Izuku woke with his heart hammering against his ribs. The sheets were tangled around his thighs, damp and sticky. He didn’t remember the dream, not clearly, but his body did—the phantom ache between his legs, the heavy, satisfied throb low in his belly. He was wet. Soaking. He shoved the covers back, a cold shame washing over him as the cool air hit his slick skin.
“No,” he whispered to the empty room. His voice was hoarse. “Not again.”
He stumbled into the bathroom, locking the door. He didn’t look in the mirror. The shower hissed to life, and he stepped under the scalding spray, flinching as it hit his oversensitive skin. He braced his hands against the tile, forehead pressed to the cool surface. His fingers drifted down, through the coarse hair, and found his swollen clit. A sharp gasp echoed off the walls. He was so sensitive it was almost pain.
“Just… just need to get it out,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut. He pictured Yo Shindo’s arrogant smile. It blurred. The hands in his fantasy weren’t Yo’s. They were bigger. Rougher. Calluses catching on his inner thighs. A low voice, a rumble against his ear: *Mommy.*
“Kacchan,” Izuku choked out, his hips jerking forward into his own touch. His other hand found his breast, thumb rubbing frantic circles over a puffy nipple. The image was crystalline: Katsuki’s mouth there, sucking, biting. Claiming. Izuku came with a broken cry, his knees buckling, the water sluicing the evidence down the drain. He slid to the shower floor, shaking. The guilt was a stone in his throat.
Days bled into a gray routine. He deleted the dating apps. He jumped at shadows. Katsuki was a constant, quiet presence—bringing him tea, asking about his work, his red eyes watching, always watching. Izuku felt flayed open under that gaze. Seen.
It was on a Thursday, while sketching absentmindedly at the kitchen table, that a new message notification popped up on his neglected social media. A man. Shoto Todoroki. His profile was simple: a picture of him smiling softly, a burn scar marring the left side of his handsome face. His message was polite. “I admire your artwork. The emotion in your lines is captivating.”
Izuku stared. His finger hovered. Loneliness was a sharper ache than desire. He typed back. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
They talked. Shoto was a professor. He spoke in complete, thoughtful sentences. He asked about Izuku’s process, about Katsuki, listening with a quiet intensity that felt like being offered a glass of water after a long drought. There was no pressure. No rushed innuendo.
“Would you,” Shoto typed one evening, “allow me to take you to dinner? Somewhere quiet. Where we can talk.”
Izuku’s heart did a foolish, hopeful little flip. He glanced toward the living room where Katsuki was lifting weights, muscles corded with each rep. He typed fast, before he could second-guess. “I’d like that. Yes.”
He set the phone down, face-up, the message glowing on the screen. A tiny rebellion. A secret. From across the room, the rhythmic clink of weight plates stopped. The silence was absolute.
Katsuki stood in the doorway to the living room, a damp towel slung over one shoulder. His chest still heaved from his interrupted workout, sweat tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. He said nothing. His red eyes were fixed on Izuku, cold and predatory, the silence in the room swelling until it pressed against Izuku’s eardrums.
“Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice was small. He instinctively flipped his phone screen-down on the table. The soft click was deafening.
Katsuki’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to Izuku’s face. “Who was that.” It wasn’t a question. The words were flat, stripped of heat, which was somehow worse.
“It was… no one. Just a friend.” Izuku’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his sweatpants. “From my art group. Online.”
“You don’t have an art group.” Katsuki took a slow step forward. The floorboard creaked under his weight. “You deleted all the apps, Mom. I checked.”
The admission hung in the air, blatant and invasive. Izuku’s mouth went dry. “You… you checked my phone?”
“I keep you safe.” Another step. He was at the edge of the table now, looming. The scent of his sweat, sharp and musky, cut through the lemon polish. “Who made you smile like that?”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“Yeah. You were.” Katsuki leaned down, bracing his hands on the table, caging Izuku in his chair. His voice dropped to that low, possessive rumble. “Tell me his name.”
Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs. A rebellious spark, fueled by weeks of shame and this new, fragile hope, made him lift his chin. “It’s a date, Katsuki. A dinner. With a nice man. That’s all.”
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. The predatory stillness deepened. “A date.” He repeated the word like it was a foreign, filthy thing. “You think you need a date?”
“I think I’m lonely!” The words burst out of Izuku, raw and too loud. He flinched at his own volume. “For ten years, it’s just been us. And I love you, you’re my baby boy, but I… I need more.”
“You have everything you need right here.” Katsuki’s hand shot out, too fast to avoid. His fingers, callused and strong, wrapped around Izuku’s wrist. His thumb pressed into the frantic pulse point. “I’m the man in this house. I take care of you. I keep the fucking wolves away.”
“He’s not a wolf, he’s a professor,” Izuku whispered, trying to pull his arm back. Katsuki’s grip was iron. “He’s kind. His name is Shoto.”
The moment the name left Izuku’s lips, the air in the room changed. It went from tense to lethally cold. Katsuki’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes went utterly, terrifyingly blank. He released Izuku’s wrist slowly, deliberately.
