The shower water hit Izuku’s skin a little too hot the next morning. He stood under the spray, eyes closed, trying to wash away a sleep that felt thick and drugged. A low, unfamiliar ache pulsed between his thighs, a heat that had nothing to do with the water. He pressed his palm flat against the tile, his other hand drifting down his stomach, fingertips brushing through damp curls. He wasn’t thinking of anyone. He wasn’t.
But the memory was a physical thing: the hard, insistent pressure against his hip in the kitchen, the sheer size of it. *Kacchan’s*. His breath hitched. His fingers slid lower, finding himself wet, slick, his body answering a call his mind was too fuzzy to place. He imagined that weight in his hand, the heat of it, and a sharp, shameful moan escaped him as his fingers worked in frantic circles, his forehead pressed to the cool tile, cumming with a shudder that felt like theft.
Across town, Katsuki drove a heavy bag back on its chains with a vicious kick. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the gym floor. Rep after rep, blow after blow, but he couldn’t shake the image: pale skin in moonlight, a puffy nipple between his lips. *Mommy’s*. His knuckles were raw. He remembered being ten, the summer after the *accident*. He’d walked in on him changing. He’d turned, a towel clutched to her chest, freckles stark on her shoulders. “Kacchan? Baby, what’s wrong?”
Nothing was wrong. Everything was. He’d stared, a strange, tight feeling in his gut and lower, a feeling he’d buried until last night. He’d killed for him. He’d ruin a thousand more.
His phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Izuku. *Did you eat breakfast? I made extra curry.* Katsuki stared at the screen, his breathing still ragged. He typed back, his thumbs smearing sweat on the glass. “Already ate. Be home late. Don’t wait up.” He needed the distance. Needed the world to stop smelling like her.
Another buzz. *Okay. Be safe, my baby boy.* Katsuki’s fist clenched around the phone. He threw it into his gym bag, the sound of it cracking against the floor barely registering. Baby boy. He wasn’t a boy. He was the man in his house. The only one he’d ever need again. He’d make sure of it, tonight and every night after.
Izuku stood in the kitchen, the house too quiet. He picked up his phone, the screen cool against his palm. His thumb hovered over the dating app icon. The profile he’d made with Ochaco felt like someone else’s life.
He opened it. The first match was still there: Yo Shindo. A nice smile, fluffy black hair. Izuku’s stomach fluttered. He typed, deleted, typed again.
“Hi Yo. This is Izuku. Sorry if this is forward.” He sent it before he could stop himself. He pressed the phone to his chest, feeling his heart thump.
The reply came less than a minute later. “Not forward at all. I was hoping you’d message. You’re really pretty.”
Izuku blinked at the word ‘pretty.’ It felt… immediate. He typed back. “Thank you. That’s kind.”
“Kind? It’s just true. What are you wearing?”
The question landed like a physical touch. Izuku looked down at his soft sleep pants and an old t-shirt. He felt exposed, alone in his kitchen. This wasn’t the gentle small talk he’d imagined.
“Just… comfy clothes,” he typed, his fingers feeling clumsy.
“Bet they’d look better on my floor.”
Izuku stared at the message. *Bet they’d look better on my floor.* His face flushed hot. He typed a deflection, his thumbs unsteady. “That’s a little fast, isn’t it?”
His phone buzzed almost instantly. “Life’s short. You’re hot. Why waste time?”
Izuku’s breath caught. He leaned back against the cool granite countertop. The house was silent, emptier than it had felt in years. The low ache between his thighs, the ghost of his shameful climax in the shower, pulsed back to life. Would it be so bad? To be touched, to be wanted so plainly? To feel a man’s weight that wasn’t a memory or a… a terrible, gross fantasy about his son?
“I don’t really do… casual,” he typed, the lie feeling flimsy even as he sent it. He’d never done *anything*.
“Everyone does casual,” Yo replied. “You’re a grown man. A single parent, right? You gotta have needs. Let me help you with those.”
A shiver, unwanted and electric, ran down Izuku’s spine. He felt it in his nipples, tight under his shirt, and lower, a slick warmth gathering. He was a grown man. He had needs. The image of Kacchan’s cock, huge and insistent against his hip, flashed behind his eyes. His mouth went dry.
“What kind of help?” The words were on the screen before he could stop them.
“The kind where I get you out of those comfy clothes. Where I put my mouth on you. Where you forget your own name for an hour.”
