The text came at 2:17 AM. A single vibration that lit up the screen on Izuku’s nightstand, a stark blue in the dark room. Masaru slept soundly beside him, his breathing deep and even. Izuku’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone. The message was from Katsuki. Just a command: ‘Come wake me up tomorrow. After he leaves. Naked.’ Izuku stared at the screen until the light faded, plunging him back into the dark. He didn’t sleep again.

The morning was a pantomime. Izuku made breakfast, kissed Masaru goodbye, waved from the doorstep with a smile that felt carved from wood. The moment his husband’s car turned the corner, the smile vanished. He climbed the stairs, each step a lead weight. Outside Katsuki’s door, he hesitated. Then, hands shaking, he untied his robe. Let it fall. The air was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps. He was already wet, a slick, shameful heat between his legs he couldn’t control. He turned the knob.

The door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

The room was dark, the blinds drawn tight, but the shape in the bed was clear. Katsuki was asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead. The sheet was tented over his hips, a stark, obscene peak in the grey light. Izuku’s breath caught. He could see the outline—the thick, heavy length of it, the head straining against the cotton. A low throb echoed between Izuku’s own legs, a traitorous pulse.

He padded closer, the hardwood floor cool under his bare feet. The air smelled like sleep and boy—like Katsuki’s shampoo and something muskier underneath. Izuku stopped beside the bed. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips.

“Kacchan,” he whispered, the childish nickname ash in his mouth.

No response. Just the steady, deep rhythm of his son’s breathing. Izuku’s eyes were locked on the tent. Without thinking, his hand reached out. He hovered, trembling, an inch from the fabric. Then he pinched the top sheet and pulled it down, slow.

It was… perfect. That was the word that slammed into Izuku’s brain, ugly and undeniable. Katsuki’s cock lay heavy against his thigh, fully erect, uncut and flushed a deep, angry red. The foreskin was pulled partway back, revealing a glistening slit. Thick veins mapped the shaft, pulsing visibly. Beneath, his balls hung full and heavy in a loose sac. It was massive, girthy, a weapon and an idol. Izuku’s mouth watered. He felt dizzy.

Izuku’s control snapped. The quiet command of his own body, the thin veneer of reluctant duty, it all dissolved under the weight of that perfect, throbbing heat. He didn’t think. He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his knees, and bent his head. His tongue flicked out, a pink, tentative stripe against the heavy sac beneath his son’s cock.

The taste exploded on his tongue—salt, musk, the profound, intimate essence of *Katsuki*. It was way too good. A low, broken sound escaped Izuku’s throat.

He sucked one of the full, heavy nuts into his mouth, his lips sealing around the weight of it. His free hand wrapped around the base of Katsuki’s shaft, his fingers barely meeting around the girth. He began to jerk him, slow, a counterpoint to the sucking pull of his mouth.

“Fuck,” a rough, sleep-thick voice grunted from above.

Izuku froze, his mouth still full, his eyes shooting up. Katsuki’s head was tilted back against the pillow, his crimson eyes slitted open, watching him. He had just woken up and was pleasantly surprised.

“Didn’t say you could use your hands, Mommy.”

Izuku doesn’t pull off. He lets his son’s testicle slip from his lips with a wet pop, his face flushing hot, but his hands, as ordered, drop to the mattress, palms down. Then he dives back in, burying his nose in the musky heat of Katsuki’s groin. He laps at the heavy sac, sucking one orb back into his mouth, then the other, a frantic, worshipping rhythm. He moans around the flesh, the sound guttural and desperate, vibrating against Katsuki’s skin.

“That’s it,” Katsuki grunts, his voice still rough from sleep. He doesn’t move, just watches from the pillow, his chest rising and falling a little faster. “Use that mouth. Show me how hungry you are for it.”

Izuku obeys. He slurps, he suckles, he nuzzles the sensitive skin behind the balls with his nose, inhaling the deep, masculine scent that makes his head swim. His own pussy is dripping, a slick mess that coats his inner thighs. He rocks his hips slightly against the mattress, seeking friction, a broken little rhythm of his own.

“You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you, Mom?”

Izuku moans in affirmation, the sound muffled against skin.

“Disgusting,” Katsuki says, but his hand comes down to tangle in Izuku’s green curls, not pushing, just holding. Possessing. “Getting off on sucking your son’s balls. You’re a sick fuck.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through Izuku’s belly. He redoubles his efforts, taking as much of the sac into his mouth as he can, his cheeks hollowing. Saliva drips down his chin, onto the sheets. The taste is overwhelming—pure, concentrated Katsuki. It’s shameful. It’s all he wants.