“Shoto,” Katsuki echoed. He straightened up, looking down at his mother. A slow, mirthless smile touched his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay, Mom. Have your dinner.”
The sudden capitulation was more frightening than his anger. Izuku stared, confusion knotting his stomach. “Kacchan?”
“I said it’s fine.” Katsuki turned, walking back toward the hall. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. The lamplight carved the sharp planes of his face into something monstrous. “Enjoy your date. Really. I hope he’s… perfect for you.”
He disappeared down the dark hallway. A moment later, Izuku heard the basement door open and shut with a soft, final click. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, poisoned by the unspoken promise in Katsuki’s last words. Izuku sat frozen, the name ‘Shoto’ now feeling like a target he’d just painted in the center of his own chest.
Izuku’s thumbs hovered over his phone screen, trembling. The glow illuminated his face in the dark of his bedroom. He typed, deleted, then typed again. *‘Looking forward to dinner tomorrow. 7pm is perfect.’* He hit send before he could crumple. The whoosh sound was a tiny defiance in the silent house.
From his bed, he could see the strip of light under his door. And beyond it, the faint, ominous glow from the basement stairwell, bleeding into the hall. Katsuki was down there. He was always down there after a confrontation. Plotting. Izuku pulled the covers to his chin, the phantom stickiness from his dream still haunting the skin of his inner thighs.
His phone chimed softly. Shoto’s reply was almost immediate. “As am I. The restaurant has a private booth. I thought you might appreciate the quiet.” A second message followed. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”
Izuku pressed the phone to his chest. A real smile, fragile and true, touched his lips. “A private booth,” he whispered to the dark. The thought was considerate. Safe. It felt like being cupped in careful hands.
Later, Katsuki stood in the kitchen, methodically preparing the nightly tea. The chamomile steam rose, carrying the faint, bitter scent of the two crushed pills he’d stirred into the honey. He carried the mug down the hall, his steps silent on the runner.
Izuku was sitting on the edge of his bed, still dressed, staring at his clasped hands. He looked up, green eyes wide and wary in the low light. Katsuki stopped in the doorway, his expression carefully arranged into something softer, contrite.
“Brought your tea, Mom.” He stepped inside, extending the mug. “Listen. About earlier. I’m… sorry I got loud.”
Izuku’s shoulders loosened, just a fraction. He took the mug, his fingers brushing Katsuki’s. “It’s okay, Kacchan. I know you just worry.”
“I do.” Katsuki’s voice dropped, the rumble intimate, confessional. He knelt before the bed, putting his eyes level with Izuku’s. It was a posture of submission that felt like a trap. “I just want to protect you, Mommy. The world’s full of shitty people. You’re too good for them.”
The old endearment, spoken in that tone, made Izuku’s breath hitch. He took a hurried sip of the tea. “I know, baby boy. I know you do.”
Katsuki reached up, his callused hands framing Izuku’s face with a terrifying gentleness. “Have your date. Be happy. Just… let me do my job. Okay?” He leaned in, pressing a slow, closed-mouth kiss to Izuku’s forehead. The gesture was achingly paternal. Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut, a conflicted sigh escaping him.
“Okay,” Izuku whispered.
Katsuki stood, pulling his mother into a firm, engulfing hug. Izuku sank into it, his face against Katsuki’s solid chest, inhaling the clean scent of his soap. “Goodnight, Mommy,” Katsuki murmured into his curls.
“Goodnight, Kacchan.”
Katsuki left, pulling the door shut. Izuku finished the tea, the drowsiness hitting him fast and heavy. He barely managed to slip under the covers before the chemical blackness pulled him under.
Night Four
The house settled into the deep silence of midnight. The strip of light under Izuku’s door vanished as the lamp in the hall was clicked off. Then, the knob turned. Katsuki entered, a silhouette against the darker dark of the hallway. In one hand, a small, clear bottle of lube gleamed.
He stood over the bed, watching the deep, even rise and fall of Izuku’s chest. “Time for your real date, Mom,” he whispered, the words a vapor in the still air. He peeled back the comforter. Izuku was wearing soft cotton sleep shorts and a thin tank top. Katsuki’s gaze burned over the curve of his ass, outlined by the fabric. That tight little asshole was going to swallow him whole.
He popped the cap on the lube, the sound obscenely loud. He coated his fingers thickly, the gel cold. With his other hand, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Izuku’s shorts and underwear, pulling them down to his thighs in one slow, deliberate motion. The moon through the window washed over the exposed skin of Izuku’s full, round ass.
Katsuki’s breath left him in a hot rush. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above the crease of Izuku’s thigh. “You’re gonna take me, Mommy,” he breathed, the heat of his words against skin. “Gonna fuck this sweet ass until you remember who you belong to. Even in your sleep.”
He pressed one slick, thick finger against the tight, hidden pucker. It gave under the insistent pressure, a slow, yielding invasion. Izuku moaned in his drugged sleep, a low, fuzzy sound, his hips shifting slightly. Katsuki watched his face, the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids. He pushed his finger in to the knuckle, the hot, clenching resistance making his own cock throb painfully against his jeans.