Izuku’s free hand drifted to his stomach, pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt. He could imagine it. A stranger’s mouth, hot and demanding, different from the gentle, reverent kisses Masaru had given him a lifetime ago. This would be consuming. It would be about the ache. He was wet, he could feel it, his body betraying his caution.
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“Let’s meet. Tonight. Just drinks. See if the vibe is there. If it is, we take it from there. No pressure.”
No pressure. Izuku laughed, a soft, breathless sound in the empty kitchen. There was nothing but pressure. The pressure of a decade of loneliness. The pressure of his son’s increasingly possessive glare. The pressure building between his own legs right now, begging for relief that wasn’t his own fingers.
He thought of Kacchan’s text. *Be home late.* The house would be empty. A secret of his own. His heart hammered against his ribs. “Okay,” he typed. The word felt like a door unlocking. “Just drinks.”
“Atta boy,” Yo wrote back. “I’ll text you the place. Wear something nice.”
The bar Yo chose was dark, all low leather booths and amber glass, and Izuku felt every eye on him as he walked in. He’d worn something nice—a soft green sweater that hugged his curves, dark jeans—and now he felt wildly overdressed, a neon sign blinking *desperate*. Yo was already at a corner table, a half-empty beer in front of him. His eyes, dark and assessing, tracked Izuku’s approach with a lazy smile.
“You showed up,” Yo said, not getting up. He gestured to the seat across from him. “You look even better in person. C’mon, sit. Don’t be shy.”
Izuku slid into the booth, his thighs sticking slightly to the leather. “Hi. Sorry if I’m late.”
“You’re perfect.” Yo leaned forward, elbows on the table. His gaze dropped to Izuku’s chest, then back up. “So. Izuku. Tell me something real. Why’s a guy like you on an app?”
“I… I’m just… it’s been a long time.” Izuku’s fingers twisted together in his lap. The ache between his legs, the one that had haunted him all day, was a dull, persistent throb under the table.
“A long time since what?” Yo’s voice dropped, intimate. “Since a man fucked you?”
Izuku flinched, his face flooding with heat. He glanced around, but the music swallowed their corner. “That’s… direct.”
“Life’s direct. You texting me back was direct. That pretty little outfit is direct.” Yo took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s. “You’re wet right now, aren’t you? Just from me talking to you like this.”
Izuku’s mouth went dry. He was. He could feel the slick heat, a shameful betrayal. He gave a tiny, jerky nod.
“Good.” Yo’s smile widened. He reached under the table, his hand finding Izuku’s knee. The touch was electric, possessive. “See? We’re already on the same page. You don’t need sweet talk. You need to be used. You need to remember what it feels like.”
His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the inner seam of Izuku’s jeans. Izuku’s breath hitched. He should stop this. He should leave.
The booth’s leather creaked as Izuku slid out and then back down, right next to Yo. Their thighs pressed together, denim on denim. The move was bold, unthinking, a direct current of need overriding his nerves.
Yo’s eyebrows shot up, then his smirk returned, darker. “Well, look at you.”
“You talk too much,” Izuku murmured, the words foreign in his own mouth. He stared straight ahead at the wall of bottles behind the bar, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
“I can think of better uses for that mouth.” Yo’s arm came around Izuku’s shoulders, heavy and claiming. His hand landed on Izuku’s far arm, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of the green sweater. “But I like this. You coming to me.”
His other hand returned to Izuku’s thigh, higher now, his palm hot through the jeans. Izuku’s breath shuddered out. He didn’t pull away. He let his own legs fall open, just a fraction. An invitation.
“Fuck, you’re eager,” Yo breathed into his ear, his voice a low, thrilled rumble. His fingers found the button of Izuku’s jeans, popped it with practiced ease. The zipper hissed down.
Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut. The bar noise—the clink of glasses, the dull throb of music—faded into a buzz. All he felt was the cool air hitting his exposed stomach, the heat of Yo’s hand sliding beneath his waistband, over the thin cotton of his panties.
“Soaked already,” Yo grunted, his fingers pressing against the damp fabric. “Told you. You just needed a man to remind you.”
He didn’t move the underwear aside. He rubbed his palm firmly over Izuku’s pussy, the pressure direct, grinding. Izuku’s hips jerked. A sharp, thin sound escaped his throat.
