The Monday morning sun is a liar. It pours through the arched windows of the Bakugou mansion’s foyer, painting the marble floor in cheerful, warm stripes. Izuku stands in one, the heat doing nothing to melt the cold knot in his stomach. He’s in his “uniform”—dark jeans, a simple green t-shirt that clings to his curves, a canvas diaper bag slung over his shoulder. He feels like a trespasser dressed as a civilian.
The door swings open before he can ring the bell. Ochako Bakugou stands there, phone in hand, not looking at him. She’s shorter than he expected, softer. Her brown bob is perfect, her blouse crisp and pink. She smells like floral detergent and distant, expensive perfume.
“You’re the help?” she says, her voice bright but empty, like a recording. Her eyes finally flick to him, scanning him up and down. They linger on his freckles, his hair, the way his jeans hug his ass. A faint, almost imperceptible line appears between her brows. “You’re younger than I thought. And… greener.”
“I’m Izuku Midoriya. The new nanny for Natsuki,” he says, forcing his voice steady. The guilt is a live wire in his chest, sparking with the memory of her husband’s desk and a cherry lollipop. He looks at her wedding band. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Bakugou.”
“Mm.” She steps back, a silent, grudging invitation to enter. “Katsuki’s already left for the club. Some emergency. He said you’re capable. I hope that’s true. The schedule is on the fridge. Natsuki’s bottles are pre-made. Don’t deviate.”
She talks as she walks, leading him through the soaring, sterile living room. It’s all sharp edges and cold surfaces, nothing like the chaotic, warm office where her husband had fucked him senseless with candy. Izuku’s hands are sweating. He wants to say he’s sorry. The words clot in his throat.
“He’s in the sunroom,” Ochako says, stopping abruptly. She turns, and for the first time, her cheerful mask slips. Her brown eyes are flat, assessing. “Let’s be clear. You’re here for the baby. Nothing else. Don’t touch my husband’s things. Don’t bother him if he works from home. Your job is to be invisible unless you’re with Natsuki. Understood?”
The apology dies. Izuku meets her gaze. The cold dismissal in it, the assumption that he’s some sticky-fingered nuisance, scrapes something raw inside him. He thinks of Katsuki’s growl in his ear, the awe on the man’s face when he watched Izuku cum. This woman has no idea. The guilt evaporates, burned away by a sudden, vicious clarity.
“Perfectly,” Izuku says, his smile polite and empty. Just like hers.
Ochako’s phone chimes. She looks at it, and a real smile—small, private—touches her lips. It’s not for her husband. It’s not for her child. “Good. He’s in the playpen. I have a pilates class. I’ll be back by four. Don’t call me unless he’s bleeding.”
She’s gone in a whisper of expensive fabric, the front door clicking shut with finality. The vast house sighs into silence. Izuku stands alone in the hallway, the ghost of her perfume hanging in the air. He breathes out, long and slow. The knot is gone. In its place is a cool, spreading certainty.
He finds the sunroom. Natsuki is there, clutching the bars of his playpen, his shock of pale hair glowing in the sunlight. He sees Izuku, and his whole face erupts in a gummy, delighted smile. He babbles, reaching his chubby hands out.
Izuku picks him up. The baby is warm and solid, smelling of powder and milk. He snuggles against Izuku’s chest immediately, a tiny, trusting weight. “Hey, little man,” Izuku whispers, his voice finally his own. He looks out the window at the manicured lawn, at the empty driveway where Ochako’s car had been. A slow, deliberate smile curves his lips. “Just you and me.”
Izuku carries Natsuki into the vast, echoing kitchen, the baby’s head a comforting weight on his shoulder. The schedule is indeed on the fridge, printed in a neat, impersonal font. Nine AM: bottle. Ten AM: tummy time. Eleven AM: walk in the garden. It’s simple, rigid. Izuku traces a finger down the list. His own reflection stares back from the stainless steel, a green-haired ghost smirking in a dead woman’s kitchen.
“See that, Natsu?” he murmurs, bouncing the baby gently. “Your mommy likes things very… controlled.”
Natsuki gurgles, blowing a spit bubble that pops on Izuku’s freckled cheek. Izuku laughs, a real one this time, and the sound feels obscene in the sterile silence. He prepares the bottle with methodical care, warming it exactly as instructed. He’s good at this part. The follow-the-rules part. It’s the part that gets him in the door.