“That’s it,” Katsuki gritted out, working his finger in a slow, shallow fuck. He added a second, the stretch making Izuku whimper. The sound went straight to Katsuki’s groin. “Always so fucking tight. Made for me.”
He scissored his fingers, coating the clenching channel, preparing it. His other hand fumbled with his sweats, freeing his aching cock. It sprang out, thick and heavy, the head already leaking. He stroked himself roughly, smearing pre-cum over the length as he worked a third finger into his mother’s ass.
Izuku’s body was pliant, open, his hole reluctantly accepting the intrusion, slick and hot around Katsuki’s fingers. Katsuki withdrew them, the wet sound lewd in the quiet room. He positioned himself, the broad, leaking head of his cock nudging against that loosened entrance. He leaned over Izuku’s back, his mouth at his mother’s ear.
“You’re mine,” he growled, and pushed.
The initial breach was a slow, relentless conquest. The tight ring of muscle resisted, then yielded, stretching obscenely wide around the invading girth. Katsuki hissed, a shudder wracking his frame as his cockhead popped inside, engulfed by shocking, clutching heat. Izuku gasped in his sleep, a sharp, punched-out sound.
Katsuki didn’t stop. He fed his cock in deeper, inch by brutal inch, the glide eased by lube but the stretch still immense. He watched, mesmerized, as his length disappeared into his mother’s body, the sight so wrong it made his vision blur. He bottomed out, his hips flush against Izuku’s ass, his entire world narrowed to the savage, perfect heat strangling his dick.
“Fuck,” he choked out. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, feeling the involuntary clench and flutter around him. Izuku’s breathing was ragged, panted. Katsuki pulled back, almost all the way out, just the tip catching, then slammed back in. A wet, meaty sound filled the room. “Yeah. Take it. Take all of it, Mommy.”
He set a ruthless pace, fucking into that tight, willing heat with hard, deep strokes. Each thrust jolted Izuku’s body up the bed. His drugged moans were constant now, a broken melody. Katsuki gripped his mother’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his ass, holding him open, forcing himself deeper. The slap of skin, the slick squelch of his cock pumping in and out, Katsuki’s ragged grunts—it was a violent, possessive symphony.
“Gonna ruin you for him,” Katsuki snarled, driving in harder. “Gonna make it so you can’t even sit across from that pretty professor without feeling me. Without remembering who fucks you best.” He leaned down, biting the juncture of Izuku’s neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but to brand. “Who owns you.”
His rhythm fractured, growing frantiroc, desperate. The coil in his gut tightened, a white-hot wire. He fucked into the clutching, slick heat, chasing his peak, each drive punctuated by a guttural, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
Izuku’s body suddenly arched, a silent, taut bow. A broken cry tore from his throat as his own drugged, traitorous orgasm ripped through him, his ass clamping down viscously around Katsuki’s pounding cock. The intense, rhythmic squeezing was the final trigger.
Katsuki slammed in one last time, hilting himself with a raw shout, and came. Heat pulsed from him in thick, relentless waves, flooding Izuku’s depths, claiming, marking. He collapsed over his mother’s back, shuddering, his face buried in the sweaty green curls, as he emptied himself inside.
Izuku stirred in the drugged dark, a faint, shivering sigh escaping his parted lips. “Kacchan…?” he slurred, the name a sleepy, trusting murmur.
Katsuki went still, buried deep inside the clenching heat. A dark, triumphant smile touched his mouth. He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of his mother’s ear. “Right here, Mommy. I’m right here. Always will be.” He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, making Izuku gasp. “You feel that? That’s me. Filling you up. Marking you.”
“Hurts…” Izuku whimpered, his brow furrowing, even in unconsciousness.
“Good,” Katsuki whispered, the word a hot, cruel promise. “It’s supposed to hurt. You’ll feel it tomorrow. Every time you move, you’ll remember. Every time you think about that pretty professor, you’ll feel me.” He pressed a kiss to the sweaty nape of Izuku’s neck. “Your ass is mine now. Understand? No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”
He stayed inside for another minute, just feeling the desperate, possessive throb of his own heartbeat in the heart of his mother’s body. Then, with a wet, obscene sound, he pulled out.
The sight stopped his breath. Izuku’s hole, red and used, gaped slightly, already leaking a thick, white trickle of Katsuki’s cum down the curve of his ass. It was a claim. A brand. Katsuki fumbled for his phone, the screen lighting his hungry face. He took three pictures. The close-up of his spend leaking from his mother’s ruined ass was his new lock screen.
“Perfect,” he breathed, pocketing the phone. He grabbed the edge of the comforter and wiped Izuku’s skin clean with a disturbing, methodical gentleness. He pulled the soft cotton panties and shorts back up over Izuku’s hips, his hands lingering on the full curve of his ass. “There. All clean.”
He turned Izuku onto his back, arranging his limbs on the bed. Izuku’s face was slack, peaceful, utterly unaware. Katsuki leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his lips, a soft, lingering press. “Sleep tight, Mommy,” he murmured. “Dream of me.”
He left, closing the door with a soft click.