“Enough.”

The hand in his hair tightens, pulling him back. Izuku whimpers, his lips leaving Katsuki’s skin with a final, wet sound. He’s panting, his face glistening, eyes glassy with want.

Katsuki looks down at him, crimson eyes dark. “You want the rest of it?”

“Yes.” The word is a cracked whisper.

“Ask.”

Izuku’s throat works. He stares at the cock, so close, the flushed head beading with pre-cum. “Please. Kacchan.”

“Please what?”

“Please… let me suck it.”

Katsuki’s thumb strokes over Izuku’s slick bottom lip. “Since you asked so nice.” He guides Izuku’s head forward, not roughly, but with absolute certainty. “Open.”

Izuku opens his mouth, tongue outstretched. The broad, velvety head bumps against his lips, smearing pre-cum across them. He tastes salt, a sharper musk. Then Katsuki pushes in.

The stretch is immediate, breathtaking. Izuku’s jaw aches, but he relaxes his throat, taking him deeper. He can’t get it all—it’s too thick, too long—but he tries, his nose pressing into the coarse blond hair at the base. He gags, tears springing to his eyes.

Katsuki lets out a low, satisfied sigh. “Fuck. Yeah. That’s it, Mommy. Take it.”

He doesn’t thrust. He lets Izuku work, holding his head steady. Izuku pulls back, dragging his tongue along the throbbing vein on the underside, then sinks down again, deeper this time. He finds a rhythm, slow and worshipful, hollowing his cheeks. His hands stay clenched in the sheets.

“Look at me.”

Izuku’s tear-filled green eyes flutter open, looking up the line of his son’s body. Katsuki is watching him, his expression a mask of intense, focused pleasure. Seeing that look—the proof that he’s doing this right, that he’s giving Katsuki what he needs—ignites something feral in Izuku’s gut.

He sucks harder, bobbing faster, the wet, filthy sounds filling the dark room. He’s making a mess, drool and pre-cum coating his chin, his throat working around the intrusion. He doesn’t care. This is the bargain. This is his purpose now.

Katsuki’s hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Close,” he warns, his voice tight.

Izuku doesn’t pull away. He redoubles his efforts, humming around the shaft, urging him on. He wants it. He wants to taste it, to swallow the proof that he’s stopped the violence, that it’s all here, in this room, in his body.

Katsuki’s control snaps. A rough groan tears from his throat as his hands fist in Izuku’s hair, holding him deep. Izuku feels the hot, sudden pulse against the back of his throat, once, twice, a third time. The taste floods his mouth—bitter, salty, profound.

He swallows, convulsively, until Katsuki goes soft, until he’s pulled off with a final, slick pop.

Izuku kneels there, panting, spent, Katsuki’s release on his tongue and chin. The room is silent except for their ragged breathing. Katsuki looks down at him, his gaze unreadable.

“Clean it up,” he says finally, his voice flat. He gestures to his spent cock, still glistening.

Without a word, Izuku bends forward again, his tongue laving the softening flesh clean with a tender, thorough care that feels more intimate than anything that came before. When he’s done, he sits back on his heels, waiting.

Katsuki watches him for a long moment. Then he reaches out, his thumb wiping roughly at the mess on Izuku’s chin. “Good,” he says, and the single word feels like both a blessing and a sentence.

“Good,” Katsuki repeats, his thumb still pressed against Izuku’s slick chin. His crimson eyes are dark, satisfied, and utterly focused. “That’s what we’re doing all day.”

Izuku blinks, his mind still hazy with the taste of his son. “What?”

“My cock.” Katsuki’s hand slides from Izuku’s face to cradle the back of his neck, a possessive hold. “Your mouth. Your throat. That’s the program, Mommy. You’re going to worship it until I’m raw and you can’t fucking speak.”

The declaration settles in the room, heavy and absolute. Izuku feels a fresh trickle of wetness between his thighs. His jaw already aches faintly. “All… all day?”

“You got a better offer?” Katsuki’s voice is flat. “Someone else’s dick you need to be on?”

The reminder of the bargain—of the alternatives—strikes like a slap. Izuku shakes his head, his green curls brushing Katsuki’s thigh. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” Katsuki shifts, sitting up straighter against the headboard. The movement makes his soft cock sway against his thigh, already beginning to thicken again with interest. “You don’t get to come. You don’t get my fingers, my tongue, my cock anywhere else. Just this.” He taps two fingers against Izuku’s swollen lips. “This is your job today. Show me you understand.”

