The buzzer for his apartment door shattered the quiet of Izuku’s evening.
He jumped, the graphite pencil in his hand skidding across his economics homework. The sound was alien here, in his small, tidy space that usually only echoed with the hum of his laptop and the distant city traffic. His heart did a stupid, hopeful lurch before his brain could catch up. No one visited. Not unannounced.
He padded to the intercom, his socked feet silent on the cool floor. “Hello?”
“Delivery for Midoriya.” A professional, clipped voice.
He buzzed them up, his mind racing. A package? He hadn’t ordered anything. He stood by the door, listening to the elevator chime and the approach of footsteps. When it opened, a uniformed courier stood there holding not a box, but a long, black garment bag draped over his arm, and a sleek, matte black jewelry case.
“Sign here, please.”
Izuku scribbled his name, his fingers clumsy. The moment the door closed, he let the items slide to his couch. His phone, facedown on the coffee table, began to vibrate with an incoming call. He knew the number. He’d memorized it after the first time.
He answered. “Hello?”
“Open it.” Katsuki’s voice was a low rumble down the line, no greeting, no preamble. It was a command that went straight to his gut.
Izuku’s free hand went to the zipper of the garment bag. He pulled it down slowly. The fabric inside was a deep, saturated forest green, the color of shadows under ancient trees. It was silk, heavy and cool under his fingertips. He lifted it out. It was a dress. A simple, sleeveless cocktail dress with a modest neckline and a skirt that would fall to mid-thigh. It was elegant. Severe, even. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?” Izuku breathed, the word barely audible. He was holding the dress against his front, staring at his reflection in the dark window. He looked like a child playing dress-up, his old band t-shirt and sweatpants a stark contrast to the liquid silk.
“There’s a car downstairs. It’ll take you to Le Jardin. Reservation is under my name. Be there in an hour.”
Izuku’s brain short-circuited. Le Jardin. The five-star place with the waiting list months long. The place he saw in society columns. “A… a date?”
“What the fuck else would it be?” Katsuki’s tone was gruff, but there was an undercurrent of something else. Amusement, maybe. Satisfaction. “The jewelry’s for you, too. Put it on. All of it.”
The line went dead. Izuku stood there, clutching the phone and the dress, the silence of his apartment suddenly roaring in his ears. A date. Katsuki had sent him a dress. For a date. He wasn't being summoned to a nursery or an office to be used. He was being asked out. Told out.
He opened the jewelry case. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay a choker. A slim band of dark platinum, set with a single, square-cut emerald that matched the dress perfectly. It wasn't a delicate chain. It was a collar. A beautiful, expensive, unmistakable collar.
His hands shook as he undressed, letting his clothes fall in a heap on the floor. The silk whispered over his skin, cool and unforgiving, clinging to his curves, the hem brushing his thighs. He fastened the choker. The metal was cold at first, then warmed quickly against his throat. He felt it with every swallow. He looked in the mirror by the door.
A stranger looked back. A young man in a shockingly elegant green dress, a jewel at his throat, his freckles standing out like gold dust against his suddenly pale skin. His eyes were wide, almost frightened. This wasn't the slutty lingerie he’d worn to the interview. He wasn't being dressed like a secret. He was being dressed like a prize.
He found the pair of simple black heels that had been tucked into the bottom of the garment bag. He slipped them on. They made him taller, changed his posture. The car, a silent black sedan, was indeed idling at the curb. The driver held the door open without a word.
Izuku slid inside, the silk of the dress sighing against the leather seats. As the car pulled away from the curb, taking him toward the glittering heart of the city, he pressed his fingers to the emerald at his throat. He was scared. He was dizzy. He had never, in his entire life, felt so seen.
The sedan glided to a silent halt beneath a glowing marquee. Le Jardin. Through the tinted window, Izuku saw a doorman in a crisp uniform, but before he could even reach for the handle, the door beside him opened from the outside.
Katsuki stood there, framed by the golden light of the entrance. He was in a suit—charcoal gray, impeccably tailored, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders. No tie. His ash-blond hair was sharp, his crimson eyes taking Izuku in with a slow, scorching sweep that felt more intimate than any touch. A smirk played on his lips as he offered his hand.
“Hey, baby.” His voice was a low, private rumble meant only for the space between the car and the curb. “You clean up good.”
Izuku placed his hand in Katsuki’s, the contact sending a jolt straight up his arm. The man’s palm was warm, his grip firm as he helped him from the low seat. The silk of his dress whispered, the chill night air hitting his bare legs. He felt absurdly tall in the heels, almost eye-level with Katsuki’s chin. “Sir,” he breathed, the word automatic, but it felt wrong here, outside, under lights.
