The kitchen air was thick with the scent of scorched chili oil and old grease, the overhead light buzzing a flat, white noise. Izuku stirred the simmering pot, his artist’s hands—still faintly smudged with charcoal—gripping the wooden spoon. A framed photo of Masaru smiled from the windowsill, the glass clean from daily polishing. Ten years, and the silence in the morning still felt like a held breath.

“I miss the weight of someone,” he said softly, to no one. “Just… the warmth of a man in this house. Not just my boy.”

The front door opened and closed with a precise click. Katsuki stood in the doorway, a sheen of sweat glazing his athletic frame, his spiked blond hair damp. His red eyes scanned the room and landed on Izuku, the predator’s calculation softening into something hungrier, more private. “Smells like shit,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Good morning to you too, Kacchan.” Izuku’s smile was bright, automatic. “It’s your favorite. Extra spicy.”

Katsuki moved into the kitchen, the space shrinking around him. He leaned against the counter, close enough for Izuku to feel the heat coming off his skin. “You’re up early. Thinking loud again.”

“I was just… I had a thought, over coffee.” Izuku kept stirring, avoiding his son’s gaze. “I think… I might be ready. To start dating again.”

The silence wasn’t empty. It filled with the furious hum of the light, the slow bubble of the chili. Katsuki didn’t move. His breathing didn’t change. But the air curdled. “Dating.”

“It’s been ten years. Your dad… he’d want me to be happy.” Izuku chanced a glance up, his green eyes soft with a hope that felt fragile. “I miss having a partner. I love you, baby boy, but…”

“But what.” Katsuki’s voice was flat, cold. Inside, a furnace door blew open. Rage, pure and annihilating, flooded his veins. He saw the men—the hypothetical, faceless extras—touching. Taking. His vision sharpened, zeroing in on the freckles across his mother’s nose, the vulnerable curve of his neck.

His control was a thin sheet of ice over a volcano. The rush of blood south was instant, vicious, a physical affirmation of his claim. His gray sweats did nothing to hide the brutal, thick line of his erection, straining against the fabric, the swollen head visibly outlined. He didn’t adjust himself. He let it stand, a blatant, fucked-up flag.

He shifted his weight, deliberately closing the last inch between them. The hard, hot length of him pressed against Izuku’s hip through their clothes. Izuku flinched, a small, startled jump. His eyes went wide, flicking down, then darting away, his cheeks flushing a deep, mortified pink.

“K-Kacchan, you’re… your shorts are… from your run, you must be…” Izuku stammered, leaning back against the stove, gripping the counter edge behind him. He made the excuse for him, the way he always did. “All that adrenaline.”

Katsuki didn’t smile. He leaned in, his breath hot on Izuku’s ear, his voice a possessive whisper. “Yeah. Adrenaline.” He didn’t move away. He held the pressure there, letting Izuku feel every aching inch, staking his claim in the buzzing kitchen light. “Forget dating, Mom. You already have a man in this house.”

A violent, full-body shiver raced up Izuku’s spine. It was betrayal, pure and electric, sparking from the point of contact where his son’s hard, claiming heat pressed into his hip. His pussy clenched, a slick, hot pulse of want that had no place here, in his sunlit kitchen, with his baby boy. He hated it. He leaned further back, the stove’s edge digging into his lower back. “K-Kacchan, please. Move.”

Katsuki didn’t. He inhaled, deep and slow, right at the juncture of Izuku’s neck and shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” Izuku whispered, but he was. His hands gripped the counter behind him, knuckles white. He could smell him—sweat, sharp deodorant, and underneath, the musky, masculine scent that was just Katsuki. It flooded his senses, dizzying. “This isn’t… you need to cool down.”

“I’m plenty cool.” Katsuki’s voice was a low, rough scrape against his ear. He finally shifted back, just an inch, letting the cold kitchen air rush into the space between them. His eyes, red and burning, locked onto Izuku’s. The erection in his sweats was still blatant, straining. “You want a man’s warmth? You’re standing in it.”

