The cry that tears from Izuku’s throat is raw, animal, a sound that doesn’t belong in the dark, sated silence of the master bedroom. He jackknifes upright between the two sleeping men, his hands flying to the massive, taut curve of his belly. A hot, gushing flood follows instantly, soaking the sheets beneath him, releasing the sharp, clean scent of amniotic fluid into the air.

“Mom?” Katsuki is awake in an instant, voice gravelly but alert, his hand already on Izuku’s damp back.

Masaru bolts up on the other side, fumbling for the lamp. “Izuku? What’s—” The light clicks on, illuminating the soaked bedding, Izuku’s wide, frightened eyes, his heaving chest. “Oh. Oh, god. It’s time.”

“The bag,” Katsuki barks, already swinging his legs out of bed. He doesn’t look at his father. “Get the bag. Now.”

Izuku gasps, another contraction seizing him, his fingers digging into the ruined sheets. “Kacchan—it’s too fast, it hurts—”

“I know, Mommy. I know.” Katsuki’s voice drops, a terrifying calm settling over his features as he kneels in front of Izuku, cupping his face. “Breathe. Look at me. Breathe with me.” He takes an exaggerated, steady inhale, his crimson eyes holding Izuku’s captive until Izuku’s panicked panting tries to match the rhythm. “Good. Masaru. Move.”

They dress in a frantic, silent ballet. Katsuki pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt, then helps Izuku into a loose, dark dress, his hands impersonal and efficient as he wipes moisture from Izuku’s thighs with the ruined sheet. Masaru scrambles into trousers and a shirt, returning with the packed hospital bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but set.

“Can you walk?” Katsuki asks, his arm a solid band around Izuku’s back.

Izuku nods, teeth gritted, and lets Katsuki haul him to his feet. Another contraction hits halfway to the door, and he sags, a low moan escaping him. Katsuki simply scoops him up, cradling his pregnant weight against his chest as if he were weightless. “Car,” is all he says, and Masaru runs ahead to open doors.

The night air is cold. Izuku shivers in Katsuki’s arms, his face pressed into his son’s neck, breathing in the familiar, possessive scent of him as Katsuki settles him carefully in the backseat. Masaru takes the wheel, Katsuki sliding in beside Izuku, pulling his mother’s head onto his shoulder. “Drive smooth,” Katsuki commands, his hand resting on the crest of Izuku’s belly, feeling the rock-hard tension of the next building wave.

The hospital admittance is a blur of bright lights and questions Katsuki answers in clipped, authoritative tones. “His name is Izuku Bakugou. He’s forty-one weeks. Contractions are three minutes apart. His water broke at home.” He never lets go of Izuku’s hand.

They put Izuku in a delivery room. The midwife is a calm, older woman who smiles at the two men flanking the bed. “Both dads?” she asks pleasantly.

“Yes,” Katsuki says, the word leaving no room for further inquiry. His thumb strokes circles on Izuku’s knuckles as another contraction peaks, and Izuku crushes his fingers, a sob tearing loose.

“You’re doing so good, Mommy,” Katsuki murmurs, his lips against Izuku’s temple. “So good for me. Just let it happen.”

The labor progresses with a ruthless, efficient speed. Izuku’s world narrows to the tearing pain, to the pressure splitting him open, to Katsuki’s voice snarling in one ear and Masaru’s steady murmurs in the other. The old man is a solid wall against his left side, holding his hand so tightly the bones grind together.

Izuku pants, he screams, he begs for it to stop. He digs his nails into Katsuki’s forearm hard enough to draw blood, his other fist a white-knuckled clamp around Masaru’s fingers.

“I see the head,” the midwife announces, her voice steady. “Izuku, on the next one, I need you to push with everything you have. Everything.”

Izuku’s body is a vessel of pure strain. He’s drenched in sweat, his curls plastered to his forehead, his vision swimming. He searches for Katsuki’s face, finding it, an anchor in the storm. “Kacchan—”

“Now, Mommy,” Katsuki orders, his voice a low, relentless force. “Push our baby out. Now.”

Izuku bears down, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. The pain is astronomical, a splitting, burning stretch. He feels a pop, a sudden release, and then a thin, furious wail pierces the room.

