The dining room table is set with the same care as every night—the good china, cloth napkins folded into neat swans, a roast beef resting in the center, still steaming. Izuku moves around it, filling water glasses, his hands steady. His smile is a practiced thing, warm and soft, but it feels like it’s cracking at the edges. He can feel the fissure running straight through the center of his chest.

“Smells incredible, sweetheart,” Masaru says, taking his seat and unfolding his napkin with a contented sigh. He beams up at Izuku. “Long day. This is exactly what I needed.”

“Anything for my boys,” Izuku says, the words automatic, a mantra. His voice doesn’t shake. He’s proud of that.

Katsuki slides into his chair. He’s showered, his spiky blond hair damp, dressed in clean, dark sweats that hug his powerful thighs. He doesn’t look like a monster. He looks like his son. Izuku’s perfect baby boy. The dissonance makes the room tilt.

“Dig in, Kacchan,” Izuku says, placing a heaping portion of roast and vegetables on Katsuki’s plate. His fingers brush the edge of the china. He wonders if these hands—the ones now picking up a fork—are the same hands that pinned those boys down. He knows they are.

“Thanks, Mom,” Katsuki says. His voice is normal. Flat. He meets Izuku’s eyes as he takes the plate, and for a second, there’s nothing in his crimson gaze. No guilt. No fear. Just a cool, assessing blankness. It’s worse than any smirk could be.

Dinner progresses with the quiet clink of cutlery. Masaru talks about his day at the office, a minor crisis with a supplier. Izuku nods, makes humming sounds of encouragement. He cuts his meat into tiny, precise pieces. He can’t taste it. It’s ash in his mouth.

“How was your day, Katsuki?” Masaru asks, taking a sip of wine.

Katsuki shrugs, chewing slowly. “Fine. Lab work. Study group.”

“He’s always so diligent,” Izuku hears himself say. The pride in his tone is a ghost, a hollow echo of a feeling that died this afternoon. He watches Katsuki’s jaw work. Strong. Methodical.

“Anything interesting happen here?” Katsuki asks. He’s looking at his plate, spearing a carrot. The question is casual. Too casual.

Izuku’s breath stops. The air in the room thickens, presses down on his windpipe. He sees the box under the bed. The tape spinning. The terrified eyes of a stranger filling the screen.

“Oh, you know,” Izuku says, and his laugh is a brittle, thin sound. “Just the usual. Cleaning. Laundry.” He forces a bite into his mouth. Swallows around a lump of pure dread. “I, um. I aired out your room, Kacchan. While you were out.”

Katsuki’s eyes lift. They lock onto Izuku’s. He sets his fork down. The *click* of metal on porcelain is deafening.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Under the bed too. Wanted to make sure no dust bunnies were building a colony.” Izuku’s heart is a frantic bird against his ribs. He’s telling him. He’s telling him without telling him. *I was there. I know.*

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touches Katsuki’s mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Appreciate it, Mommy. You’re always so thorough.”

The pet name, now, in this moment, feels like a blade slipping between his ribs. Izuku’s fingers tighten around his knife. He looks at Masaru, who is smiling fondly at their son, utterly unaware of the poison seeping through their perfect table.

“I try to be,” Izuku whispers.

Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. Masaru, sensing a lull, reaches for the gravy boat. “So, this study group. Anyone I know?”

“No,” Katsuki says. His gaze hasn’t left Izuku. “New people. They’re… very cooperative.”

Izuku’s stomach turns. He sees it. The clinical detachment on the tape labels. *Brunette, 5'9", slender, library stairwell.* Cooperative. He pushes his plate away, his appetite gone. The plan forms in his mind not as a thought, but as a cold, solid weight in his gut. There is no other way. He cannot call the police. He cannot picture his son in a cell, brutalized, lost. But he can see, with horrific clarity, the face of the next boy on a tape. The one after that. An endless procession of pain that starts here, in this house, with the child he raised.

Izuku clears the plates with mechanical precision, his hands steady as he scrapes leftovers into the compost bin. He washes each piece of china under scalding water, scrubbing until his fingertips are pink and raw. Masaru kisses his temple, murmuring about a late email, and retreats to his study. The sound of Katsuki’s heavy footsteps ascending the stairs is a drumbeat marking time.

The house is silent when Izuku finishes. He dries his hands on a dish towel, folds it neatly over the oven handle. He climbs the stairs, each step a leaden effort. The hallway is dark. Light bleeds from under Katsuki’s door.

He knocks. Twice. Soft.

“Come in.” Katsuki’s voice is clear, unsurprised.

Izuku turns the knob. He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

Katsuki is at his desk, textbooks open, but he isn’t reading. He’s turned in his chair, facing the door. Waiting. He’s changed into a black t-shirt that strains across his chest. His crimson eyes track Izuku’s every movement, cool and assessing. “Shut it all the way, Mom.”

