The crib is two feet from the bed. Izuku can see the curve of Katsuki’s sleeping cap in the streetlight glow. The client—a man with grease under his nails—doesn’t look. His hands are on Izuku’s hips, pushing his sweatpants down. Izuku’s skin crawls with shame, but the rent is due tomorrow. He turns his head, eyes locking on his baby.
Katsuki is awake. Silent. Watching with wide, unblinking eyes.
The client’s thumbs hook into the waistband of the soft gray cotton, and they slide down Izuku’s thick thighs. The air in the room is cool on his exposed skin. He shivers. He doesn’t help, just lets it happen, his own hands clenched into useless fists at his sides. The sweatpants pool around his ankles, a puddle of domestic normalcy at the foot of the bed where a stranger stands.
“On your back,” the man grunts. His voice is low, scraped raw from cigarettes. He doesn’t touch Izuku again, just waits.
Izuku obeys. The sheets are cheap, worn thin, and they rustle loudly as he settles against the pillows. He keeps his head turned toward the crib. Streetlight cuts a pale bar across the room, illuminating the dust motes, the man’s worn boots, the delicate curve of his son’s cheek. Katsuki doesn’t make a sound. His eyes are two dark pools, absorbing everything.
The client undoes his own belt, the buckle a sharp clink in the quiet. He pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough. His cock springs free, already hard, ruddy and thick in the dim light. He doesn’t stroke himself, doesn’t bother with any pretense of mutual arousal. He just climbs onto the bed, the springs groaning under his weight, and settles between Izuku’s spread thighs.
Izuku feels the rough denim of the man’s jeans abrade his inner skin. He feels the heat of the other body, smells the engine grease and stale sweat. He bites his lower lip, the familiar raw spot flaring with pain. He focuses on that tiny sting. His green eyes are dry, wide open, fixed on his son’s face. A silent apology. A plea for understanding that cannot come.
The man’s hand goes between Izuku’s legs. His fingers, calloused and gritty, find the slick heat waiting for him. Izuku had prepared. He always prepares. It’s part of the service. The client grunts, a sound of approval, and slides two fingers inside easily. Izuku’s body yields, a well-practiced surrender. He doesn’t make a sound.
He feels the blunt, insistent pressure of the man’s cockhead nudging against him. Replacing his fingers. Positioning. The stretch is imminent, a familiar ache. Izuku’s breath hitches. His eyes never leave the crib.
And then he is entered. A slow, relentless push that burns for a second before his body remembers how to accommodate. A choked gasp escapes Izuku’s throat, tight and strangled—the only sound in the room besides the rustle of sheets and the client’s low, heavy breathing.
Inside the crib, Katsuki’s tiny hands clutch the bars. His wide, unblinking eyes watch the stranger move on top of his mother. He watches the shadow-rocking of their bodies. He watches Izuku’s face, pale in the slanted light, lips moving parted around silent, ragged breaths.
The sound is small, muffled by the crib’s bars. A confused little exhale, not a cry. Katsuki’s tiny forehead wrinkles. His wide eyes, fixed on the moving shadow of the client’s back, blink once, slowly.
Izuku hears it. The sound cuts through the low grunt of the man above him, through the wet, rhythmic slap of skin meeting skin. His breath catches, his body going rigid beneath the steady, mechanical thrusts. His eyes, which had glazed over into a middle distance just beyond his son’s face, snap into sharp focus. Katsuki.
The client doesn’t stop. His pace doesn’t falter. His hands, gripping Izuku’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, keep dragging him back onto each driving push. He either doesn’t hear the baby or doesn’t care. His world has narrowed to the hot, tight clutch of Izuku’s body, the goal of his own release. Sweat drips from his temple, landing on Izuku’s collarbone.
Izuku’s lips part. A ragged moan is torn from him, but it’s not from pleasure. It’s a sound of shattered composure. He’d built a wall of silence, of dissociation, between this act and his son’s consciousness. That tiny, confused sound crumbles it. His hands, which had been fisted at his sides, rise. They don’t push the client away. They hover in the air for a trembling second before one flies to his own mouth, fingers pressing hard against his lips to stifle any other sound. The other hand reaches out, blindly, toward the crib, fingers stretching through the dim air in a helpless, aborted gesture.
He can feel everything with vicious clarity now. The burn of the stretch with each deep thrust. The cold air on the wetness between his thighs. The gritty texture of the man’s calloused palms on his soft skin. The ache in his jaw from clenching. And the heat of his son’s gaze, now mixed with a dawning, wordless confusion. Izuku’s body accommodates the cock fucking him, but his mind is screaming, scrambling for a script, a role, anything to make this make sense for the wide-eyed baby two feet away. There is none.
The client’s breathing grows heavier, more ragged. His thrusts become less measured, more frantic. “Yeah,” he grunts, the word a puff of stale air against Izuku’s neck. “Take it.” His grip tightens, fingers digging into the flesh of Izuku’s thick thighs, surely leaving marks. The bedsprings shriek in a faster rhythm.
Izuku turns his face fully into the pillow, but his green eyes stay locked on Katsuki. He sees his son’s small hand release the crib bar and lift, pointing vaguely toward the moving mass of the client. Those baby lips quiver. No more sounds come out. He is simply watching, learning, imprinting the sight of his mother being used into his earliest memories. The streetlight glow catches the damp tracks of silent tears Izuku didn’t know he was shedding, cutting silver lines through the freckles on his cheeks.
The client stills, buried deep. A guttural, choked sound erupts from his chest. Izuku feels the hot, pulsing rush inside him, the final, violating intimacy. The man shudders, his full weight collapsing for a moment before he catches himself on trembling arms.
He pulls out with a soft, wet sound. Izuku feels the immediate trickle, the physical evidence of the transaction, seeping onto the worn sheet beneath him. The client shifts off the bed, his boots hitting the floor with a solid thud. He doesn’t look at Izuku. He doesn’t look at the crib. He tucks himself back into his jeans, does up his belt with that same sharp clink.
Izuku doesn’t move. He lies exposed, sweatpants around his ankles, the cooling mess between his legs, his arm still outstretched toward the crib. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow hitches. His eyes are pools of silent apology, fixed on his son’s face.
Katsuki’s pointing hand drops. He watches the stranger walk to the door. He watches the door click shut. Then his dark eyes, too old for his infant face, drift back to his mother. He doesn’t cry. He just stares. The room is silent again, heavy now with a new kind of quiet.
The playpen is three feet from the bed now, the mesh sides high enough to contain a toddler who can stand. Katsuki’s small hands grip the top rail, his knuckles white. His eyes, a sharp, vivid red even in the dimness, are not on the stranger’s face or the heaving chest. They are glued, unblinking, to the place where the man is ruthlessly fucking into his mother.
Izuku arches on the bed, a black lace teddy rucked up under his armpits, the delicate straps digging into his freckled shoulders. The client tonight is younger, stronger, his pace punishing. Each thrust slams Izuku’s thick thighs against the man’s hips with a wet, meaty sound that fills the room. Izuku’s perfect, clean-shaven pussy is stretched wide around the thick cock, glistening and dripping, making a mess of the lace garter belt he’d put on hours ago.
He tries to keep his cries soft, bitten off. But this client is relentless, one hand fisted in Izuku’s green curls, holding his head to the side so his profile is fully visible to the playpen. Izuku’s big, dark pink nipples are hard peaks against the sheer lace, bouncing with every jolt. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners.