Katsuki didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he tucked Izuku’s arm through his own, drawing him close until his shoulder pressed into the solid muscle of Katsuki’s arm. They walked like that, arm in arm, through the polished brass doors. Izuku’s heart hammered against the inside of the emerald choker. He was on display. He was with him.
The interior was all dark wood, soft leather, and the murmur of money. A host appeared instantly. “Mr. Bakugou. Your table is ready.” They were led past the main dining room, through a discreet archway, to a small, secluded booth nestled against a wall of wine bottles. It was shadowed, intimate. A single candle flickered in a glass globe.
Katsuki slid in first, then guided Izuku to sit beside him, not across. The leather was cool through the thin silk. Izuku’s mind was spinning, a dizzy carousel of crystal glassware, the scent of Katsuki’s sandalwood cologne, and the sheer, impossible reality of it. He blurted the question before he could stop it. “Why?”
Katsuki’s arm came to rest along the back of the booth behind him, his fingers brushing the bare skin of Izuku’s shoulder. “Why what?”
“All of this. The dress. This place.” Izuku’s voice was a hushed thing. He gestured vaguely, his hand trembling slightly. “You could have just… called.”
“I do call. All the fuckin’ time.” Katsuki’s thumb began a slow, absent stroke against his shoulder. “Wanted to treat my baby boy. Is that a crime?”
The term, spoken so casually in this temple of refinement, made heat flood Izuku’s cheeks. He wasn’t a secret here. He was a date. Before he could form a reply, Katsuki leaned in. His free hand came up to cup Izuku’s jaw, his touch proprietary. “You look expensive,” he murmured, his breath a warm ghost against Izuku’s lips. Then he closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a quick, heated brand of possession, a firm press of lips that tasted like whiskey and intention. It was over before Izuku could even gasp, but it left his mouth tingling, his thoughts scattered. Katsuki pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Ochako thinks I’m in Osaka for a late supplier meeting. We got the whole night.”
Izuku’s stomach swooped. A whole night. Not a frantic hour between meetings or during a nap. “The whole night?”
“Got us a suite at the Grand Imperial. Top floor.” Katsuki’s eyes were dark in the candlelight, holding his. “After we eat. Unless you’re not hungry for food.”
The implication was a live wire down his spine. Butterricanes in his stomach, a flock of them, beating frantic wings against his ribs. He was being pampered, courted, claimed in broad daylight—or at least in candlelight that wasn’t a nursery nightlight. He felt a terrifying, soaring happiness, so sharp it bordered on pain. “I’m hungry,” Izuku whispered, not sure which hunger he meant.
Izuku’s hand moved under the tablecloth, his fingers finding the hard line of Katsuki’s cock through his tailored slacks in one sure, desperate motion. He wasn’t asking. He was taking, because the hunger was a physical cramp in his gut. He palmed the thickening shape, feeling it jump against his hand, and leaned close, his lips brushing Katsuki’s ear. “I’m starving for you, Daddy,” he whispered, the word a hot, secret confession in the hushed restaurant air.
Katsuki’s breath hitched, a sharp intake. His hand shot out, gripping Izuku’s wrist under the table, not to stop him, but to press his palm harder against the burgeoning hardness. “Fuck,” he growled, low and approving. “Do it.”
Izuku’s fingers fumbled with the belt, the button, the zipper, his movements frantic but precise. He got the fly open, shoved the fabric aside, and there it was—his massive, uncut cock, already flushed and heavy, springing free into the cool, concealed space beneath the table. The sight of it, the familiar musk of him, made Izuku’s mouth water. He didn’t hesitate. He slid from the booth seat, down onto his knees on the plush carpet, the silk of his dress pooling around him.
He leaned in, nuzzling the hot, velvety skin, breathing him in. He licked a slow, worshipful stripe from the root to the tip, tasting salt and skin and pure, potent Katsuki. A guttural groan rumbled from above. Katsuki’s hand sank into his green curls, not guiding, just claiming, his fingers tightening in a possessive fist.
Izuku took the head into his mouth, his lips stretching around the girth. He swirled his tongue beneath the foreskin, savoring the pre-come already beading there, the intimate, bitter taste. He sucked, hollowing his cheeks, and Katsuki’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Yeah,” Katsuki breathed, the word strained. “Just like that, baby.”
Izuku took more, working his mouth down the shaft, his own throat relaxing, opening. He’d done this before in the Katsuki’s office, but here, in the shadowy privacy of a public booth, it felt exponentially more illicit, more thrilling. He could hear the muted clink of glassware from the main room, the distant murmur of other conversations. He pushed further, until the head nudged the back of his throat. He gagged, the reflex sharp, tears springing to his eyes. He pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening cock.
