The rain is a cold, relentless curtain, drumming a steady rhythm against the nylon of his umbrella. Izuku’s shoes slap against the slick asphalt of the park path, his mind already drifting toward the warmth of his apartment, a hot shower, the green tea waiting in his cupboard. He’s glad, not for the first time today, that he remembered his umbrella. The thought is a small, private victory against his own chronic forgetfulness.
Then he sees it. A small, sodden lump of matted blond fur, huddled deep under a park bench. It’s shivering violently. Izuku stops. His heart gives a familiar, helpless clench. “Oh, no,” he mumbles to the empty park. “Hey there.”
He approaches slowly, knees already aching in anticipation of the wet ground. He sets his umbrella aside, the rain immediately soaking into his dark green hair and plastering his thin work shirt to his skin. He kneels, the cold seeping through his trousers.
“It’s okay,” he says, his voice a soft, steady stream. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re just a little guy, aren’t you? All alone out here.”
The Pomeranian lifts its head. Its eyes are a startling, fierce crimson, holding a desperation that looks nothing like a normal dog’s. It bares tiny, sharp teeth and lets out a low, continuous growl that vibrates through its whole drenched frame. The sound is pure warning, but the shivering betrays it.
“You’re tough, I see that.” Izuku keeps his movements fluid, non-threatening. He offers a hand, palm down, fingers relaxed. The dog snaps, a quick, warning click of teeth near his fingers. Izuku doesn’t flinch. His mind is already cataloging: possible dehydration, hypothermia, no visible collar. Vet tech training overrides personal fear. “You’re scared. That’s okay. Let me help.”
Shrugging out of his soaked jacket is a struggle with his trembling hands. He lays the comparatively dry lining on the wet ground beside him, creating a small island. Then he grabs his umbrella and positions it like a canopy over the bench, shielding the little dog from the downpour. The rain now hammers directly onto his back, his shirt turning translucent, the cold pebbling his small nipples into tight, sensitive points. He ignores it.
“See? Dry spot. Just for you.” He watches the animal’s eyes track the movement of the umbrella, the offering of the jacket. The frantic intelligence in that crimson gaze seems to calculate, to weigh. The growl subsides into a tense, watchful silence. “Come on,” Izuku whispers, his own breath making little plumes in the chilly air. “You can trust me.”
The dog stares at him for three long heartbeats. Then, with a shuddering exhale, the rigid tension leaves its body. It drags itself forward, a pitiful, wet crawl, and collapses into the hollow of Izuku’s offered jacket, nosing the fabric before curling into a tight, shivering ball. The surrender is so complete it steals Izuku’s breath.
“There you go,” he murmurs, his throat tight. Carefully, he gathers the jacket-wrapped bundle into his arms, lifting it against his chest. The dog is a small furnace of damp heat and violent tremors. Izuku holds it close, instinctively tucking his chin over the matted fur. “I’ve got you.”
A sudden warmth blooms low in his belly as he continues the walk to his apartment. Deeper, a slick pulse answers, a clench of empty heat. His face floods with color. *What is that?* It’s just a dog. But the feeling is undeniable—a hungry echo to the creature’s need in his arms. He looks down at the quiet ball of fur, his smile faltering.
“Okay, little guy,” Izuku murmurs, adjusting the bundle in his arms as he finally pushes through the door to his small, cluttered apartment. The warmth hits him like a blanket, the scent of old books and green tea a stark contrast to the wet-animal smell now clinging to him. He toes off his soaked shoes, leaving a puddle on the genkan floor. “Let’s get you warm.”
He carries the jacket-wrapped dog to the center of the living room, kneeling on the tatami to finally unwrap his find. The Pomeranian is still curled tight, but the violent shivering has subsided into an occasional tremor. Those crimson eyes are open, watching Izuku’s every move with an unnerving, focused stillness. “You need a name,” Izuku says, thinking aloud as he gently probes the matted fur for injuries. “No collar. Can’t just keep calling you ‘little guy’.”