Izuku’s gaze flicked down again, against his will. The shape was obscene, thick and heavy. A memory, unwanted and visceral, flashed: nursing a feverish ten-year-old Katsuki, his small body burning up against Izuku’s bare chest. This was a different heat. A dangerous one. He swallowed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Go take a shower. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. For a second, Izuku saw the little boy in him, the one who’d cried for him after nightmares. Then it was gone, replaced by the man who filled the doorway. “You make a profile, I’ll find it. You bring a guy here, I’ll be here. This is my house, too.”

“It is,” Izuku said, his voice softening despite the frantic beat of his heart. He reached out, a mother’s instinct, and touched Katsuki’s damp forearm. The muscle was rock-hard under his fingertips. “You’ll always be my home, Kacchan. But a mother needs… other things.”

“You have other things.” Katsuki looked down at the hand on his arm. His own hand came up, covering Izuku’s completely, pinning it in place. His palm was scorching. “You have me.”

The buzzer on the stove blared, shrill and ordinary. Izuku jumped, yanking his hand back as if burned. He turned to the stove, fumbling with the knob, his movements clumsy. “Sit. Eat. We’re not talking about this anymore.”

Katsuki watched him, the line of his shoulders rigid. He didn’t sit. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a statue of possessive rage, until Izuku placed two steaming bowls on the table. The chili smelled of fire and home. Katsuki finally moved, slumping into his chair. He picked up his spoon, his eyes never leaving his mother’s face. “We’re not done, Mom.”

“We are for now,” Izuku said, sitting down. He picked up his own spoon, his hand steady only through sheer force of will. He could still feel the imprint, the brand of that heat against his hip. His body hummed with the shame of its own answer. He focused on the photo of Masaru on the windowsill. The smile seemed softer now, farther away. He missed that warmth. He was terrified of this new one, burning right beside him.

Katsuki finished his bowl in three brutal, efficient bites. He set the spoon down with a sharp clink, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s face. He leaned forward, the table creaking, and invaded his mother’s space. His hand came up, not to caress, but to frame Izuku’s jaw, holding him still. The kiss landed on his cheekbone, a hair’s breadth from the corner of his mouth. His lips were dry, hot, and lingered a second too long.

Izuku froze, the taste of chili still on his tongue. “K-Kacchan…”

Katsuki used the momentum of leaning in to press his hips against the table’s edge, grinding the thick, persistent bulge in his sweats against Izuku’s arm. The fabric was damp. “No boys, Mom,” he murmured, his voice a dark parody of playfulness against his skin. “Remember.”

He pulled back, his expression unreadable. Izuku’s cheek burned where he’d been kissed. His arm tingled from the pressure. He watched, speechless, as his son stood and walked out of the kitchen, the deliberate, heavy tread of his footsteps fading down the hall. The bathroom door shut. The lock clicked.

Under the spray of scalding water, Katsuki braced his forehead against the slick tile. The bathroom was thick with steam, smelling of his own soap and the ghost of Izuku’s vanilla shampoo. He wrapped a fist around his cock, already fully hard, aching. The image was immediate, vivid: Izuku bent over this kitchen sink, his soft, freckled back arched, those thick thighs spread. Katsuki’s thumb rubbed roughly over the leaking head, spreading the wetness.

He saw the little tits in his mind, the ones he’d suckled as a child. He pictured his mother now, the puffy, sensitive nipples he’d glimpsed through thin sleep shirts. He imagined biting them, not gently. He’d make him cry out. His hand moved faster, a brutal, punishing rhythm. He thought of that cute pussy, the one that had betrayed Izuku at the stove, clenching wet and hungry. His. He’d push inside and feel that tight, slick heat clamp around him, and he’d make Izuku say it. He’d make him scream ‘Kacchan’ until his voice broke.