Izuku’s eyes are locked on the renewed swell of flesh. He understands. The purpose is narrow and deep, a horrible, single-minded devotion. It’s a cage. It’s a relief. “I understand, Kacchan.”

“Then get to work.”

Katsuki doesn’t pull him forward. He waits, watching, leaving the act of submission to Izuku. Izuku leans in, pressing his open mouth to the base where the skin is still softest, nuzzling. He breathes in the musky, intimate scent, letting it drown his thoughts. His tongue flicks out, a tentative lap.

“None of that timid shit,” Katsuki says, his hand returning to Izuku’s hair. “You’re hungry for it. Act like it.”

Izuku obeys. He takes the thickening length into his mouth, working him patiently back to full hardness with sucks and long, wet strokes of his tongue. The silence is broken only by the slick sounds of his effort and Katsuki’s gradually roughening breath. It’s methodical. It’s tender. It feels, absurdly, like care.

When Katsuki is fully hard again, iron-strong against Izuku’s palate, he speaks. “Throat me.”

Izuku’s eyes water in anticipation. He adjusts his angle, tilting his head, and pushes forward. The broad head meets resistance, then pops past into the tight channel of his throat. He gags, tears springing free, but he holds, letting his body strain and accept the intrusion.

Katsuki moans, a low, punched-out sound. “Yeah. Just like that. Gag on it, Mom. Let me feel it.”

He doesn’t thrust. He lets Izuku hold him there, buried to the root, until the need for air forces Izuku to pull back with a wet, ragged gasp. Saliva strings from his lips to the glistening tip. He doesn’t wait for the next command. He dives back down, taking him deep again, establishing a slow, punishing rhythm of throat-fucking himself on his son’s cock.

Izuku gags, loud and wet, his throat convulsing around the intrusion. He slams his own head down again, forcing Katsuki deeper, fucking his own throat with a brutal, punishing rhythm. Tears stream freely now, mixing with the saliva slicking his chin and Katsuki’s cock.

“Fuck,” Katsuki breathes, his voice strangled. His hands tighten in Izuku’s curls, not guiding, just holding on as Izuku works himself. “Just like that. Choke on it.”

Izuku’s vision blurs. His lungs burn. He pulls back just enough to drag in a ragged, sobbing breath, then drives himself down again, taking the full length. The slap of his face against Katsuki’s pelvis is a sharp, skin-on-skin punctuation to the wet, choked sounds.

“Look at you,” Katsuki grunts, his hips beginning to lift to meet the downward drives. “My perfect fucking mommy. Made for this.”

The praise, twisted and degrading, sears through the haze of oxygen deprivation. Izuku moans around the cock in his throat, the vibration pulling a deeper groan from Katsuki. His own neglected cunt aches, a slick, empty pulse that syncs with the rhythm of his throat.

“You love it,” Katsuki accuses, his voice raw. “You love being my cocksleeve. Say it.”

Izuku tries to shake his head, but Katsuki holds him firm, buried to the root. He gags, his body straining.

“Say it, Mommy.”

Izuku pulls off with a desperate, gasping heave. “Kacchan, I—”

“Say it.”

The air is cold on his wet lips. Izuku pants, his green eyes glazed and pleading. The truth is a stone in his gut. “I… I love it,” he whispers, the confession tearing out of him. “I love being your… your…”

“My what?”

“Your cocksleeve,” Izuku breathes, the filthy word hanging in the air between them. A fresh wave of wetness leaks from him, soaking his thighs. The shame is molten, inseparable from the arousal.

Katsuki’s smile is sharp, victorious. “Yeah, you do. Now get back to work. Don’t stop until I fill that greedy throat again.”

Izuku obeys, sealing his mouth over the slick head and sinking down once more, the rhythm now frantic, desperate. He is a thing of function, of wet noise and straining muscle. His world narrows to the stretch of his jaw, the pound of his heart, the taste of salt and skin, and the building tension in the body beneath him.

Katsuki’s breathing fractures into sharp grunts. “Close. So fucking close. Swallow it all, Mommy. Every drop.”

Izuku redoubles his efforts, his throat working, his nose pressed into blond curls. He feels the moment Katsuki breaks—the full-body shudder, the animal sound ripped from his chest, the hot, urgent pulses against the back of his tongue. Izuku swallows convulsively, again and again.

Katsuki stays hard in his mouth, the pulses of climax fading but the rigidity remaining. Izuku keeps still, his throat working with the last of the swallow, when Katsuki’s hand tightens in his hair, holding him down.