The dog’s eyes narrow slightly. Izuku smiles, a soft, distracted thing. “You’re kind of fierce. And blond.” A memory surfaces, unbidden and bittersweet—a childhood friend with spiky blond hair and a scowl, who’d chase him through parks just like the one outside. A friend he’d called… “Kacchan,” he whispers, the old nickname feeling strangely right on his tongue. The dog’s ears twitch. “Yeah. Kacchan. That fits you.”
He needs to get them both warm. The thought of a bath is immediate, practical. “Come on, Kacchan. Bath time.” He gathers the dog again and heads for the compact washroom, his own wet clothes leaving a cold, damp trail. He sets the dog on the dry tile floor and starts stripping, his fingers clumsy with lingering chill. His thin shirt peels away from his skin with a wet sound. He feels exposed, suddenly, under the bright bathroom light.
He feels watched. Scrutinized. He glances down. Kacchan sits perfectly still, red eyes locked on him, tracking his hands as they unbutton his trousers. Izuku’s face heats. *It’s a dog*, he thinks. But the flush spreads down his neck, tightening his nipples. A traitorous pulse echoes between his thighs, that slick heat stirring again.
He turns his back, shucking his remaining clothes. The air is cool on his bare skin, on the curves of his ass. He can still feel that gaze. “Right,” he says, too loud. “Shampoo.” He fumbles in the cabinet. He fills the basin, lifts Kacchan into the warm water.
The dog doesn’t fight. He stands placidly as Izuku works shampoo into the matted fur. His hands are gentle, methodical, checking for cuts. He finds none. Under the grime, the fur is thick and soft. Kacchan’s eyes slip half-closed, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. The sound goes straight to Izuku’s spine.
“You like that, don’t you?” He rinsed the last of the suds. The dog was clean, fluffed. Objectively adorable. Izuku’s brain registered it.
The rest of him was raw skin. The water from the tap was warm, but it felt like a brand over his knuckles, a sharp, bright line against the deep, swollen ache between his legs. His pussy was swollen, red and sensitive, a vivid, tender pink against the white tile. The soft, wet sound of his own hands moving was obscenely loud. The ache wasn't just an ache—it was a demand, a hollow throb that pulsed with every beat of his heart. The want was a physical pull, an empty pulse that echoed up into his gut and down the backs of his thighs. It was a raw, open thing. It hurt.
But he’s just washing a dog, he thought. Get a grip.
He washed quickly, avoiding his own body. He drained the basin and turned on the tap for the deep *ofuro*. Steam fogged the mirrors. “Last step,” he said, lifting a clean Kacchan. He stepped into the hot water, gasping as the heat enveloped him. He sank onto the ledge and pulled the dog against his chest.
Kacchan went boneless, melting against him, head tucked under his chin. The purr intensified, a steady vibration in Izuku’s ribs. Pure relief. *This is what you wanted*, he thought. *To help. This is good.*
So why was his heart hammering? Why did the feel of that warm, furry body flush against his bare chest, against his stiff nipples, make his breath catch? The water lapped at his waist, but lower, beneath the surface, the heat between his thighs was a separate, insistent throb. An ache. A hollow, hungry feeling. He stared at the ceiling, trying to will it away. His body wasn’t listening. It was remembering the electric jolt from the park and amplifying it, here in the silent steam, with this creature purring in surrender against his skin.
“What is going on with me?” he whispers, the confession swallowed by the humid air. The dog, Kacchan, just nuzzles deeper into the hollow of his throat, as if in answer. As if he knows.
The purr is a physical thing. It vibrates through Kacchan’s small, warm body and transmits directly into Izuku’s chest, a steady, rumbling frequency that makes his already-stiff nipples ache with a sharp, sweet sensitivity. Each pulse of it is a tiny shock against the tender buds, a mimicry of a touch he’s never allowed himself to crave. He bites his lower lip, hard. This isn’t normal. This isn’t how you’re supposed to feel holding a dog.
“You’re really loud, you know that?” Izuku whispers, his voice shaky. He says it to the steam, to the fogged tiles, to anything but the truth humming between them. His hands, resting on the dog’s damp back, feel traitorous. They want to slide, to pet lower, to dig fingers into fluff and press the animal closer against the hollow, hungry heat of his own body. He keeps them still.
