The restaurant is all dark wood and low light, crystal glasses catching the sunset bleeding in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Izuku bounces Natsuki on his knee, the baby’s small hands patting at the freckles on his arm. Katsuki sits across from them, his crimson eyes fixed on his phone where the time glows beside a blank message thread. He’s been checking every ninety seconds for twenty minutes.
“She’ll be here,” Izuku says, his voice softer than he means it to be. He doesn’t believe it.
Katsuki doesn’t look up. “She was supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
Natsuki gurgles, shoving a fistful of Izuku’s shirt into his mouth. Izuku gently pulls the fabric free, his thumb brushing the baby’s wet chin. His own chest feels tight, a weird mixture of guilt and a fierce, private triumph that coils low in his belly. This table, the three of them—it looks right. It feels right. He watches Katsuki’s jaw work, the muscle there jumping under tanned skin.
Katsuki’s phone buzzes on the table. A single, sharp vibration. He picks it up, his thumb swiping. Izuku watches his face. Sees the exact moment the words land—a slight narrowing of the eyes, a flattening of the mouth. Not surprise. Something colder.
“She’s not coming.” Katsuki’s voice is flat. He sets the phone down screen-first. “Met a friend. Says not to wait up.”
“On his birthday?” The words are out before Izuku can swallow them. He feels Natsuki’s solid warmth against his chest, a grounding weight.
Katsuki finally looks at him. The anger in his eyes isn’t hot. It’s chilled, settling into the lines of his face like frost. “Apparently.”
Izuku’s inner monologue is a silent, frantic hum. *She left him. She left him on his first birthday. For a friend she just met.* The guilt evaporates, burned away by a protective fire so sudden it steals his breath. His arms tighten around Natsuki. The baby makes a soft, contented sound, nestling into the curve of his neck.
“We’ll order his cake,” Katsuki says, the decision slicing through the thick air. He flags a waiter with a sharp gesture. “The chocolate smash cake. And two glasses of your best bourbon. Neat.”
The cake arrives, a small, perfect tower of chocolate with a single glowing candle. Katsuki doesn’t sing. He just watches as Izuku helps Natsuki’s chubby fingers smear chocolate across the highchair tray. The baby shrieks with delight, a sound so pure it makes Izuku’s throat ache. Katsuki’s gaze is heavy on them, a physical weight.
Under the table, a warm, callused hand finds Izuku’s bare thigh. Katsuki’s fingers dig in, not hard, but possessive. A claim. His thumb strokes the soft skin on the inside of Izuku’s leg, high up, where the restaurant’s linen tablecloth hides the touch from the world.
Katsuki’s thumb stroked a slow, possessive circle on Izuku’s inner thigh. His voice was a low rasp, meant only for the space between them. “I’m glad he has you.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. He looked from Natsuki’s chocolate-smeared grin to Katsuki’s intense stare. The words landed somewhere deep, a truth he’d felt but hadn’t dared claim.
“Look at him,” Katsuki continued, his gaze fixed on their son. The cold anger was still there, but underneath it ran something softer, more resigned. “Doesn’t even seem to miss her. He’s got his Mama right here.”
The title, spoken so plainly in the hushed restaurant, sent a shock through Izuku’s core. His eyes burned. He focused on wiping Natsuki’s hands with a damp cloth, his movements careful to hide the tremble in his fingers. *He said it. Out loud.*
“He does call me that,” Izuku whispered, the confession spilling out. “All the time now.”
“I know.” Katsuki took a slow sip of his bourbon. His hand under the table slid higher, his fingertips brushing the hem of Izuku’s shorts. “S’right that he does.”
Natsuki babbled, reaching a sticky hand toward Izuku’s face. Izuku caught it, pressing a kiss to the tiny palm. The sweetness of the gesture collided violently with the heat of Katsuki’s touch creeping higher, the rough pad of his thumb now stroking the sensitive skin where Izuku’s thigh met his pelvis.
“This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go,” Katsuki said, more to himself than to Izuku. His jaw was tight. “His first birthday. And she’s out with some fucking stranger.”
“We’re here,” Izuku said, the words firmer than he felt. He turned his face into Natsuki’s soft hair, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and cake. “He’s happy. That’s what matters.”
Katsuki was silent for a long moment, his crimson eyes tracing the line of Izuku’s profile, the way he cradled the baby. “You’re better at this than she ever was,” he finally growled, the admission rough and ugly and true. “Natural.”
Izuku’s throat closed. Pride and a sharp, guilty triumph warred in his chest. He wanted to preen under the praise. He also wanted to hide from what it meant, from the gaping hole in their family that he was so seamlessly filling. Katsuki’s fingers dipped beneath the fabric of his shorts, calluses scraping against his bare skin.
