't even know she had a kid until last month."
Izuku's stomach dropped. The miso soup churned. "She—she doesn't hate you. She just—" What? What can you say? You don't know anything. You don't know why she never spoke about him. You don't know why she sent you here. His voice died in his throat. Katsuki watched him flounder, and there was no cruelty in it—only the flat patience of a man who'd already heard every excuse in the book.
"I was surprised she even sent you," Katsuki said, his tone quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Thought she'd let me rot out here alone. But you showed up, so either she's got a guilty conscience, or maybe she's worried about getting cut out of the will." The words landed flat, casual, like Katsuki was commenting on the weather.
Izuku's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to argue, to defend his mother, but nothing came out. Because what did he actually know? His mother had never spoken about this man. Not once. And now here Izuku was, shipped off like a package, and the only thing he could think about was the way his grandfather's sweat smelled, the dark hollow of his navel beneath that loose robe, the thick, uncut cock he'd seen dangling between his thighs. Izuku's pussy clenched violently under the table, slick and aching, and he pressed his thighs together so hard his hip joints screamed. Stop. He's talking about dying. About his will. About your mother's betrayal. And you're creaming your shorts. The shame was a hot coal lodged in his throat.
“You don’t need my approval, kid." Katsuki's voice cut through the spiral, gruff and tired. "I don't need you to impress me. I just need help with my health."
The words hung in the air between them, and Izuku watched Katsuki's face, the way the hard lines around his mouth softened for just a fraction of a second before hardening again. He's waiting for you to say something. He told you he's dying, and you're just sitting here with your thighs pressed together like a desperate whore. Izuku's throat worked, but no sound came out. His hands were sweating, and he wiped them on his shorts under the table, the fabric damp and cool against his palms.
"Why didn't she—" The words scraped out of him, raw and thin. He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "Why did my mom never talk about you?"
Katsuki's eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before settling back into that flat, unreadable mask. He picked up his cup—cheap ceramic, chipped at the rim—and took a long drink of water, his throat working as he swallowed. Izuku watched the movement, watched the way his adam's apple bobbed, and felt his mouth go dry. Stop looking at his throat. Stop thinking about his mouth.
"That's between me and her." Katsuki set the cup down with a dull thud. "Not something I'm gonna dump on you your first night here."
"But I'm here to take care of you." Izuku's voice came out higher than he meant, almost desperate. "I don't even know what happened. I don't know if she's mad at you, or if you did something, or if—" He was rambling now, the words spilling out like water through a cracked dam. "I don't know anything, and I'm supposed to be living with you for three months, and I don't even know why she sent me, and—"
"Kid." Katsuki's hand landed on the table between them, palm flat, fingers spread. The sound cut through Izuku's spiral like a blade. Izuku's mouth snapped shut. He stared at that hand—the calluses, the thick fingers, the fine silver hairs on his knuckles.
That hand wrapped around his cock. That hand stroking slow, deliberate, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the glistening head, pink and wet, precum beading at the tip— Izuku's pussy clenched, a hot, hollow pulse that made his breath catch. He squeezed his thighs together until his hip joints burned.
"You want the truth?" Katsuki's voice was low, rough, almost a growl. "Your mother didn't talk about me because she hates me. And she's got good reason." He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and looked at Izuku with those crimson eyes, sharp and tired and older than the rest of him. "But that's her story to tell, not mine. If you want answers, you ask her."
Izuku's chest ached, a hot, tangled knot of shame and frustration and want that made no sense. He wanted to press, to push, to demand the truth—but Katsuki's face had closed off, the vulnerability from moments earlier shuttered behind that gruff mask. He's not going to tell you. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Izuku's gaze dropped to the table, to the half-eaten fish growing cold on his plate, to the dark liquid of the miso soup, and he thought about his mother's face when she'd told him about this trip. The tightness around her mouth. The way she hadn't met his eyes. She was hiding something. She's always hiding something.
"Okay," he said quietly, and the word tasted like ash. "I'll ask her."
Katsuki cleared his throat—a rough, deliberate sound that cut through the silence. He didn't meet Izuku's eyes right away, instead reaching for his tea, taking a slow sip, his thick fingers wrapped around the cheap ceramic. When he set it down, he rubbed the back of his neck, looking more uncomfortable than Izuku had seen him all night. The gruff mask flickered, just for a second, and Izuku saw something almost vulnerable underneath.