His breath came in ragged growls, lost in the drum of the shower. He pictured Izuku on his knees, right here on the wet floor, green eyes wide and tearful, looking up at him as he fucked his mouth. “You want a man?” he snarled at the fantasy, his hips jerking into his fist. “Here’s your man, Mommy.” The orgasm ripped through him, violent and silent. He came in thick stripes against the tile, watching it wash away down the drain, his body taut and trembling. The emptiness that followed was a cold, familiar rage.

In the kitchen, Izuku mechanically cleared the bowls. His hands shook. He lifted a trembling finger to his cheek, touching the spot. It felt branded. He walked to the sink and scrubbed the pot until his knuckles were raw, the sound of the shower a distant, accusing roar. He needed air. He needed a plan. He needed not to think about the damp heat that had pressed against him twice in one morning.

By the time the water shut off, Izuku was in his studio, a small sunroom cluttered with sketches and paints. He pulled his laptop close, opening a browser. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was rebellion. This was sanity. He typed with fierce, determined clicks: ‘dating profile for single parents.’

The front doorbell chimed, bright and normal. Izuku jumped, slamming the laptop shut as if caught. He took a steadying breath, plastered on a smile, and went to answer it.

Ochaco Uraraka stood on the step, a canvas tote bag over her shoulder and a warm smile on her round face. “Izuku! I brought those layout proofs, and my famous lemon squares. You sounded… like you needed both.”

“I really do,” Izuku said, the relief in his voice genuine. He stepped back to let her in, the normalcy of her presence a lifeline. “Come in, come in. I actually… I wanted to ask you about something. Something not book-related.”

Ochaco kicked off her shoes, her brown eyes sharp and kind. “Okay, shoot. Is it about Katsuki?”

“No,” Izuku said too quickly. He led her toward the kitchen, away from the hall where the bathroom door was now silent. “Well, in a way. It’s about me. I think… I want to make a dating profile.”

Down the hall, behind his closed bedroom door, Katsuki stood perfectly still, a towel slung low around his hips. He’d heard the bell. He’d heard the cheerful female voice. He’d heard his mother’s whispered confession. The cold rage settled in his bones, a precise, patient chill. He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. He had work to do.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here," Ochaco said, sliding Izuku's laptop toward her across the kitchen table. She clicked open the browser, her expression cheerful and focused. Izuku hovered beside her, wringing his hands. "You'll need a good picture. Something warm, approachable. Not a bathroom selfie."

"I have that one from the park last fall," Izuku offered, his voice a little thin. He could feel the phantom heat against his hip, a brand from this morning. He glanced toward the hallway. Quiet. "With the sunset. Kacchan took it."

"Perfect! He's got a good eye." Ochaco beamed, typing. "Now, the bio. Let's lead with your art. 'Gentle soul, children's book illustrator, loves terrible action movies and good coffee.' See? Approachable." She nudged him. "What are you looking for in a guy, Izuku?"

Izuku's gaze drifted to the photo of Masaru. "Kind," he said softly. "Someone who... who doesn't mind that my son is my whole world. Someone with a calm voice." He touched his own throat, remembering a different, rougher whisper in his ear. "A warm laugh."

Ochaco typed, her fingers clacking a bright, normal rhythm. "We'll say 'family-oriented' and 'patient.' That covers it. Now, the hard part." She looked up, her brown eyes serious. "The deal-breakers. You gotta be direct. Saves everyone time."

"No smokers," Izuku said quickly. "Must like kids. Or at least, not hate them." He chewed his lip. "No... no temper. I can't do shouting. Or silent treatments." He thought of the explosive quiet from down the hall, the way the air still felt charged from breakfast. "Someone who communicates."

Down the hall, the floorboard outside Katsuki’s bedroom didn’t creak. He stood perfectly still, his ear pressed to the cold wood of his door. His phone was in his hand, screen already glowing with a private browser window. His thumb scrolled through a local forum, his expression flat. He heard every word.

