Chapter 2: Late Night Confessions
The city woke slowly, a pale lavender light bleeding into the deep blue of night through the east-facing kitchen windows. Shouta stood before the stove, a broad silhouette against the gentle glow, the quiet hiss of the gas flame the only sound in the penthouse. In a cast-iron skillet, pats of butter foamed and sizzled around thick slices of brioche, soaking into the porous golden bread. The rich, sweet smell of it toasting filled the space, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly ground coffee dripping into a carafe.
He moved with a tired, methodical grace, muscles still loose from sleep. His black hair was a chaotic wave, tamed only by the fact he’d run his hands through it once. He wore a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and nothing else, the intricate tapestry of his tattoos—a coiled dragon across one shoulder blade, geometric patterns snaking down his arms—fully displayed in the quiet dimness. It was his sacred time, this hour before the world fully intruded.
The peace was shattered by the soft pad of feet on concrete. Izuku appeared in the doorway to the hall, a rumpled vision in an oversized silk kimono robe, his long black curls a magnificent mess around his sleepy face. He yawned, jaw cracking, and shuffled to the sleek, dark wood island, hoisting himself onto one of the stools with a grunt. He propped his elbows on the cool surface and watched his father’s back, his chin in his hands.
Shouta didn’t turn. He heard the stool creak, the soft sigh. “Coffee’s almost done,” he said, his voice rough with morning. “Toast is yours if you don’t mind the calories.”
“I burned them off last night,” Izuku mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
A flicker of a smile touched Shouta’s lips. He flipped the brioche with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Spare me the specifics until I’ve had at least half that carafe.”
Silence settled again, comfortable and worn-in. Shouta plated the toast, glistening with butter, and slid it across the island to Izuku. He fetched two heavy ceramic mugs, filling them with the dark, fragrant coffee. He pushed one toward his son, then leaned against the opposite counter, cradling his own mug, blowing steam across its surface.
The kitchen island between them was a tableau of their lives. A half-empty mug from Shouta’s late-night reading sat next to a stack of well-thumbed books—a mix of dense clinical texts on attachment theory and more accessible, illustrated sex-ed guides. Izuku’s playful doodles of exaggeratedly muscular men adorned the margins of some pages. And tucked almost out of sight, between the granite countertop and the edge, were a few stray condoms in foil packets and single-use lubricant squares, casually abandoned after their conversation days prior.
Izuku picked at his toast, tearing off buttery pieces and popping them into his mouth. He watched his father over the rim of his mug, his big black eyes clearing of sleep, gaining their usual sharp, mischievous focus. He swung his legs under the stool, the silk of his robe shifting.
Shouta saw the question forming before Izuku spoke. It was in the set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head. He took a long, bracing sip of coffee, preparing himself.
Izuku swallowed a bite of toast, licked butter from his thumb, and spoke into the quiet. “Daddy?”
“Hmm.”
“Is it safe to swallow?”
Shouta didn’t choke on his coffee, but his sip was deliberate, slow. He lowered the mug. He turned and set it carefully on the counter behind him, buying a fraction of a second. When he turned back, his face was its usual mask of calm, patient neutrality. “Define ‘safe.’ And define ‘it.’”
Izuku rolled his eyes, the gesture expansive and teenage. “Come, daddy. Jeez. Is it safe to swallow come? Cus me and Kaito have been doing that since like, forever, and I kinda forgot to ask.” He said it with a nonchalance that was only slightly forced, a rehearsed casualness. A faint blush, more of pride than shame, colored his cheeks.
Shouta looked at his son—the beautiful, brazen, infinitely vulnerable boy on the stool. He saw the challenging glint in his eye, the way he was testing the waters of his own audacity. He pushed off from the counter and walked to the island, pulling out the stool opposite Izuku. The wood groaned under his weight as he sat down. He placed both hands flat on the dark stained wood, his tattooed fingers spread.
“First,” Shouta began, his voice low and even, “the fact that you’re asking now, after ‘since like, forever,’ is either a testament to your incredible luck or a catastrophic failure in my basic education. Let’s assume it’s the former, and we’re just covering old ground.”
Izuku’s blush deepened, but he held his father’s gaze.
Shouta continued, his clinical mode settling over him like a familiar coat. “The short, crude answer is yes, Izuku, swallowing semen is generally safe from an STI transmission standpoint if your partner is infection-free. The pathogens that cause chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, HIV—they don’t survive the stomach acid. The primary risk from swallowing is in the throat. Pharyngeal gonorrhea or chlamydia is a thing. It’s often asymptomatic, but it can cause a sore throat.”
Izuku blinked, processing. The clinical words in his father’s mouth were somehow more grounding than shocking.
“Now,” Shouta went on, leaning forward slightly, “the ‘generally safe’ part has caveats. Hepatitis B can be present in semen. HPV can theoretically be transmitted through oral sex, though the primary risk is for the person performing the act, and it’s linked to throat cancer strains. You’re vaccinated for HPV, right?”
Izuku nodded, his playful defiance softening into genuine attention. “Yeah. You made me get it when I was thirteen.”
“Good. Second caveat: if your partner has an active herpes outbreak—sores on their dick—the virus can be shed in their semen. Swallowing with an active outbreak present is a very bad idea. You’re at risk for herpes in your throat, which is as unpleasant as it sounds.”
“But Kaito’s clean,” Izuku interjected quickly. “He got tested after his last partner, before me. Showed me the results.”
