The morning after was a study in ordinary cruelty. Izuku stood at the stove, scrambling eggs, the smell of butter and heat filling the kitchen while his insides remained a wreck of shame and something darker. His hands moved on autopilot — spatula, plate, setting the table — while his mind circled the same image like a dog that couldn't stop licking a wound. Katsuki's hand. His panties. The word Mommy falling from those lips like a prayer.
Masaru kissed his cheek on the way out, told him to rest, that he looked tired. Izuku smiled. Said he was fine. The lie tasted like ash.
Katsuki clomped down the stairs twenty minutes later, school bag slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed somewhere past Izuku's left ear. He grabbed a piece of toast off the counter. Didn't sit. Didn't speak.
"Kacchan—" Izuku started, his voice catching on the name.
"Late."
The door slammed. The house went quiet.
Izuku stood there, one hand resting on his belly, the other gripping the counter until his knuckles went white. He needed to know. He needed to know. Not because he wanted to catch Katsuki — that wasn't it, that wasn't the word — but because the uncertainty was eating him alive. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe he'd misread the angle, the shadows, the sounds. Maybe his pregnant brain had twisted something innocent into something obscene.
He told himself that lie all the way to the electronics store.
The nanny cam was small, discreet, hidden in a clock that looked perfectly ordinary. The salesman called it "indistinguishable from a standard timepiece." Izuku paid in cash. His hands shook as he accepted the bag.
Driving home, he rehearsed reasons. A gift. A joke. Checking on the house while they were out. Each excuse felt flimsier than the last, but he didn't turn the car around. His belly pressed against the steering wheel, a constant reminder of the life growing inside him, the life Katsuki couldn't bear to share him with.
The house was empty when he returned. School would run until three. He had hours.
Katsuki's room smelled like him — sweat and something sharp, adolescent and aggressive. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled in a knot at the foot. Clothes on the floor. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. Normal. Ordinary. A teenage boy's room.
Izuku's throat tightened. He was invading his son's privacy. His baby boy's sanctuary. The thought should have stopped him cold. Instead, he crossed to the bookshelf, cleared a space on the top shelf, and positioned the clock so its face pointed directly at the bed.
"It's to protect him," Izuku whispered to the empty room. "It's to understand."
The excuse didn't make him feel better. It didn't make him stop.
He double-checked the angle, adjusted the clock by a few degrees, then stepped back. From the doorway, it looked natural. A clock on a shelf. Nothing to notice. Nothing to question.
His hands were still shaking as he closed the door behind him.
Dinner was a masterclass in pretending. Masaru asked about Izuku's day. Izuku said he'd made cupcakes, done some reading, taken a nap. All true. None of it mattered. Katsuki ate in mechanical silence, shoveling rice and fish into his mouth without looking up, responding to questions with grunts and one-word answers.
"How was practice?" Masaru tried.
"Fine."
"Any games coming up?"
"Saturday."
"You'll tell us the time?"
A grunt. Maybe a nod. Izuku couldn't tell. He was too busy watching the way Katsuki's fingers wrapped around his chopsticks, the flex of muscle in his forearm, the way his jaw worked as he chewed. That mouth. Those hands. The same hands that had been wrapped around Izuku's panties last night, fisting them against his cock, pressing them to his face while he—
Izuku's thighs pressed together under the table. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and blamed it on the warm food.
"You okay, love?" Masaru's hand found his. Warm. Steady. Innocent.
"Just tired." Izuku smiled, and this time the lie came easier.
He waited until Masaru was in the shower before he slipped into his private craft room — a small space off the kitchen where he kept his baking supplies and a cozy armchair he'd claimed years ago. He locked the door. His phone was already in his hand, the app already open.
His thumb hovered over the connect button.
This is wrong. The thought surfaced, clear and sharp. This is a violation.
He pressed connect anyway.
The feed loaded in grainy color. The clock's perspective gave him a wide view of Katsuki's room — the bed, the desk, the closet door. At first, nothing moved. The room was empty. Katsuki was probably still in the living room, pretending to do homework while ignoring his parents.