Katsuki doesn’t make a sound. He just watches. His wide eyes track the brutal, rhythmic penetration—the way his mother’s body yields and accepts, the flash of the man’s balls tightening with each drive forward, the slick shine of sweat and arousal on Izuku’s inner thighs. He sees everything. The streetlight from the same window cuts across the bed, illuminating the joined, moving shadows, highlighting the straining lace and the violent, intimate union.
The client grunts, a rhythmic, animal sound. “Fucking perfect cunt,” he snarls into Izuku’s ear, his breath hot and stale. “So goddamn tight.” His fingers tighten in Izuku’s hair, pulling a genuine whimper from his throat. The sound is sharp, pained, and Katsuki’s grip on the playpen rail tightens.
Izuku’s own hands scramble against the headboard, seeking purchase. His professional facade is cracking under the onslaught. He feels his body responding, the traitorous clench of his walls around the invading cock, the heat coiling low in his belly that has nothing to do with want and everything to do with mechanical, stimulated nerve endings. The shame of that response burns hotter than the friction. He forces his eyes open, seeking his son’s face in the Skip to another night when Katsuki is holder. Katsuki is in his playpen and Katsuki’s eyes are glued to his mother’s pussy where a random client is ruthlessly fucking his mother, .
Katsuki is still watching. Not his eyes. Not his tears. His gaze is fixed lower, on the relentless, pistoning motion, on the place where the stranger disappears into his mother over and over. There is no confusion in his expression now. Only a deep, unnerving focus. His little chest rises and falls quickly, mirroring Izuku’s ragged breathing.
The client’s pace becomes erratic, frantic. He releases Izuku’s hair to grab both hips, his fingers bruising the soft flesh, using his hold to slam deeper. “Gonna fill you up,” he gasps, his voice ragged. Izuku feels the telltale swell, the throbbing pulse at the root of the cock buried inside him. He goes pliant, a doll made for receiving, his body accepting the final, hot rush as the man stiffens and groans, his release flooding Izuku’s tight channel.
The man collapses on top of him for a moment, his sweat slick on Izuku’s lace-covered back. Then he pulls out with a soft, wet pop. Izuku feels the immediate gush of semen, warm and copious, leaking out of him onto the sheets. He doesn’t move.
The client stands, tucking himself away. He tosses a few bills onto the nightstand, the paper fluttering in the silent room. He doesn’t look at Izuku. He doesn’t glance at the silent toddler in the playpen. The door opens and shuts. He is gone.
Izuku lies there, wrecked, the lace teddy a ruined, damp frame around his used body. Slowly, he turns his head on the pillow. Katsuki has not moved. His red eyes lift from his mother’s slick, dripping pussy, travel up over the curves of his ass and back, the mess of lace, to finally meet Izuku’s exhausted, shame-filled gaze. The room holds its breath.
Katsuki’s small mouth opens. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t call for comfort. He points one stubby finger at the bed, at the evidence glistening between Izuku’s thighs. “Mama,” he says, his voice quiet, clear. “Wet.”
The living room couch is old, the floral pattern faded to ghosts of roses. Saturday morning cartoons flicker across the screen, a riot of bright colors and tinny, cheerful music. Katsuki, now seven, sits cross-legged at one end, a bowl of cereal balanced in his lap. He doesn’t blink at the animated antics. His head is turned, his sharp red eyes fixed on the other end of the same couch.
Izuku is on his back, a client’s bulk pressing him into the cushions. His legs are hooked over the man’s shoulders, the ruffled hem of a sheer black babydoll nightgown pooled around his waist. The client, a broad man in a stained undershirt, fucks him with a steady, grinding rhythm. Each thrust rocks Izuku’s whole body, making the couch springs squeak in time. The sound is wet, thick, unmistakable.
Izuku’s face is turned toward the television, his profile pale. His teeth are sunk into his already-raw lower lip. One of his hands grips the couch arm, knuckles white. The other is fisted in the cheap fabric of the cushion. He’s trying to be quiet, his breaths sharp, controlled inhales through his nose. The client isn’t. He grunts with each push, a low, animal sound that drowns out the cartoon’s laugh track.
Katsuki spoons a sugary loop into his mouth. He chews slowly, his gaze analytical. It travels from the client’s sweating back, down to where their bodies join. The babydoll is rucked up, giving him a perfect view. He watches the slick, glistening stretch of his mother’s pussy around the thick, driving cock. He watches the way Izuku’s soft, freckled stomach tenses with each deep penetration. The cereal turns to paste in his mouth.
The client shifts, lowering Izuku’s legs to pin them against the couch. This new angle draws a choked gasp from Izuku. His back arches, his lace-clad breasts straining against the sheer fabric. His head tips back, his green eyes squeezing shut. A tear escapes, tracing a path through his freckles toward his hairline. The cartoon on screen cuts to a loud, jangling commercial.
Katsuki sets the bowl down on the floor. He doesn’t look at it. He draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. His chin rests on his knees, a picture of casual observation. His red eyes are dark, unblinking. He sees everything. The trembling of his mother’s thighs. The client’s rough hands, one groping Izuku’s breast through the lace, pinching a puffy nipple. The other hand, planted by Izuku’s head, its dirty nails digging into the cushion.
“Fuck,” the client rasps, his pace turning erratic. “Gonna cum in this pretty cunt.” Izuku whimpers, a high, desperate sound. His eyes fly open, seeking his son’s face across the couch. Their gazes lock. Izuku’s is flooded with shame, with a silent, screaming apology. Katsuki’s is a flat, absorbing mirror. He gives no reaction. No smile. No frown. Just watchful, intimate knowledge.
The client stills, shuddering. Izuku feels the hot, familiar flood inside him. His body convulses with a tension that has nothing to do with pleasure. He holds his son’s stare as he is filled, as the stranger groans his release against his neck. The cartoon theme song starts up again, absurdly bright.
The man pulls out with a soft, wet sound. He stands, tucking himself away, leaving Izuku lying open on the couch, semen already leaking onto the faded roses. He drops cash on the coffee table. The front door opens and closes. The lock clicks.
The room is full of noise—the blaring TV, the hum of the refrigerator. Izuku doesn’t move. His nightgown is ruined, damp and twisted. He swallows, his throat clicking. “Kacchan,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I’m… turn the TV off, baby. It’s too loud.”
Katsuki doesn’t reach for the remote. His eyes are still on his mother, on the glistening mess between his thighs. He uncurls from his seat. He doesn’t go to Izuku. He stands, walks to the television, and presses the power button. The screen dies, plunging the room into a sudden, heavy silence. He turns back. His small hands hang at his sides.
Izuku slowly pushes himself up, wincing. He tries to pull the skirt of the babydoll down. It’s soaked, transparent. He gives up. He looks at his son, his expression shattered. Katsuki takes a single step closer, his gaze dropping from Izuku’s face back to his lap. To the evidence. He doesn’t point. He doesn’t speak. He just looks, his own hands curling slowly into fists at his sides.
The air in the living room is thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and sex. Katsuki, fifteen, leans against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His jaw is set so tight it aches. On the couch, his mother is a writhing centerpiece of flesh and lace. Three men move around and over him in a brutal, synchronized rhythm.
Izuku is on his back, his head hanging over the armrest, mouth stretched wide around the thick cock of the first client, who fucks his throat with shallow, relentless thrusts. Obscene, wet gags punch from Izuku’s throat with every invasion, a choked, rhythmic sound that drowns out the hum of the refrigerator. A second client kneels between Izuku’s spread thighs, his own cock buried to the hilt in Izuku’s glistening, stretched pussy, pounding up into him with a force that shakes the couch. The third, behind Izuku, works his cock into the tight, reluctant clench of his ass, his fingers digging into the freckled cheeks of Izuku’s big ass.
