Izuku woke to the weight of an arm slung heavy across his waist, to the heat of a chest pressed against his back. Morning light cut through the blinds, striping the ruined sheets. He lay still, listening to Katsuki’s deep, even breaths against his neck. Exhausted. Asleep.
He turned carefully, just enough to see his son’s face. Katsuki’s features were slack, softened in sleep, the usual sharp aggression smoothed away. Izuku’s heart did a slow, warm turn in his chest. He smiled, reaching up to gently crease Katsuki’s cheek with his thumb. His baby boy.
Last night flooded back—the storm, the confession, the desperate, hungry way they’d moved through the dark house. He knew what he should feel. Horror. Fear at what Katsuki had done to those men, to him. He searched for it, picking through his emotions like through a drawer. He came up empty. All that remained was a settled, terrifying certainty, and love so thick it felt like syrup in his veins.
The broken alarm clock lay in pieces by the bedstand. Izuku needed the time. He saw Katsuki’s phone, screen dark, and carefully extracted himself from the tangle of limbs, sliding it free.
The screen lit up. A notification banner. And there, on the home screen, a folder. Locked. The title was a single word: mine.
“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku whispered to the quiet room. A mother’s nosiness was a physical itch. He tapped the folder. It asked for a password. He stared, then, heart hammering, typed in his own birthday.
The folder unlocked.
It was full of photos. Dozens. Izuku’s breath stopped. Him, asleep. His mouth slack. His body exposed in the blue light of his own bedroom. Close-ups of his pussy, glistening. Of Katsuki’s cock pushing into him. Of his own face, peaceful and unaware while his son moved over him, inside him. Proof. He’d known, but knowing and seeing were different countries. A bolt of pure, electric arousal shot straight to his core, his cunt clenching empty and hungry. He was wet, instantly.
He slid out of bed, phone clutched tight, and padded naked to the connected bathroom, shutting the door with the softest click. He faced the full-length mirror.
He looked wrecked. Love bites purpled his throat and breasts. His nipples were peaked and sensitive. Between his thighs was sore, used, and when he spread his legs slightly in the mirror, he could see the faint, puffy evidence. He lifted the phone. Scrolled. A photo of Katsuki’s mouth between his legs. Izuku’s free hand slipped down his own stomach.
His fingers found his clit, slick and swollen. He pressed. A choked gasp left him. He kept the phone up, scrolling with his thumb, each image a strike of lightning—his own ass in the air, Katsuki’s hands gripping his hips, the thick head of his son’s cock poised at his entrance. “Fuck,” Izuku breathed, fingers working faster, circling, plunging two inside his own heat. He was tighter than usual, sore from use, and the stretch burned so good. He imagined it was Katsuki’s cock. He looked at the mirror, at his own flushed face, his parted lips, his hand moving frantically between his legs. He was watching himself get off on his son’s crimes.
The pleasure coiled, vicious and fast. His knees shook. “Kacchan… baby…” he whimpered, and his hips jerked forward as the orgasm ripped through him, a gush of clear fluid hitting the lower part of the mirror with a soft slap. He slumped against the sink, panting, dripping.
The bathroom door creaked open behind him. Izuku froze, phone dropping to the counter with a clatter. In the mirror, he saw Katsuki leaning in the doorway, naked, his cock half-hard and curving against his thigh. His red eyes were dark, fixed on the wet streak on the glass.
“Mommy,” Katsuki said, voice rough with sleep and something else. “What were you looking at?”
Izuku’s face burned. He couldn’t speak. He just stared at their reflection—his own guilty, satiated body, and his son’s knowing, possessive gaze.
Katsuki stepped in. He didn’t touch the phone. He pressed against Izuku’s back, his heat seeping into Izuku’s skin. He looked at Izuku in the mirror. “Tell me.”
“Your… your pictures,” Izuku whispered, shame and a wild thrill twisting together. “I’m sorry, I snooped, I just—”
“Did you like them?”
Izuku shuddered. He nodded, a tiny, helpless movement. “Yes.”
