The kitchen smells of warm, baking bread and something else, something metallic and sharp beneath the sweetness. Izuku stands at the counter, his slender hands dusted with flour, not looking up as the back door opens and closes. He hears the heavy drop of a book bag, the shuffle of shoes kicked off.
“Hey, Momma.”
Izuku doesn’t answer. He sets down the rolling pin. Turns. His forest-green eyes move over Katsuki, a slow, thorough catalog. The untucked uniform shirt. The top button undone. The disarray of spiky ash-blond hair. His gaze snags on the side of Katsuki’s throat. A faint, purpling mark, just above the collar line.
He steps forward. The air cools. Katsuki doesn’t move, his sharp red eyes tracking his mother’s approach, his jaw tight.
Izuku raises a hand. His thumb, warm and dry from the kitchen heat, presses directly against the love bite. Not a wipe. A claim. The pressure is firm, deliberate. He smells it then—the clinging, foreign scent on his son’s skin. Cheap perfume and sweat.
Katsuki’s breath hitches. A sharp, quiet intake.
“Long day, Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice is a soft, melodic hum. His thumb doesn’t move.
“The usual.” Katsuki’s voice is rougher than he intends. He swallows, his throat working against the pressure of Izuku’s thumb. “Boring as hell.”
“Boring.” Izuku repeats the word like he’s tasting it. His other hand comes up, fingers brushing the rumpled fabric of Katsuki’s shirt collar. “You look a little… worn out.”
“Just blew off some steam.”
“I can tell.” Izuku’s eyes finally lift from the mark to meet Katsuki’s. They’re calm. Endlessly calm. “You smell like a locker room, baby boy.”
Katsuki’s nostrils flare. A challenge sparks in his crimson gaze. “Got a problem with it?”
“No.” Izuku’s smile is gentle, deceptively sweet. His thumb grinds in a slow, deliberate circle over the bruise. “I just wonder who worked so hard to put her mouth on my son’s neck.”
The air leaves Katsuki’s lungs. It’s not anger he feels. It’s a hot, dizzying rush, flooding the hollow place the boiler room left inside him. This. This is the confrontation he’s been hunting for all day.
“Does it matter?” Katsuki breathes.
Izuku’s smile doesn’t waver. “Everything about you matters to me.” His hand slides from Katsuki’s throat to cup his jaw, his flour-dusted fingers leaving faint smudges on tanned skin. “Was she pretty, Kacchan?”
“Who?”
“The girl who left her little reminder on you.” Izuku’s thumb traces Katsuki’s lower lip. “Was she?”
Katsuki’s eyes are locked on his mother’s. “She was okay.”
“Just okay.” Izuku nods, as if filing the information away. His gaze drops to Katsuki’s mouth. “Did you kiss her?”
“No.” The answer is too fast, too sharp.
Izuku leans in, his lips hovering just before Katsuki's. The scent of green tea and that darker, metallic edge washes over him. “Liar.”
The word isn’t harsh. It’s a soft, knowing exhale against Katsuki’s mouth.
“I didn’t kiss her,” Katsuki insists, but his eyes drop to Izuku’s lips.
“Your mouth says no.” Izuku’s flour-dusted thumb drags across Katsuki’s bottom lip again, slower. “But your skin… it smells like her. Everywhere.” He inhales, close to Katsuki’s jaw. “Cheap cherry blossom. Girl’s deodorant. She was on her knees for you, wasn’t she, Kacchan?”
"No." Katsuki's voice is low, a rough scrape of truth. "Wasn't on her knees."
Izuku’s thumb stills on his lip. The air in the kitchen tightens, grows thinner. "No?"
"Bent her over." Katsuki’s red eyes are glassy with the memory, fixed on his mother’s face. "Against the boiler room door."
Something cold and violent twists behind Izuku’s ribcage. A fury so pure it whites out his vision for a second. He breathes in through his nose. The scent of baking bread fills his lungs, a sweet counterpoint to the acid rage. His smile stays. Soft. Patient. "Against a door."
"Yeah." Katsuki’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip where Izuku’s thumb was. "She let me."
"Let you." Izuku’s hand slides from Katsuki’s jaw down to his shoulder, fingers pressing into the stiff fabric of his uniform. "Did she make a sound, baby boy? When you pushed inside?"