Izuku’s body is a map of use. His favorite lavender lace teddy is torn at the shoulder, one puffy, dark pink nipple exposed and wet with spit. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears streaming through his freckles toward his hairline. Yet his hips move, a practiced, accommodating roll between the two cocks filling him front and back. His throat works, trying to swallow, trying to breathe. One of his hands is fisted in the couch cushion, the other grips the hair of the man at his crotch, not pushing away, but holding on.
Katsuki’s gaze is a brand. He watches the spit slick the length of the cock fucking his mother’s mouth. He watches the brutal stretch of his pussy around the pounding intrusion, the way it glistens, dripping onto the couch. He watches the slow, impossible penetration of his ass, the grimace of pain-pleasure that twists Izuku’s features. A hot, traitorous pressure builds in Katsuki’s own groin. He grinds his teeth, trying to will it away. His crossed arms tighten, nails biting into his biceps.
The client at Izuku’s cunt changes angle, lifting Izuku’s thick thighs higher. The new depth punches a muffled scream from around the cock in his mouth. Izuku’s back arches, his body bowing between the three points of penetration. The sight is too much. Katsuki feels his own cock harden, straining painfully against his jeans. Shame floods him, acidic and immediate. He tries to think of nothing. Of school. Of anything else. But his eyes won’t leave the slick, joining shadows.
His breathing shallows. The wet sounds, the grunts of the men, the choked noises from his mother—they fill his skull. His hand, almost of its own volition, uncrosses from his chest. It drifts down, hesitates over the prominent bulge in his jeans. He can feel the desperate, frantic pulse of his own heart there. No. He balls the hand into a fist. Looks away. The wall. The clock. Anything.
His eyes snap back. The man at Izuku’s mouth pulls out, his cock glistening with spit. Izuku gasps, coughing, his beautiful face a mess of tears and saliva. “Switch,” the man grunts, and he moves to kneel by Izuku’s head, presenting his cock to Izuku’s swollen lips again. Izuku, dazed, obediently opens his mouth. The man at his ass pulls out, slick with lube and proof, and shuffles to take the now-vacated place between Izuku’s legs. The rotation is efficient, obscene. It’s a display of total ownership. And through it all, Izuku’s green eyes open, bleary, and find Katsuki’s across the room.
That glance shatters him. It holds no apology now. Just a deep, exhausted acknowledgement. A shared secret. It’s the look that does it. Katsuki’s control snaps. His hand drops, fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. He gets it open, the zipper a loud rasp in the room. He doesn’t look down. He keeps his burning eyes locked on his mother as he shoves his hand inside his briefs, wrapping his fingers around his own hard, leaking cock.
The first stroke is a lightning bolt of relief and ruin. He pumps himself, his grip tight, his rhythm frantic and rough. He matches the pace of the man currently driving into Izuku’s pussy. He is no longer an observer. He is a participant. His breath comes in sharp gasps. He watches the cock disappear into his mother’s body, and he imagines the heat, the tight, wet clutch. He sees the man’s balls tighten, and his own sac draws up. He is betraying everything and claiming nothing.
Izuku’s eyes are still on him. They widen, just a fraction, as he registers what his son is doing. A fresh tear rolls free. But he doesn’t close his eyes. He holds the gaze, even as his mouth is filled again, even as his body is used from both ends. His hand, the one not gripping hair, slides from the cushion and rests, trembling, on his own stomach, as if pointing the way for Katsuki’s hungry stare.
Katsuki’s hips jerk into his fist. The pleasure is immense, brutal, woven inextricably with shame. He’s close. So close. The clients are grunting, their movements becoming jerky, final. “Gonna fill you up,” one snarls. “Take it all,” another pants. Katsuki pumps harder, faster, his own release coiling at the base of his spine. He doesn’t blink. He wants to see it. He needs to see it.
The men stiffen, a trio of shuddering groans filling the room. Izuku’s body convulses under the triple assault of their release. Katsuki watches, and with a choked, silent gasp into the heavy air, he comes. Hot stripes paint the inside of his briefs and jeans. His legs tremble. The men pull out of his mother, one by one, leaving him wrecked and dripping on the couch. They toss cash on the table, file out. The door shuts. Silence crashes back, broken only by Katsuki’s ragged breathing and the wet, soft sound of his mother leaking onto the upholstery. They are alone. Both exposed. Both spent. Neither speaks.
The old man’s balls slap against him with every thrust, a wet, heavy percussion against the cleft of Izuku’s ass. Izuku braces himself on his forearms, the black lace of his lingerie digging into his chest, his face pressed into the couch cushion that smells of decades and today’s sweat. He’s thirty-six and his body knows this rhythm, the ruthless, efficient pound of a client who pays for roughness and gets his money’s worth.
In the doorway, Katsuki watches. He’s eighteen, all coiled muscle and silent rage, his back against the doorframe. His hand is already inside his sweats, gripping himself through the fabric. He doesn’t hide. He hasn’t hidden for three years. His red eyes are fixed, not on the old man’s laboring back, but on his mother’s face, visible in profile against the cushion.
Izuku’s eyes are open. They’re on his son. They track the movement of Katsuki’s arm, the deliberate, slow pump inside his pants. A strand of saliva escapes the corner of Izuku’s mouth, soaking into the cushion. He doesn’t wipe it. The client grunts, a hand fisting in green curls, and Izuku’s body jolts forward, but his gaze never wavers from Katsuki’s hand.
Katsuki pulls his cock out. It’s thick and flushed, veined and already leaking. He strokes it slowly, matching the old man’s pace. His other hand balls into a fist at his side. His breath comes sharp through his nose. He watches his mother watch him.
Izuku feels the old man’s pace stutter, his rhythm faltering toward his end. The man’s low groan is a distant thing. All Izuku can hear is the wet sound of his own body being used and the soft, slick friction of his son’s fist. His pussy, stretched around a stranger, clenches hard. A fresh wave of wetness leaks out, easing the old man’s thrusts. The client mistakes it for enthusiasm.
“Tight little whore,” the old man rasps, his hips slamming harder, his balls slapping obscenely. “Gonna fill you up.”
Izuku doesn’t hear the words. He sees the pre-cum bead at Katsuki’s tip. He sees the way his son’s jaw tenses, the way his thumb smears the moisture down his length. Izuku’s mouth is slack. He’s lusted after this for years—in the quiet after clients left, in the dark of his own room, the phantom weight and heat of his baby boy’s monster dick a secret shame he nurses like a bruise. It’s not a thought now. It’s a physical pull low in his belly, a primal hunger that drowns out the man fucking him.
The old man shouts, his body locking as he shoves deep and spills. Izuku feels the hot pulse inside him, mechanical and meaningless. His own hips give a small, involuntary rock back, not for the client, but because Katsuki’s stroking is getting faster, his fist a blur. Katsuki’s chest is heaving. His eyes are locked on Izuku’s, demanding, challenging.
The client pulls out with a wet sound, leaving Izuku empty and dripping onto the lace. He doesn’t look at Katsuki. He never does. He zips his pants, drops wrinkled bills on the coffee table, and lets himself out. The door clicks shut.
Silence, except for Katsuki’s ragged breathing and the slick, urgent sound of his hand. Izuku doesn’t move from his position on the couch, ass in the air, used and exposed. He turns his head fully toward his son. His green eyes are dark, pupils blown. He lets his mouth fall open. A silent, desperate plea hangs in the air between them, thicker than the smell of sex.