Katsuki’s mouth curved. He nuzzled into Izuku’s neck. “You’re so fucking sexy.” He reached around, his big hand splaying over Izuku’s lower belly, possessive. “Let’s get clean.”
He turned on the shower, steam beginning to fog the glass. He led Izuku in under the hot spray. They stood facing each other, water sluicing through Izuku’s curls, over Katsuki’s sharp shoulders. Katsuki’s hands came up to cradle Izuku’s face. He kissed him, slow and deep and lazy, a morning kiss with no urgency, just heat. Izuku melted into it, into the simple, wrong rightness of it, his son’s tongue in his mouth and last night’s proof cooling on the mirror just beyond the curtain.
The smell of coffee and frying butter pulled Izuku from a light doze on the couch. He padded into the kitchen to find Katsuki at the stove, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, flipping pancakes with a focused frown. The morning light caught the blond spikes of his hair, turning them into a messy halo.
“You’re cooking,” Izuku said, his voice still sleep-soft.
Katsuki glanced over, his red eyes scanning Izuku’s bare legs, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—sliding off one freckled shoulder. “You need to eat. For two, now.” He said it like a fact, but his gaze dropped to Izuku’s lower belly for a second too long.
Izuku drifted closer, slipping his arms around Katsuki’s waist from behind, resting his cheek against the hard muscle of his son’s back. He felt Katsuki go still, then relax into the touch. “Thank you, Kacchan.”
“Don’t get sentimental. You’ll make me burn them.” But his hand came down, covering Izuku’s where they clasped over his stomach. His thumb stroked the skin of Izuku’s wrist, a slow, absent rhythm.
They ate at the small kitchen table, knees brushing underneath. Katsuki loaded Izuku’s plate with extra bacon, nudging the syrup closer without being asked. Izuku watched him, this beautiful, violent boy cutting his pancakes with brutal efficiency, and felt a surge of warmth so profound it stole his breath. He reached out, wiping a stray bit of syrup from the corner of Katsuki’s mouth with his thumb.
Katsuki caught his wrist. He didn’t let go. He just held it there, his eyes locked on Izuku’s, and slowly sucked the thumb into his own mouth, cleaning it with a swirl of his tongue. The heat was immediate, pooling low in Izuku’s gut. Anyone watching would see a young man devouring his lover, not his mother. The wrongness of it was a live wire in the room, and they both breathed it in.
After, they surveyed the damage. The master bedroom and living room was war zones. The mattress was half-off the bed frame, sheets torn. The broken window let in a cool breeze, scattering glass and dried leaves across the floor. A picture frame lay shattered, the photo of Masaru smiling up at them from under the debris. The living room couch was soaked through, all kinds of liquids all over the floor. Wax melted all over the coffee table from the candles.
“We fucked like animals,” Katsuki stated, a hint of pride in his rough voice. He righted the nightstand.
“Language,” Izuku murmured automatically, but he was smiling as he bent to gather the larger shards of glass. His body ached in a dozen delicious places, a constant reminder. “It looks like the storm came inside.”
They worked in quiet tandem. Katsuki handled the heavy lifting, the broken furniture. Izuku swept, his movements graceful even in the chaos. It was domestic. Normal. Except Katsuki’s hand would find the small of Izuku’s back as he passed, or Izuku would pause to push sweaty hair from Katsuki’s forehead. A silent, easy possession thrummed between them.
By evening, the worst of the mess was cleared. The broken window was boarded up, the glass gone. Katsuki shoved the ruined mattress into a corner. “New one tomorrow,” he grunted. “Guess it's my bed tonight.”
Night Seven
That night, Katsuki cooked again. Not pancakes. A real dinner—steak, potatoes, asparagus—plated with a care Izuku had never seen from him. He’d lit a single candle in the center of the kitchen table. A bottle of wine, half-empty, sat between them.
“This is… romantic, Kacchan,” Izuku said, taking a sip. The wine was dark and rich.
Katsuki shrugged, cutting into his steak. “So?”
“It’s nice.” Izuku reached across the table. Katsuki met him halfway, tangling their fingers. His hand was calloused, warm, utterly familiar. “When did you know? That you… felt this way about me?”