Kacchan nuzzles deeper, his wet nose a cool point against the pulse in Izuku’s throat. The movement shifts his furry body, and a particularly strong vibration scrapes directly over a nipple. Izuku jolts, a gasp tearing from him. The sound is too loud, too revealing. Water sloshes against the sides of the tub.
“Sorry,” he mumbles automatically, face burning. “You just… surprised me.”
The dog goes perfectly still. The purring stops. In the sudden silence, Izuku can hear the drip of the tap, the frantic thud of his own heart. He looks down.
Kacchan is staring up at him. Those crimson eyes are no longer sleepy or content. They’re sharp, focused, intelligent in a way that slices through Izuku’s confusion. They’re not a dog’s eyes. Not really. They hold a question. A recognition.
The crimson gaze drops from Izuku’s eyes to his chest. Then, with a deliberate, unhurried motion, Kacchan’s head dips. His warm, rough tongue flicks out, a single, wet stripe over Izuku’s tight, pebbled nipple.
A shockwave of sensation detonates in Izuku’s gut, white-hot and humiliating. A moan is ripped from him—a broken, needy sound that echoes off the tiles. His back arches, hips jerking under the water, a fresh slick of heat pulsing from his cunt. “Ah—!”
He scrambles, hands shooting out to grip the dog under his fluffy arms, heaving the warm, compact weight up and away from his traitorous body. He holds Kacchan at arm’s length, water dripping between them. The dog hangs there, limp and unprotesting, just staring. Those eyes are knowing. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.
“You— you must be hungry,” Izuku blurts, his voice a frantic, high-pitched warble. His face is on fire. His chest heaves, the abused nipple tingling, a direct line of electricity to his throbbing clit. “Yeah. Hungry. That’s… that’s what that was. Right?”
Kacchan’s tail gives a single, slow wag. His pink tongue darts out to lick his own nose. He doesn’t blink.
“Okay. Bath time is over.” Izuku’s movements are jerky with panic. He stands, water sluicing off his body, and steps out of the ofuro onto the cold, wet tile. He sets Kacchan down carefully, then grabs two towels from the rack. He wraps one around his own waist, the terrycloth rough against his oversensitive skin. The other he uses to briskly rub the dog dry, avoiding those piercing eyes. “We’ll get you some food. I have chicken. Or tuna. Something good.”
He’s talking to fill the silence, to drown out the memory of his own moan. Kacchan submits to the drying, then shakes himself once, sending a fine spray of droplets across the room. He pads after Izuku as the man flees the steam-filled bathroom, leaving damp footprints on the wooden floor of the hallway.
In the small kitchen, the normalcy of the overhead light feels like a lie. Izuku pulls a container of leftover shredded chicken from the fridge, his hands trembling. He can feel Kacchan sitting a few feet behind him, a silent, watchful presence. The weight of that gaze is a physical pressure between his shoulder blades, on the back of his neck, on the curve of his ass barely covered by the towel.
He dumps the chicken into a bowl and sets it on the floor. “Here. Eat.”
Kacchan approaches the bowl. He sniffs it once, then looks back up at Izuku. He doesn’t eat. He just stares, his head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something else. As if the offering is insufficient.
Izuku swallows, his throat dry. “What? It’s good.” His own voice sounds weak, pleading. He crosses his arms over his chest, a feeble shield. The towel is damp. It clings to the swell of his hips, to the damp patch between his thighs he prays isn’t visible.
With a soft huff, Kacchan lowers his head and takes a single, delicate bite of chicken. He chews slowly, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s face. It’s not the ravenous gulping of a starving animal. It’s a performance. A concession.
The silence stretches, thick and charged. Izuku leans back against the counter, the edge digging into his spine. He’s shivering again, but not from cold. Every nerve ending is awake, screaming. The lick on his nipple. The purr against his chest. The intelligence in those red eyes.
The towel chooses that moment to give up, the damp terrycloth knot at his hip slipping loose as he leans back. It slides down his thighs in a heavy, sodden heap around his ankles, baring him completely to the cool kitchen air and the weight of that crimson gaze. Izuku freezes, a sharp inhale catching in his throat. The overhead light is merciless, gleaming on the wet patch of arousal slicking his inner thighs, making the swollen lips of his pussy glisten.