The silence shatters with Katsuki’s first step forward. He crosses the room in three long strides, his still-hard cock jutting out, angry and dripping. He doesn't speak. His hand fists in Izuku’s green curls, yanking his head back from the cushion. Izuku gasps, his body arching, his exposed throat working.
Katsuki stands over him, his shadow swallowing the flickering blue light from the television. He looks down at his mother’s open, panting mouth, at the strand of saliva connecting his lip to the couch. He guides the thick, weeping head of his cock to those lips. He doesn’t ask. He pushes.
Izuku’s mouth yields instantly, a wet, hot surrender. He gags once, a reflexive convulsion of his throat, then relaxes, opening wider. His eyes roll back for a second before they fix on Katsuki’s face, wide and dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with performance. He moans around the intrusion, a deep, vibrating sound of pure pleasure that Katsuki has never heard from him before.
Katsuki slams the rest of the way in. His balls slap against Izuku’s chin. He holds there, buried to the root in his mother’s throat, feeling the frantic swallow and clench around him. “Suck,” he growls, the word ripped from somewhere primal. His hips pull back and piston forward, setting a ruthless, punishing rhythm.
Izuku obeys. His hands come up, not to push away, but to clutch at Katsuki’s thighs, his nails digging into the sweats. He sucks desperately, his tongue working the underside, his throat massaging the length with every brutal thrust. Drool spills from the stretched corners of his mouth, mixing with pre-cum and slicking Katsuki’s balls. The sounds are obscene: wet, choking gulps, the slap of skin, Katsuki’s ragged grunts.
One of Izuku’s hands slides down his own body, over the torn lace of his lingerie. He shoves the fabric aside. His fingers plunge into his own used, dripping pussy without hesitation. He’s so wet it’s a squelch, the client’s cum and his own arousal making a slick mess. He moans again, the vibration traveling straight up Katsuki’s cock.
Katsuki watches, mesmerized, as his mother fingers himself frantically, his eyes locked upward, begging, worshipping. “That’s it,” Katsuki snarls, his pace becoming erratic. “Fuck yourself on your fingers. You’ve wanted this. Wanted me.”
Izuku nods desperately around the cock fucking his throat, his fingers pumping in and out of his own cunt, his hips bucking up to meet them. His other hand leaves Katsuki’s thigh to paw at his own chest, pinching a dark, puffy nipple through the lace. Every touch is frantic, authentic, a raw need finally uncaged.
Katsuki feels the coil in his gut tighten to a breaking point. He pulls out of Izuku’s mouth with a slick pop, the head dragging over his swollen lips. Izuku whimpers, a broken sound of loss. “Open,” Katsuki commands, his voice thick. He strokes himself once, twice, his fist a blur. “Look at me.”
Izuku’s green eyes, glazed and desperate, snap to his. His mouth hangs open, red and wet and waiting. Katsuki comes with a choked shout, stripes of hot cum painting Izuku’s tongue, his teeth, spattering across his freckled cheeks.
Izuku’s body seizes. His back bows off the couch, a silent scream on his face as his own climax rips through him. His cunt clamps hard around his fingers, then releases—a hot, sudden gush of liquid soaks the ruined lace, spilling onto the couch beneath him. He squirts hard, a frantic pulse of release for his son.
For a long moment, the only sound is their shattered breathing. Katsuki sags, bracing a hand on the couch back. He looks down at the wreck of his mother—face painted with his release, body trembling with aftershocks, filled and marked in ways no client ever achieved.
Izuku’s gaze is clear now, the hunger momentarily sated, replaced by a devastating, tender shame. He slowly pulls his fingers from his pussy and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving his son’s. A final, silent confession.
Katsuki’s cock is still hard, flushed and angry against his stomach. He brings it up, the wet head slick with his own spend, and slaps it against Izuku’s cum-streaked cheek. The sound is sharp in the quiet room. “Does my whore mom want more?” he rasps, his voice shredded.
Izuku doesn’t hesitate. He nods, his green eyes wide and glassy. “Yes,” he whispers, then his voice breaks into a needy gasp. “Yes, baby boy. Mommy needs that big fat cock.”
“Present your tits,” Katsuki commands, his hand tightening in Izuku’s hair. “I’m gonna fuck my own mother’s slutty tits.”
Izuku scrambles, his movements clumsy with aftershocks and eagerness. He pushes himself up from the couch, turning to sit on the edge, the ruined lace of his lingerie hanging off one shoulder. He cups his B-cup breasts, his thumbs brushing over the dark pink, puffy nipples that are already pebbled tight. He squeezes them together, creating a soft, warm valley of freckled flesh. “Here,” he breathes, his voice trembling. “Right here, Kacchan.”
Katsuki steps forward, his gaze locked on the cleavage his mother has made for him. He guides his cock, the head nudging against the soft swell. He pushes in, the thick shaft disappearing between the press of Izuku’s tits. Izuku moans, adjusting his grip, squeezing tighter to envelop his son.
The sensation is hot, slick, and impossibly soft. Katsuki’s balls slap against Izuku’s sternum with each thrust. Pre-cum and leftover spend from Izuku’s face smear across his mother’s skin, making the slide wet and obscene. Katsuki sets a brutal, possessive pace, his hips pistoning. “Beg for it,” he grunts.
“Please,” Izuku whimpers, his eyes glued to where his son’s cock disappears into his body. “Please, fuck mommy’s tits. Just like that. Your cock is so big, baby, so perfect.” His words spill out in a desperate stream. “I’ve wanted it for so long. Wanted you to use me like this. Fuck your whore mom’s tits, Kacchan, please, I need it.”
Katsuki’s rhythm falters for a second, a stutter at the raw, unfiltered hunger in Izuku’s voice. He’s never heard his mother beg, not like this—not for him. It shoots straight to his core. He grabs Izuku’s shoulders, holding him steady as he fucks harder, deeper into the warm, giving flesh.
Izuku tilts his head down, his tongue darting out to catch the head of Katsuki’s cock every time it pushes up between his tits. He licks the salty pre-cum, moaning at the taste. His own arousal, a fresh wave of slick heat, drips from his pussy onto the couch below. He’s shameless, lost in the sensation of being used by his son in a way no client ever asked for.
Katsuki watches, mesmerized, as his mother services him with a devotion that borders on worship. The flickering TV light plays over Izuku’s blissful, ruined face, over the frantic movement of his tongue. This isn’t the dissociated performance he grew up watching. This is real. This is for him. The coil in his gut tightens again, a fierce, possessive fire.
“Gonna come on them,” Katsuki warns, his voice a harsh scrape. “Gonna mark what’s mine.”
“Yes,” Izuku sobs, squeezing his tits impossibly tighter, his back arching to offer himself completely. “Mark me, baby. Your mommy is yours.”
Katsuki’s release hits Izuku’s chest in hot, thick stripes, painting his freckled skin and dark nipples white. He groans, his hips stuttering through the last pulses, his cock still twitching against the soft flesh. Izuku sobs, a sound of pure ecstasy, his head falling back as he feels the wet heat spread.
“Not done,” Katsuki rasps, his hands sliding from Izuku’s shoulders to grip his jaw. His thumbs smear his own cum across his mother’s cheeks. “Not even close. Need to claim what’s mine. Need that pussy.”
Izuku’s eyes fly open, wide and desperate. “Yes,” he breathes, scrambling off the couch edge to kneel on the floor on the ruined Persian rug. He turns, presenting his ass to his son, and reaches back with both hands to spread himself. The torn lace of his lingerie is shoved aside. His pussy is glistening, swollen, utterly exposed. “Here, Kacchan. It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”
“Talk,” Katsuki demands, stepping closer, his heavy cock bobbing, slick with spit and spend. He nudges the thick head against Izuku’s soaked entrance, not pushing in, just resting there. A threat. A promise.