“Quiet,” Yo ordered, but he was smiling. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of underwear and jeans and yanked them down, just enough. His fingertips, calloused and blunt, traced the bare skin of Izuku’s inner thigh. “Hold still.”
Izuku gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He was exposed, in a public bar, a stranger’s hand in his pants. Shame burned his neck, but deeper, a liquid heat pooled, desperate. Yo’s middle finger slid through his folds, a slow, filthy drag.
“Jesus,” Yo muttered, his own breath growing ragged. “You’re dripping.”
He didn’t tease. He pushed one thick finger inside.
Izuku’s head fell back against the booth, a choked gasp caught behind his teeth. It was a stretch, an immediate, shocking fullness. Yo’s finger was nothing like his own. It was rougher, demanding, curling forward to press a spot that made lights burst behind Izuku’s eyelids.
“There?” Yo asked, his mouth against Izuku’s temple.
Izuku could only nod, a frantic, broken motion. Yo pumped his finger, once, twice, a third deep thrust. The wet sound was obscene, loud in Izuku’s ears. He was panting, his chest tight, his free hand clawing at Yo’s thigh.
“Another,” Izuku heard himself beg, his voice a raw whisper. “Please.”
Yo added a second finger. The stretch burned, a bright, perfect ache. Izuku’s cunt clenched around them, greedy, pulling them deeper. Yo swore, his own hips shifting restlessly beside him.
“You take it so good,” he growled, his fingers pistoning in a ruthless rhythm now. His thumb found Izuku’s clit, rubbing rough, tight circles. “Gonna make you come right here. In your nice jeans. Like a slut.”
The words should have hurt. They didn’t. They coiled in Izuku’s gut, hot and tight. His hips rocked, meeting the thrust of Yo’s hand, chasing the friction. The world narrowed to this dark corner, to the relentless push and drag inside him, to the building pressure that felt like it would crack his bones.
He thought of Kacchan. Of his son’s huge, jealous cock straining against his hip in the kitchen. This was different. This was impersonal, brutal, and it was working. His toes curled in his shoes. A high, thin whine built in his throat.
“That’s it,” Yo urged, his voice strained. “Come on. Let me feel it.”
Izuku came. It ripped through him, silent and violent, a convulsive clenching around the fingers fucking him. His vision whited out. For a long, shuddering moment, there was no past, no future, no son. Just the raw, emptying pulse of pleasure.
Yo slowly pulled his fingers free. They shone wet in the dim light. He brought them to his own mouth, sucked them clean, his eyes locked on Izuku’s wrecked, dazed face. “Tastes like loneliness,” he said, his voice gone strangely soft. “And bad decisions.”
Izuku’s cheeks burned, his breath still coming in shaky pulls. He bit his lip, the taste of his own sweat and shame on his skin. “Let me return the favor,” he whispered, the words feeling ripped from some hollow, needy place inside him.
Yo’s dark eyes gleamed. “Yeah?” He leaned back, spreading his legs wider in the booth. “Go on, then. Show me what you remember.”
Izuku’s hand trembled as he reached for Yo’s belt. The leather was cool, the buckle heavy. He fumbled, his artist’s fingers clumsy with urgency. Yo just watched, a lazy, expectant smirk on his face.
“You look good like this,” Yo murmured, brushing a curl from Izuku’s forehead. “On your knees in a booth, hands shaking. Real pretty.”
The zipper came down. Izuku pushed Yo’s jeans and boxers past his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard, the head dark and leaking. Izuku’s throat went dry. It was different from Kacchan’s—shorter, less intimidating, but the reality of it, of touching a man who wasn’t his husband, wasn’t his son, sent a dizzying thrill through him.
He wrapped his fingers around the base. The skin was hot, velvety. He gave an experimental stroke, up, then down, his thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip.
Yo hissed, his hips jerking up into the circle of Izuku’s grip. “Fuck. Okay. You remember.”
Izuku fell into a rhythm, his wrist working, his grip tightening on the upstroke the way Masaru had liked. But the memory felt distant, blurred. All he could see was the stark light of his kitchen, the hard line of Katsuki’s erection straining against sweatpants. The phantom heat of it against his hip.
“Eyes on me, gorgeous,” Yo grunted, his voice strained. He tapped Izuku’s cheek. “Look at what you’re doing.”