Izuku pushes the door until the latch engages and locks it. He leans back against it, the solid wood the only thing holding him up. The room smells like Katsuki—clean linen, expensive cologne, something metallic underneath. It’s the same room he’s kissed goodnight a thousand times. Now it feels like a cell.

“We need to talk,” Izuku says. His voice is a thread.

“Do we.” Katsuki doesn’t phrase it as a question. He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. The pose is casual, powerful. It makes the muscles in his arms cord. “About your deep-cleaning project?”

“You know what I found.” Izuku’s breath hitches. “I saw them, Kacchan. I watched.”

“Which one?”

“All of them,” Izuku whispers. The words tear out of him, raw and broken. “I watched… I watched until I couldn’t anymore. The boy with the blue hair. The one in the library. The– the one in the parking garage.” He pushes off the door, his legs buckling, and catches himself on the edge of Katsuki’s meticulously made bed. “Why, Kacchan? Just tell me why.”

Katsuki watches him crumble. He doesn’t move from his chair. “Why what?”

“Don’t!” Izuku’s voice cracks, sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. “Don’t do thaty. Don’t pretend this is normal. Those were people. You hurt them. You–” He chokes, doubling over, hands gripping the duvet. “You raped them. My baby. My perfect boy. How could you?”

“They were available.” Katsuki’s tone is clinical, like he’s explaining a math theorem. “They were there. They were weak. It’s not complicated, Mom.”

“It is!” Izuku cries, lifting his tear-streaked face. The freckles across his nose stand out against his pallor. “It has to be! You have everything! We love you! I love you! What is missing? What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Katsuki finally said.

Katsuki’s words hang in the air, a sterile verdict. Izuku stares at his son’s impassive face, and the last shred of hope curdles into something hard and final. “You have to stop,” Izuku says, the plea raw in his throat. “You have to stop, Kacchan. Right now.”

Katsuki tilts his head. A slow, deliberate blink. “No.”

“You can’t—!”

“What are you gonna do about it, Mom?” Katsuki interrupts, his voice a low, even hum. He unlinks his hands from behind his head and leans forward, elbows on his knees. The predatory focus sharpens. “Call the cops? Tell Dad? You already put everything back. You’re not gonna do shit.”

The truth of it is a physical blow. Izuku’s shoulders slump. He is trapped in his son’s calm, remorseless logic. He sees the next boy. And the next. The violence spinning out from this room, from his child, forever. The words burst out of him, sudden and fast, before he can choke them back. “Then use me.”

The room goes utterly still. The hum of the computer fan is suddenly deafening.

Katsuki doesn’t move. His crimson eyes drill into Izuku. “Say that again.”

Izuku’s mouth is dry. His heart hammers against his sternum. “I said… use me. My body. For whatever you… need.” He forces the words past the tremor in his voice. “If you have to hurt someone, hurt me. Leave everyone else alone.”

A slow, dark smile spreads across Katsuki’s face. It’s the first real expression Izuku has seen all night, and it chills him to the marrow. “You’d do that? You’d let me fuck you, Mommy? To save some weak strangers you’ve never met?”

“To save you,” Izuku whispers, the tears coming again, hot and shameful. “To save you from becoming a monster. From prison. From… from yourself.”

Katsuki stands. He’s so much bigger up close, his frame blocking the light from the desk lamp. He looks down at Izuku, who is still crumpled on the edge of the bed. “You think I’m not already a monster?” He reaches out, not to touch, but to gesture at Izuku’s body—the soft curve of his hips in his floral skirt, the small swell of his chest under his cardigan. “You think your sweet little cunt is gonna cure me?”

“It’s all I have!” Izuku cries, looking up at him. “It’s the only thing I can give!”

Katsuki is silent for a long moment, just looking. His gaze is a physical weight, cataloging, assessing. Izuku feels utterly exposed. “You watched the tapes,” Katsuki says finally. “You know what I like. It’s not gentle, Mom. It’s not making love. It’s taking. It’s hearing them cry.”

Izuku swallows, his throat clicking. He nods, a tiny, broken movement. “I know.”

“You’d let me do that to you?” Katsuki’s voice drops, a husky, intimate tone that sends a sick thrill straight to Izuku’s core. “You’d let me tie you up? Hurt you? Make you scream until your voice goes raw?” He takes a half-step closer. The heat from his body radiates against Izuku’s skin. “You’d let me breed you? Pump my cum so deep into your pretty pussy it never comes out?”

Each question is a violation. Izuku feels his face flush, his small breasts tightening traitorously under his clothes. He wants to vomit. He wants to fold into himself and disappear. He nods again, unable to speak.