“I didn’t want them,” Izuku whimpers, pushing his hips back, trying to impale himself on the tip. “All those men… all those years… I was just waiting for you. For my baby boy to be big enough to take me.” His voice cracks, raw with confession. “Watching you watch me… it made me so wet. So fucking horny. I’d pretend it was you. Every time.”
Katsuki’s breath hitches. He slaps his cock against Izuku’s spread lips, the wet sound obscene. “Since the first time I got hard,” he growls, “I wanted to push every one of those disgusting old fucks off you and take their place. This is mine. You’re mine. No more clients. You hear me, Mommy? Only me.”
“Only you,” Izuku chants, rocking back. “Only your cock, Kacchan, please, I need it inside, I’ve dreamed about it, I’ve—”
Katsuki shuts him up by shoving forward.
The stretch is immediate, breathtaking. Izuku’s tight cunt, trained for strangers, yields to his son with a wet, guttural cry. Katsuki sinks in to the root in one brutal thrust, his low-hanging balls slapping against Izuku’s ass. He stills, buried, feeling the frantic, fluttering clench around him. It’s hotter, tighter, better than anything he imagined.
Izuku screams, his forehead dropping to the rug. His hands fist in the fabric. “Yes! Fuck! Finally!”
“Mine,” Katsuki snarls, pulling out and slamming back in, setting a pace that is nothing but possession. Each thrust jolts Izuku forward, the slap of skin echoing in the curtain-dark room. The scent of sex—their sex—fills the air, erasing the ghost of the client.
Izuku babbles, his words breaking on every drive. “So big—filling me—just for you, baby, always for you—your mommy’s a whore just for you!”
Katsuki leans over him, one hand braced on the floor by Izuku’s head, the other wrapping around his mother’s throat. Claiming. He fucks harder, deeper, the coil in his gut winding tight again. “Gonna come inside,” he grunts into Izuku’s ear. “Gonna breed my whore mommy. Mark you inside where it counts.”
“Do it,” Izuku sobs, pushing back to meet every thrust, his own climax building again, a tidal wave fed by a lifetime of forbidden want. “Fill me up, Kacchan. Make it yours forever.”
Katsuki comes with a ragged, gut-deep roar, his hips slamming flush against Izuku’s ass as he pumps his release deep inside his mother’s cunt. The heat of it floods Izuku, triggering his own climax—a second, shattering wave that seizes his muscles and wrings a broken scream from his throat. His pussy clenches and milks the cock buried in him, gushing slick around the shaft.
Katsuki doesn’t soften. He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried to the hilt, his heavy balls pressed tight, his cock twitching and still rock-hard inside the clenching heat. He pants against Izuku’s sweat-slick back, his hands digging into the meat of his mother’s hips. “Not stopping,” he grunts, the words a vow against Izuku’s spine.
“Kacchan—I can’t—” Izuku sobs, oversensitive and trembling, but he pushes his ass back, taking his son deeper. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
Katsuki pulls out, the slide wet and obscene, and drives back in without a second’s pause. The pace is brutal, animal, a relentless claiming that brooks no argument. The room fills with the sound of flesh hitting flesh, of their ragged breaths, of the wet, filthy noise of his cock pistoning into a well-used, dripping hole.
“Mine,” Katsuki snarls with every thrust. “Say it.”
“Yours!” Izuku cries, his face pressed into the rug, his fingers clawing at the Persian pattern. “All yours, baby boy, only yours!”
Katsuki hauls him up by the hair, forcing Izuku’s back against his chest. He wraps a forearm across Izuku’s collarbone, locking him in place, and fucks up into him from below. The new angle is deeper, punishing. Izuku’s head lolls back on Katsuki’s shoulder, his mouth open in a silent scream.
“Look at you,” Katsuki rasps in his ear, his hips never stuttering. “My fucking whore mommy. Taking his son’s cock like you were made for it.”
“I was,” Izuku gasps, his hands flying back to grip Katsuki’s thighs, his nails biting in. “I was, I was—oh god, Kacchan, right there, please!”
They move like a single frantic organism, all sweat-slick skin and desperate hunger. Katsuki’s release leaks from Izuku’s stretched hole, mixing with his own slick, making the slide messier, louder. The smell of them—musk, sex, possession—drowns out every other memory in the room.
“Gonna fuck you ‘til you break,” Katsuki promises, his voice hoarse with exertion. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you forget every other cock that’s been here.”
“Already forgotten,” Izuku whimpers, his body jolting with every drive. “Only remember yours. Only want yours. Harder, baby, please, harder!”
Katsuki obeys. He fucks with a strength that borders on violence, his own need an unending fire. Izuku’s cries pitch higher, raw and stripped of shame, echoing off the drawn velvet curtains. There is no thought, no tomorrow, only this: his son’s cock splitting him open, claiming what was always, secretly, his.
“Look,” Katsuki snarls, his grip on Izuku’s hair tightening as he hauls them both toward the large, tarnished mirror leaning against the wall by the television. The flickering blue light paints their moving shadows across it. “Look at yourself, Mommy.”
Izuku whimpers, trying to turn his face away, but Katsuki’s hand fists in his curls, forcing his head forward. His eyes, wide and glazed, meet his own reflection. He’s a mess. His green curls are plastered to his sweaty forehead. His mother’s puffy nipples are stiff and peaked, smeared with his son’s drying cum. Katsuki’s massive, veiny cock is buried to the hilt inside him, stretching his pink, glistening hole obscenely wide around the thick shaft.
“See that?” Katsuki growls, pulling his hips back slowly, making Izuku watch the slick length of his own cock slide out, shiny with mixed spend. “See who’s fucking you?” He slams back in, and Izuku’s reflection jolts, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. “That’s me. Your son. Not some old fuck.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku sobs, his hands fluttering up to cover his face, but Katsuki catches his wrists, pinning them to his own chest, forcing him to watch.
“No. You watch. You watch what you are.” He sets a deep, rolling rhythm, each thrust making Izuku’s tits bounce, making his whole body shudder in the mirror’s frame. “A greedy fucking whore. My greedy fucking whore.”
Izuku’s resistance melts. His gaze locks on the image, on the way his own body opens and yields, on the primal hunger etched on his son’s face behind him. A choked moan escapes him. “I am,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “I’m yours. Look at me… taking you.”
“Damn right you are.” Katsuki’s eyes burn into the reflection, watching his own cock disappear into the tight, wet heat of his mother. “You wanted this. All those years, pretending it was me. Now it is. Now you get to see what it looks like.”
“It’s beautiful,” Izuku breathes, the confession ripped from him as he watches his son’s heavy balls slap against his ass with every drive. His own pussy is dripping, a constant slick leak of their combined release coating Katsuki’s shaft and thighs. “You’re so beautiful, baby. So big inside me.”
Katsuki groans, the praise hitting him like a physical touch. He nuzzles against Izuku’s neck, his hot breath fogging the mirror. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see… your mommy,” Izuku whimpers, his hips pushing back to meet the thrusts, his eyes glued to the lewd connection. “I see my baby boy fucking his mommy’s perfect pussy. I see… I see how wet I am for you. How much I love it.”
“Yeah?” Katsuki’s hand slides down from Izuku’s chest, over his trembling stomach, finding the swollen, slippery nub of his clit. He presses hard, rubbing rough circles. “You love watching my cock wreck you?”