Katsuki’s breath hitches again. His pupils are wide, swallowing the crimson. "A little gasp. Then she got loud."
"Loud." Izuku’s other hand comes up, both now gripping Katsuki’s shoulders. His flour-dusted fingers leave pale prints on the dark uniform. "What did her back look like? Pressed against that dirty metal?"
"Pale." The word comes out hushed. A confession. "Arched. I had my hand right… here." Katsuki’s own hand rises, demonstrating, hovering over the small of his mother's back. "Held her down."
Izuku feels the tremor that runs through his son’s frame. Or maybe it’s his own. The fury is a living thing, chewing through his composure. He wants to break the door they imagined. He wants to break the girl. Instead, his voice is a melodic whisper. "You’re a good boy, telling Mommy the truth."
"Fuck," Katsuki breathes, and it’s not defiance. It’s surrender.
"Did you come inside her, Kacchan?" Izuku asks, his nose almost brushing Katsuki’s. The cheap cherry blossom scent is an affront. His own scent, green tea and dark iron, pushes against it.
"Condom," Katsuki rasps. "Always."
"Smart." Izuku’s lips curve. His eyes aren’t smiling. They’re pits of green forest, endless and shadowed. "But you wanted to, didn’t you? Fill her up? Mark her inside where no one else could see?"
Katsuki doesn’t answer. He just stares, his chest rising and falling too fast. The answer is in the frantic beat of his pulse under Izuku’s thumb, still resting on the love bite.
Izuku leans in. His mouth brushes the shell of Katsuki’s ear. His voice drops to a raw, visceral register, all pretense of gentleness stripped away. "You’re hard right now, just telling me about it."
A sharp, ragged gasp tears from Katsuki’s throat. He grinds his hips forward, a tiny, helpless jerk, and the thick ridge of his erection presses against the fly of his uniform pants. It’s an admission. A plea.
Izuku’s hand slides down from his shoulder, over the firm plane of his chest, the defined abs beneath the shirt. It doesn’t stop until his palm is cupping the heavy, insistent heat between Katsuki’s legs. He squeezes, just once, through the fabric. A brutal, claiming pressure.
Katsuki’s head falls back with a choked sound. His hands come up, gripping the counter edge behind him, knuckles bleaching white.
Izuku’s hand drops away from the heat between Katsuki’s legs as if burned. He takes a full step back, the warm, motherly smile returning to his face like a curtain falling. “You’re all worked up, baby boy. Go take a shower.”
Katsuki stares, his chest heaving, his knuckles still white on the counter edge. “What?”
“A shower,” Izuku repeats, his voice sweet and practical. He turns slightly, wiping his flour-dusted hands on a dish towel. “You smell like boiler room and cheap perfume. Go wash it off.”
A muscle ticks in Katsuki’s jaw. The abrupt withdrawal is a physical ache, a denial he feels in his throbbing cock. He pushes off the counter, his movements stiff with frustrated tension. “Fine.”
He’s almost to the kitchen doorway when Izuku’s voice, light and curious, stops him. “Oh, Kacchan?”
Katsuki halts, doesn’t turn.
“What was her name?”
The question hangs in the thick air. Katsuki’s shoulders tighten. He glances back over his shoulder, his crimson eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Izuku’s smile is patient, a parent humoring a child. “I like to know the names of the people who touch my son.”
Katsuki watches him for a long second. The kitchen light catches the faint smudges of flour on his jaw. “Ochako,” he finally says, the name a blunt admission. “Her name was Ochako.”
Something in Izuku’s green eyes flattens. The warmth doesn’t leave his smile, but it becomes a thing of glass. “Ochako,” he echoes, tasting the name. He nods, a small, efficient gesture. “Thank you, sweetheart. Now go shower.”
Katsuki turns and leaves, his footsteps heavy on the hall floor. The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut is unnecessarily loud.
Alone, Izuku stands perfectly still in the center of the kitchen. The smile melts from his face, leaving something cold and smooth in its place. Ochako. He breathes in. The scents layer in his lungs: burnt sugar, yeast, the ghost of cherry blossom, and beneath it all, the sharp, metallic tang of his own rage.