“Don’t you stop,” Katsuki commanded, his voice a rough scrape. His hand in Izuku’s hair urged him back down. “Take it. You said you were hungry.”
Izuku obeyed, opening wider, forcing his throat to yield. He pushed himself down, taking inch after inch, until his nose was buried in the coarse blond hair at the base. He choked, the sound wet and loud in their little corner. He held there, his eyes squeezed shut, his body vibrating with the effort, utterly filled. The slurping, sucking sounds were obscenely loud to his own ears. He began to move, bobbing his head, using his hand to work the base, worshiping every vein and ridge with his tongue.
A polite cough sounded just beyond the booth’s partition. Izuku froze, Katsuki’s cock still deep in his throat. A waiter, a man with a professionally neutral expression, appeared with a bottle of red wine. “To start, Mr. Bakugou?”
“Yes,” Katsuki answered the waiter, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated down into Izuku’s skull. His fingers tightened in Izuku’s hair, not pulling him off, but holding him firmly in place, impaled. “And keep going, baby. Don’t you stop.” The command was a hot, private whisper, then his attention shifted back upward, his tone smoothing into casual hospitality. “That’s the one. Let’s start with that.”
Izuku’s mind blanked, then flooded with a white-hot static of panic and dizzying arousal. The waiter was here. The waiter was right there, the man’s polished shoes inches from his knee, and Katsuki was telling him to keep choking on his cock. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe around the thick intrusion filling his throat. His body jerked on a gag, a wet, ugly sound he felt more than heard.
“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter said. The distinct glug-glug of wine pouring into a glass echoed directly above Izuku’s head. The rich, tannic scent mixed with the musk of Katsuki’s skin.
“We’ll have the oysters to start,” Katsuki said, his voice betraying nothing but cool confidence. Then, as if to punctuate the order, he rolled his hips up, feeding his cock another impossible fraction deeper into Izuku’s throat. Izuku gagged violently, tears springing free, a line of drool dripping onto the carpet. Katsuki’s thumb stroked his scalp, an incongruously gentle reward. “And for the main,” he continued, pausing as Izuku struggled to breathe through his nose, the obscene, rhythmic sounds of his efforts filling the booth’s shadowy space, “the wagyu filet for me. Rare.” Another subtle thrust, another choked-off cry from Izuku. “And for my date,” Katsuki said, the words a dark caress, “the sea bass. He prefers something… lighter.”
Izuku was burning up. The humiliation was a live wire, but the obedience was a drug. He was a secret being performed in public, a dirty act under a crisp white tablecloth. He forced himself to move, bobbing his head as best he could with Katsuki’s grip so firm, taking him to the base each time until his nose crushed into coarse hair, then pulling back just enough to gasp before diving down again. The gagging got louder, wetter, more desperate. Each choked sound felt like a scream in the hushed restaurant.
“Very good, sir. Any wine pairings with the mains?” The waiter’s voice remained impeccably neutral, as if the sounds emanating from beneath the table were no more remarkable than the soft jazz playing overhead.
Katsuki let out a soft, strained groan. Izuku felt the cock in his mouth pulse. “The Pinot Noir for the fish,” he managed, his breath hitching. “And the Cabernet for the steak. You can leave the bottle.”
“Of course, Mr. Bakugou. Your first courses will be out shortly.”
There was the soft pad of retreating footsteps. The moment the waiter was gone, Katsuki’s control fractured. A guttural curse ripped from him and he fucked up into Izuku’s mouth in two sharp, deep thrusts. “Fuck, you perfect little slut,” he rasped, his public facade gone. “Hear that? You’re my date. And you’re under the table choking on my dick like a whore. You love that, don’t you?”
Izuku couldn’t speak. He could only moan around the fullness, the vibration earning him another brutal thrust. He did love it. He loved the danger, the ownership, the way Katsuki could command a room and command his throat at the same time. His own pussy was soaked, a slick, aching heat pooling between his thighs, untouched under the silk. He was trembling, his knees sore, his jaw aching, and he had never been more turned on in his life.
Katsuki finally pulled him off, his cock sliding free with a lewd, wet pop. Izuku collapsed forward, forehead against Katsuki’s thigh, coughing, dragging in ragged, noisy breaths. Spit and pre-come slicked his chin. Katsuki’s hand gentled, petting his hair. “Look at me, baby.”