Izuku forced his gaze up. Yo’s face was flushed, his lips parted. He was watching Izuku’s hand move on his cock with rapt, hungry focus. “You’re thinking about someone else,” Yo accused, but it sounded more like a turn-on than a complaint.
“No,” Izuku lied, speeding his hand. The wet sound of his palm gliding over Yo’s skin filled the space between them.
“Yeah, you are. Your dead husband? Or…” Yo’s smirk turned knowing, cruel. “That kid you mentioned? Your son?”
Izuku froze. His hand stilled.
“Knew it,” Yo breathed, triumphant. He thrust up into Izuku’s motionless fist. “That’s fucked up. That’s hot. Keep going.”
Revulsion curdled in Izuku’s stomach, but his hand moved again, obedient. He focused on the physical details: the pulsing vein under his thumb, the way Yo’s balls drew up tight, the coarse hair at the base. He tried to lose himself in the mechanics of giving pleasure.
“Gonna come,” Yo warned, his voice guttural. He grabbed the back of Izuku’s head, not forcing, just holding. “Yeah. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Izuku squeezed, twisted his wrist on the upstroke, and Yo came with a choked-off shout. Hot stripes painted Izuku’s fingers, his wrist, the inside of Yo’s jeans. The smell of it, salty and sharp, cut through the bar’s stale air.
Yo sagged back, panting. He looked at the mess on Izuku’s hand, then at Izuku’s horrified, fascinated face. He chuckled, low and exhausted. “See? Not so hard to be a person again, is it?”
Izuku stared at the come dripping from his skin. Person. He didn’t feel like a person. He felt like a collection of needs and bad choices, sitting in a sticky booth with a stranger’s spend cooling on his hand.
Yo tucked himself away, zipped up with a casual finality. He wiped his hands on a napkin, then offered one to Izuku. “Here.”
Izuku took it, cleaning his fingers with mechanical motions. The buzz of the bar rushed back in—laughter, a glass breaking, the thud of bass. Reality was loud and ugly.
“So,” Yo said, signaling the waitress for the check. “Your place or mine?”
Izuku stared at the damp napkin in his hand. "I need to get home," he said, his voice thin.
Yo raised an eyebrow. "Kid's curfew?"
Izuku flinched. "Something like that." He couldn't stay here, in the smell of Yo's come and his own poor judgment. "But… tomorrow? A love hotel, maybe. Somewhere… anonymous."
A slow, understanding smile spread across Yo's face. He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You don't want me in your space. Got it. You're a secret." He traced a finger along the back of Izuku's hand, making him shiver. "I like that. Text me the time. I'll be there."
Izuku slid out of the booth, his legs unsteady. The air of the bar felt colder now, clinging to his sweat-damp skin. He didn't look back as he pushed through the door, the night swallowing him whole.
The walk home was a blur of streetlights and shadow. His cunt still throbbed, a faint, aching echo of the orgasm Yo had wrung from him. His right hand, the one that had touched Yo, felt alien. He shoved it deep into his jacket pocket.
His phone buzzed against his thigh. He pulled it out, the screen too bright in the dark. A single message from Kacchan, sent twenty minutes ago.
'Where are you.'
Not a question. A demand. Izuku's breath hitched. He typed, deleted, typed again. 'Out. Walking home. Don't wait up.'
The reply was instantaneous. 'You reek of bar smoke and some extra's cheap cologne.'
Izuku stopped dead on the sidewalk, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked around, half-expecting to see Katsuki's silhouette in a doorway. The street was empty. He brought the collar of his jacket to his nose, inhaling. He smelled only cold air and his own shame.
Another buzz. 'Hurry up. I made tea.'
The mundane sentence was a shackle. Izuku started walking again, faster now, the image of his son waiting in their brightly lit kitchen tightening something desperate in his chest. He wanted the tea. He wanted the quiet of his house. He wanted to erase the feel of Yo's fingers, Yo's cock, Yo's knowing smirk.
He turned the corner onto his street. The house was a beacon, every window lit. Katsuki never left lights on. It was a warning. Izuku's hand trembled as he fumbled for his keys at the front gate. The metal was icy. He paused, closing his eyes, trying to compose his face into something that looked like a mother coming home from a book club, not a man coming home from being fingered in a bar.
He couldn't do it. He pushed the gate open. The walk to the front door felt like a mile. He turned the key, the click deafening in the silent night.