The sound sucks the air from Izuku’s lungs. He collapses back against the pillows, spent, trembling violently. He watches through a haze as the midwife lifts a tiny, blood-smeared, squalling thing. A perfect, furious baby. She places the infant on Izuku’s heaving chest.

Katsuki’s hand, the one Izuku isn’t clutching, comes up to cradle the newborn’s head. His fingers are smeared with Izuku’s blood and fluid. He doesn’t look at the baby. He looks at Izuku. “Mine,” he breathes, the word raw with a possession deeper than triumph. “All mine.”

Katsuki doesn't hesitate. He leans down and captures Izuku’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. It tastes of salt and copper, of sweat and the faint, clean tang of amniotic fluid. Izuku’s lips are chapped, trembling, but he opens for it, a weak, grateful sound vibrating in his throat as his son licks into him, consuming the aftermath of his pain.

“My perfect mommy,” Katsuki murmurs against his lips, his own voice rough with awe. He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together, his thumb stroking the slick, tear-streaked skin of Izuku’s cheek. “Look what you did for me.”

Izuku’s breath hitches, his green eyes swimming as he looks from Katsuki’s intense gaze down to the tiny, wriggling weight on his chest. The baby has quieted, its pink face nestled against his skin. “She’s here,” Izuku whispers, the words cracking.

“He,” Katsuki corrects softly, his hand still cradling the newborn’s head. “It’s a boy. A perfect fucking boy.” There’s a tremor in his voice now, a crack in the armor of control he’s worn all night.

“A boy,” Izuku echoes, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. His exhausted body shakes with silent sobs. “Kacchan… I’m so tired.”

“I know. You can sleep soon. Just look at him first.” Katsuki’s command is gentle, but it’s still a command. His eyes burn into Izuku’s. “Look at our son, Mommy.”

The midwife is busy at the foot of the bed, but the world has shrunk to the space between their three bodies. Masaru stands silently by the wall, his face a mask of quiet devastation and wonder. He doesn’t move closer.

Izuku’s trembling fingers come up to brush the baby’s damp, blond hair. It’s soft as down. “He has your hair,” he breathes.

“And your fucking stubborn lungs,” Katsuki says, but the insult is pure worship. He dips his head to kiss Izuku again, slower this time, a languid exploration of his mouth that speaks of ownership sealed in blood and birth.

“He’s ours,” Izuku gasps when they part, the reality settling into his bones, heavy and permanent.

“He’s mine,” Katsuki corrects, his voice dropping to a possessive growl meant only for Izuku’s ears. His crimson eyes flick to the baby, then back to his mother’s exhausted face. “And so are you. This is it now. This is our family.”

Izuku just nods, too spent to argue, too full of a terrible, completing love to want to. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, his son’s kiss still burning on his lips, his grandson sleeping on his heart.

The hospital room is quiet now, the harsh overhead lights dimmed to a soft glow. The only sounds are the low hum of the climate control and the tiny, rhythmic breaths of the newborn sleeping in the clear bassinet beside the bed. Izuku lies deep in exhausted sleep, one hand curled loosely near his face, his green curls damp with dried sweat against the stark white pillow. Katsuki sits in the chair pulled close to the bedside, his own eyes heavy but refusing to close. Masaru had gone home an hour ago, instructed to bring back proper clothes and supplies, leaving them alone.

Katsuki watches the slow rise and fall of Izuku’s chest. His thumb strokes the back of Izuku’s hand where it rests on the blanket, then drifts up to trace the delicate skin under his eye, over the freckles dusting his cheekbone. The touch is feather-light, possessive in its tenderness.

Izuku’s eyelids flutter. A soft sigh escapes him, and he leans into the touch even in sleep. His green eyes open slowly, blurry with exhaustion and drugs, finding Katsuki’s face in the dim light. A small, dazed smile touches his lips. “Kacchan.”

“Hey, Mommy.” Katsuki’s voice is a low rasp. He doesn’t stop stroking his cheek. “You’re okay.”

“Mmm.” Izuku turns his head, nuzzling into Katsuki’s palm. He smells of hospital soap and his own sweet, milky scent. “You stayed.”