Izuku tilted his head up, his vision blurred with tears. Katsuki looked down at him, his crimson eyes blazing with possessive fire. He used his thumb to wipe the mess from Izuku’s chin. “You took that so good. My good boy.” He guided Izuku’s mouth back to his cock, not for depth, but to clean him, to lick him clean with soft, worshipful strokes. “Now get back up here. Our food’s coming.”
Izuku whimpered, his voice a raw, ruined thing as he looked up from his seat. His swollen lips glistened in the candlelight. “You didn’t,” he breathed, his green eyes wide and pleading. “Daddy, you didn’t cum yet. Please. Feed me your cum first. Before I eat anything else.”
Katsuki stared down at him, his crimson eyes going dark, the controlled businessman vanishing behind a wave of pure, unadulterated hunger. A sharp, startled breath hissed through his teeth. “Holy fuck,” he growled, the words thick with awe. “You perfect, greedy little slut.”
His hand shot out, fisting in Izuku’s green curls, and he shoved him back down, not to the floor, but across the plush booth seat, bending him over the table’s edge. He didn’t guide him gently. He manhandled him, his other hand yanking his own slacks open again, his cock springing out, angry and leaking. He lined up the flushed head with Izuku’s gasping mouth. “Open.”
Izuku obeyed, his jaw aching in protest, and Katsuki slammed into him, burying himself to the root in one brutal thrust. Izuku’s cry was muffled, his body jerking, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth tablecloth. Katsuki didn’t pause. He set a ruthless, punishing rhythm, fucking up into the tight, wet heat of Izuku’s throat, each thrust a claim, each withdrawal a theft of breath.
The sounds were obscene: wet, gagging chokes, the slap of skin, Katsuki’s ragged grunts. Izuku’s mind dissolved into a white noise of submission. He was a vessel, a hole being used, and the thought made his soaked pussy clench around nothing under the silk. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with spit. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only take it, the ache in his jaw a bright, sharp counterpoint to the dizzying euphoria of being so thoroughly owned in public.
A discreet throat-clearing sounded at the partition. The waiter appeared, holding a silver platter with a pristine plates of oysters on ice. His eyes flicked downward for a millisecond—taking in Izuku’s prone form, Katsuki’s powerful hips moving rhythmically—then snapped back to a neutral point on the wall. “Your first course, sir.”
Katsuki didn’t stop. His pace barely faltered, his thrusts becoming shallower, harder, more frantic. “Thank. You,” he gritted out, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips. He was close. Izuku could feel it in the way his cock pulsed, in the tremor in his thighs. The waiter set the plate down with silent efficiency and vanished.
The moment the footsteps faded, Katsuki’s control shattered completely. A guttural, broken moan tore from his chest. “Now, baby. Take it. Drink it all.” He slammed home one final, deep time, his body locking, and Izuku felt the hot, bitter flood hit the back of his throat. Katsuki’s hips stuttered, his fingers tightening painfully in Izuku’s hair as he came in long, pulsing ropes, his eyes squeezing shut as if blinded by the force of it.
Izuku swallowed desperately, his throat working, taking every drop as commanded. The taste was salt and musk and victory. When Katsuki finally slid out, limp and spent, Izuku collapsed against the seat, coughing weakly, his face a mess of tears and cum. He used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, his entire body trembling.
By the time Katsuki’s vision cleared, Izuku was already sitting upright beside him, having subtly straightened his dress and smoothed his hair. He looked debauched but composed, his cheeks flushed, his lips bee-stung. Only the slight tremor in his hands betrayed him. Katsuki leaned in, captured his mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, licking the last trace of himself from Izuku’s lips. “Hope you’re hungry for actual food now,” he murmured, his voice rough with satiation.
“I am,” Izuku whispered, bashful, his eyes darting down to the elegant plate of oysters.
Katsuki chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. He picked up a glistening oyster, tipped it from its shell, and brought it to Izuku’s lips. “Open.” Izuku obeyed, and Katsuki fed it to him, his thumb brushing Izuku’s lower lip. “Good boy.”
The oyster is cool and briny on his tongue, the texture silken, but all Izuku can taste is the ghost of salt and musk, the echo of Katsuki's release still warming his throat. He swallows, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. When he opens them, Katsuki is watching him, that crimson gaze soft and heavy with something that isn't just satiation. It looks like possession, but a quieter, deeper kind.
"Good?" Katsuki asks, his voice a low rumble. His thumb is still stroking Izuku's lower lip.
"Amazing," Izuku breathes. He feels dizzy, weightless. The high-end restaurant, the candlelight, the exquisite food—it's a fantasy, but the man beside him is solid and real, his thigh pressed warmly against Izuku's under the table. "The oyster. And… everything."
Katsuki's mouth curves, not quite a smile, but something satisfied and private. He picks up his own oyster, tips it back. "They're better when you're not choking on my dick under the table, huh?"