“Don’t move,” Katsuki says, his voice rough with spent pleasure. “Gotta piss.”

Izuku’s eyes fly open, green and wide and wet, but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t. The grip is iron.

Katsuki looks down at him, a cruel smirk pulling at his mouth. “Better swallow it all, Mommy. Or you’re gonna make a mess in my bed.”

The first hot jet hits the back of Izuku’s throat, startling and bitter. He gags, his body convulsing, but Katsuki holds his head firm against his pelvis. “Swallow,” he commands, and Izuku obeys, throat working desperately as the warm, acrid stream fills his mouth. It’s a violation so intimate it blanks his mind. There is only the heat, the pressure, the taste, and the absolute ownership in his son’s grip.

When it’s over, Katsuki finally releases him. Izuku falls back onto his heels, coughing, a trickle of amber liquid escaping his swollen lips. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his whole body trembling.

“Good,” Katsuki says, his voice softer now. He looks down at his still-hard cock, glistening with spit and urine. “You took it all.”

Izuku can’t speak. He just stares at the floor, his breathing ragged. The shame is a physical weight, but beneath it, between his thighs, a traitorous pulse of heat answers the degradation.

“Look at me.”

Izuku lifts his head. His eyes are shattered.

Katsuki reaches out, not to strike, but to trace the line of Izuku’s jaw with his thumb. The gesture is almost tender. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “My perfect mommy.”

The words are a different kind of violation. Izuku’s chin quivers. He leans into the touch, just for a second, before catching himself and pulling back.

“Why?” The word is a broken thing. “Why that?”

“Because I wanted to,” Katsuki says simply. He shifts on the bed, his cock bobbing, fully erect again. “And because you let me. Now come here. Your job’s not done.”

Izuku doesn’t hesitate. He crawls forward, his knees sore on the hardwood, and takes Katsuki back into his mouth. The taste is different now, salt and bitterness and skin. He sucks, hollowing his cheeks, a mechanical rhythm born of despair and a terrible, growing need to please.

Katsuki’s hand fists in his hair and shoves, hard. Izuku’s world tilts, his back hitting the dark sheets, the breath knocked from his lungs. Before he can gasp, the weight of his son is over him, knees caging his head, that thick, glistening cock poised at his lips.

“Open,” Katsuki commands, and Izuku does, his jaw already aching.

Katsuki fucks down into his mouth, a brutal, deep plunge that bypasses skill and goes straight to violation. Izuku gags instantly, his hands flying up to grasp at Katsuki’s thighs, but he doesn’t push away. He takes it, his throat convulsing around the invasive heat.

“That’s it,” Katsuki grunts, setting a ruthless, piston-like rhythm. “Take it, Mommy. Just a warm, wet hole for me to use.”

The slap of Katsuki’s hips against his face is a steady, damp beat. Izuku’s eyes water, tears tracking into his temples and hair. His nose is filled with the scent of skin, salt, and the lingering, bitter trace of his own humiliation. He chokes, the sound wet and ragged, every instinct screaming for air.

Katsuki leans over, bracing himself on the headboard, driving deeper. “Look at you. Can’t even breathe right. Your pretty throat was made to be stuffed with my cock.”

Izuku’s vision sparks at the edges. His own cunt throbs, a slick, pathetic pulse that betrays him with every thrust. He’s drowning, and part of him wants to sink.

Katsuki pulls out, letting Izuku drag in a shuddering, sob-tinged breath. Spit and pre-come string from his swollen lips to the tip of Katsuki’s cock. “Bed’s too comfortable,” Katsuki says, his voice rough with exertion. “Up. We’re moving.”

He yanks Izuku up by the hair. Izuku stumbles, knees buckling, but Katsuki holds him upright, steering him naked and gasping out of the bedroom into the bright, silent hallway of the home he keeps so perfect.

Katsuki pushes him against the wall beside a framed family photo. “Here,” he says, spinning him to face the picture—Izuku, Masaru, and a teenage Katsuki, all smiling. “Suck.”

Izuku obeys, taking the head back into his mouth, his eyes locked on the photo. Katsuki’s hand presses the back of his head, forcing him forward, fucking his face against the wall. The plaster is cool against his feverish cheek.

“He’s at work,” Katsuki pants, nodding toward Masaru’s image. “Won’t be home for hours. You’re mine all day. Gonna use every inch of this house.”