Then he heard the door click.
Katsuki appeared in frame, crossing to the bed in long strides. He'd changed out of his school uniform into gray sweats and a black tank top, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders. He looked bigger on camera. More solid. More like the man he was becoming and less like the boy Izuku still thought of as his baby.
Katsuki sat on the edge of the bed. Pulled out his phone. Scrolled for a minute, face blank, thumb moving in lazy arcs.
Izuku's breath caught. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was all just—
Katsuki tossed the phone aside. Reached under his pillow.
And pulled out a pair of black lace panties.
Izuku's hand flew to his mouth. The sight of them — his panties, the same pair from last night, the ones with the delicate floral stitching — made his stomach drop and his groin warm simultaneously. The contradiction was dizzying. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Katsuki held them up to his face. Breathed in deep. His shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of him like a sigh made visible. He held the fabric there for a long moment, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and when he finally lowered them, his expression had changed. Softer. Younger. The hard lines of his jaw had melted into something almost vulnerable.
"Mommy," he breathed, and the word hit Izuku like a physical blow.
Katsuki's hand moved to his sweatpants, palming himself through the fabric. His breath was already ragged, uneven, the needy rhythm of someone who had been holding back all day and couldn't hold back anymore.
"Please," Katsuki whispered, and his voice cracked. "Please, Mommy."
Izuku watched, frozen, his own hand pressing between his thighs as if to stop the growing ache there. He couldn't look away. He couldn't close the app. He couldn't do anything but sit in his little craft room, phone clutched in his trembling fingers, watching his son age-regress into the desperate boy who needed his mother's touch.
Katsuki pushed his sweats down, freeing his cock. It was already hard, thick and flushed, the foreskin pulled back. He wrapped Izuku's panties around the shaft, the black lace a stark contrast against his skin, and began to stroke. Slow at first. Testing. His hips lifted into each movement, chasing the friction.
"Wish you were here," he moaned, his voice high and needy, nothing like the brash teenager who'd grunted through dinner. "Wish you were touching me, Mommy. Please. Please, I need you."
Izuku felt the wetness between his own thighs. Felt his nipples tighten against the silk of his nursing bra. His body was responding to this — to the sight of his son in the throes of taboo obsession, to the word Mommy wrapped around a moan, to the evidence that Katsuki's hunger wasn't just for sex but for him. Specifically. Desperately. Exclusively.
And somewhere beneath the shame, buried under layers of maternal guilt and societal horror, Izuku felt the same hunger stirring. The need to be needed. The desire to be the center of someone's world, so completely that they would steal your underwear and cry your name into the dark.
Katsuki's hand disappeared under his pillow again, and Izuku's breath caught—but instead of the black lace, his son pulled out a different pair. White cotton. Simple. The ones Izuku had worn to bed last night, the ones he'd peeled off this morning and dropped in the hamper on his way to the shower.
Katsuki held them up, and his eyes went wide. He brought them to his nose, inhaling deep, and his whole body shuddered. "Fresh," he whispered, voice cracking. "These are fresh. You wore these last night, didn't you, Mommy?"
Izuku's hand flew to his mouth. No. No, I put those in the laundry. He couldn't have— But Katsuki was already lowering the panties, his tongue darting out to trace the crotch panel. He tasted it once, tentative, and then his eyes flew open wide and dark. A low moan escaped his throat, animal and raw. He pressed the fabric to his mouth and sucked, desperate, his tongue pushing against the cotton like he was trying to drink through it.
"Oh," Katsuki whimpered, pulling the panties away just long enough to gasp. "Oh, Mommy. Your kitty tastes so good. I can taste you. I can taste you, Mommy." He pressed the fabric to his mouth again, sucking hard, his hips bucking into his fist as he jerked himself with the black lace pair. "More. I need more. Please, Mommy, I need more of your kitty."