“Where the hell else would I be?” Katsuki leans forward, closing the distance. He kisses Izuku, a slow, searching press of lips that holds none of the frantic claiming from earlier, only a deep, settled certainty. Izuku’s mouth opens for him easily, a quiet hum of pleasure vibrating in his throat.

They kiss for a long time, lazy and deep, the only movement the slide of their mouths and the shift of Katsuki’s hand to cup the back of Izuku’s neck. Izuku’s fingers come up to tangle weakly in the front of Katsuki’s shirt, pulling him closer. They break apart only when Izuku winces, a faint twinge of pain from his sore abdomen cutting through the haze.

“Sorry,” Izuku breathes, his forehead resting against Katsuki’s.

“Don’t be.” Katsuki kisses the corner of his mouth, then the tip of his nose. “Hurts?”

“A little. Everything… aches.” Izuku’s gaze drifts to the bassinet. “Is he…?”

“Sleeping. Like you should be.” Katsuki follows his look, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before it returns to Izuku. “He’s perfect.”

“He’s ours,” Izuku whispers, the words thick with emotion. He pulls Katsuki down for another kiss, this one needier, his tongue sliding against Katsuki’s with a sudden, desperate hunger. His hand slides from Katsuki’s shirt to his jaw, holding him there.

Katsuki groans into his mouth, his own control fraying. He kisses back harder, sucking on Izuku’s lower lip, his hand sliding down to palm the side of Izuku’s neck, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse there. When he pulls back, both of them are breathing harder. “Fuck, Mommy.”

“I want you,” Izuku admits, his voice a raw scrape. His green eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “I know I can’t. I know. But I feel… empty. I need you to fill me up.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenches. He looks down at the blanket covering Izuku’s battered body, at the IV line taped to the back of his hand. “You’re torn to shit, Mommy. You heard the doctor.”

“I know.” Izuku’s fingers trail down Katsuki’s chest, stopping at the waistband of his pants. He doesn’t go further. Just rests his hand there, over the hard heat he can feel beneath the fabric. “I just need to feel you. Any way I can.”

"Please," Izuku whispers, his voice ragged and small in the quiet room. His fingers curl into the fabric of Katsuki's waistband. "Let me taste you, Kacchan. Just let me suck your cock. I need it."

Katsuki stares down at him, his crimson eyes wide with shock. The need in Izuku's voice isn't a plea; it's a physical pull, a desperate gravity. His resolve cracks. "You're fucking insane," he breathes, but his hips shift forward, pressing his erection harder into Izuku's seeking hand.

That's all the permission Izuku needs. His hands fumble with Katsuki's belt, his movements clumsy with exhaustion but driven by a frantic, single-minded hunger. He gets the buckle open, the button, the zipper. He shoves the fabric down just enough, and Katsuki's cock springs free, thick and heavy and already leaking against his stomach.

Izuku doesn't hesitate. He leans forward, ignoring the protest in his abdomen, and takes the head into his mouth. He moans around it, a broken, grateful sound, his tongue flattening against the slit to taste the salt of pre-come. His green eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut.

"Fuck," Katsuki hisses, his hand flying to tangle in Izuku's sweaty curls. He doesn't push, not yet. He just holds, feeling the wet, hot suction, watching his mother's cheeks hollow. "Look at you."

Izuku pulls off with a wet pop, panting. "Need you deeper," he gasps, saliva stringing from his lips. "Fuck my mouth, baby. Use me. Please."

The raw, vulgar need in the word 'baby' from his mother's lips snaps the last thread of Katsuki's control. His grip tightens. "You desperate slut," he growls, but there's awe in it. He guides himself back to Izuku's waiting mouth. "Open."

Izuku obeys, his jaw going slack, his tongue laid flat. Katsuki pushes in, not slow, not gentle. He feeds his cock into that willing heat, inch by thick inch, until the head bumps the back of Izuku's throat. Izuku gags, tears springing to his eyes, but he doesn't pull away. His hands clutch at Katsuki's thighs, urging him on.

Katsuki groans, a deep, ragged sound. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, watching his length disappear between his mother's bruised, parted lips. "You really do need it," he mutters, more to himself. "You're empty without my dick in you, aren't you, Mommy?"