The heat of the house hit him first, then the scent. Not tea. Garlic and ginger and chili oil. Katsuki was cooking. The kitchen light spilled into the genkan, and there he was, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore gray sweatpants and nothing else. His eyes, red and unblinking, tracked Izuku as he toed off his shoes.
"Smells good," Izuku offered, his voice barely a whisper.
Katsuki didn't move. "You're late."
Izuku’s smile was a fragile, grateful thing. He stepped into the kitchen’s warmth, the rich smell of stir-fry pushing the bar stink from his nose. “You cooked.”
Katsuki grunted, turning back to the stove. “You missed dinner. Sit.”
Izuku did, sliding onto a stool at the island. He watched Katsuki’s back muscles roll as he tossed vegetables in the wok. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was theirs. The accusation in the genkan hung between them, unspoken. Katsuki plated the food, setting it before Izuku with a sharp clack of ceramic.
“Eat,” Katsuki said, not sitting. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching.
Izuku took a bite. It was perfect—just the right amount of chili, the garlic sharp and sweet. “It’s really good, Kacchan.”
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s eyes were on his mouth. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Izuku admitted, the shameful thrill of the bar booth finally giving way to a deep exhaustion. He ate quietly under his son’s heavy gaze, the food sitting warm in his hollow stomach.
When Izuku finished, Katsuki took the plate. “Made your tea.” He placed the mug on the counter, steam curling lazily. “Drink it. You’ll sleep.”
Izuku wrapped his hands around the warmth. He took a sip. Bitter. Herbal. Something else underneath, a faint chemical tang he didn’t question. He drank it all, the liquid a hot line down to his gut. “Thank you, baby boy,” he murmured, the old endearment slipping out with his fading alertness.
Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Bed. Now.”
Izuku nodded, his limbs already feeling heavy, disconnected. He shuffled to his bedroom, the world softening at the edges. He barely managed to pull on his sleep shirt—an old, soft thing—before collapsing into the mattress. The darkness swallowed him whole, deep and chemical and dreamless.
Night Two
The digital clock read 12:07 AM when the door hinges whispered. Katsuki stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved from the hall’s dim light. He moved to the bed, his breathing the only sound. Izuku was on his back, one arm thrown above his head, lips slightly parted.
Katsuki stared at that mouth. He remembered the way Yo Shindo had smirked in the bar booth, the way his lips had moved when he’d said “your son.” A cold, clean fury settled in Katsuki’s bones. He shoved the waistband of his sweats down, his cock already hard, thick and heavy in the cool air. He fisted himself once, a rough, punishing stroke, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s face.
He climbed onto the mattress, knees bracketing Izuku’s hips. He leaned down, his shadow engulfing his mother. He could smell the tea on Izuku’s breath, the sleep-drugged sweat on his skin. With a thumb, he brushed Izuku’s lower lip. It was soft. Unresisting.
“Open,” Katsuki whispered, a low command in the absolute dark.
Izuku’s breath hitched, a faint sound in his throat. His jaw went slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale.
Katsuki guided himself forward. The swollen, leaking head of his cock pressed against the damp warmth of Izuku’s bottom lip. He held it there, a threat and a promise, feeling the puff of Izuku’s breath over his slit. The heat was obscene. Perfect.
“This is mine,” Katsuki breathed, the words a vibration in the stillness. He applied the slightest pressure, just enough to see the give of Izuku’s lip, to feel the wetness there. “This mouth. You understand? It doesn’t talk to extras. It doesn’t smile at them.” He pushed forward a millimeter more, the tip catching on the inner softness of the lip. “It’s mine.”
"Kacchan."
The name was a sleep-slurred murmur, a warm breath against the head of his cock. It unraveled him. Katsuki’s control snapped like a wire. He shoved forward, his thick crown breaching Izuku’s lips, stretching them wide around his girth.
Izuku made a wet, choked sound deep in his throat. His body tensed, a drugged instinct to pull away, but Katsuki’s hand was already cradling his jaw, holding him firm. "That’s it," Katsuki growled, his hips pushing inexorably forward. "Take it, Mommy. Take all of it."
The heat was suffocating, perfect. Katsuki watched, mesmerized, as his length disappeared into the soft, yielding hole of his mother’s mouth. He bottomed out, his pelvis meeting Izuku’s lips, his cockhead nudging the back of Izuku’s throat. He held there, throbbing, feeling the convulsive swallow around him. A line of spit leaked from the stretched corner of Izuku’s mouth.