Izuku's thighs clenched together so hard it hurt. The wetness between them was undeniable now, a slick heat that spread through his underwear and made the fabric cling to him. Stop. Stop watching. This is your son. This is your baby. But his hand was already moving, trembling, reaching down to press against his own crotch through his wet panties. The pressure made him gasp, a thin, desperate sound he barely recognized.
On the screen, Katsuki had abandoned all pretense. His hand was a blur on his cock, the black lace twisted around the shaft, while the white cotton was pressed flat against his open mouth, his tongue lapping at it between broken moans. "Mommy, Mommy, please—I need you here. I need to taste you for real. Please let me taste you." His voice had dropped into something younger, needier, the voice of a boy who didn't know how to ask for what he wanted except to beg.
Izuku couldn't take it. He flipped his nightgown up and shoved his hand inside his underwear, and found his cunt already slick and swollen, the lips parting easily for his fingers. He let out a shuddering breath as he pressed two fingers inside himself, the sensation sharp and welcome and wrong all at once. His head fell back against the armchair, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"That's it, Mommy," Katsuki moaned, as if he could sense his mother's arousal through the walls between them. "Touch yourself for me. Please. I wanna make you feel good. I wanna make you cum." He sucked harder on the cotton, his cheeks hollowing, his hips stuttering as his rhythm faltered. "Your kitty tastes so fucking good, Mommy. I wanna eat it. I wanna bury my face in it and never come up for air."
Izuku's fingers moved faster, deeper, curling to find that spot inside himself that made stars burst behind his eyes. He bit his lip to keep from moaning out loud, but a whimper escaped anyway, thin and broken. Kacchan. My baby. My beautiful, broken boy. The thought should have horrified him. Instead, it made him wetter.
"I'm gonna cum," Katsuki gasped, his voice climbing higher. "Mommy, I'm gonna cum. Please—please watch me. Please don't look away. I need you to see." His hand was a frenzy now, his whole body tensing, the cords of his neck standing out as he arched off the bed. "Mommy—"
Izuku watched his son's orgasm rip through him, watched the cum spurt onto his stomach in thick ropes, watched the way Katsuki's mouth formed a perfect O around the panties as he cried out. And still, Izuku's own fingers kept moving, kept pushing, chasing the peak that was building hot and fast in his belly. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop.
His son came. Came hard, the evidence still glistening on Katsuki's stomach, pooling in the dips of his abs. But his cock hadn't softened. It stood proud, flushed dark, twitching with every ragged breath. Still needing. Still wanting. Still crying out for attention his own hand couldn't satisfy.
"No," Katsuki whimpered, his voice wrecked, barely audible through the phone's speaker. "No, no, no, it still hurts. Mommy, it still hurts." He tugged at the black lace wrapped around his shaft, a desperate, futile gesture, and the sight of his son's perfect cock still aching, still needing his mother to take care of it, made Izuku's entire body clench.
He needs me. The thought cut through the shame like a blade. My baby needs me. His fingers were still buried inside himself, still moving, still chasing, and when he looked down at his own hand, at the way his knuckles disappeared into his wet cunt, the reality of what he was doing hit him in a wave of heat and horror and hunger. His Kacchan needed him. How could he be a good mother if he ignored his son's needs? How could he call himself a parent and let his baby suffer alone?
The orgasm hit him without warning. His back arched off the armchair, his thighs clamping together around his hand as a gush of liquid flooded past his fingers, soaking his panties, his nightgown, the chair beneath him. He bit down on his free hand to stifle the moan, tasting blood and salt, his eyes fixed on the screen as Katsuki's still-hard cock throbbed in time with his own clenching cunt. Yes. Yes, baby. Mommy's here.
He slumped forward, panting, trembling, his hand still buried in his ruined underwear. The wetness was everywhere. His thighs were slick, his nightgown soaked through, the leather of the armchair dark with evidence. He pulled his hand out slowly, stared at the thick fluid coating his fingers, and felt something shift inside him. Something that felt less like shame and more like certainty.