He settles into a plush armchair in the sunroom, Natsuki cradled in the crook of his arm. The baby latches onto the bottle with a happy, focused intensity, his tiny hands pushing against Izuku’s chest. Izuku watches him, the fierce pout, the shock of pale hair. He thinks of Katsuki’s hair, spiked and severe. The resemblance is uncanny.
“You look just like him,” Izuku whispers, more to himself than the baby. A dangerous warmth uncurls in his belly, low and insistent. It has nothing to do with the child in his arms and everything to do with the man who made him. His pussy clenches, empty and remembering. The phantom ache of the lollipop, the denial at the desk. He shifts in the chair, the denim of his jeans rough against his sensitive skin.
The feed is peaceful. Natsuki’s eyes drift closed, his sucking slowing to a lazy rhythm. When the bottle is empty, Izuku lifts him to his shoulder, patting his back with a practiced hand. A soft burp escapes the baby, followed by a contented sigh. Izuku smiles against the fine hair. “Good boy.”
He follows the schedule with a soldier’s precision. Tummy time on a soft mat in the living room, Izuku lying on his stomach facing the baby, making silly faces that earn delighted kicks. A walk through the manicured garden, Natsuki strapped to his chest in a carrier, tiny fists clutching the fabric of Izuku’s shirt. The baby babbles at the birds, his head turning to follow the sound of Izuku’s voice.
“He likes you.”
The voice is a low growl from the French doors behind him. Izuku freezes, his heart slamming against his ribs. He knows that voice. It’s been humming in his blood since yesterday.
He turns slowly. Katsuki Bakugou stands in the doorway, backlit by the interior hall light. He’s still in his business clothes—a dark gray suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. His hands are in his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. But his crimson eyes are fixed on Izuku, burning with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.
“Sir,” Izuku says, the title slipping out, flavored with the memory of submission. He forces his breathing to even. Natsuki squirms against his chest, cooing at the sight of his father.
Katsuki’s gaze flicks to his son, something unreadable passing through his eyes before settling back on Izuku. “Ochako said you’d started. Kid seems… calm.”
“He’s an angel,” Izuku says, his voice steadier now. He strokes Natsuki’s back. “We’re following the schedule.”
A muscle ticks in Katsuki’s jaw. He steps fully into the garden, the door clicking shut behind him. The space between them shrinks, charged with everything unsaid. Izuku can smell his cologne now, sandalwood and storm. He can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his suit stretches across his shoulders.
“Where is she?” Katsuki asks, his eyes not leaving Izuku’s face.
“Pilates. Until four.”
Katsuki lets out a short, humorless breath. He looks at his son again, then back at Izuku. His eyes drop, taking in the carrier strapped across Izuku’s chest, the way it presses his t-shirt tight against his small tits, the curve of his hips. The appraisal is slow, deliberate, utterly possessive. Izuku feels his nipples harden under the fabric, a traitorous ache spreading low in his belly.
“Good,” Katsuki says finally, the word a rumble. He takes another step closer. Now Izuku can see the gold flecks in his red eyes, the faint scar through one eyebrow. “Then we have time to discuss your… duties.”
Izuku’s hands are steady as he unbuckles the carrier, the practiced motion smooth even as his heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He lifts Natsuki, warm and drowsy against his chest, and settles him carefully into the crib. The baby sighs, a soft puff of milk-scented air. His fingers brush the soft fuzz of Natsuki’s hair, a genuine tenderness welling up sharp and painful in his throat. He doesn’t use a blanket—he knows better than that—just lets his hand rest for a stolen second on the tiny, rising chest. He pulls away. The silence of the house is a held breath, thick and waiting.
He finds Katsuki in the office. The man is behind the massive oak desk, sitting straight-backed in his leather chair, hands folded on the polished surface. He looks every inch the executive. The scene is a brutal echo of two days ago, but the charge in the air is tenfold. Katsuki motions to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
Izuku sits, perching on the edge. The desk is between them, a barrier and a promise. He can smell the sandalwood, the storm-scent, and underneath it, the faint, metallic hint of his own spend from when he’d been bent over this very wood.
“We’ll discuss the parameters of your employment,” Katsuki begins, his voice a low, businesslike rumble. His crimson eyes are sharp, analytical. “Your primary duty is Natsuki. Your secondary duty is me.”