He pulled back slowly, the wet drag obscene in the quiet room. Izuku’s tongue, clumsy with sleep and tea, lapped at the underside as he retreated. Katsuki groaned, a raw, animal sound. "Again," he commanded, and thrust back in, setting a slow, deep rhythm. Each push made Izuku’s neck bow, his airway fluttering.
"You taste him on me?" Katsuki whispered, his voice ragged. He fucked into the wet heat, his balls slapping against Izuku’s chin. "That extra’s cheap aftershave? You wash his taste out with me."
Izuku’s hands, which had been limp at his sides, twitched. One rose, fingers brushing weakly at Katsuki’s thigh. Not a push. An anchor. A muffled moan vibrated around Katsuki’s shaft.
"Yeah," Katsuki breathed, his pace quickening. The headboard began a soft, rhythmic tap against the wall. "Suck it. Clean it. It’s the only thing that belongs in this pretty mouth." He looked down, watching his own glistening length piston between his mother’s freckled cheeks, those green eyes fluttering but unseeing. A possessive fury twisted with a blinding love in his gut. "Mine."
He shifted his angle, and Izuku’s throat opened for him. He slid deeper, the tight, convulsive clasp making his vision whiten at the edges. Izuku gagged, a wet, desperate sound, his body jerking.
"Shhh," Katsuki soothed, his thumb stroking the strained tendon in Izuku’s neck. He didn’t stop moving. "You can take it. You take all of me. Always have." He remembered, vividly, the first time he’d seen this mouth as something other than his mother’s. He’d been fourteen, watching him laugh at something on TV, the curve of his lips, the flash of his tongue. A heat that had nothing to do with family had coiled in his belly that day, and it had never left.
He was close. The pressure built at the base of his spine, a tight, electric coil. He fisted a hand in Izuku’s green curls, not yanking, just holding, claiming. "Gonna come," he warned, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal.
Katsuki’s hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking into hard, final thrusts as he shoved himself deep into the wet heat of his mother’s throat. He held there, pulsing, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as his release hit. Thick, hot streaks painted the back of Izuku’s throat, the first spurts swallowed by reflex before he pulled out, his cock sliding free with a wet pop to paint the rest across Izuku’s freckled cheeks, his slack lips, his closed eyelids.
Izuku coughed weakly, a strangled, wet sound, his face glistening under the faint light. Katsuki breathed hard, his own sweat cooling on his skin, and stared at the mess he’d made. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, the screen bright in the dark. The camera shutter clicked, a sterile sound, capturing the proof: his mother’s face, marked, his own spent cock resting heavy on Izuku’s cheekbone.
“Look at you,” Katsuki murmured, his voice hoarse. He dragged the tip of his cock through the mess on Izuku’s skin, smearing it. “All mine.”
He climbed off the bed, his legs unsteady. In the ensuite bathroom, he ran a washcloth under warm water. He returned, methodical, and began to clean. He wiped Izuku’s eyelids first, then his cheeks, the cloth moving with a tenderness that contradicted everything that had just happened. He brushed it over Izuku’s chin, his neck.
When he got to Izuku’s mouth, he paused. He used the corner of the cloth to wipe the residue from his mother’s lips, gentle. Then he stopped. He set the cloth aside. With his thumb, he collected a single, pearling drop of his own cum from the head of his still-half-hard cock. He held his breath, and pressed his thumb against Izuku’s bottom lip, leaving the wet, silvery bead there.
“There,” Katsuki whispered. “A reminder.”
He pulled the covers up to Izuku’s chin. He stood, looking down at the sleeping form, the pale drop on his lip catching the light. A possessive calm settled over him, cold and deep. He tucked himself back into his sweats, picked up the soiled washcloth, and turned.
At the door, he glanced back. “Sleep tight, Mommy,” he said, the words a quiet vow in the dark.
The hallway swallowed him. The house was silent again, save for the faint, ragged sound of Izuku’s drugged breathing. In his room, Katsuki tossed the washcloth into a hamper. He looked at the photo on his phone, zooming in on the glistening proof on his mother’s face. He saved it, locked the phone, and lay in the dark, his hand sliding back into his sweats, his mind already circling back to the bar, to Yo Shindo’s smirk, to the next thing he would have to break.