"So. Your—" Katsuki stopped, jaw working. He scratched at his stubble, the rasp of it loud in the sticky kitchen air. "Your mom mentioned something. On the phone. Before you came."
Izuku's blood went cold. The heat between his thighs vanished, replaced by a sharp, electric dread that shot through his chest and settled in his throat like a stone. No. No, please, not this. Not on top of everything else. His hand tightened on his chopsticks until the wood creaked, and he stared at his plate, unable to look up, unable to meet those sharp crimson eyes that had just started to soften. She told him. She told him I'm trans. Of course she did. Why wouldn't she? She tells everyone everything, she doesn't understand privacy, she doesn't understand— His breath came shorter, quicker, and he felt his face drain of color.
"Said you were... transitioning. Or something." Katsuki's nose wrinkled slightly—not in disgust, not in the curl of a sneer, but in the confusion of a man grappling with a concept he had no framework for, a word that didn't fit in his mouth right. "That why you got that name? Izuku? She said it wasn't your— ah, fuck." He cut himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face, the sound rough and frustrated. When he dropped his hand, his eyes met Izuku's, and there was no cruelty in them—only the flat exhaustion of a man who knew he was out of his depth. "I don't know how to ask this without soundin' like an asshole."
Izuku's chest heaved. The dread was a living thing, coiling in his gut, but underneath it—quiet, tentative—was something else. Surprise. Because Katsuki wasn't sneering. He wasn't mocking. He was sitting there, uncomfortable and awkward, trying to find the right words. He's trying. He's actually trying.
Izuku's voice came out thin, barely a whisper, when he finally spoke. "It's fine." He cleared his throat, felt the rasp of it, tried to find his lower register. "You can ask. It's... okay."
Katsuki's crimson eyes met his, sharp and assessing, reading him the way a man reads a landscape he's never seen before—carefully, looking for landmarks. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fly buzzed against the windowpane. The miso soup cooled.
"Alright." Katsuki leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. "What do I call you? What do you need while you're here?"
The dread in Izuku's chest loosened—just a fraction, just enough to let him breathe. He's not condemning me. He's asking. He wants to know. Izuku's hands were shaking, and he pressed them flat against his thighs to still them, feeling the damp fabric of his shorts. "Izuku is my name." His voice came out steadier than he expected. "He/him pronouns. That's... that's all I need."
Katsuki's brow furrowed, processing. "He." He repeated the word slowly, testing its weight, letting it settle in his mouth. His jaw worked, and for a second Izuku saw him turning it over, fitting it into the framework of his understanding. Then he nodded, once, sharp and decisive. "Right. Okay. I can do that."
The words landed like a punch to Izuku's chest—not hard, but deep, knocking the air out of him in a way that left him dizzy. He can do that. Just like that. He doesn't understand it, but he's going to do it anyway. Izuku's eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly, staring at the table, at the grain of the wood, at his own trembling hands. Don't cry. Don't cry. He'll think you're weak. He'll think—
"What about the other stuff?" Katsuki's voice cut through the spiral, practical and gruff. He gestured vaguely at his own chest, an awkward, fumbling motion. "The... medicine? The doctors? You need to get into town for anything? I got a truck. It runs most days."
Izuku's throat tightened. He's asking about my prescription. He's offering to drive me. "I have my prescription." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat again, trying to steady it. "I get my shots every two weeks. I have enough for the summer. I—" He stopped, swallowed. "Thank you. For asking."
Katsuki grunted, noncommittal, but something in his expression softened—the hard line of his mouth easing just a fraction. "Don't thank me for bein' a decent human being, kid." He reached for his tea again, took a long drink, and set it down with a dull thud. "You're under my roof. I gotta know how to take care of you."
The words hit Izuku in a way he hadn't expected—a warm, aching pulse that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the hollow place in his chest where his father should have been. He's going to take care of me. He's already trying. The shame was still there, hot and tangled, but it shifted, complicated by something tender and raw. And I'm sitting here wanting to suck his cock. What is wrong with me?
Katsuki leaned back, and the robe gaped open at his chest—just slightly, just enough. Izuku's eyes caught on the sweat-sheened skin, the soft dusting of gray hair on his pectorals, the dark shadow of his nipple. His mouth went dry. The heat flooded back, twice as strong, a desperate pulse between his thighs that made him squeeze his legs together until his hips ached again. Stop. He's being kind. He's treating you like a grandson. And you're staring at his chest like a starving animal.