Izuku can only make a choked, affirmative sound, his nose pressed into the coarse blond hair at Katsuki's base. Spit drips down his chin, onto his neck, soaking into the hospital gown. The wet, sloppy noises fill the silent room, obscene and intimate.

Katsuki picks up the pace, his hips pistoning faster. He fucks into Izuku's mouth with a relentless, possessive rhythm, his other hand coming to cradle Izuku's jaw, thumb stroking the stretched skin. "That's it. Take it. You wanted this. You begged for my cock."

Izuku's body trembles, a fresh, thin stream of milk leaking from his sore breasts to dampen the gown as he gags and suckles, his entire world narrowing to the weight and taste and stretch of his son filling his mouth. It's a brutal, claiming comfort.

Katsuki's breath starts to saw. "Gonna come," he warns, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal. "You're gonna swallow it, Mommy. Every drop. You need that, too."

Izuku's eyes fly open, locking onto Katsuki's blazing gaze. He nods, as much as he can, and takes the final, deep thrust as Katsuki stills, a raw shout torn from his throat. Izuku feels the hot, bitter pulse against his tongue, down his throat. He swallows convulsively, again and again, until Katsuki is spent, softening in his mouth.

Katsuki pulls out slowly, slick and gleaming. Izuku collapses back against the pillows, panting, his lips swollen and slick, his chin a mess. He looks utterly ruined, and completely at peace.

For a long moment, Katsuki just stares, tucking himself away with unsteady hands. Then he reaches for a hospital washcloth, wets it in the basin, and sits on the edge of the bed. Gently, he wipes Izuku's face, cleaning the spit and spend from his chin and neck. His touch is meticulous, tender.

"Satisfied, you needy bitch?" Katsuki murmurs, but there's no bite left.

"Yes," Izuku breathes, his eyes already drifting shut, a faint, sated smile on his ruined lips. "Thank you, Kacchan."

Katsuki leans down, kissing his forehead. "Sleep. When you're healed," he promises, his voice a low vow against Izuku's skin, "I'll fill the rest of you up."

Izuku sleeps, sated and sore, and when he wakes, weeks have bled into months.

The doctor clears him at the six-week mark. Katsuki is waiting in the parking lot, engine idling. He doesn’t speak on the drive home. His hand rests high on Izuku’s thigh, possessive and warm through the fabric of his skirt.

Masaru meets them at the door, the newborn—named Natsuki—cradled against his shoulder. He offers a timid, knowing smile. “I’ll take him upstairs. He just fed.”

“Good,” Katsuki says, not looking at his father. His eyes are on Izuku. “Don’t come down.”

The house is quiet, sunlight streaming through the front windows. Katsuki backs Izuku against the closed door before he can even toe off his shoes. He kisses him, deep and consuming, a hand sliding beneath Izuku’s blouse to palm a small, soft breast. Izuku moans into his mouth, milk leaking almost instantly, soaking the fabric.

“Missed this,” Katsuki growls against his lips. “Missed my cunt.”

“It’s yours,” Izuku gasps, his hands scrambling at Katsuki’s belt. “All yours, Kacchan, please—”

Katsuki doesn’t let him finish. He spins him around, bends him over the entryway console table. He hikes up Izuku’s skirt, tears the lace panties down his thighs. He’s already hard, his cock springing free, slapping against Izuku’s exposed ass. He spits into his hand, works the wetness between Izuku’s folds, finds him already slick and hot and ready.

“Been waiting for me, Mommy?”

“Yes,” Izuku whimpers, pushing his hips back. “Always waiting for you.”

Katsuki pushes inside with one brutal, shearing thrust. Izuku screams, a raw, grateful sound, his fingers clawing at the polished wood. It’s a stretch, a burn, a perfect, agonizing fullness. Katsuki sets a punishing pace immediately, his hips hammering, his balls slapping against Izuku’s soaked cunt.

“This what you needed?” Katsuki grunts, one hand fisted in green curls, pulling Izuku’s head back. “My dick splitting you open again?”

“Yes! Yes, baby, just like that!” Izuku sobs, pushing back onto every thrust. “Breed me, Kacchan, fill me up, I need it—”

Katsuki cums with a snarl, flooding Izuku’s tight channel, his hips stuttering as he pumps his release deep. He stays inside, softening, his forehead dropped between Izuku’s shoulder blades. “First of many,” he promises, his breath hot on Izuku’s skin.