The degradation is geographic now. Izuku is marked, claimed, in the space where he serves coffee and asks about his husband’s day. His throat works, a sore, used muscle, as Katsuki finds his rhythm again, the wet noises obscene in the quiet hall.

It becomes a brutal tour. The living room rug scratches Izuku’s knees. The kitchen tile is cold and unforgiving under his palms as Katsuki stands over him, one hand in his hair, the other braced on the immaculate granite countertop.

“You clean this floor on your hands and knees, Mommy,” Katsuki grunts, thrusting deep. “Might as well be useful.”

Izuku loses count of the times Katsuki finishes, only to stay hard, only to demand more. His throat is raw, his jaw a constant ache. His body is a map of shame—sticky with spit, aching with strain, his own arousal a relentless, damp heat between his legs that goes untouched, a taunting echo of the penetration he’s forced to endure higher up.

“You’re dripping,” Katsuki observes cruelly, pulling Izuku’s head back by his hair to look at his face after a particularly rough stretch in the downstairs bathroom. “Your cunt’s soaked, and I haven’t even touched it. You’re that much of a slut for your son’s cock?”

Izuku can only stare, his expression broken, his lips bruised and parted. He has no answer that isn’t a confession.

“That’s what thought so,” Katsuki murmurs, thumbing at Izuku’s wet lower lip. “Just a perfect, desperate mommy.” He guides his cock back between those willing, ruined lips. “Now swallow. We’re not done.”

The sun climbs higher, painting the house in stark, judgmental light. Izuku moves through it like a ghost, a naked, used specter trailing after his blond god of a son, who commands, and uses, and praises him with words that feel like brands.

Finally, in the hallway again, Katsuki stills, his cock buried to the hilt. He holds Izuku’s head down, his own breath coming in harsh gusts. Izuku feels the telltale pulse, the swelling heat. He braces for it.

“Gonna cum,” Katsuki warns, his voice a low growl. “You’re gonna take it, and then I’m gonna piss down your throat one more time before Dad gets home.”

Izuku swallows, his throat working painfully around the thick, bitter release. He doesn’t gag. He takes every pulse, eyes squeezed shut, until Katsuki goes soft in his mouth. The moment the stream of piss hits the back of his tongue, hot and acrid, his eyes fly open, but he doesn’t pull away. He drinks, swallowing convulsively, the liquid scalding a path down his already ravaged throat. He drinks until it stops.

Katsuki pulls out with a wet pop. He looks down, a smirk playing on his handsome, cruel mouth. Izuku remains on his knees, panting, spit and piss and semen glistening on his chin and chest.

“Good mommy,” Katsuki says, his voice hoarse. His cock completely spent finally. “Now get up. Clean yourself up. Dad’s probably already on his way home.”

Izuku doesn’t move. His knees are fused to the hardwood. He stares at a point on the floor, his vision blurry. The taste is everywhere, in his sinuses, coating his teeth.

"You better hurry up, Mommy." Katsuki's voice is casual, already turning away. "Dad's gonna be home. You still need to make dinner."

Izuku flinches. The words slice through the static in his head. Dinner. Masaru. The facade. He pushes himself up from the floor, his muscles screaming, his joints stiff. He stumbles past Katsuki, who watches him with a detached, amused curiosity, like observing a damaged appliance try to function.

In the bathroom, he scrubs. The water is scalding, but he can’t get hot enough. The soap burns the raw skin around his mouth. He scrubs his chest, his chin, his neck, but the taste is inside him, a bitter layer coating his throat. He meets his own eyes in the mirror—green, bloodshot, haunted. The face of a perfect housewife. He pulls on his clothes, a soft pink cardigan and matching shorts, the fabric feeling like a lie against his skin.

In the kitchen, his hands move on autopilot. Chop the vegetables. Season the meat. Start the rice. Every motion is precise, practiced, a twenty-five-year-old ballet of care. But his mind is a hollow echo chamber. The slap of skin in the hallway. The guttural praise in his ear. The cold tile under his knees where he now stands stirring a pot.

Katsuki leans in the doorway, freshly showered, dressed in sleek black sweats. He sniffs the air. "Smells good." His tone is that of a satisfied customer. "You gonna be able to look him in the eye, Mom? Smile and ask how his day was while you're still full of me?"

Izuku’s stirring never falters. "Yes," he whispers, the word barely audible over the simmering broth. It’s the only truth left. He will smile. He will ask. Because the perfect family must eat dinner, and the mother must serve it. The shame is just another ingredient now, folded into the meal, a secret spice only he can taste.

But Izuku learned today that nothing tastes better than his son’s perfect cock.