"Alright then, Izuku." Katsuki said the name firmly, deliberately, letting it land. It sounded different in his gruff voice—shorter, sharper, but not unkind. "That's settled. Don't want you feelin' strange about it under my roof."
Izuku nodded, not trusting his voice. The knot in his chest had loosened, but it hadn't disappeared—it had just changed shape, tangled with gratitude and desire and a hunger that made no sense. He knows. And he stayed. He called me by my name. The thought was a warm ember in his chest, fragile and precious. And I still want him. God, I still want him so bad.
Katsuki stood, the chair scraping against the worn floorboards. He moved with the fluid grace of a man who'd spent a lifetime working his body, powerful and unselfconscious. "You done eatin'? I'll show you how to work the dishwasher. I ain't your maid."
"I—yes. I'm done. Thank you." Izuku shot up, gathering his dishes, careful not to let his hand brush Katsuki's as he reached for the plates. The older man's scent hit him—sweat and woodsmoke and something muskier underneath—and Izuku's pussy clenched, a hot, hollow pulse that made his knees weak. Focus. Focus on the dishes. Focus on not dropping anything. Focus on anything but the way he smells.
As Izuku scraped the leftover fish into the compost bin, he caught his reflection in the dark kitchen window. A stranger's face stared back—flushed, hungry, eyes too bright. A face that wanted things it shouldn't want. He knows who you are. And he didn't run. Now you have to figure out what the hell that means.
Izuku's hands shook as he carried the plates to the sink, the ceramic clinking against his trembling fingers. He turned on the faucet, letting the hot water run over his skin, but it did nothing to cool the burn beneath his flesh. He just accepted it. Just like that. No questions. No hesitation. The thought circled his skull like a trapped bird, beating against the walls of his shame. His mother still called him by his dead name when she was angry. Still said "she" when she forgot herself. Still insisted it was a phase he'd grow out of. But Katsuki—this stranger, this man his mother hated—had looked him in the eye and said I can do that. Izuku's throat tightened, a hot, complicated knot of gratitude and resentment and something ravenous that coiled low in his belly.
He scrubbed at a plate, hard enough to whiten his knuckles, wishing the motion could erase the ache between his thighs. Under his tiny shorts, his cunt was slick and swollen, a constant, throbbing pulse that refused to quiet. Every time Katsuki moved, every time his robe rustled, Izuku's gaze dropped to the shadow of his chest, the dusting of gray hair, the thick column of his throat. Stop. He just called you by your name. Don't ruin this. But the hunger was a living thing, and it didn't care about gratitude.
A wet nose pressed into the back of his bare thigh.
Izuku jerked, nearly dropping the plate. He looked down to find Dynamy standing behind him, dark eyes fixed on his face, tail wagging a slow, steady rhythm. The dog's nose twitched, sniffing, and Izuku's blood ran cold. He can smell it. He can smell me. Before Izuku could step away, Dynamy shoved his snout forward, right between Izuku's legs, pressing into the soaked seam of his shorts. A hot, wet tongue pushed flat against the fabric, right where his cunt ached, right where the slick had soaked through completely.
"Ah—!" The shriek tore out of him, high and sharp. He stumbled back, his hip cracking against the counter's edge, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. The plate clattered into the sink, and Dynamy followed, tail wagging faster, tongue licking at the air, at Izuku's thigh, at the dark, unmistakable wet patch staining the pale fabric of his shorts.
"The hell's goin' on in—"
Katsuki's voice cut off like a blade.
Izuku's blood turned to ice. He looked up, frozen, pressed against the counter with Dynamy’s nose still sniffing eagerly at his crotch. Katsuki stood in the kitchen doorway, his robe hanging loose, his crimson eyes locked onto the scene. Onto the dog's snout. Onto the wet patch. Onto Izuku's flushed, horrified face.
The silence stretched. One beat. Two. Izuku couldn't breathe. He sees it. He knows what it is. He knows I'm soaking through my shorts because of him.
"Dynamy." Katsuki's voice was low, sharp—a blade wrapped in gravel. "Off."
The dog whined but backed away, tail dropping, ears flattening. Dynamy slunk past his owner, head low, and disappeared into the hallway. Katsuki didn't take his eyes off Izuku.