It becomes a rhythm, a relentless, hungry circuit of their home.

The living room couch, in broad daylight, the curtains wide open. Izuku on his back, legs hooked over Katsuki’s shoulders, crying as Katsuki fucks into his bruised, dripping pussy with slow, deep rolls of his hips. A neighbor walking a dog pauses, stares, then hurries on. Katsuki smiles, a sharp, vicious thing, and kisses Izuku’s trembling mouth. “They see what’s mine.”

The kitchen island. Izuku bent over, cheek pressed to the cold granite, Katsuki taking him from behind while he screams, his breasts smashed against the hard surface, milk pooling beneath him. Katsuki pulls out, turns him around, forces his still-hard cock between Izuku’s lips. “Clean it,” he orders, and Izuku does, suckling him clean with worshipful hums.

The upstairs hallway, outside the nursery door. They can hear Masaru softly singing inside. Katsuki pins Izuku to the wall, one hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his cries as he fucks his ass, dry at first, the burn making Izuku’s eyes stream, until his own slickness eases the way. “He’s right there,” Katsuki whispers, biting Izuku’s ear. “Hearing me wreck his wife’s ass. You like that? You like him knowing?”

Izuku can only nod, his orgasm tearing through him silently, violently, his body clenching around the invasion.

The bathroom. Katsuki presses Izuku against the vanity, his reflection wide-eyed and debauched in the mirror. “Piss,” Katsuki commands, his voice rough. “I want to see it.”

“Kacchan—”

“Now, Mommy.”

Izuku obeys, a hot, shameful release soaking his thighs and the tile floor. Katsuki watches, his cock twitching, then pushes Izuku to his knees in the middle of it. “Lick it up,” he says, and Izuku does, sobbing, his tongue lapping at the warm, salty puddle until Katsuki pulls him up by the hair and kisses him, deep and filthy, tasting himself on Izuku’s tongue.

He fucks him then, in the shower, under the scalding spray, Izuku’s hands splayed against the glass as Katsuki takes him from behind, both of them slick with water and sweat and come.

They do not get a full night’s sleep. Natsuki’s cries are Masaru’s domain. Izuku’s cries belong to Katsuki.

One afternoon, in the master bedroom, Katsuki has Izuku on his hands and knees. The window is open, a breeze fluttering the curtains. He’s fucking into him with slow, deep strokes, one hand wrapped around Izuku’s throat, the other teasing a nipple. Izuku is babbling, a stream of broken praise and pleas.

“You’re my perfect slut,” Katsuki murmurs, leaning down to lick the sweat from Izuku’s neck. “My breeding bitch. Gonna keep you full of my come, keep you round with my babies. You want that?”

“Yes, yes, anything, Kacchan, I’m yours—”

“Say it.”

“I’m your mommy-slut,” Izuku gasps, pushing back onto the thick invasion. “Your cunt. Just yours.”

Katsuki’s rhythm falters. He stills, buried to the hilt, his breath catching. He turns Izuku’s face toward him, his crimson eyes blazing with something terrifyingly tender. “Mine,” he confirms, and his kiss is softer than it should be. He resumes fucking him, but slower now, deeper, each thrust a claiming, until Izuku shatters, his cunt milking Katsuki’s cock, pulling his own release from him with a choked groan.

They collapse together on the messy sheets, Katsuki’s spend already leaking from Izuku’s well-used hole. Katsuki traces the silver stretch marks on Izuku’s belly, his touch oddly reverent.

“You’re happy,” Katsuki states. It isn’t a question.

Izuku turns, nuzzles into Katsuki’s neck, inhales the scent of sex and skin. “I have everything I need.”

Downstairs, a baby coos. Masaru’s quiet footsteps pad across the floor. The perfect family, in perfect order.

Katsuki’s hand slides between Izuku’s thighs, fingers slipping through the mixed mess of fluids. “Still empty,” he murmurs, pushing two fingers back inside, making Izuku arch. “Always so empty for me.”

“Always,” Izuku promises, his eyes closing. He is home. He is used. He is, finally, perfectly, his.

Their perfect family is finally complete.