Natsuki turns, his chocolate-smeared face scrunching with effort, and reaches a sticky hand toward Katsuki. "Da-da," he says, the sound clear and deliberate in the hushed restaurant air.
Katsuki’s hand stills under Izuku’s shorts. For a second, the cold anger melts clean off his face, leaving something raw and unbearably soft in its place. He leans forward, capturing Natsuki’s tiny hand in his own, and presses a firm kiss to the baby’s blond hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “He’s got his Dada. And his Mama. Right here.”
Izuku’s chest seizes. The words wrap around him, warm and final. He watches Katsuki signal for the check with a sharp nod, his other hand never leaving Izuku’s thigh.
The hotel suite is all soft lighting and deep carpets, a world away from the restaurant’s public gaze. They move in a quiet, practiced tandem: Izuku runs a bath for Natsuki in the oversized marble tub, testing the temperature with his wrist, while Katsuki lays out pajamas. Izuku washes cake from between tiny fingers, kisses a soapy forehead. Natsuki’s eyes grow heavy, his body going pliant against Izuku’s chest.
Katsuki watches from the doorway, his arms crossed. “You do that like you’ve done it forever,” he says, his voice low.
“I guess I have,” Izuku whispers back, not looking up. He means in the months since he moved in, but it feels deeper than that. It feels like a truth his bones have always known.
They tuck Natsuki into the portable crib at the foot of Izuku’s bed. Katsuki’s large hand covers the baby’s entire back, rubbing slow circles until the breathing evens out into sleep. Izuku stands by the bed, his throat tight. This is the family portrait. This right here.
Katsuki straightens, clicks off the main light, leaving only the dim glow from the bathroom. Then—instead of leaving—he turns back to Izuku. He closes the door. The lock turns with a soft, definitive click.
Izuku turns, his back to the king-sized bed. “Your room is…”
“My wife said not to wait up.” Katsuki shrugs, a sharp, dismissive motion. He toes off his shoes, his crimson eyes fixed on Izuku. “I’m not waiting anywhere.”
He crosses the space, his movements deliberate. He doesn’t kiss Izuku yet. He just strips off his own shirt, then reaches for the hem of Izuku’s. His knuckles brush the bare skin of Izuku’s stomach, and Izuku shivers. They undress each other in silence, the only sound the rustle of fabric and their own breathing. Katsuki folds his clothes over a chair. Izuku’s he lets fall to the floor.
Under the cool duvet, Katsuki pulls Izuku against him, back to chest. His arm is a heavy weight across Izuku’s waist, his palm splayed possessively over Izuku’s lower belly. He reaches for the remote with his free hand, clicks on the mounted television. Some action movie fills the screen with muted gunfire.
Izuku can’t focus on a single pixel. His entire world has narrowed to the heat of Katsuki’s skin against his back, the scratch of his happy trail against Izuku’s ass, the steady thump of Katsuki’s heart against his spine. Katsuki’s lips find the juncture of his neck and shoulder, not kissing, just resting there. Breathing him in.
“This is okay?” Izuku whispers into the dim room. He means the holding. The quiet. The terrifying normalcy of it.
Katsuki’s arm tightens. His mouth moves against Izuku’s skin. “It is with me if it is with you.”
He turns Izuku’s face toward him and kisses him, deep and slow. There’s no hurry in it. No desperate claim. It’s a tasting, an exploration of a mouth he knows by now. Izuku melts into it, his hand coming up to curl around Katsuki’s jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble against his palm. On screen, a car explodes in silence. They don’t notice.
Katsuki’s kiss deepens, his tongue pushing past Izuku’s lips, and the slow taste becomes a hungry claim. The remote clatters to the floor. Izuku’s hand slips from Katsuki’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the stiff, blond hair there, holding him close. The muted colors of the television play across their moving shoulders, a silent storm.
“Need you,” Katsuki growls against his mouth, the words hot and ragged. His hand leaves Izuku’s belly, slides down to grip his hip, fingers digging in.
Izuku’s body is already slick, a needy heat pooling between his thighs. He can feel Katsuki’s hard cock pressing against the small of his back, a thick, insistent pressure. *She’s not here. We are. He wants me.* The thought is a live wire in his gut. He arches his back, pressing his ass harder against that heat. “Daddy,” he whispers, the name a broken exhale into Katsuki’s mouth.
"Katsuki," he growls against Izuku's lips, the name a rough, unfamiliar shape in his mouth. "Tonight. Call me Katsuki."
Izuku's breath stutters. The command lands, seismic. A permission. A stripping bare. He nods, frantic, his forehead pressed to Katsuki's. "Katsuki," he whispers back, testing it, and the man above him shudders.