Izuku's mouth opened. Closed. A hundred apologies clawed at his throat, but none of them made it past his lips. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I want you. I'm sorry I'm wet. I'm sorry I can't stop thinking about your cock. The words were there, screams trapped behind his teeth, but all that came out was a thin, ragged breath.
Katsuki's jaw worked. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to the wet spot on Izuku's shorts, dark and blatant against the pale fabric. Then he looked away, scratching the back of his neck, the rasp of his stubble loud in the sticky kitchen air.
"Sorry about that, kid." Katsuki's voice came out rough, scraping against the quiet like gravel. He scratched the back of his neck, his robe shifting with the motion—falling open wider, the fabric sliding over his shoulder, baring the thick column of his throat and the broad plane of his chest. "Don't know what's got into him."
Izuku's breath caught. He couldn't look away. The robe hung loose on Katsuki's frame, the knot at his waist barely holding, and the gap revealed everything—the dusting of gray hair on his pectorals, the deep cut of his abdomen, the trail of gray hair disappearing below his navel. And there, half-hidden in the shadow between his thighs, was his cock.
It was just *there*. Hanging soft and heavy against his thigh, uncut, the foreskin bunched at the tip. But as Izuku watched—as his heart slammed against his ribs and his mouth went dry—he saw it *move*. A twitch. A slow, lazy pulse of blood, and the shaft began to thicken, to lift, the head pushing past the foreskin in a glistening swell.
He's getting hard. He's getting hard because I'm standing here with my shorts soaked through, because he saw the wet spot, because he knows. The thought sent a lightning bolt of heat through Izuku's core, his cunt clenching so hard he had to press his thighs together to keep from moaning. The ache was unbearable—a hollow, desperate pulse that demanded to be filled. God, I want to taste it. I want to get on my knees and take every inch of that cock in my mouth.
His eyes traced the curve of Katsuki's heavy balls—low-hanging, furred with gray hair, swaying slightly as the older man shifted his weight. I want to lick them. I want to feel them against my tongue, heavy and warm. I want to suck them into my mouth while I stroke his shaft. Izuku's hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out, to touch, to worship.
He bit his lip. Hard. The sharp pain grounded him, but only barely. The blood had rushed to his groin, to his clit, swollen and aching against the soaked fabric of his thong. Please. Please don't let him see me looking. Please don't let him see how badly I want this. But he couldn't stop. His gaze was locked on that thickening shaft, watching it rise, watching the foreskin retract fully to reveal the flushed, shiny head.
Katsuki cleared his throat, and Izuku's eyes snapped up to his face. The older man's crimson gaze was fixed somewhere past Izuku's shoulder, deliberately not looking at him. His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He knows. He fucking knows I was staring. And he's not covering himself up.
The realization hit Izuku like a wave—hot, dizzying, terrifying. He's letting me see. He's not turning away. He's giving me this. Izuku's pussy throbbed, a fresh gush of wetness soaking through his shorts, and he had to lock his knees to keep from dropping to the floor right there. I want to crawl to him. I want to press my face against his thigh and beg him to let me suck him off until he comes down my throat.
Izuku's lip was raw between his teeth, his breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls. The kitchen was too small, too hot, the air thick with the smell of miso and sweat and something muskier—Katsuki's scent, deep and masculine, filling Izuku's lungs with every desperate inhale. Say something. Do something. Break this spell before you do something you can't take back. But his body wouldn't listen. His eyes stayed locked on that half-hard cock, watching it pulse, watching it *want*, and the only thing Izuku could do was bite down harder and pray the ache in his cunt didn't swallow him whole.
Katsuki's hand moved to his robe, fingers catching the loose fabric at his chest. He pulled it closed with a rough jerk, but the knot at his waist was loose, and the fabric didn't quite settle right—it hung open at the bottom, exposing the thick, half-hard curve of his cock pressing against his thigh. The foreskin had retracted fully now, the glistening head swollen and pink, and Izuku could see a bead of clear fluid glistening at the tip. He's leaking. He's leaking because of me.
Katsuki cleared his throat, a rough, scraping sound that cut through the sticky silence. His eyes were still fixed somewhere past Izuku's shoulder, deliberately not looking at him. "You got everything you need, kid?" His voice was gravel and smoke, rougher than before, with an edge Izuku couldn't quite read. "I'm gonna head to bed."
