A week bled into another, the farmhouse settling around Izuku like a second skin he couldn't quite shrug off. He woke to the crow of roosters and the weight of his own hand pressed between his legs, the ghost of Katsuki's silhouette burned into the back of his eyelids. Every morning he peeled himself off the damp sheets, threw on a pair of shorts that barely covered the swell of his ass, and pretended the previous days hadn't happened. The dildo stayed hidden under his bed. The memory of Katsuki's half-hard cock stayed seared into his brain.
The first time Eijiro Kirishima showed up, Izuku almost cried with relief. The man was a wall of muscle and sunshine, his red hair spiked and bright, his smile wide and easy. "You must be Izuku!" he said, clapping a calloused hand on Izuku's shoulder. "Katsuki's told me all about you. Well, not all about you—you know how he is. But he said you were comin' to help out." Izuku's smile felt fragile, but it held. Eijiro didn't look at him like he was a problem. He looked at him like a friend he hadn't met yet.
"I can show you around the barn if you want," Eijiro offered, his red eyes warm. "We got the chickens, couple of goats, and this grumpy old horse that Katsuki refuses to name anything but 'Asshole.'" Izuku laughed, a real sound that surprised him. Eijiro's grin widened. He was easy to be around. Normal. Safe. Izuku clung to that feeling like a lifeline.
It didn't last. Yo Shindo appeared around the corner of the tool shed, shirtless as always, sweat glistening on his tanned chest. His gray eyes locked onto Izuku and slid down his body slow, like he was undressing him with his gaze alone. "Well, well," he said, voice low and slick. "The grandson. Finally got you alone, huh?" He stepped closer, close enough that Izuku caught the sour smell of his sweat. "You need anything, sweetheart, you come find me. I'm real good with my hands. Strong hands." He flexed one, bicep bulging, his grin sharp.
Izuku's stomach turned. "I—I'm fine. Thanks." The words came out high and tight. He backed away, nearly tripping over a rake. Yo laughed, a low sound that followed him all the way back to the house. Izuku's skin crawled. The worst part? Some dark, shameful corner of his brain whispered that Yo was appropriate. Yo was a stranger. Yo wasn't his grandfather. Fucking Yo wouldn't be a crime. He shoved the thought down so hard his teeth ached.
Inside, the house was silent. Katsuki stood at the kitchen sink, his back to Izuku, that thin robe hanging loose around his frame. Izuku watched the muscles shift in his shoulders, the way the fabric clung to the dip of his spine. His mouth went dry. "I gotta take your blood pressure," Izuku managed, his voice barely steady. "Mom said—the doctor said three times a week." Katsuki grunted but didn't turn. He just held out his arm.
Izuku crossed the kitchen on legs that didn't feel like his own. He wrapped the cuff around Katsuki's bicep, his fingers brushing the rough, warm skin. The muscle was dense, unyielding. Izuku's hand trembled as he pumped the bulb. He pressed the stethoscope to the crook of Katsuki's elbow, his thumb resting against the inside of his forearm. The pulse under his fingertips was thick and fast. Too fast. Izuku's own heart slammed against his ribs in response, a matching rhythm neither of them acknowledged.
"You done yet, boy," Katsuki rumbled, his voice a low vibration that Izuku felt in his chest, "or you gonna count my fingers too?"
Izuku jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. The numbers on the gauge blurred. "One-thirty over eighty," he said, the words tumbling out. "That's—that's good. Normal." He ripped the cuff off, needing to put distance between them. But his feet stayed rooted. He could still feel Katsuki's pulse against his thumb, that rhythmic throb that had answered his own desperate heart.
He practically fled to the kitchen counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. He stared out the window at the yard, where Yo was walking back toward the fields, his bare back gleaming. Eijiro was hauling a hay bale, laughing at something. Two men. One who made his skin crawl, and one who felt safe. Neither of them was the one he wanted. The one he wanted was behind him, in the kitchen, breathing the same air. Izuku pressed his thighs together hard, a sob of frustration building in his throat. He couldn't keep doing this. He was going to break.