Izuku swallows. “Understood, sir.”
“Good. First: your uniform.” Katsuki leans back, the leather creaking. His gaze travels over Izuku’s t-shirt, his jeans, with clinical detachment. “When my wife is present, you dress like a nun. Conservative. Invisible. You will keep a change of clothes here for that purpose.”
Izuku nods, his throat tight.
“The moment she leaves,” Katsuki continues, his voice dropping a fraction, “the moment that door clicks shut… you change. For me. You will present yourself in a manner that reflects your secondary function. Do you understand what that means?”
“You want me to dress like a slut,” Izuku says, the word leaving his lips in a soft, sure exhale. It’s not a question.
A faint, approving smirk touches Katsuki’s mouth. “Precisely. Skirts. Shorts. Nothing underneath unless I specify. I want easy access. I want to look at you and see a hole that belongs to me. Today, since you failed to bring appropriate attire, you will rectify that now. Strip.”
The command hangs in the air, formal and filthy. Izuku’s skin flushes hot. He stands, his fingers going to the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls it over his head, letting it drop to the plush carpet. The cool office air hits his bare skin, pebbling his nipples instantly. Katsuki’s eyes are on him, tracking every movement, but his expression remains impassive, as if reviewing a quarterly report.
Izuku unbuttons his jeans, pushes them down his thick thighs. He steps out of them, standing now in only his plain black panties. They feel suddenly absurd, too modest for the raw hunger in Katsuki’s gaze. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband.
“Everything,” Katsuki says, his voice a graveled note. “I said nude.”
Izuku pushes the panties down. They pool at his ankles. He kicks them aside. Now he is naked in the middle of the office, the afternoon light painting his freckled skin gold. He feels exposed, vulnerable, and fiercely, shamefully aroused. His pussy is already slick, a traitorous heat between his thighs. He doesn’t cover himself. He meets Katsuki’s stare.
Katsuki lets the silence stretch. His eyes devour Izuku—the curve of his ass, the softness of his belly, his small tits with their puffy, darkened nipples, the neatly shaved pubic mound between his legs. It’s a slow, thorough inventory. Izuku feels his breath coming faster, his chest rising and falling. The ache is a deep, hollow throb.
“Acceptable,” Katsuki says finally, as if grading a submission. He nods toward the chair. “Sit back down. We’re not finished.”
Izuku obeys, lowering himself onto the cool leather. The sensation is startling, intimate. He is completely open, on display for his employer’s scrutiny. Katsuki leans forward, elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.
“Expectation number two: availability. When I am home, and she is not, you are on call. For anything. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Izuku whispers. His inner voice is screaming. *He wants to use me. Whenever he wants. However he wants.* The thought sends a fresh pulse of wetness between his legs.
“Three: performance.” Katsuki’s eyes lock onto his. “You will be eager. You will be responsive. You will come when I tell you to. You will thank me. The sounds you make, the way you move… it’s part of the service. Understood?”
“Understood.” Izuku’s voice is barely there. He can feel his own slickness on the leather now. He’s dripping for him, right here, while being given a job description.
Katsuki’s gaze drops pointedly to Izuku’s lap, to the evidence of his arousal glistening on his inner thighs. That same awed, hungry look from before flashes in his eyes, quickly banked. “Good. You’re already proving capable.” He leans back again, the picture of control, but Izuku sees the thick bulge straining against the front of his tailored slacks. The sight makes Izuku’s mouth water. “Any questions?”
Izuku’s mind is a riot of heat and shame. One thought rises, bold and desperate. “When?” he breathes. “When do I… start? My secondary duties?”
Katsuki’s smile is slow, predatory. He doesn’t answer immediately. He lets Izuku squirm, lets him feel the full weight of his own need. “Now,” he says, the word a final, devastating decree. “Come here. Kneel.”
Izuku doesn't hesitate. He slides off the chair, his bare knees meeting the plush carpet. The movement is fluid, practiced from a different kind of performance. He settles between Katsuki’s spread legs, the heat radiating from him even through the fine wool of his slacks. Izuku looks up, meeting that burning crimson gaze, and opens his mouth. He sticks his tongue out, a flat, pink offering. A hole presented for use.