Katsuki’s hand comes up. He doesn’t touch. He just cups the air beside Izuku’s cheek, a ghost of a caress. “Then it’s a deal, Mommy. You’re mine now. Every part of you. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied. You understand?”

Izuku closes his eyes. A single tear tracks through his freckles. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Izuku whispers, the words a final surrender.

Katsuki doesn’t respond immediately. He walks past Izuku, the brush of his thigh against Izuku’s knee deliberate, and settles onto his bed. He arranges himself against the headboard, lacing his fingers behind his head again. The picture of casual ownership. His crimson eyes are dark, unblinking. “Strip.”

Izuku’s breath stops. He stays sitting on the bed, his hands frozen in his lap. The floral pattern of his skirt is suddenly absurd. A costume for a life that ended hours ago.

“I want to see the goods,” Katsuki says, his voice flat. “If I’m turning down strange boy pussy, I need to know what I’m getting instead. Show me, Mom.”

The command hangs in the air. Izuku’s fingers tremble as they find the hem of his soft cardigan. He pulls it over his head, the movement clumsy. The cool bedroom air hits his bare arms, his shoulders. He folds the sweater, a mindless, domestic habit, and sets it beside him on the floor.

“Everything,” Katsuki says. He hasn’t moved. He’s just watching. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Izuku’s eyes sting. He reaches behind his back, fumbling for the zipper of his dress. The sound of the teeth parting is loud in the silence. He pushes the fabric off his shoulders, lets it pool around his waist. His small, soft breasts are exposed, the big, brown areolas already tight and pebbled from fear and the chill. He can’t look at Katsuki. He stares at his own hands, pale against the dark green of his skirt.

“Skirt. Panties. Off.”

Izuku stands on shaky legs. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his skirt and his lace-trimmed panties together and pushes them down in one motion. They fall past his thick thighs, past his knees, to the floor. He steps out of the pooled fabric, naked. He feels the air everywhere. On his freckled skin. On his pussy.

Katsuki’s gaze is a physical scrape. It travels over him, slow, methodical. The same cataloging look Izuku saw on the tapes, right before the violence started. “Turn around.”

Izuku obeys. He turns a slow circle, his arms hanging useless at his sides. He feels the weight of his own ass, the curve of his back. He is being inventoried.

“Come here.”

Izuku turns back to face him. He takes two steps toward the bed. Stops. The space between them feels charged, like the air before a lightning strike.

“Closer, Mommy.” The nickname is a razor wrapped in silk. “I want to see if you’re wet for me yet.”

“Kacchan, I–”

“Are you?”

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. He knows his own body’s betrayal. The slick heat between his legs isn’t desire. It’s terror. It’s shame. It’s there. He gives a tiny, agonized nod.

“Show me.”

Izuku moves before the tremor in his legs can buckle him. He climbs onto the mattress, his knees sinking into the comforter on either side of Katsuki’s hips. He’s naked, exposed, but a strange, shattered resolve steadies his hands as he braces them on his son’s broad chest. He shifts his weight, lifts his hips, and positions his dripping cunt directly over Katsuki’s face. The wet, slick heat of him leaves a dark, shameful patch on the denim of Katsuki’s jeans.

Katsuki’s crimson eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. The cool, cataloging mask slips. He wasn’t ready for this, for his mother to move with such direct, devastating purpose. A sharp, involuntary breath escapes his nose, hot against Izuku’s inner thigh.

“Feed me, Mommy.” Katsuki’s voice is a ragged, husky thing, stripped of its flat command. It’s a plea. “Feed me your wet pussy, Mommy.”

The words—the begging—punch through Izuku’s terror and land somewhere dark and molten in his gut. A fresh, hot gush of wetness seeps from him, the betrayal of his own body complete. He lowers himself, until his swollen folds are poised just above his son’s parted lips.

“You want it?” Izuku whispers, the question raw and broken. He grinds down, just once, a slow, filthy circle that smears his arousal across Katsuki’s mouth. “This is what you wanted, Kacchan. Your mommy’s cunt.”

Katsuki whimpers.

The sound is raw, desperate, torn from some primal place behind his perfect teeth. His controlled mask shatters. His lips part wider, and his tongue—hot, wet, demanding—lashes against Izuku’s swollen folds. He doesn’t wait. He eats.

“That’s it,” Izuku breathes, the power of the moment coiling hot in his belly. He grinds down harder, fitting his cunt more fully over his son’s mouth. “Eat it, Kacchan. Your mommy’s cunt. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Katsuki’s answer is a choked, hungry moan vibrating against Izuku’s sensitive flesh. His hands fly up, gripping Izuku’s thick thighs, fingers digging into the soft freckled skin. He holds him there, anchored, as his tongue plunges deep, tasting, claiming. The wet, filthy sounds fill the room.