The words hit Izuku like a splash of cold water. Bed. He's going to bed. Alone. Without— He bit the thought off before it could finish, his teeth sinking into his already-raw lip. What did you expect? That he'd take you right here on the kitchen floor? He's your grandfather. He just accepted your identity. He's trying to be decent, and you're standing here fantasizing about his cock like a goddamn animal.
"I—yeah. Yes." Izuku's voice came out high and breathless, cracking on the second syllable. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I have everything. Thank you. For dinner. For—for everything." For not running. For not screaming. For letting me see you hard. For giving me that.
Katsuki grunted, adjusting his robe again, but the damn thing wouldn't stay closed—it kept falling open at his thigh, revealing that heavy, half-hard shaft. He seemed not to notice, or if he did, he wasn't bothering to fix it. He knows. He knows I'm looking. He's giving me one last look before he walks away. Izuku's pussy clenched, a desperate, hollow pulse that made his knees weak. Don't go. Please don't go. Stay. Let me touch you. Let me—
"Alright then." Katsuki turned toward the hallway, and the robe swirled around him, giving Izuku a full view of his back—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the powerful curve of his ass barely hidden by the thin fabric. The robe had ridden up slightly, exposing the lower part of his cheeks, and Izuku could see the dusting of gray hair on his crack. I want to bite that. I want to sink my teeth into that and feel him shudder.
Izuku's hand shot out before he could stop it, fingers brushing the edge of Katsuki's robe. "Wait—" The word came out desperate, ragged, a plea he hadn't meant to make. Katsuki stopped, his body going still, and Izuku saw the muscles in his back tense. What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing? You can't—he's your grandfather—but he was hard—he was hard for you—
Katsuki turned his head just slightly, his sharp profile visible in the dim kitchen light. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping in his cheek. "What, Izuku?"
The sound of his name—his real name—stopped Izuku cold. He snatched his hand back, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he felt dizzy. "I—nothing. I just—goodnight. Goodnight, Grandfather." He called you by your name. Don't ruin this. Don't fucking ruin this.
Katsuki held still for a long moment, his crimson eyes unreadable in the half-light. Then he turned away, his robe brushing against the doorframe as he disappeared into the dark hallway. "Night, kid." His voice was softer now, almost tender, and it cut through Izuku's chest like a blade. "Lock up before you come to bed."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Izuku stood alone in the kitchen, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The air still smelled like Katsuki—sweat and woodsmoke and that muskier scent underneath—and Izuku's pussy throbbed with a desperate, aching pulse. He pressed his thighs together, hard, and a whimper escaped his lips. He was hard. He was hard for me. And I let him walk away.
His gaze dropped to the wet stain on his shorts, dark and blatant in the kitchen light. He thought of Katsuki's half-hard cock, the bead of fluid at the tip, the way it pulsed when he'd said goodnight. Did you want me to ask? Did you want me to beg? Izuku's fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into his skin. I would have. I would have begged on my knees. I would have crawled across this floor and licked the salt off your thighs.
Izuku's fingers trembled as he fumbled his phone from his pocket, the screen's glow harsh in the dim kitchen. His shorts were still soaked, clinging to his thighs, and every shift of fabric sent a fresh jolt of ache through his cunt. He walked away. He was hard, and he walked away, and now I'm alone with this—this need that won't fucking stop. His thumb moved on its own, opening the browser, typing the search before his brain could catch up. Next day delivery. Big. Big enough to match— He swallowed, his throat dry, his pulse hammering as he scrolled through the options. Ten inches. Thick. Realistic. His breath hitched as he added one to the cart, his pussy clenching at the thought of what he was about to do. This is insane. This is so fucking insane. But I can't—I can't keep rubbing my thighs together like a desperate virgin. I need something inside me. I need to feel full.
He hit place order before he could second-guess himself, the confirmation screen blinking up at him. Arriving tomorrow by noon. Izuku let out a shaky breath, his phone slipping from his fingers onto the counter. His hand drifted down, pressing against the wet fabric of his shorts, and he bit his lip so hard he tasted copper. Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours. I can wait that long. But even as he thought it, his hips rocked forward into his palm, a desperate, involuntary movement. God, I hope it's big enough. I hope it feels like him. I hope when I close my eyes, I can pretend it's his cock splitting me open.
Izuku stood there, trembling, his fingers digging into his thigh, counting down the hours until the package arrived. He really is a desperate virgin.