"'Kind, communicative, seeks a genuine connection,'" Ochaco read aloud, typing. "This is great, Izuku! Really positive. We'll pick that sunset photo, and... maybe one of you at your drafting table? Show your passion." She clicked through his photo folder. "Oh, this one is lovely. You look so happy."

It was a picture of Izuku laughing, head thrown back, taken two years ago at a bookstore event. Katsuki had been there, lurking in the background. Izuku’s smile in the photo now felt like a artifact from a different life. "That's fine," he murmured. He wrapped his arms around himself. "It feels... strange. Putting myself out there like produce at a market."

"It's not a market, it's a possibility," Ochaco corrected gently. She hit 'save' on the profile draft. "There. It's live. Now, we just wait for the 'likes' to roll in." She squeezed his hand. "I'm proud of you. This is brave."

From behind his door, Katsuki watched the first profile load on his screen. There was his mother’s smiling face, offered up to strangers. His jaw clenched. He took a screenshot. The profile name was @GentleGreen. He committed it to memory. His other hand flexed, knuckles white. A warm laugh. A calm voice. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He had a new list now. Different from his mother's.

Night One

"I made your tea, Mom." Katsuki's voice was a low rumble in the quiet of the living room. He held the steaming mug out, his expression unreadable in the dim lamplight. "Chamomile. With honey. The way you like."

Izuku looked up from his sketchpad, his soft green eyes tired. "You didn't have to do that, Kacchan." He accepted the mug, his fingers brushing against Katsuki's. The heat was immediate, grounding. He took a sip, the sweet, floral taste coating his tongue. "Thank you." He drank it all, the warmth spreading through his chest, a false comfort. "I'm... I'm going to turn in early."

"Sleep well," Katsuki said, watching him. He took the empty mug back, his thumb stroking the rim where Izuku's lips had been. He stood in the dark kitchen, listening to the footsteps retreat, the soft click of his mother's bedroom door. He waited. He counted. He washed the mug, scrubbing it clean of evidence. Then he moved to the window, staring out at the moonless night, counting the slow, patient ticks of the clock until midnight.

The house was a tomb of silence when he finally walked down the hall. His own door hadn't made a sound. He stood outside Izuku's, his ear pressed to the wood. The breathing inside was deep, drugged, unnaturally even. He turned the knob. It gave without resistance. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, sealing them in. The room smelled of vanilla and sleep. The only light came from the digital clock on the nightstand, casting the bed in a sickly green glow.

Izuku was on his back, one hand curled near his cheek, the sheets tangled around his thick thighs. The worn t-shirt he slept in had ridden up, exposing the soft curve of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading beneath the waistband of his shorts. His lips were parted. Katsuki's breath hitched. He was already hard, his cock straining against his sweats, a heavy, aching weight. He didn't touch himself. He just looked, drinking in the vulnerability he'd created. "Mine," he whispered to the stillness, the word a vow and a curse.

He knelt on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under his weight. Izuku didn't stir. Katsuki reached out, his calloused fingers hovering over the delicate skin of his mother's throat. He didn't grab. He traced, a ghost of a touch down to the collar of the shirt. He hooked a finger in the neckline and pulled, slowly, down. The small, soft tits were exposed, the large, puffy nipples dark in the gloom. Katsuki’s mouth watered. He bent, his breath hot against the skin, and stopped. His lips a hair's breadth from claiming what he’d killed for. He froze there, trembling, a predator poised over a feast he’d poisoned himself.

Katsuki’s mouth closed over the puffy, dark nipple. He sucked, hard, the flesh yielding into the heat of his mouth. His tongue laved the stiff peak, rough and demanding. His other hand was already down his sweats, wrapped around the thick, aching length of his cock. He jerked himself in slow, brutal pulls, the wet sound of his fist mixing with the soft, sucking noise of his mouth on his mother’s tit.