Izuku screams, his back arching, his eyes squeezing shut as the stimulation rockets through him.
“Eyes open!” Katsuki barks, pinching the bud sharply. “Watch it happen. Watch yourself come on your son’s dick.”
Izuku’s eyes fly open, tears streaking his cheeks, locking onto the mirror. The coil snaps. His cunt convulses, clenching hard around the invading thickness, and then he squirts—a hard, violent jet that hits the glass right beside their reflection. The clear fluid sheets down the mirror, blurring their image, soaking Katsuki’s hand and adding to the mess on the floor. He sobs, his body seizing, utterly exposed and completely claimed in the dripping, ruined reflection.
Katsuki watches, mesmerized, as his mother shatters. He fucks him through the pulsing waves, his own release building, a pressure in his balls that demands to be planted deep. “Now you see,” he grunts, his rhythm turning erratic, possessive. “Now you know.” He buries his face in Izuku’s neck and cums, a hot, endless flood marking his territory inside, the proof of it already leaking out around his still-hard cock, visible for them both to see in the mirror.
The knock is blunt, impersonal, three heavy raps against the wood. Izuku flinches in Katsuki’s arms, his oversensitive body jolting. “That’s—Kacchan, that’s my nine-thirty.”
Katsuki stills, his cock buried deep. A low, dangerous sound rumbles in his chest. “Oh, fuck no.”
He doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hands clamp under Izuku’s thighs, and in one brutal, fluid motion, he stands, hauling his mother up with him. Izuku cries out, his legs automatically wrapping around Katsuki’s waist, the shift driving his son’s hardness even deeper inside his spent, leaking hole.
“Kacchan, what are you—the door—!” Izuku babbles, his face flushing with a fresh wave of shame as Katsuki carries him across the room, each step jostling the thick intrusion.
“Making it fucking known,” Katsuki snarls. He kicks the door open.
The man on the other side is older, in a cheap suit. His eyes widen, his gaze dropping instantly to where they are joined. Izuku is splayed open, his legs hooked over Katsuki’s arms, his mother’s pink, swollen pussy stretched obscenely around the base of his son’s cock, their mixed release dripping down Katsuki’s balls and onto the welcome mat.
“The fuck?” the client breathes.
Katsuki smirks, a wild, possessive thing. He drives his hips up, a hard, shallow thrust that makes Izuku scream and claw at his shoulders. “See this?” Katsuki growls, not stopping the relentless, claiming rhythm. “This is mine. My mother. My cunt. You’re late.”
The client just stares, his mouth slack. He doesn’t leave.
“Mommy’s pussy is only for his son now,” Katsuki pants, fucking up into the tight, wet heat, his eyes locked on the stranger’s shocked face. “But since you’re already here…” He rams deeper, making Izuku sob. “You can come in. You can watch. Pay your usual rate to sit there and beat your dick to us. Or get the fuck out.”
There’s a long, silent moment filled only with the wet slap of skin and Izuku’s broken gasps. The client’s eyes are glued to the junction of their bodies. He swallows hard, his hand twitching at his side. Then, slowly, he steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He doesn’t sit. He just stands there, in the middle of the sex-smelling room, and unzips his pants.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whimpers, burying his face in his son’s neck, but his hips are rolling, meeting every thrust, his body betraying his shame with eager, slick friction.
“Look at him, Mommy,” Katsuki commands, his voice rough with exertion. He turns them slightly so Izuku can see the man over his shoulder, already stroking himself, his eyes dark with voyeuristic hunger. “He gets to see what a real fucking looks like. He gets to see who owns you.”
Izuku moans, the humiliation hot and sharp, yet it coils in his gut, tightening the spring of his need. He watches the client watch them, and his pussy clenches hard around Katsuki’s shaft. “He’s watching,” Izuku breathes, the words a filthy confession against Katsuki’s skin.
“Damn right he is.” Katsuki’s pace turns punishing, each thrust jarring and deep, aimed to showcase the possession. “Tell him. Tell him who this pussy belongs to.”
“My son!” Izuku cries out, his voice echoing in the cramped space, his eyes squeezed shut. “It belongs to my son!”
The client’s hand moves faster on his own cock, his breathing audible now, a harsh counterpoint to their own. Katsuki’s grin is feral. He licks a stripe up Izuku’s throat. “Now he knows.”
Katsuki’s arms snake under Izuku’s thighs, locking tight, and he heaves him up and over, folding his mother in half. Izuku’s back is flush against Katsuki’s chest now, his legs hooked over Katsuki’s arms, his dripping pussy completely exposed to the room—and to the client’s fixed, hungry stare. The new angle is deeper, brutal, and Izuku’s cry is punched out of him as Katsuki’s cock spears him to the hilt.
“There,” Katsuki pants, his voice a hot growl in Izuku’s ear. His eyes drill into the client over Izuku’s shoulder. “Now you can see it proper. See how deep my cock splits my own mommy open.”
The client’s hand is a blur on his own shaft, his gaze glued to the obscene junction where flesh disappears into flesh. He nods, a shaky, eager jerk of his head.
“This shit get you off?” Katsuki taunts, driving up hard, making Izuku jolt. “You get off on watching incest, you old fuck?”
A choked sound escapes the client. “Yes.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku whimpers, his face scarlet, but his hips writhe, trying to take more.
“He likes it, Mommy. Makes it better for him.” Katsuki’s thrusts turn measured, theatrical, each pull-out showing the glistening, stretched ring of Izuku’s hole before he slams back in. “Show him. Show your client how good your son makes you feel.”
Izuku shakes his head, a tear tracking through his freckles.
“Do it,” Katsuki commands, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Squirt. Squirt hard all over that perv’s cock. Let him wear it.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. You’re a fountain for me. So fucking do it.” Katsuki’s hand slides down, his thumb finding Izuku’s clit, pressing and rubbing in harsh, perfect circles. “Look at him. Look at his dick. That’s where you’re aiming.”
Izuku’s green eyes, hazy with pleasure, lock onto the client’s stroking fist. The shame burns, but the coil in his gut tightens, supercharged by the command, by the voyeuristic hunger on the stranger’s face. His breath hitches.
“That’s it,” Katsuki grunts, fucking into him with relentless precision. “Let it go. Paint him.”
The pressure breaks. Izuku’s back arches, a raw scream tearing from his throat as his cunt convulses, and then he erupts—a violent, arching spray of clear fluid that soaks the client’s hand, his wrist, the front of his cheap trousers. The client gasps, his own rhythm stuttering, but he doesn’t stop, just watches, mesmerized, as Izuku soaks him.
“Fuck yes,” Katsuki snarls, pounding into the clenching, fluttering heat, his own release coiling tight. “Look at that. Look at my good mommy.”
The client’s breathing turns ragged. “God,” he grunts, his hand moving faster, slick with Izuku’s release. “Oh, god.”
Izuku sobs through the aftershocks, his body going pliant in Katsuki’s brutal hold, his eyes glazed and fixed on the mess he made. Katsuki watches the client’s face twist, watches the man’s hips stutter.
“He’s gonna cum,” Katsuki breathes into Izuku’s ear, a filthy secret. “He’s gonna cum watching me own you. You did that.”
The client’s groan is loud, guttural. He spills over his own fist, stripes of white joining the wet shine on his pants, his eyes never leaving Izuku’s ruined, exposed pussy.
Katsuki’s rhythm fractures. He buries himself deep and lets go, a hot, claiming flood that Izuku feels instantly, filling him, marking him from the inside. He grunts, his arms tightening like vices around his mother’s thighs, holding him impaled as he pumps his seed home.