Kacchan stops chewing. His eyes drag slowly down Izuku’s body—the soft curve of his belly, the dark thatch of curls, the undeniable evidence of his hunger—and then back up to his horrified face. There’s no shock in that look. Only a deep, simmering knowing. A confirmation. Then, deliberately, Kacchan lowers his head and takes another slow bite of chicken.
Izuku stares at the heap of terrycloth around his ankles. The chill of the kitchen tile seeps into his bare feet. Kacchan chews, slow and deliberate, those red eyes fixed on him like he’s the main course. A wave of exhaustion, deeper than bone, washes over him. What’s the point? The dog has seen everything. He’s felt everything. Hiding now is a joke.
He lets out a shaky breath, shoulders slumping. “Fine.” The word is a surrender, whispered to the empty air. He doesn’t pick up the towel. He just steps over it, the cool air kissing his damp skin, and pads toward the hallway. “C’mon, Kacchan. Bedtime.”
The Pomeranian follows, his nails clicking a soft rhythm on the floor. Izuku doesn’t look back. He walks into his dark bedroom, the familiar scent of his own sheets a weak comfort. He pulls back the covers and slides in naked, the cotton cool against his overheated skin. The mattress dips as Kacchan hops up, circling once before settling against Izuku’s side, a warm, solid weight.
Izuku’s hand finds the soft fur automatically. He strokes, slow and rhythmic, from the fluffy head down the compact back. The purr starts up again, vibrating through the mattress, through Izuku’s ribs. It’s a lullaby he didn’t know he needed. His eyelids grow heavy. The confused hunger, the shame, it all blurs into a distant hum under the purr and the steady sweep of his own hand. “Just a dog,” he mumbles into his pillow, already half-gone. “You’re just a dog. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Sleep takes him like a tide, deep and dreamless.
He’s pulled back by sensation. A wet, insistent heat between his legs. A slow, dragging pressure against his swollen clit. Izuku gasps into the darkness, his brain scrambling. A dream. A wet dream. But the feeling is too vivid, too specific—a broad, hot tongue laving up the length of his soaked slit, pausing to circle his entrance, then dragging back up.
His eyes fly open. The room is dark, but the streetlight from the window spills across his bed. Across the shape of a head buried between his thighs. Not a small, furry head. A man’s head. Broad shoulders, the curve of a muscled back, spiky ash-blond hair. And rising from that hair, two perked, fuzzy ears. A tail wags slowly, happily, from the base of the stranger’s spine.
“Wha— who—?” Izuku’s voice is a strangled shriek. He tries to jerk away, to scramble up the bed, but a large, calloused hand splays across his lower belly, pinning him down with effortless strength. The tongue doesn’t stop. It delves deeper, fucking into him with slow, thorough strokes, the wet sounds obscenely loud. Pleasure, sharp and terrifying, coils tight in his gut.
The man lifts his head. Light catches sharp features, a strong jaw glistening with Izuku’s wetness. And those eyes. Crimson. Burning with the same feral intelligence, the same possessive knowing, that Izuku saw in the park, in the bath, in the kitchen. It’s Kacchan. The realization is a lightning strike, freezing the scream in Izuku’s throat.
Kacchan’s tongue swipes over his own lips, tasting. His voice is a low, rough growl, gravel and heat. “Mine.”
The word hangs in the dark room—‘Mine’—and instead of terror, something in Izuku’s chest fractures and floods with heat. The hand on his belly is an anchor. The mouth between his thighs is a brand. His brain screams questions—how, why, what are you—but his body arches up, a silent, desperate plea for more. The scream dissolves into a ragged moan. “K-Kacchan…”
That earns him a low, approving rumble against his wet flesh. The tongue resumes, broad and relentless, licking into him with a focused, starving intensity. It’s not human. It’s cleverer, rougher, perfect. Izuku’s head falls back, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Fuck. Fuck, it’s too much. It’s too good. Processing is impossible. The hand pinning him down, the wet sounds, the animal heat of him—it all collapses into a single, white-hot point of sensation. He just feels.