The day stretched out, long and golden and unbearable. He heard Yo's whistle cut through the afternoon heat, heard Eijiro's rumbling laugh, and felt Katsuki's heavy footsteps move from the kitchen to the porch, a floorboard groaning under his weight. Izuku stayed at the counter, trapped between what he should want and what his body burned for, the space between them growing thinner by the hour.
A sharp knock against the window pane made Izuku flinch so hard his hip slammed into the counter edge. He spun, heart already hammering, and found Yo’s grinning face pressed close to the glass, his breath fogging a small patch on the other side. Gray eyes raked over Izuku's body through the thin fabric of his crop top, lingering on the curve of his hips where his shorts rode low. Yo's grin widened. He tapped the glass again with his knuckle, then jerked his head toward the back of the property, mouthing something Izuku couldn't quite catch.
Izuku's stomach dropped. He shook his head, small and quick, a reflexive denial. But Yo didn't move. He just hooked his fingers into the window frame and slid it open, the old wood groaning in protest. Warm air flooded in, thick with the smell of cut grass and Yo's sweat. "Hey, sweetheart," Yo said, leaning his elbows on the sill. His bare chest gleamed, tan and slick, a thin line of dirt smeared across his abs. "You been avoiding me." Not a question. An accusation wrapped in honey.
"I've been busy," Izuku managed, his voice coming out thin. He gripped the counter behind him, knuckles white. "Papa Kats needs—"
"Katsuki's on the porch," Yo cut in, that slick smile never wavering. "Eijiro's got him talkin' about old tractor parts. They'll be at it for an hour." He let the words hang, let the implication settle. His gray eyes dropped to Izuku's mouth, then lower, tracing the line of his throat, the swell of his chest beneath the crop top. "I been watchin' you, you know. All week. The way you move around this house. The way you look at things you shouldn't." His tongue ran slow across his lower lip. "I got a shed out back. Private. Quiet. I could make you feel real good, sweetheart. Better than you been feelin'."
Izuku's throat closed. The words landed in his chest like stones, each one heavier than the last. Better than you been feelin'. Yo didn't know. Couldn't know. But the offer twisted something inside Izuku, some dark, exhausted part of him that whispered he's right, this is normal, this is what you're supposed to want. Izuku's nails bit into his palms. "I'm not—I don't—"
"Don't what?" Yo's voice dropped, softer now, almost gentle. His hand came through the open window, fingers brushing the hem of Izuku's crop top. The touch was light, barely there, but Izuku felt it like a brand. "Don't wanna feel good? Don't wanna have someone take care of you?" Yo's fingers curled, tugging the fabric just slightly. "I see the way you tense up when you walk past me. That ain't fear, sweetheart. That's want. You just don't know what to do with it yet."
Izuku jerked back, his heel catching on a loose floorboard. The motion sent him stumbling, his shoulder slamming into the refrigerator. The cold metal bit through his thin shirt. "Stop," he said, and the word came out sharper than he expected, a blade he didn't know he had. "I said I'm busy." His voice cracked on the last word, but it held. Yo's hand retreated, his grin flickering, hardening at the edges. For a long second, they stared at each other across the windowsill, the kitchen clock ticking loud in the silence.
Then Yo laughed, low and easy, like Izuku had told a joke. "Alright, sweetheart. I got patience." He pushed back from the window, his shadow sliding across the floor. "But that offer's open. Whenever you get tired of bein' busy." He tapped the frame twice, a casual dismissal, and disappeared around the corner of the house.
Izuku stood frozen, his shoulder pressed to the fridge, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls. His skin crawled where Yo's fingers had touched. But underneath the revulsion, that dark voice whispered again: he's appropriate. He's not your grandfather. Fucking him wouldn't be a crime.