Katsuki stilled. He set his fork down. The candlelight carved shadows into his sharp face. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Izuku. His expression was utterly open, unguarded in a way that made Izuku’s heart clench.
“Always,” Katsuki said, the word a low rumble. “But I knew knew when I was twelve. You were bending over the garden, in those short shorts. The sun was on your legs. I got so hard it hurt. I went to my room and I jerked off thinking about your thighs, and I cried after because I knew it was the worst thing in the world.”
The rawness of it hit Izuku like a physical blow. He could see it—a fierce, confused boy, alone with a terrible want. “Oh, baby boy.”
“Don’t.” Katsuki’s grip tightened. “I’m not a baby.”
"But you are my baby," Izuku whispered, his thumb stroking the back of Katsuki’s captured hand.
Something in Katsuki’s face fractured. The hard pride, the confessional intensity—it all crumbled. His shoulders slumped. He didn’t pull his hand away. He brought their clasped hands to his own cheek, turning into the touch, and his eyes slid shut. When they opened, they were younger. Softer. Lost.
“Mommy?” The word was small, a child’s unsure question.
Izuku’s heart cracked open. He stood, his chair scraping back. He came around the table and held out his arms. “C’mere, baby boy.”
Katsuki went. He buried his face against Izuku’s belly, his arms wrapping tight around Izuku’s waist. He was all solid muscle and trembling heat. Izuku cradled his head, stroking the spiky blond hair. “It’s okay. Mommy’s here.”
He led Katsuki to his bedroom. Not the ruined master suite. This was Katsuki’s space—neat, warm, smelling of clean linen and his sharp, clean sweat. Izuku guided him onto the double bed, then climbed in beside him, pulling the comforter over them. Katsuki immediately curled into him, his head pillowed on Izuku’s chest, one heavy leg thrown over Izuku’s thighs. He was so big now, but he fit himself against Izuku like he was still ten.
“Hold me,” Katsuki mumbled, his voice muffled against Izuku’s shirt.
“I’ve got you, Kacchan. Always.” Izuku kissed his forehead, his temple, humming an old, tuneless lullaby. He felt the last of the tension bleed from Katsuki’s body. This was his son. His beautiful, broken, dangerous boy. And he was his.
They lay like that for a long time, the only sound their breathing. Then Katsuki shifted, a tiny, restless motion. His hips pressed forward, against Izuku’s thigh.
“Mommy?” he whispered again.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Katsuki nuzzled deeper, his breath hot through the thin fabric. “My… my willy feels funny. It’s all tingly.”
Izuku’s breath caught. He looked down at the crown of Katsuki’s head. This was a game they’d never played. A door he’d never opened. He felt the hard, thick line of Katsuki’s erection pressing insistently against him. Arousal, sharp and sweet, coiled in his own belly. He smoothed a hand down Katsuki’s back. “Does it hurt, baby?”
“No. It’s… it’s hard. It won’t go down.” Katsuki’s voice was a confused, needy whine. He rocked his hips, a slow, seeking grind. “Will you make it better?”
Izuku’s own pussy clenched, wet and empty. He shifted, turning onto his side to face his son. In the dim light from the hallway, Katsuki’s eyes were wide, pleading. Izuku cupped his cheek. “Of course Mommy will make it better. Let me see.”
He pushed the comforter down. Katsuki’s sweatpants were tented obscenely, the fabric straining over the massive outline of his cock. Izuku hooked his fingers in the waistband. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”
Katsuki obeyed instantly, raising his hips so Izuku could pull the pants and his boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and leaking already, curving up against his stomach. Ten inches of desperate, aching need.
“Oh, my big boy,” Izuku breathed, wrapping his fingers around the hot, velvet-skinned shaft. He gave a slow, firm stroke, his thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the swollen head. Katsuki gasped, his hips jerking up into the touch. “Does that feel good?”
“Y-yeah, Mommy. More.”
Izuku leaned in, kissing his forehead. “Shh, I’ve got you.” He began to stroke him in earnest, his hand gliding up and down, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way he knew Katsuki liked. He watched his son’s face—the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids, the pure, unguarded need. This was his Kacchan. His baby. And he was making him feel good.