He looked down at his wet panties. Pink cotton. Simple. The ones he'd put on this morning because they were comfortable. Now they were ruined, soaked with his arousal, the crotch panel transparent with his release. A gift. A perfect gift for a son who had been stealing his dirty laundry for weeks, who had been begging for a taste of his mother's cunt with every stolen breath.
Izuku peeled them off, his movements slow, deliberate. The fabric made a wet sound as it separated from his skin. He held them in his hands, felt the lingering warmth of his own body, and for a moment, he just breathed. The scent of himself rose from the cotton — musky, thick, obscene. This is what he wants. This is what my baby wants.
He folded them carefully. Neatly. The way he folded Katsuki's laundry after it came out of the dryer, with the same maternal precision. He found a ribbon in his craft drawer — red silk, left over from a gift he'd wrapped for Masaru last Christmas — and tied it around the folded panties in a perfect bow. A present. A message. An offering.
The house was silent. The clock on his phone read 11:47 PM. Masaru had gone to bed an hour ago, and from the master bedroom, Izuku could hear the soft, even rhythm of his husband's snores. Safe. Only himself and the boy in the room upstairs, whose cock still ached for his mother's touch, was still awake.
Izuku rose on unsteady legs. His nightgown was still wet, clinging to his bare thighs, but he didn't bother changing. Didn't bother covering himself. His bare cunt was exposed beneath the damp fabric, his thighs slick with his own release, and somehow that felt right. This was who he was. A mother whose body had answered his son's call.
He climbed the stairs one at a time, the present held in both hands like a sacred object. The hallway was dark, the only light spilling from beneath Katsuki's door. He could hear movement inside — a creak of bedsprings, a muffled sniffle. His baby was still awake. Still hurting. Still needing.
Izuku knelt. Laid the ribbon-tied gift in front of the door. The pink fabric stood out against the dark wood, a promise wrapped in silk. He pressed his palm flat against the door for a moment, feeling the warmth of his son's space through the wood, and whispered, "Kacchan. I'm leaving something for you."
Silence. Then a sharp inhale from the other side.
"Mom?" Katsuki's voice cracked, small and trembling. "Mom, what—"
"Just take it, baby." Izuku's voice was soft, steady, the same voice he used when Katsuki had nightmares as a child. "Mommy wants you to have it."
He pushed to his feet and walked away. His bare thighs rubbed together, slick and sticky, and the wetness of his nightgown slapped against his skin with every step. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The camera was still connected.
Back in the craft room, Izuku sank into the wet armchair, his heart pounding, his breath shallow. He pulled up the feed and waited.
On the screen, Katsuki's bed was empty. The door—Izuku couldn't see it from this angle, the camera trained on the bed and desk—but he heard it. The click of the latch, the creak of hinges, and then his son's voice, rough and confused: "Mom?" A pause. A shuffle. "Mom, you there?"
Izuku's breath caught in his throat. He watched the empty bed, the rumpled sheets, the pillow still damp with his son's sweat and cum. From off-screen, a sound—Katsuki bending, picking something up. Then silence. Long enough that Izuku's heart started hammering against his ribs. Please. Please take it.
The door clicked shut. The lock turned. And then Katsuki stepped back into frame, his sweatpants doing nothing to hide the thick, hard shape of his cock straining against the gray fabric. He held the pink bundle in both hands, turning it over, the red ribbon catching the dim light from his desk lamp.
"He left this for me." Katsuki's voice was small, almost reverent. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight, and stared at the folded panties wrapped in silk. His thumbs traced the bow, following the lines of the ribbon. "Mommy wanted me to have this."
Izuku pressed a hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the screen. His other hand found its way to his own belly, resting over the swell of his pregnancy, as if to steady himself. Yes, baby. I wanted you to have it.
Katsuki's fingers worked the ribbon loose, the red silk slipping free and pooling on his thigh. He unfolded the pink cotton panties with a kind of desperate care, his movements slow, almost trembling. And when he saw them—saw the crotch panel, dark and wet, the fabric translucent with his mother's arousal—his breath hitched audibly, a sharp, broken sound.