“You’re such a good boy,” Izuku whispers, his own voice shaking with a terrible, rising heat. He rolls his hips, feeding himself to that ravenous mouth. “Such a hungry baby. You needed this.”

“Mommy,” Katsuki gasps, breaking contact for a shuddering breath. His lips are glistening, his crimson eyes blown wide with a need so deep it looks like fear. “Please. More.”

Izuku obeys. He shifts, bracing his hands on the headboard now, looming over his son’s face. He lowers himself again, letting Katsuki’s tongue find his clit. A sharp cry punches from his throat. “Right there. Oh, baby boy, right there.”

Katsuki sucks. Hard. The world whites out at the edges. Izuku’s hips jerk, fucking his son’s face in short, frantic strokes. The terror is still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it’s wrapped in lava now. This is his. This control. This awful, sacred feeding.

“You taste like home,” Katsuki rasps against him, the words muffled, reverent. “You taste like mine.”

Izuku looks down. Sees the mess he’s making of his perfect son’s face. Sees the raw, open need. A fresh flood of slickness soaks Katsuki’s chin. “You’re mine, too,” Izuku hears himself say, the possessiveness in his own voice startling him. “My violent, beautiful boy. My secret.”

Katsuki’s grip on his thighs tightens to the point of pain. He moans, a broken, continuous sound, and doubles his efforts. His tongue works furiously, his nose pressed into Izuku’s curly thatch, breathing him in. He’s not cataloging now. He’s worshiping.

Izuku’s climax builds again, a terrifying wave cresting from the pit of his betrayal. He can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to. “Kacchan… I’m gonna…”

Katsuki just makes a desperate, greedy noise and sucks harder.

Izuku comes with a shattered cry, his body seizing. He squirts, a hot gush that splashes over Katsuki’s cheeks, his lips, his chin. Katsuki drinks it, swallows, chases the last pulses with his tongue until Izuku collapses, trembling, onto his son’s broad chest.

Izuku’s breath comes in ragged, wet heaves against Katsuki’s chest. His entire body feels liquid, spent, humming with a satisfaction so profound it terrifies him. He’s never come like that. He’s never squirted. The shame is a cold, slick thing slithering beneath the aftershocks.

“Mommy,” Katsuki murmurs into his damp hair, his voice thick. His arms are locked around Izuku’s trembling back, possessive, claiming. “You taste perfect.”

Before Izuku can form a thought, a sound cuts through the humid silence of the room. A firm, polite knock on the bedroom door. Izuku freezes.

“Katsuki?” Masaru’s voice, muffled by the wood, is calm and slightly concerned. “Is your mother in there with you? His slippers are by the door.”

Panic, sharp and sobering, lances through Izuku’s post-orgasm haze. He scrambles off Katsuki’s chest, his movements clumsy. “Yes! I’m— I’m here, Masa.” His voice is too high, cracked. He clears his throat. “I’ll be to bed in just a minute.”

“Alright, love. Don’t stay up too late, you two.” Masaru’s footsteps recede down the hall.

The silence he leaves behind is heavier. Izuku sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor where his skirt and panties lay in a forgotten heap. His pussy is still throbbing, wet. He feels Katsuki’s eyes on his back.

“You’re leaving.” Katsuki’s voice is flat again. The raw need is gone, buried under a layer of cold displeasure.

“I have to.” Izuku doesn’t turn around. He can’t look at his son’s face, streaked with his own release. “You heard him.”

“He’s asleep in ten minutes. You could come back.”

“No.” The word is final. It feels like the only piece of control he has left. He stands, his legs still unsteady, and bends to retrieve his clothes. The air is cold on his wet thighs.

Behind him, the bed creaks. Katsuki is sitting up. Izuku hears the low, frustrated sigh. A pout. Not the rage of a predator denied, but the petulance of a child whose favorite toy is being taken away. “You’re mine now. You said it.”

Izuku hooks his thumbs into his panties, stepping into them. The lace feels foreign against his sensitive skin. “I am. That doesn’t mean I sleep in your bed.” He pulls the skirt up, fastens it. His fingers fumble on the button. “The bargain… it has rules. This is one of them.”

He finally turns. Katsuki is sitting shirtless against his headboard, the denim of his jeans still dark with Izuku’s wetness. His face is a masterpiece of sullen, handsome anger. His lower lip juts out just slightly. Izuku’s heart gives a treacherous, maternal squeeze.

“Tomorrow,” Izuku says, the word soft but final. He fastens the last button on his blouse, his fingers steady now. “While your father is at work. We’ll… we’ll do more then.”

Katsuki’s lower lip juts out further. Izuku doesn’t look back as he opens the bedroom door, steps into the hall, and pulls it shut behind him with a quiet, definitive click.