“It’s too much,” Katsuki whimpered, but he was thrusting into Izuku’s fist, his body bowing off the bed. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna make a mess.”
“It’s okay,” Izuku soothed, speeding his hand. “You can make a mess for Mommy. Let it go, baby. Show me.”
Katsuki cried out, a raw, broken sound, and his cock pulsed in Izuku’s grip. Thick, hot stripes of cum painted his stomach and chest, some landing on Izuku’s wrist. He shuddered through it, his whole body tensing and then going boneless.
Izuku released him, wiping his hand on the sheet. He leaned down and licked a stray drop from Katsuki’s trembling abdomen, tasting salt and musk. Katsuki whined, oversensitive. “Mommy…”
“Shh, all done.” Izuku kissed his slack mouth. But Katsuki’s hand, clumsy and urgent, was already pushing at Izuku’s sleep shorts, dragging them down his hips.
“My turn,” Katsuki mumbled, his voice still thick with regression, but his eyes were darkening. “I gotta make Mommy feel good too. Gotta be inside.”
He rolled Izuku onto his back, settling between his spread thighs. He didn’t ask. He just nudged the broad head of his cock against Izuku’s soaked, puffy cunt. He was already hard again, impossibly fast.
“Is this okay, Mommy?” he breathed, hovering there, poised at the entrance.
Izuku wrapped his legs around his son’s waist, pulling him closer. He looked up into the face of the boy he’d raised and the man who owned him. “Yes, baby. Make it better.”
"I'm yours," Izuku whispered, and he arched, pulling Katsuki deep inside in one smooth, claiming slide.
The stretch was perfect, brutal, a filling ache that stole his breath. He could feel every thick inch, the way his body yielded and clung. Katsuki groaned, a raw, animal sound, and dropped his forehead to Izuku's shoulder. "Fuck. Mommy."
"Move, baby," Izuku breathed, his nails digging into Katsuki's back. "Please."
Katsuki obeyed. He set a slow, devastating rhythm, each thrust grinding deep. The wet, slick sound of their joining filled the room. Izuku could feel the sweat already blooming between them, the heat of Katsuki's chest against his own smaller breasts.
"Look at me," Katsuki rasped, his voice stripped of its childhood cadence, pure need.
Izuku opened his eyes. Katsuki’s gaze was locked on him, red and burning. "You watching? You feel who's inside you?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"You, Kacchan. Only you."
Katsuki’s hips snapped forward, harder. "Mine."
"Yours," Izuku gasped, the word punched out of him. His head fell back, baring his throat. Katsuki’s mouth was there instantly, sucking a dark mark into his freckled skin. The dual sensation—the claiming bite, the relentless fuck—coiled the tension in Izuku's belly tighter.
"Gonna come," Izuku warned, his voice breaking. "Baby, I'm—"
"Do it." Katsuki’s hand slid between them, his thumb finding Izuku's swollen clit. He pressed, circling in time with his thrusts. "Soak me. Let me feel it."
Izuku shattered. His cunt clenched, a fierce, fluttering rhythm around Katsuki's cock, and he cried out, a sound without shame. Pleasure ripped through him, white-hot squirt and endless. Katsuki growled, driving into the clenching heat, and followed him over. Izuku felt the hot pulse deep inside, the possessive claim made physical.
They lay tangled, breathing harshly. Katsuki was still inside him, softening, but he made no move to pull away. He nuzzled into Izuku's neck. "You taste like me," he murmured.
Katsuki’s mouth stayed latched to Izuku’s left nipple, suckling gently, rhythmically, as his breathing evened out into sleep. Izuku carded his fingers through the spiky blond hair, watching the tension finally drain from his son’s face. In the moonlight, Katsuki looked younger, peaceful—the most at peace Izuku had ever seen him.
“Sleep, baby,” Izuku whispered, his own body heavy and sated. He felt Katsuki’s softening cock slip from inside him, a warm trickle following. He didn’t move to clean it. He wanted to feel it.