Izuku flushes, a hot wave of embarrassment that immediately melts into arousal. He ducks his head, a small laugh escaping him. "I wasn't complaining."
"I know you weren't, baby." Katsuki nudges his wine glass toward him. "Drink. It'll cut the taste."
Izuku obeys, the rich red wine a complex contrast. They eat the rest of the oysters slowly, Katsuki feeding him every other one. His fingers linger near Izuku's mouth each time. It’s an intimacy that feels more dangerous than the blowjob. Anyone could see this. Anyone could see the way Katsuki looks at him, the proprietary care in the gesture. Izuku's heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
When the mains arrive, Katsuki cuts a piece of his wagyu—blood-rare, glistening—and spears it with his fork. "Open."
"I have my own, sir," Izuku murmurs, gesturing to the delicate sea bass on his plate.
"And I want you to taste mine," Katsuki says, leaving no room for argument. The fork hovers. "Now, Izuku."
Izuku opens his mouth. The beef is impossibly tender, bursting with flavor, and the act of being fed like this, in public, by him, makes his skin feel too tight. He moans softly, his eyes closing. "Oh, god."
"Good, right?" Katsuki's voice is smug. He takes a bite of Izuku's sea bass from his own plate, nodding. "Yours is good too. Here." He feeds Izuku another piece of steak, and the exchange continues—a silent, shared meal where their plates become communal, their utensils crossing. Izuku feeds Katsuki a forkful of his fish, his hand trembling slightly as he brings it to those firm lips.
"You're shaking," Katsuki observes, chewing slowly. He covers Izuku's hand with his own, stilling it on the tablecloth. His palm is warm, his grip firm. "Nervous?"
"Overwhelmed," Izuku confesses, the truth spilling out in a whisper. "This is… a lot. You're a lot."
Katsuki studies him, his thumb stroking the back of Izuku's hand. "You handle it better than anyone I've ever met," he says, and it doesn't sound like flattery. It sounds like a fact. A revelation. He lets go, returning to his meal, but the air between them is charged differently now. Softer. More terrifying.
They talk. Really talk. Katsuki asks about his school, listens with genuine interest as Izuku stumbles through an explanation of his literature essay. Izuku asks about business, and Katsuki answers in short, clear sentences, not to condescend, but to make himself understood. They argue lightly about the best hero comics, and Katsuki’s eyes spark with real passion. Izuku forgets, for minutes at a time, that he’s the babysitter. That Katsuki is married. He feels like a date. A wanted, cherished date.
"Dessert," Katsuki announces when their plates are cleared. He doesn't ask. He orders one thing: a dark chocolate soufflé with a molten center and a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. It arrives, towering and decadent. Katsuki digs a spoon in, cracking the delicate top, and steam pours out. He brings the first spoonful, dripping with hot chocolate and cool cream, to Izuku's lips. "Careful. Hot."
Izuku takes it. The flavors explode—bitter, sweet, rich, cold. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. "Oh my god," he gasps, his mouth full. He covers his lips with his fingers, eyes wide.
Katsuki watches him, a slow, real smile spreading across his face. It transforms him, makes him look younger, lighter. "Cute," he murmurs, almost to himself. He takes a bite, his eyes closing in appreciation. "Fuck, that's good." He feeds Izuku another spoonful, then another, until they're sharing the dessert back and forth, a single spoon between them, their knees tangled together under the table.
When the last bit of chocolate is gone, Izuku sits back, utterly full, utterly content. He's floating. The candle has burned lower. The restaurant has emptied around them. Katsuki signals for the check, his hand coming to rest on Izuku's thigh, high up, his fingers splayed possessively over the green silk. He pays with a black card, not even glancing at the total.
Outside, the night air is cool. The black car is idling at the curb. Katsuki opens the door for him, a gentlemanly gesture that feels incongruous and dizzying. Izuku slides in, the leather seats cool against his bare thighs. Katsuki follows, sitting close, his arm draping along the back of the seat behind Izuku's shoulders. The partition is up. The world is dark and quiet, just the hum of the engine and the distant city lights blurring past.
Katsuki doesn't speak. He turns Izuku's face toward him with a gentle finger under his chin and kisses him. It's not the punishing, claiming kiss from earlier. It's slow. Deep. Tasting of chocolate and wine and something infinitely sweeter. Izuku melts into it, a soft sound escaping his throat. When they part, Katsuki rests his forehead against Izuku's, their breath mingling.
“The hotel," he says, the words a warm vibration against Izuku's skin. It's not a question. It's a promise. The night isn't over. It's just beginning.