Izuku pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. When he lowered them, the kitchen was empty. The window was still open, warm air drifting through, carrying the distant sound of Eijiro's laugh and Katsuki's low rumble of a response from the porch. He dragged the window shut with a trembling hand, the latch clicking into place like a door he wasn't ready to open.
Izuku's legs carried him out of the kitchen before his brain caught up to what he was doing. His skin still felt tight where Yo's fingers had brushed, a ghost of that clammy touch that made him want to scrape himself clean. Eijiro's truck was gone—he must have left while Izuku was frozen by the window, heart hammering, trying to unfeel the weight of Yo's words. The evening air hit him warm and heavy, smelling of hay and dust and the distant tang of the cow pasture. On the porch swing, Katsuki sat in the dying light, his robe hanging loose off one shoulder, his bare foot pushing the swing in a slow, idle rhythm. He looked up when the screen door groaned, his crimson eyes cutting through the dim like they always did, sharp and knowing.
"Shindo give you trouble?" Katsuki's voice was low, rough-edged, carrying none of the slick honey Yo used. It was a blade. Direct.
Izuku's throat worked. He wanted to lie, to brush it off, to prove he could handle himself. But the words came out raw, scraped clean. "He—yeah. He did." He swallowed. "He's gone now. I told him to stop."
Katsuki's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just kept rocking, the swing creaking on its chains. Then he grunted, a short, rough sound, and nodded once. "Good. You tell me if he don't listen next time." It wasn't a suggestion. It was a promise wrapped in gravel.
Izuku stood there, feet rooted to the porch boards, his whole body vibrating with the need to flee or fall apart. The space between them felt like a chasm he didn't know how to cross. Then Katsuki shifted, a small movement, his hand patting the worn wood of the seat beside him. "Sit down 'fore you fall down, boy."
Izuku's breath caught. He moved before he could talk himself out of it, crossing the porch on unsteady legs. The wood was warm beneath his thighs as he sank onto the swing, the chains groaning as they adjusted to his weight. He left a careful six inches between them. Katsuki's presence radiated heat, a furnace hidden beneath that thin robe, and Izuku's body leaned toward it like a compass finding north. His hands were still shaking. He pressed them flat against his knees, trying to still them, but the tremor wouldn't stop. It was Yo and the kitchen and the window and the long, unbearable week of wanting something he couldn't name out loud.
The next breath was a surrender. Izuku let his shoulder tilt, let the weight of his body fall sideways until his head came to rest against the solid curve of Katsuki's shoulder. The robe was rough against his cheek, the fabric thin enough that he could feel the heat of Katsuki's skin beneath it. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The swing stopped rocking. The crickets in the field seemed to hold their breath. Izuku felt Katsuki go rigid, every muscle locking, a tension that screamed wrong, this is wrong. Izuku's eyes burned. He didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," Izuku whispered, the words pressed into the fabric of Katsuki's robe. "I just—I don't—" His voice cracked. He couldn't finish. He didn't have words for what he needed, only that this was the only place in the world that felt like it could hold him without breaking.
Katsuki's arm moved slow, like he was giving Izuku time to pull away. But Izuku didn't move. The weight of that calloused hand settled across his shoulders, heavy and warm, fingers curling against the curve of his bicep. Izuku's breath stuttered out of him, a sound he didn't recognize, something between a sob and a sigh. The porch swing creaked as Katsuki shifted, pulling Izuku closer against his side, tucking him into the heat of his body like he was something fragile. Izuku's cheek pressed into the thin fabric of the robe, feeling the hard plane of Katsuki's chest beneath it, the steady thump of his heartbeat against his ear. He closed his eyes. The world narrowed to this: the rough texture of the robe, the smell of woodsmoke and sweat and something older, muskier, that was Katsuki underneath.
"Nothin' to be sorry about," Katsuki rumbled, his voice low and rough, vibrating through Izuku's skull. The words were gruff, almost reluctant, but they landed in Izuku's chest like a key turning. "You didn't do nothin' wrong." His thumb found Izuku's shoulder blade through the thin fabric of his crop top and started tracing small, absent circles.