“These used to feed me,” he growled against the soft skin, his lips brushing the nipple as he spoke. He bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough to make his point. His hips drove into his own fist. “Now they’re mine. All of you is mine.” He switched to the other breast, sucking the neglected nipple deep, tongue working furiously. Izuku’s breathing hitched in his sleep, a faint, distressed sound. Katsuki drank it in. “Yeah, Mommy. Feel that?”

He leaned back on his knees, his cock weeping in his hand, glistening in the low light. He stared at the sight he’d made: Izuku’s small tits were flushed, the nipples swollen and wet from his mouth. “Fuck,” he breathed, his strokes speeding up. “Look at you. Offering them up in your sleep. You know who you belong to.” He was close, the pressure coiling at the base of his spine. He wanted to come on them. Mark them.

Izuku stirred, his head turning on the pillow. A soft, sleepy mumble escaped his parted lips. “M’sa… ru…?”

The name was a physical blow. Katsuki froze, his hand tightening viciously around his cock. A wave of pure, incinerating rage turned the desire in his gut to ice. “No,” he whispered, the word deadly calm. He released himself, leaning over Izuku’s face, blocking the green glow of the clock. “Look at me, Mom.” He wasn’t asking. He gripped Izuku’s jaw, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of his cheek. The eyes beneath the lids fluttered, but didn’t open. “It’s Kacchan. It’s always been Kacchan. Say it.”

Izuku whimpered, trapped in the drugged dark. Katsuki watched the struggle on his face, the faint line appearing between his brows. He waited, his own breath held. The clock ticked. Finally, a sigh, a surrender. “…Kacchan.”

A savage triumph shot through him. He let go of Izuku’s face, his hand returning to his throbbing cock. “Good Mommy,” he rasped. His gaze fell back to the wet, abused nipples. “My good Mommy.” This time, when the orgasm tore through him, he didn’t aim for the tile. He painted his claim in thick, hot stripes across Izuku’s chest and stomach, marking the soft freckled skin that had once belonged to a dead man.

Katsuki stared at the mess he’d made, his own come glistening on Izuku’s skin in the green clock-light. His cock, still half-hard and wet, twitched against his stomach. The thought was instant, compulsive. He fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, the screen blindingly bright in the dark room. He positioned himself over Izuku’s chest, his thick length heavy as he laid it between the soft, small breasts, pressing them together around his shaft. The contrast was obscene: his violent arousal cradled by his mother’s innocence. The camera shutter clicked, silent and final. He examined the photo—a perfect trophy. His. He saved it to a locked folder labeled ‘Mine.’

“Gotta clean you up, Mom,” he murmured, his voice a rough scrape. He went to the connected bathroom, moving with a predator’s quiet grace. He returned with a warm, wet washcloth. He knelt again and began to wipe the sticky streaks from Izuku’s stomach and chest, his touch unnervingly gentle. He dabbed at the puffy, bitten nipples, watching them pebble under the cloth. “Can’t have you waking up sticky. You’d ask questions.” He rinsed the cloth in a glass of water on the nightstand, then wiped again, erasing all visible evidence. His tenderness was as possessive as his violence.

He leaned close, his lips brushing Izuku’s ear. “You smell like me now,” he whispered. “Underneath the soap. You just don’t know it.” He pressed a final, searing kiss to his mother’s temple. “Sleep tight, Mommy.”

He gathered himself, tucking his spent cock back into his sweats. He pocketed his phone, the new image a burning weight against his thigh. He paused at the door, looking back at the bed. Izuku had shifted, one hand now resting on his cleaned stomach, his breathing still deep and drugged. The perfect, violated picture of peace. Katsuki’s red eyes glowed with satisfaction. “No one touches what’s mine,” he breathed into the dark. Then he slipped out, shutting the door without a sound, leaving his mother alone in the room that was no longer just a sanctuary. It was a crime scene.