Katsuki’s cock, still buried deep, doesn’t soften. It swells, impossibly, a fresh pulse of heat inside Izuku’s oversensitive channel. Izuku gasps, his cunt fluttering weakly around the renewed hardness.
“Never gonna get soft for you, Mommy,” Katsuki grunts, his hips giving a slow, deliberate roll. “Not until I’ve done what I said.”
He turns his head, his crimson eyes nailing the client who stands trembling, pants stained with his own and Izuku’s release. “The cash. On the table. Now.”
The client fumbles, pulling a wrinkled wad of bills from his jacket and placing it on the side table with a shaking hand.
Katsuki doesn’t stop moving inside Izuku, shallow, possessive grinds. “You spread the word. The only show here is a son fucking his mother. You want to watch? You pay. You want to touch? You get the fuck out. Tell ‘em.”
“I—I will,” the client stammers, unable to look away from where their bodies are joined.
“Good. Now leave. I need to breed my mommy in private.”
The client stumbles backward, his movements clumsy, and fumbles with the lock before escaping into the hall. The door slams. Katsuki kicks the deadbolt home with his foot, the finality of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet.
He hefts Izuku up, his cock slipping free with a wet sound, and carries him down the short hall toward the bedroom. Izuku clings to him, his face buried, his body humming with exhaustion and a dark, blooming need.
Katsuki drops him onto the big bed, the one that’s seen a thousand strangers. He looms over him, his huge cock jutting out, glistening with his own cum and Izuku’s slick. “We’re far from done.”
“Kacchan…” Izuku breathes, spreading his legs in a silent, shameless invitation.
“No more pills,” Katsuki says, crawling over him, his voice a low, serious rumble. “I’m putting a baby in you. My baby. In my mommy’s tummy.” He lines himself up, the thick head nudging Izuku’s stretched, dripping entrance. “You understand?”
Izuku’s green eyes are wide, terrified, exhilarated. He nods, a quick, frantic jerk of his head. “Yes.”
Katsuki drives in. It’s not a fuck this time; it’s a claiming. Ruthless, deep, animalistic pistoning of his hips, the wet slap of skin a frantic drumbeat in the room. He leans down, his breath hot on Izuku’s mouth. “Gonna fill you up every day. Every fucking day until it takes.”
Izuku claws at his son’s back, his cries pitching higher, broken by each brutal thrust. He’s sore, he’s overstimulated, he’s leaking both their cum, and he’s never been so utterly, completely cock-drunk in his life. He can’t form words, just gasps and sobs and the silent, screaming yes in every roll of his hips.
“You love it,” Katsuki snarls, his rhythm never faltering, a teenager’s endless energy fueling a monstrous hunger. “You love your son’s dick ruining you. Say it.”
“I love it!” Izuku wails, the confession torn from him. “I love your cock, Kacchan, I love it, I’m yours—”
Katsuki’s mouth crashes down on his, swallowing the words, kissing him with a bruising, desperate intensity as his hips hammer home, over and over, a relentless promise etched into flesh.
Izuku’s hands slide from Katsuki’s sweat-slick back down to his own lower belly, splaying over the soft, freckled skin. He presses down, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, imagining a hard, round swell there. A baby. Kacchan’s baby. The thought sends a fresh, desperate ache through his cunt, which is still stretched taut around his son’s relentless cock. “Kacchan,” he breathes, the word a prayer.
“What, Mommy?” Katsuki grunts, not slowing, his thrusts a deep, grinding punishment.
“Fill me up,” Izuku begs, his voice breaking on a sob. “Please. Stuff my womb. I want it—I want to be pregnant again. I want your baby so bad. Give it to me.”
Katsuki’s rhythm hitches. He leans back, just enough to look down at where they’re joined, at Izuku’s hand pressed over his own stomach. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. “You see it, huh? See my kid growing in there?”
“I feel it,” Izuku whimpers, arching to take him deeper. “I feel you putting it there. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
“Fucking greedy,” Katsuki snarls, but it’s all pride. He shifts his angle, driving up harder, aiming deeper with each piston of his hips. The wet slap of his balls against Izuku’s ass is obscenely loud. “This is where it happens. Right here. My cock’s knocking on the door, Mommy. You gonna let me in?”
“Yes! Yes, it’s yours, it’s all yours—” Izuku’s words dissolve into a choked cry as Katsuki bottoms out, the thick crown of him pressing against a place that makes Izuku’s vision whiten. His pussy clenches in a frantic, rippling wave, milking the huge length inside him.
Katsuki groans, his composure cracking. “Fuck, you’re sucking me in. You’re trying to steal my cum right out of my balls.”
“I need it,” Izuku sobs, his hips meeting every thrust. “I’m empty. I need you to put a baby in my empty tummy, Kacchan. Please.”
The raw, shameless need in his mother’s voice tips Katsuki over an edge. His thrusts turn erratic, brutal, his control shattering. “Gonna breed you,” he promises, a frantic chant against Izuku’s neck. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll taste it in your throat. You’ll walk around dripping my kid for days.”
Izuku claws at the sheets, his own release coiling again, sparked by the filthy promise. He’s oversensitive, raw, and he’s never wanted anything more. His cunt weeps around Katsuki’s cock, a fresh flood of slick easing the brutal glide.
“Come on,” Katsuki grits out, his breath scorching. “Squirt again. Soak the bed. Let me feel how bad you want it.”
The command is all it takes. Izuku shatters, his body bowing off the mattress as another torrent gushes from him, not as violent as before but deeper, a hot, pouring surrender that slicks both their thighs and the sheets beneath them. Katsuki shouts, a raw, triumphant sound, and buries himself to the hilt as his own orgasm roars through him.
Izuku feels it—the hot, pulsing flood, distinct and endless, painting his insides. Katsuki grinds deep, his cock twitching as he empties himself, his hips making small, desperate circles to push it all as far in as it can go.
For a long minute, there is only the sound of their ragged breathing and the wet, sticky heat between them. Katsuki finally stills, his weight heavy and comforting on top of Izuku. He doesn’t pull out.
Izuku’s hands are still on his belly, stroking gently. A tear tracks through the sweat on his temple. “Do you think it took?” he whispers.
Katsuki lifts his head. His crimson eyes are dark, possessive, soft in a way they never are. He kisses Izuku, slow and deep. “It’ll take. I’m not stopping until it does.” He rolls his hips, a lazy, full grind. His cock, still semi-hard inside him, gives a promising throb. “I’m just getting started, Mommy.”
The living room stinks of sweat and cigar smoke and the sharp, metallic tang of come. Ten months later, and the crib is gone. The bed is just for sleeping. The stage is here, now: the worn velvet couch facing five naked men on the floor, their hands pumping their cocks in a lazy, mesmerized rhythm as they watch the show.
Izuku is a swollen, breathtaking planet on that couch, nine months pregnant with his son’s child, his huge, round belly taut and freckled, his breasts heavy and leaking thin streams of milk that trace shiny paths down his sides. Katsuki is beneath him, his hands gripping the massive swell of Izuku’s hips, driving up into him with slow, deep, practiced rolls. Izuku rides him, his head thrown back, a low moan pouring from his throat with each descent.
“Look at him take it,” one of the clients murmurs, his eyes glued to where their bodies meet, to the way Izuku’s stretched cunt sucks Katsuki’s cock back in every time he lifts. “Fucking beautiful.”
“He’s gonna pop,” another says, grinning as he strokes himself faster. “Any day now.”