Izuku's body responded before his brain could catch up—he sagged, letting his weight fall fully against Katsuki's side, his hand coming up to grip the edge of the robe at Katsuki's hip. The fabric was warm from his skin. Too warm. Izuku's fingers curled into it, holding on like he was drowning.
Katsuki went still for a beat, then exhaled, a long breath that stirred the hair at Izuku's temple. "What'd he do?" The question was quiet, but there was iron under it, a blade wrapped in velvet. "Shindo. What'd he do to make you shake like this?"
Izuku's eyes burned. He pressed his face harder into Katsuki's chest, hiding from the question, from the night, from the fact that his grandfather's arm was around him and it felt like the only safe place in the world. "He didn't—he just—" Izuku's voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "He keeps showing up. At windows. Touching me through them. Offering to fuck me in his shed." The words came out flat, scraped clean of inflection, like he was reading a grocery list. "He said I've been avoiding him. Said he's patient."
Katsuki's arm tightened, a reflexive squeeze that pulled Izuku closer, his fingers digging into the meat of Izuku's shoulder. "He touched you." Not a question. A statement, cold and hard, like a stone dropping into still water.
"Just—just through the window. My shirt." Izuku's hand tightened on the robe, knuckles white. "I told him to stop. He laughed. He left." The silence stretched, heavy and charged. Izuku could feel the tension thrumming through Katsuki's body, the coiled readiness of a man who wanted to hurt something. He pressed his palm flat against Katsuki's chest, over his heart. "Don't. Please. I don't want—I don't want him fired. He's just... he's just that way. It's fine." The lie tasted like copper on his tongue.
"It ain't fine." Katsuki's voice was low, almost a growl. His hand came up to cup the back of Izuku's head, fingers threading through the green curls at his nape. The touch was gentle, impossibly gentle for those big, calloused hands, and Izuku's breath caught in his throat. "You ain't gotta protect him, boy. You ain't gotta protect nobody. If he makes you uncomfortable, I handle it."
Izuku's eyes burned again, hotter this time. He shook his head, a small, frantic motion against Katsuki's chest. "He's your worker. The farm needs—the crops, he does the crops, and if he gets fired because I'm too sensitive—"
"Sensitive." Katsuki cut him off, the word sharp. "You callin' yourself sensitive for not wantin' a grown man to touch you through a window?" His thumb stroked the nape of Izuku's neck, a slow, grounding rhythm. "That ain't sensitive. That's basic. That's the bare minimum, kid."
"I still don't want you to fire him," Izuku said, the words muffled against Katsuki's chest. He felt the older man's thumb pause its slow stroke along his nape. "He's just—he's like that. He's not gonna actually do anything. And the farm needs him for the crops."
Katsuki's jaw tightened against the top of Izuku's head. A long, bristling silence stretched between them, filled only by the creak of the porch swing and the distant hum of crickets. Finally, Katsuki exhaled through his nose, a sound like a held breath released. "Fine. I ain't gonna fire him." His voice was low, reluctant, like the words tasted bad. "But I'm gonna have a word with him. Make sure he understands what happens if he touches you again."
Izuku's stomach did something complicated—relief and something else, something warmer, coiling low in his gut. He's jealous. The thought slipped through before he could catch it, and his face heated against the rough fabric of Katsuki's robe. It was stupid. It was wrong. Katsuki was being a grandfather, protective and gruff, the way any decent man would be. But the way his arm had tightened when Izuku mentioned the window, the edge in his voice when he said "he touched you"—that wasn't just duty. That was something else.
Izuku's fingers curled tighter into the robe at Katsuki's hip. "Thank you," he whispered.
Katsuki grunted, noncommittal. His hand moved from Izuku's nape to his shoulder blade, palm flat, and started rubbing slow, firm circles across the thin cotton of his crop top. The pressure was grounding, almost hypnotic, each pass of his calloused hand chasing away the ghost of Yo's clammy fingers. Izuku's eyes fluttered closed. He let himself sink deeper into the heat of Katsuki's side, his cheek pressing into the solid plane of his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat a lullaby he didn't deserve.