Their kissing resumes, slower now, deeper. It’s less a claiming and more an unraveling. Katsuki’s hands roam Izuku’s body like he’s memorizing a map—the dip of his waist, the swell of his hip, the soft, freckled skin of his inner thigh. His touch is reverent. Izuku arches into it, his own hands sliding over the hard planes of Katsuki’s back, feeling the shift of muscle, the proof of him.
"So damn beautiful," Katsuki murmurs, his lips trailing down Izuku’s throat. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, his tongue circling the stiff peak until Izuku is gasping, his back bowing off the bed.
Izuku’s fingers thread through Katsuki’s hair, not guiding, just holding. "Your skin," he breathes. "I love how you feel." It’s the closest he can get to the truth swelling in his chest.
Katsuki moves lower, his mouth a brand down Izuku’s stomach. He pauses at the soft, shaved mound, breathing in the scent of him—musk and salt and pure Izuku. He doesn’t dive in. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, his stubble scraping the tender skin. Izuku trembles, his legs falling open in silent offering.
"Incredibly beautiful," Katsuki says, his voice thick. He uses his thumbs to spread Izuku open, exposing the slick, pink flesh. Izuku feels utterly displayed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with submission and everything to do with trust. Katsuki lowers his mouth.
His tongue is flat and hot, a slow, devastating lap from his entrance to his clit. Izuku cries out, a broken sound. Katsuki eats him like it’s a sacrament—long, languid strokes, then focused, dizzying circles around his aching core. He licks into him, drinks the wetness leaking from him, groans against his skin like he’s starved for it.
"Katsuki," Izuku sobs, the name a prayer. "Please, I—"
"I know," Katsuki rasps, lifting his head. His lips are glistening. He moves up Izuku’s body, aligning their hips. The broad head of his cock nudges against Izuku’s soaked opening. "Look at me."
Izuku opens his eyes, meeting that fierce crimson gaze. There’s no mask there. Just a rawness that mirrors the chaos in Izuku’s own chest. Katsuki pushes in, one slow, inexorable inch, and Izuku’s mouth falls open on a silent gasp. It’s a stretch, a fullness that steals the air from his lungs. Katsuki holds there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of stillness.
"You feel that?" Katsuki whispers, his forehead against Izuku’s. "Every part of you. Taking all of me."
Izuku can only nod, his nails biting into Katsuki’s shoulders. He feels owned, but not possessed. Cherished. Seen. Katsuki begins to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that has none of their usual frantic pace. Each withdrawal is agony. Each thrust home is a revelation. The slap of skin is soft, wet. Izuku’s moans are muffled against Katsuki’s shoulder.
"My Izuku," Katsuki breathes into his ear, the words a private truth in the dark. "Mine."
It builds slowly, a coil of heat tightening low in Izuku’s belly. His legs wrap tighter around Katsuki’s waist, pulling him deeper. Their breathing syncs, ragged and shared. Izuku can feel Katsuki’s control fraying, his thrusts becoming less measured, more urgent. The change sparks something in Izuku, sends him hurtling toward the edge.
"I’m close," Izuku gasps. "Katsuki, I’m—"
"Me too." Katsuki’s hand slides between them, his thumb finding Izuku’s clit. Two rough circles and Izuku shatters. His cunt clenches, a violent, rhythmic pulsing around Katsuki’s cock. He squirts, hot wetness flooding between them. Katsuki grunts, his hips stuttering, and then he’s coming too, a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he empties himself inside Izuku in hot, endless pulses.
They collapse together, a tangled, sweating, spent heap. Katsuki doesn’t pull out. He shifts his weight to the side, keeping them joined, and gathers Izuku against his chest. Izuku’s face is buried in the damp hollow of Katsuki’s throat, his own heartbeat a wild drum against his ribs. The silence is vast, but it’s not empty. It’s full of everything they didn’t say.
Katsuki’s hand strokes up and down Izuku’s spine, a slow, absent caress. His lips press softly against Izuku’s hair. No words. Just the steady, slowing beat of his heart under Izuku’s ear, and the warm, claiming weight of him still inside.
They drifted in and out of a doze like that, trading slow, lazy kisses that tasted of salt and sleep, their limbs tangled heavy under the duvet. Izuku’s last conscious thought was the steady thump of Katsuki’s heart against his palm, a rhythm that drowned out the world.
When he woke, the space beside him was cold and empty, the early morning light a pale gray blade through the crack in the blackout curtains.
The other bedroom door was open. Izuku padded across the cool floor on silent feet, stopping in the shadowed hallway. He could see the king-sized bed through the open doorway. Ochako stood at the foot of it, one high heel dangling from her fingers. The other was already discarded on the plush carpet.