Izuku’s green eyes, hazy with pleasure, slide toward the men. A smirk touches his swollen lips. He grinds down hard, making Katsuki groan, and lets a hand drift over the curve of his belly. “You guys wanna see something really hot?” he purrs, his voice roughened by use.
Katsuki stills his hips, looking up at his mother’s face. “What’re you doing, Mommy?”
“I’m just thinking,” Izuku says, loud enough for the room. He rocks gently, feeling the incredible fullness inside him. “My water could break. Right here. Right now. With your big cock stuffed in me. I could just… gush all over you, baby boy. Have your baby right in front of everyone.”
A collective, hungry gasp ripples through the clients. One of them curses, his fist flying faster on his shaft. “Fuck yes. Do it. I’ll pay double.”
“You hear that, Kacchan?” Izuku whispers, leaning down, his leaking nipples brushing Katsuki’s chest. “They think it’s hot. They wanna see you become a daddy on this couch.”
Katsuki’s crimson eyes blaze with possessive fire. He sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around Izuku’s bulk, holding him close, their joined bodies upright for the audience. “You gonna give them a show, Mommy?” he growls into his ear, then starts fucking up into him again, hard and deep, the slap of skin echoing off the walls.
“Yes—ah!—maybe I am,” Izuku cries out, clutching Katsuki’s shoulders, his body beginning to tremble. The pressure inside him is immense, a deep, shifting weight. “I feel so… so full. I can’t—I can’t hold it—”
The tension in the room snaps. The clients are silent, rapt, stroking furiously. Katsuki pistons into him, his breath ragged. “Then let go. Soak me. Have my baby.”
Izuku’s mouth opens in a soundless cry. There’s a deep, internal click, a release of pressure so profound it whites out his vision. Then a warm, sudden flood erupts from him—not squirt, not come, but a rush of clear fluid that pours down over Katsuki’s pounding cock and balls, soaking both their thighs and the couch cushion beneath them with a sound like a sigh.
The clients erupt. They shout, they groan, several of them spurting onto the carpet, their eyes locked on the dripping, miraculous mess. Katsuki freezes, buried to the hilt inside his mother, feeling the warm cascade. He looks down at the translucent fluid coating him, then up at Izuku’s stunned, blissful face. A slow, savage smile spreads across his lips.
“Show’s over,” Katsuki barks at the men, not looking away from Izuku. “Get the fuck out. My mommy’s having my baby.”
The men scramble, pulling on pants, fumbling with wallets, their eyes still glued to the soaked couch and the pregnant man shuddering in his son’s arms. Katsuki doesn’t watch them go. His focus is entirely on Izuku, on the new, rhythmic clenching he feels around his still-hard cock inside him. “Contractions?” he grunts, his voice rough.
Izuku nods, his face pressed into Katsuki’s neck. “Starting. They’re… strong.”
“Right.” In one fluid motion, Katsuki pulls out, ignoring Izuku’s soft whimper at the loss. The clear fluid mixes with other messes, dripping steadily. Katsuki stands, heedless of his nakedness, and scoops Izuku up from the couch. “Car’s out back. Keys are in my jacket.”
“Kacchan, I’m all wet,” Izuku murmurs, clinging to him, his huge belly between them.
“Don’t care.” Katsuki carries him through the small apartment, past the empty crib in the corner of the bedroom, and out the rear door into the cool night air. He bundles Izuku into the passenger seat of his used sedan, grabbing a discarded hoodie from the back to stuff beneath him. “Breathe. Don’t push yet.”
The drive is a blur of streetlights and Izuku’s bitten-off moans. Katsuki drives with one hand, the other resting on Izuku’s thigh, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin there. “Talk to me,” he demands.
“It hurts,” Izuku pants, his head lolling against the window. “It’s different this time. Feels… bigger.”
“He is bigger. My kid’s gonna be a beast.” Katsuki’s voice is full of pride. He swerves into the hospital emergency bay, parking haphazardly. He’s still naked from the waist down, just pulling on his sweatpants as he gets out and retrieves a startled Izuku.
The triage nurse looks from the heavily pregnant, dripping man to the fierce, disheveled young man holding him. “And you are?” she asks, clipboard in hand.
“His son,” Katsuki says, the lie smooth and immediate. “I’m all he’s got. His water broke. He’s in labor. Now.”
They’re rushed to a delivery room. A different nurse, an older woman with kind eyes, helps Izuku into a gown. “And the father?” she asks gently while checking monitors.
Izuku’s green eyes, glassy with pain, find Katsuki’s across the room. He gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “We don’t know,” Izuku whispers, the practiced lie falling easily from his lips. “It was… just a random guy. Months ago.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He moves to the head of the bed, sliding his hand into Izuku’s.
The labor is long. Hours stretch, marked by Izuku’s cries and the clinical beep of machines. Katsuki never leaves. He wipes Izuku’s brow with a cool cloth. He lets Izuku crush his fingers during the peaks. He leans close, his mouth against his mother’s ear, when the doctors and nurses step out. “You’re doing so good, Mommy,” he murmurs, his voice a private growl. “Pushing my baby out just like you’re supposed to.”
“Hurts, Kacchan,” Izuku sobs, his body arching.
“I know. Squeeze my hand harder. You can take it. You were made for this.” His words are a dark, twisted anchor. When the doctor announces it’s time to push, Katsuki is the one holding Izuku up, his chest a solid wall behind him, his arms wrapped around Izuku’s trembling shoulders. “Now,” Katsuki commands, his voice low and fierce. “Push.”
Izuku screams, a raw, tearing sound, and bears down. The world narrows to pain and pressure and the feel of his son’s heartbeat against his back. There is a final, burning stretch, a sudden release, and then a thin, indignant wail fills the room.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor announces, placing a squirming, red-faced infant on Izuku’s heaving chest.
Izuku looks down, tears streaming freely now, not from pain but from a flood of something unbearable and perfect. He looks up at Katsuki. “He has your hair,” he whispers.
Katsuki stares at the baby, at the faint, blond wisps on its head. His expression is one of savage, bewildered triumph. He leans down and kisses Izuku’s sweaty temple. “Told you I’d put a good one in you.”
The kind nurse beams as she helps clean up. “Have you picked a name?”
Izuku’s eyes are locked with Katsuki’s. A silent conversation passes between them. “Natsuki,” Izuku says softly.
“Oh, how lovely!” the nurse coos. “Natsuki. So he’ll match with his big brother, Katsuki. That’s just precious.”
Katsuki’s mouth twists into a smirk. He strokes the baby’s head with one rough finger. “Yeah. That’s totally why.”
They keep their secrets. The paperwork lists the father as unknown. Katsuki signs as the supportive son. When they are discharged, a small, perfect family of three, the sun is high. Katsuki carries the car seat. Izuku walks slowly, sore and stitched, holding Katsuki’s arm. They drive home to the apartment that smells of sex and survival. Katsuki carries the crib back from the corner and sets it up beside their bed.
Izuku never puts on lingerie for a client again. He wears it only for Katsuki, who fucks him gently at first, then with renewed, possessive hunger once he’s healed. The couch is cleaned. The clients’ phone numbers are deleted. The money from the last, spectacular show lasts long enough. Katsuki gets a job. A real one. Izuku stays home with Natsuki.
Some nights, when the baby is asleep, Izuku will catch Katsuki staring at the crib, then at him, with that same dark, unblinking focus he had as a child watching from the shadows. Izuku will go to him, curl into his lap, and whisper, “My good boy.” And Katsuki will hold him, their secret a living thing between them, and that is their happily ever after.