Down the hall, the shower hisses to life. Izuku moves to the sink. He methodically washes the flour from his hands, watching the white paste swirl down the drain. The water is scalding. He doesn’t flinch.
Under the spray, Katsuki braces his hands against the tile. The water is hot, but it doesn’t touch the heat coiled low in his gut. His mind replays the pressure of his mother’s hand, the whisper against his ear, the cruel withdrawal. Ochako’s face is already a blur. The memory that burns is green eyes and a soft voice asking him to confess. A ragged sound escapes him. His hand wraps around his aching cock, thick and heavy, the foreskin already drawn back from the flushed, leaking head. This isn’t relief. It’s a ritual. He fists himself roughly, his thumb smearing pre-cum over the sensitive slit, and he thinks of flour-dusted fingers on his lips.
In the kitchen, Izuku dries his hands. He picks up the ceramic bowl of bread dough he’d been kneading before Katsuki came home. He punches it down, his slender arms driving deep into the soft mass. Again. And again. The impact jars up his wrists. The dough sighs, submitting. He wonders, idly, what Ochako Uraraka’s dorm room looks like. If she has roommates. If she feels safe there. He covers the bowl with a clean cloth, setting it aside to rise. The oven light is on, a dim orange eye. Everything in its place.
Katsuki’s orgasm, when it crashes into him, is a silent, violent thing. His forehead presses against the cool tile as his body jerks, seed striping the shower wall in thick, white ropes. No sound leaves him but a choked breath. Emptiness follows, swift and profound. He stares at the evidence swirling toward the drain. He feels nothing. He feels everything. He wants his mother’s hands on him again, pulling the emptiness out and filling it with that terrifying, perfect attention.
Izuku hears the water shut off. He listens to the silence that follows. He takes the dish towel, folds it into a precise rectangle, and lays it neatly over the oven handle. A plan, patient and cold, begins to crystallize in the quiet. A name is a door. And doors can be opened, or closed, forever.
The bathroom door opens down the hall. Steam billows out, carrying the clean, sharp scent of male soap and the underlying musk of Katsuki’s skin. He pads into the kitchen on bare feet, wearing only a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants. Water droplets cling to the blond spikes of his hair, trace the lines of his pectorals, slip down the defined grooves of his abdomen. The angry red mark on his throat looks darker against his clean skin.
Izuku doesn’t look up from the counter where he’s carefully wrapping the risen loaf. His fingers are deft, precise. “You missed a spot behind your ear, Kacchan. The left one.”
Katsuki stops a few feet away. The kitchen feels smaller with him in it, his heat a physical presence. “Did I.”
“Mm.” Izuku finishes the wrapping, sets the loaf aside. He finally turns, leaning back against the counter. His green eyes sweep over his son, a slow, comprehensive catalog. The damp sweatpants. The way they hang on his hips. The obvious, heavy shape of him beneath the thin gray cotton. “You’re still worked up.”
“You didn’t finish.” Katsuki’s voice is rough, stripped. It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact.
“Finish what, baby boy?”
“You know what.” Katsuki takes a step closer. The air between them crackles. He smells like their soap and his own specific heat. “You got me hard. You walked away.”
Izuku’s smile is a gentle, maternal curve. “You got yourself hard, telling me about your little adventure. I just listened.” He pushes off the counter, turning to wipe down the already-clean surface. “I’m going to the grocery store. We’re out of eggs.”
A muscle jumps in Katsuki’s jaw. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Izuku’s slender wrist. The grip isn’t rough, but it’s unbreakable. His palm is furnace-hot against Izuku’s skin. “Mommy.”
Izuku doesn’t pull his wrist free. He turns into the grip instead, rising onto his toes. His free hand cups the back of Katsuki’s damp neck, and he kisses him. It’s not sweet. It’s deep, consuming, a brand. He tastes of mint and bitter tea. When he breaks it, his lips are slick. He breathes against Katsuki’s mouth. “Now be a good boy and wait here. Mommy has to go finish a job.”
He slips from Katsuki’s slackened grasp, plucks his keys from the hook by the door. The lock clicks shut behind him, a final sound. Katsuki stands alone in the yellow light, his lips burning, the shape of his mother’s mouth still pressed into his, the hollow inside him wider and hungrier than before.