Katsuki sat upright against the headboard, the sheets pooled at his waist. The dawn light carved the hard lines of his bare chest, his expression unreadable in the gloom. He’d been waiting.
“Where were you?” His voice was low, a graveled rumble that held no sleep in it.
Ochako jumped, nearly dropping her shoe. She was a mess. Her short brown hair was mussed, her dress rumpled and skewed. A shimmer of silver body glitter clung to her collarbones and the tops of her breasts. The air around her carried a cloud of cloying, flowery perfume, cheap and overpowering. She blinked, her eyes struggling to focus. “Jesus, Katsuki. You scared me.”
“I asked you a question.”
“We can talk later,” she grumbled, waving a dismissive hand. The motion made her wobble. “Right now, I need to sleep.” She kicked off the other heel and started fumbling with the side zipper of her dress.
Katsuki moved. It was just a shift of his shoulders, a tightening of his hands where they rested on the sheets, but the room temperature seemed to drop. “You missed his first birthday.”
Ochako rolled her eyes, a slow, exaggerated motion. She got the zipper down, the dress gaping. “He’s one, Katsuki. He won’t remember.” She said it like it was obvious, like she was explaining basic arithmetic to a child.
Izuku watched from the shadows, his breath trapped in his throat. He saw the muscle in Katsuki’s jaw leap. Saw the way his crimson eyes tracked the glitter on his wife’s skin, the careless slump of her shoulders.
“He won’t,” Katsuki said, the words so quiet they were almost a whisper. “But I will.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Ochako finally shimmied out of the dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. She stood in just her lace underwear and the glitter, not looking at him as she pulled a sleep shirt from a drawer. “We had cake at the house last week. It’s fine. You had the babysitter. I went out with a friend.”
“What friend?”
“A friend I made. God.” She tugged the shirt over her head, her movements impatient. “Since when do you police my social life? You’re never home anyway.”
Izuku retreated, each step on the cool floorboards a silent confession of eavesdropping. He slipped back into his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that sealed him inside his own head.
The bed still held the impression of their bodies, the sheets tangled and smelling of sex and Katsuki’s sandalwood cologne. The ghost of warmth was a mockery now. He stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around himself, listening to the oppressive quiet of the suite. No more voices from the master bedroom. Just the hum of the air conditioner and the frantic drum of his own heart.
She’d called him the babysitter. The word bounced around his skull, sharp and cheap. After everything. After the beach, after the way Katsuki had looked at him by the stroller and called him Natsuki’s mother. He was the nanny. The help. The secret. The reality of it, cold and administrative, poured over the warm, possessive fantasy he’d been building.
He moved to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The resort glittered below, indifferent. His reflection was a pale, freckled ghost superimposed over the lights. You knew this. The thought was a dull blade. You knew what you were. You just let him make you forget.
Back home, a couple months after their trip.
The thin plastic stick feels heavy in Izuku’s hand. Two pink lines. He stares at them, his breath frozen somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The bathroom tile is cold under his bare feet. The afternoon light slants through the high window of his third-floor room in the Bakugou mansion, dust motes dancing in the silence. Two lines. His brain supplies the information like a flat, automated announcement. Positive. Pregnant.
He hasn’t felt right for weeks. The fatigue that clung to his bones even after ten hours of sleep. The smell of Katsuki’s morning coffee making his stomach twist. The strange, tender ache in his breasts. He’d chalked it up to stress, to the constant, low-grade thrill of the secret, to loving Natsuki so much it hurt. He hadn’t let himself hope. Hope was a dangerous, glittering thing.
Izuku’s breath hitches, a wet, broken sound in the silent bathroom. The tears come then, hot and sudden, spilling over his lashes and tracking through the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. He’s pregnant. He’s carrying Katsuki’s child. The reality of it detonates in his chest, a supernova of terrifying, radiant joy.
Mama. The word Natsuki uses for him isn’t just a borrowed title anymore. It’s a prophecy he’s already fulfilling, a truth growing deep inside his own body. His hand flutters to his still-flat stomach, his fingers pressing gently against the skin below his navel, as if he could already feel the secret pulsing there.
He lowers the test, placing it carefully on the edge of the marble sink. The two pink lines seem to glow. A laugh bubbles up, tangled with a sob. He’s eighteen. He’s the live-in nanny. He’s fucking a married man. And he’s never been happier. The practical consequences loom like storm clouds on a distant horizon, but right now, they can’t touch the sun-warmed certainty flooding his veins. This is his. Ours.
He pictures Katsuki’s broad hand splayed possessively over this same spot, his crimson eyes gone dark and soft. The fantasy is so vivid it steals his breath. He needs to see him. He needs to tell him.
Izuku will surprise him.