Katsuki’s control shatters with a ragged inhale. His hands are at his belt, his fly, fingers fumbling in a way Izuku has never seen. The metallic rasp of the zipper is obscenely loud. “Fuck,” Katsuki grits out, the businesslike veneer gone, replaced by raw, starving need. He shoves his pants and briefs down just enough to free himself.
His cock springs out, thick and heavy, uncut and already flushed a deep, angry red. It slaps against his own abdomen with a wet sound, a bead of pre-come glistening at the tip. Izuku’s mouth waters. *It’s bigger than I imagined. It’s perfect.*
“Eager little slut,” Katsuki growls, and he doesn’t guide himself. He wraps a fist around his base and brings the heavy weight of his shaft up, then down, across Izuku’s cheek. The slap of hot, velvety skin against his face is a shock—stinging, humiliating, perfect. The musky, salty scent of him fills Izuku’s nose. “Look at you. Kneeling naked in my office. Mouth open for my cock. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Izuku breathes, his tongue still out, the word mangled. His own arousal is a dripping ache between his legs. He wants to be filled. He wants to choke on it.
“Prove it.” Katsuki guides the broad, slick head to Izuku’s lips. He doesn’t push. He just rests it there, a threat and a promise. “Get it wet. All of it.”
Izuku leans forward, closing his lips around the crown. He swirls his tongue, lapping at the slit, tasting the bitter salt of him. A low groan rumbles from Katsuki’s chest. Izuku takes more, sinking down, letting the thick weight stretch his jaw. He hollows his cheeks, sucking hard, his eyes watering as he noses into the coarse blonde hair at the base. He pulls off with a wet pop, panting, and drags his tongue along the throbbing underside vein from root to tip.
“That’s it,” Katsuki rasps, his hand tangling in Izuku’s green curls. “Use that pretty mouth. Make it shine for me.”
Izuku obeys, bobbing his head, taking him deep until his throat convulses, then pulling back to lavish attention on the sensitive head. He licks, sucks, kisses. Saliva and pre-come slick his chin. The sounds are filthy, wet, desperate. He’s making a mess of himself, and the thought makes his pussy clench around nothing. *He’s watching. He’s getting harder in my mouth.*
Katsuki’s hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Fuck, baby boy. You’re a natural cocksucker.” His grip tightens in Izuku’s hair. “You think about this? While you were feeding my son? Thinking about sucking his father’s dick?”
Izuku moans around the fullness in his mouth, the vibration pulling a sharp hiss from Katsuki. He pulls off, a string of spit connecting his lips to the glistening head. “Yes,” he gasps. “All I thought about. All day.”
“Good.” Katsuki’s eyes are dark, pupils blown. “Now get back to work. I’m not done with this hole.”
Izuku’s mouth waters, a fresh wave of desperate hunger crashing through him as he stares at the heavy sac resting against Katsuki’s thigh. He obeys the unspoken command, leaning down to nuzzle the soft, wrinkled skin, breathing in the musky, primal scent of him. “So full,” Izuku moans, the words vibrating against Katsuki’s balls. “All that cum inside you, sir. Just for me.” He laps at them, kitten-licks that become hungry, open-mouthed kisses, sucking one heavy orb gently into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue.
“Fucking hell,” Katsuki grits out, his hips twitching. His hand fists tighter in green curls. “You’re obsessed.”
“Yes,” Izuku breathes, releasing him with a wet sound. He looks up, eyes glassy with want. “I want to taste it. I want you to fuck my throat until you give it to me.” The filth spills from him, earnest and worshipful. He doesn’t wait for permission. He takes the thick, weeping head back between his lips, sinking down, forcing his jaw wider, swallowing around the intrusion until his nose is buried in blonde curls. His throat convulses, a sharp gag reflex he fights through, tears springing to his eyes.
“That’s it, baby boy,” Katsuki growls, his voice ragged. “Take it all. Show me what a greedy little slut you are for my cock.” He doesn’t hold back now. He pulls Izuku’s head back by the hair just enough to see his glistening, stretched lips, then drives his hips up, fucking into that wet heat with a brutal, punishing rhythm. The sounds are obscene: wet choking, ragged gasps, the slap of skin.