"You're alright," Katsuki muttered, more to himself than to Izuku. The words were rough, almost reluctant, but his hand never stopped moving. His palm dragged down the length of Izuku's spine, tracing the curve of his waist, then back up, each stroke deliberate and unhurried. Izuku shivered, a full-body tremble that started at his shoulders and rippled down to his toes. The intimacy of it—the casual, possessive way Katsuki touched him—made his breath catch.
This is fine, Izuku told himself, pressing his forehead against the hollow of Katsuki's throat. Families cuddle. Grandfathers hold their grandsons when they're upset. There's nothing wrong with this.
Katsuki's hand skimmed lower, his thumb brushing the edge of Izuku's crop top where it had ridden up, grazing the bare skin of his back. The contact sent a jolt through Izuku's body, electric and unbidden. His breath hitched, audible in the quiet. Katsuki's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, then resumed its slow path, moving higher, back to the safe expanse of Izuku's shoulder blades. Neither of them acknowledged it. The crickets filled the silence. The swing rocked gently beneath them.
Izuku's mind raced, a chaotic tangle of rationalizations and raw want. He's just making sure I feel safe. He's being kind. This is what a good person does. But beneath the excuses, a darker voice whispered the truth: Katsuki's hand hadn't hesitated. It had lingered. And Izuku's body had answered, arching into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Papa Kats?"
"Mm."
"Thank you. For not—for being here." The words came out small, fragile, and Izuku hated how young they made him sound. But he couldn't take them back. He didn't want to.
Katsuki's hand stilled on his back. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft rasp of his breath, the distant hum of the night. Then his arm tightened, pulling Izuku closer, tucking him against his chest like something precious. "Ain't goin' nowhere, kid." His voice was rough, almost a growl, but it cracked on the last word, a hairline fracture in his gruff armor. "You're stuck with me for three months."
Izuku's eyes burned. He pressed his face into the warm hollow of Katsuki's throat, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and sweat and something older, muskier, that was just him. His hand slid from the robe to the bare skin of Katsuki's chest, fingers splaying over the hard plane of muscle, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. It was too much. It wasn't enough. Izuku held on, swaying with the swing, letting the night wrap around them like a cocoon of heat and secrecy. This is fine, he told himself again, the lie softer this time, almost convincing. This is just family.
They watched the sun bleed out across the barley fields, the sky going from gold to bruised purple to the deep blue of early evening. Izuku's cheek pressed into the rough fabric of Katsuki's robe, his ear finding the steady thump of the older man's heart beneath the thin material.
Katsuki's hand never stopped moving—slow, grounding passes along Izuku's spine, his thumb catching the bare skin at his waist with every other stroke. The crickets started their chorus. The porch swing groaned its rhythm. Izuku let his eyes fall half-closed, cataloging every point of contact like a map he'd never get to follow. "Papa Kats," he whispered, the words barely louder than the creak of the chains. "This is nice." His fingers traced a slow, mindless pattern over the hard plane of Katsuki's chest, feeling the vibration of a grunt before it reached the older man's lips.
Katsuki's chest rumbled beneath Izuku's cheek, a low sound that took a moment to resolve into words. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough and quiet, almost lost in the creak of the swing and the hum of the crickets. His hand kept its slow path along Izuku's spine, calloused palm dragging across the thin fabric of the crop top, then dipping lower to graze the bare skin just above the waistband of his shorts. "Ain't had this in a long time."
The admission hung in the air, fragile and unexpected, and Izuku felt the older man's heartbeat pick up beneath his ear—a small, telling crack in that gruff armor. Izuku's fingers curled tighter into the fabric of Katsuki's robe, pressing his palm flat over the hard plane of his chest, feeling the muscle shift with each breath. The swing rocked gently, a pendulum with nowhere to go, and Izuku let himself believe, just for this one suspended moment, that this was enough.