"Oh," Katsuki whispered. "Oh, fuck. Mommy." He brought them to his face, pressing the wet crotch against his nose, and inhaled deep. His whole body shivered, his eyes fluttering closed, his mouth falling open. "You're wet. You're so wet, Mommy. You were watching me, weren't you?"
Izuku's thighs clenched together, the wetness between them returning with a vengeance. He shifted in the armchair, the leather slick against his bare skin, and felt his cunt pulse with a need that bordered on painful. Yes, Kacchan. I was watching. I'm still watching.
Katsuki lowered the panties from his nose and, without hesitation, pressed his tongue flat against the crotch panel. He licked a long, slow stripe from one end to the other, his eyes rolling back as the taste hit him. "Fuck," he moaned, the word muffled against the fabric. "Yes. Yes, that's it. That's your kitty, Mommy. I can taste you. I can fucking taste you."
He licked again, faster now, his tongue darting out to lap at the saturated cotton like a man dying of thirst. The panties were pressed to his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked, and the sounds—wet, obscene, desperate—filled the room, filtering through Izuku's phone speaker and straight into his cunt.
"More," Katsuki gasped, pulling the panties away just long enough to breathe. "I need more. I need it inside me." He shoved the crotch panel into his mouth, the fabric bunching between his lips, and began to suck in earnest, his jaw working, his tongue probing, as if he could drink his mother's essence straight from the cloth.
Izuku's hand moved without permission, sliding down his belly and under the hem of his nightgown. He found his cunt slick and swollen, the lips parted, the entrance aching with emptiness. He pressed two fingers inside himself, a sharp gasp escaping his throat, and began to fuck himself in rhythm with his son's sucking.
On the screen, Katsuki pulled the panties out of his mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting the fabric to his lips. He looked at them, his eyes dark and glazed, and then he wrapped them around the head of his cock, still trapped in his sweatpants. The gray fabric darkened immediately as he pressed the wet cotton against himself, moaning at the sensation.
"Mommy's panties," Katsuki breathed, his voice wrecked. "Mommy's wet panties on my cock. Fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna—" He shoved his sweatpants down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed dark, the pink cotton immediately twisted around the shaft. He wrapped his fist around himself, the panties sandwiched between his palm and his skin, and began to stroke.
Fast. Hard. Desperate. His hand was a blur, his hips bucking up to meet each thrust, the pink fabric sliding against his length with a wet, sticky sound. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," he chanted, his voice climbing higher with every stroke. "Your panties on my cock. I'm fucking your panties, Mommy. I'm fucking your wet panties."
Izuku's fingers moved faster, deeper, curling inside himself as he watched his son fuck his fist with his mother's given underwear. The sight was obscene, wrong, perfect. His baby boy, his Kacchan, using his wet panties as a proxy for his mother's cunt, imagining the real thing with every desperate thrust.
"I'm gonna cum," Katsuki sobbed, his rhythm faltering. "Mommy, I'm gonna cum again. Please—please let me cum. I need it. I need it so bad." His eyes were fixed on the panties wrapped around his cock, on the dark, wet stain that marked where his mother's arousal had soaked through, and he was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks as he fucked himself closer and closer to the edge.
"Cum for Mommy," Izuku whispered into the dark of his craft room, his voice cracked and raw. "Cum for me, Kacchan. Let me see."
Katsuki's back arched off the bed, his mouth open in a silent scream, and then his cum was spurting, thick and white, painting his stomach, his chest, the pink panties still twisted around his shaft. He kept stroking, kept pumping, riding out the orgasm until his hand slowed and his body went limp, trembling, gasping for air.
Izuku's own orgasm followed a moment later, a shuddering release that flooded his fingers and soaked the armchair beneath him. He slumped forward, panting, his eyes still fixed on the screen as his son lay in the aftermath, the pink panties still clutched in his cum-stained hand, pressed against his chest like a lover.