Izuku’s world narrows to the stretch of his jaw, the burn in his throat, the salt-bitter taste flooding his tongue. He gags, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he moans around the fullness, the vibration wringing a raw, shattered groan from Katsuki. *He’s using me*, Izuku thinks, the submission a bright, white-hot pleasure in his gut. *He’s fucking my face like I’m nothing. Like I’m his.* His own pussy clenches violently, slickness dripping down his inner thighs onto the carpet. He’s humiliated, owned, and so aroused he could come from just this.
“You love this, don’t you?” Katsuki pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper, harder. “Love getting your throat ruined. Love choking on a married man’s dick.”
Izuku can only manage a choked, affirmative whimper, his hands flying to Katsuki’s thick thighs to brace himself. He looks up through bleary, watering eyes, meeting that burning crimson gaze. He sees the control fracturing, the awe and the raw hunger laid bare. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.
“Gonna come,” Katsuki warns, the words a strained rasp. “Gonna paint that pretty face.” He gives one last, brutal thrust, hilting himself completely, and Izuku gags, his throat working wildly around the pulsing intrusion. Then Katsuki is pulling out with a slick, wet pop, his cock springing free, flushed and glistening with spit.
He doesn’t touch himself. He simply aims the throbbing head at Izuku’s upturned, tear-streaked face and lets go. Thick, hot stripes of come land across Izuku’s cheeks, his lips, his chin. The first burst hits his eyelid, and Izuku flinches, but keeps his eyes open, watching Katsuki’s face contort in release. It’s violent. It’s possessive. It’s perfect.
Izuku pants, his mouth open, catching his breath. The come is warm, sticky, smelling intensely of salt and sex and *him*. He doesn’t wipe it away. He waits, kneeling in the mess of himself and Katsuki’s release, his body trembling.
Katsuki slumps back in his chair, spent, his cock still half-hard and glistening against his abdomen. He looks down at Izuku, at the white streaks marring his freckles, and a slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face. He reaches out, his thumb swiping through the mess on Izuku’s cheekbone, then brings it to Izuku’s lips. “Clean it up, baby. Every drop.”
Izuku leans forward, closing his lips around Katsuki’s thumb, sucking it clean with a soft, obedient hum. The taste is bitter, final. A claim. When he pulls back, he looks up, his green eyes wide and wrecked. “Thank you, Daddy,” he whispers, the new title falling from his swollen lips naturally, a secret surrender in the quiet office.
Katsuki’s thumb presses deeper, sliding against Izuku’s tongue. He watches, rapt, as Izuku’s lips close around the digit, sucking clean the salty, bitter proof of his ownership. He doesn’t stop there. He drags his fingers through the streaks on Izuku’s cheek, his chin, collecting every glistening drop onto his skin, then feeds them back into that waiting, obedient mouth. Izuku moans, a low, throaty sound of pure worship, his tongue swirling to lap every trace from Katsuki’s fingers. The taste is overwhelming—musky, primal, *him*—and it floods Izuku’s senses, making his head swim and his cunt pulse with a fresh, empty ache.
“That’s it,” Katsuki murmurs, his voice gravelly with spent passion. “Take it all. My good boy.”
When his fingers are clean, Izuku releases them with a soft, wet sound. He looks up, his green eyes glassy and sultry beneath the smeared mess. His lips, swollen and shining, part.
“More, Daddy,” he whispers, the plea raw and unfiltered. “Please. I need it. I’m so empty.” His hand drifts down, fingertips brushing his own inner thigh, slick with his own neglected arousal. The offer is clear. *Use me. Fill me.*
Katsuki’s breath hitches. His half-hard cock twitches against his abdomen, a visceral reaction to the desperate invitation. For a long, charged moment, Izuku sees the war in his crimson eyes—the hunger to take, to bend him over the very desk and fuck him until he screams, warring with the ruthless control that rules his world. Katsuki’s jaw tightens. He closes his eyes, a muscle feathering in his temple, and when they open, the decision is made, the control forcibly restored.
“No,” he says, the word final as a slammed door. He leans forward, cupping Izuku’s ruined cheek. “That’s all for today, baby.”
The rejection is a physical blow. Izuku’s face falls, a whimper catching in his throat. The emptiness between his legs becomes a sharp, throbbing pain. Katsuki’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, a gesture almost tender were it not for the possessive gleam in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “We’ll have more time. Next time. I’ll fuck that pretty pussy until you forget your own name. I promise.” The vow hangs in the air, a torment and a salvation, binding them to the next illicit meeting.