“You… you were really hungry, huh?” Izuku gasps, the words a broken, breathy laugh. He’s babbling, his thoughts spilling out raw. “Not for chicken. For… this. For me.”
“Yes.” The growl vibrates through his cunt. Kacchan doesn’t look up. He feasts. He laps at the slick dripping from Izuku’s entrance, then traces a merciless, circling path around his clit. Every nerve is alight, singing. Izuku’s hips jerk, seeking more pressure, and Kacchan’s hand presses down harder, holding him still for the taking.
Izuku’s world narrows to the drag of that tongue. To the calluses on the hand splayed possessively over his lower stomach. His own hands leave the sheets and tangle in the spiky, surprisingly soft ash-blond hair. He doesn’t push him away. He holds on. The dog ears twitch under his palms. A broken, sobbing sound escapes him. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Kacchan answers by sealing his mouth over Izuku’s throbbing clit and sucking. Hard.
The sensation is a lightning strike. A live wire jammed into the core of him. Izuku shatters. A sharp, punched-out cry tears from his throat as his back bows off the bed. Pleasure, immense and uncontrollable, rips through him in a devastating wave. And with it—a hot, sudden gush, soaking Kacchan’s chin, his neck, the sheets beneath them. It pulses out of him in a shocking, continuous stream. Squirting. He’s squirting. He didn’t know he could. The feeling is apocalyptic, wiping his mind clean of everything but the brutal, exquisite release.
It seems to last forever. When the tremors finally begin to subside, leaving him boneless and gasping, the mouth between his legs doesn’t stop. Kacchan drinks him down, lapping at the flowing wetness with eager, hungry strokes, chasing every last drop. The sound is obscene. Wet, sloppy, devoted.
“S-stop… too sensitive…” Izuku whimpers, his legs trembling violently. His grip in Kacchan’s hair is no longer an anchor but a feeble attempt to pull him away. The overstimulation is a sharp, bright agony layered over the fading bliss. He’s raw. Exposed.
Kacchan ignores him. His tongue pushes back inside, fucking into his sensitive, fluttering channel, shallow and relentless. The hand on his belly slides lower, a thick thumb finding his swollen clit and rubbing a slow, firm circle. Izuku jerks, a fresh sob catching in his throat. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He’s coming apart again, a second, smaller peak cresting with terrifying speed under that ruthless, knowing attention.
“Mine,” Kacchan growls again, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice thick with Izuku’s taste. His crimson eyes gleam in the low light, fixed on Izuku’s wrecked face. “Always. Understand?”
Izuku can only nod, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He understands nothing. Nothing but the claim. Nothing but the empty, aching fullness waiting for what comes next. The promise in those red eyes.
The second peak isn't smaller. It’s a tsunami building from the ruins of the first, a deep, subterranean quake that Izuku mistook for an aftershock. Kacchan’s thumb keeps circling, his tongue keeps fucking shallow into his oversensitive entrance, and the coil of pleasure snaps back tight, vicious and huge. “N-no, wait, I can’t—!” Izuku sobs, but the protest is swallowed by the brutal, sucking pressure as Kacchan seals his mouth over his entire swollen cunt and sucks.
A vacuum of heat and wetness that draws the orgasm straight up from his soul. Izuku’s vision whites out. A raw, tearing scream rips from his throat, soundless at its peak. His body bows off the bed, every muscle locked, as he squirts again—harder, a hot, gushing flood that pulses in time with the catastrophic contractions seizing his core. It feels endless. It feels like dying.
Kacchan drinks it, greedy, swallowing around him, his growl vibrating against Izuku’s clit. The overstimulation tips into a sharp, bright agony that borders on ecstasy. Izuku’s hands fall from Kacchan’s hair, slapping weakly against the soaked sheets. His lungs burn. He can’t get air. The room tilts, the streetlight fracturing into prismatic shards.
The last thing he hears is the wet, devoted sound of Kacchan lapping at his spent, trembling flesh. The last thing he feels is a broad, calloused hand smoothing up his heaving belly, coming to rest possessively over his heart. “Mate,” the growl rumbles through the dark, final as a verdict.
Then nothing. A deep, velvet blackness pulls him under.