Shouta’s expression didn’t change, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Clean’ is a problematic term. It implies being anything else is ‘dirty.’ We say ‘negative’ or ‘infection-free.’ And results are only as good as the window period. You know this. You get tested every month. He should be testing just as regularly if he’s sexually active with multiple partners, or with you before barrier-free oral.”
“It’s just been me,” Izuku said, a defensive note creeping in.
“That’s what he tells you,” Shouta said, not unkindly. “And you have to decide if you believe him. That’s the trust part. The science part is that swallowing is low-risk for major STIs if he’s negative. The ‘ick’ factor is personal. Some people love it, some hate it. Some are allergic.”
Izuku’s nose scrunched. “Allergic? To come?”
“Rare, but yes. Proteins in semen can cause a localized or even systemic allergic reaction in some people. Hives, swelling, difficulty breathing. Usually happens with exposure to a new partner.” Shouta watched his son’s face, seeing the wheels turn. “Have you ever had a weirdly itchy throat or felt off after?”
Izuku thought, then shook his head. “No. Never.”
“Then you’re probably fine on that front.” Shouta paused, his dark eyes holding Izuku’s. “The real question isn’t just medical, Izuku. It’s about power and preference. Do you like it? Or do you do it because you think it’s expected? Because he asks? Because porn makes it seem like the grand finale?”
The question hung in the buttery air. Izuku looked down at his torn-apart toast. His swinging feet stilled. “I… don’t mind it,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I like it. The… the feeling of it, I guess. When he’s really close and I know I’m the one… you know.” He trailed off, the bravado gone, replaced by a flicker of adolescent vulnerability. “But sometimes, I just do it to get it over with. It’s messy. And the taste isn’t always great.”
Shouta nodded slowly. “That’s the most honest answer. And it’s the one that matters. You are never, under any circumstances, obligated to swallow a single drop of anything that comes out of another person’s body if you don’t want to. Not to be ‘sexy,’ not to be ‘good,’ not to avoid hurting feelings. You can spit it into a towel, you can let it fall on his stomach, you can have him wear a condom during a blowjob if you want zero taste. Your mouth, your rules.”
Izuku looked up, a complicated relief in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Shouta’s voice was firm, absolute. “Any partner who pressures you otherwise, who makes you feel guilty or less-than for having a preference about what happens to their ejaculate in your mouth, is not a partner worth keeping. That’s a fundamental respect issue. Sex isn’t a performance review. You’re not getting graded on technique or enthusiasm. You’re there to feel good, to connect, to have fun. All parties. Equally.”
He reached across the island, not touching Izuku, but gesturing to the space between them. “You tell Kaito, or anyone, ‘I’m not in the mood to swallow tonight.’ If he’s decent, he’ll say ‘Okay,’ and that’ll be the end of it. If he’s not, you text me ‘the stove is on,’ and I handle it.”
A small, genuine smile touched Izuku’s lips. “You’d really bust in?”
“In a heartbeat. Wearing my most intimidating leather pants.” Shouta’s own smile was a brief, dry flicker. “The point is, you have agency. Even—especially—in the little things. Even with something as culturally loaded as a fucking blowjob.”
Izuku picked up another piece of toast, chewing thoughtfully. The initial tension had drained from his shoulders. “What about… the other way? If I… you know. On him?”
Shouta didn’t miss a beat. “Vaginal fluids? Same basic principle. Low STI risk if everyone’s negative, higher risk if there are active sores or infections. Hepatitis, HIV, herpes, HPV—all can theoretically be transmitted through oral on a vulva. Dental dams are a thing. They’re like square condoms for oral. Unsexy as hell, but effective. Or you just make a judgement call based on trust, testing, and the presence of any symptoms.”
“Dental dams sound awful,” Izuku grimaced.
“They’re not most people’s first choice,” Shouta conceded. “But they exist. Knowledge is just having options. You don’t have to use all of them.”
Silence fell again, but it was different now. Lighter. The sun had risen enough to cast a warm, golden bar across the kitchen floor, illuminating the dust motes in the air. One of the black cats padded in, weaving between Shouta’s legs before hopping soundlessly onto the island. It walked with regal indifference between the condom packets and the sex-ed books, finally collapsing in a pool of sunlight.
Izuku reached out and scratched its head. “So… it’s mostly okay. As long as we’re careful. And tested.”
“Mostly okay,” Shouta confirmed. “The biggest risk with any oral sex is often emotional, not physical. It’s the risk of feeling used, or pressured, or like your pleasure is an afterthought. That’s the damage that lasts longer than a sore throat.”
Izuku nodded, absorbing it all. He looked at his father, really looked at him—the tired eyes, the concerned set of his mouth beneath the calm professionalism. “You’re not mad I didn’t ask sooner?”
Shouta sighed, a long, slow exhalation. He picked up his coffee mug again, the ceramic warm in his palms. “Mad? No. Disappointed in myself, maybe. I focus so much on the big-ticket items—condoms, lube, consent, testing—that I forget the thousand little questions in between. You should have felt you could ask this on day one. That’s on me.”
“It’s not,” Izuku said quickly, his brattiness completely gone. “I should’ve just asked. I was just… being a dumbass.”
“A dumbass with a highly active sex life,” Shouta corrected, the dry wit returning. “A combination that requires constant vigilance. So, no more ‘since like, forever.’ You have a question, you ask. No matter how crude, how trivial, how embarrassing it seems. Deal?”
“Deal,” Izuku said. He finished his toast, licking the last of the butter from his fingers. He slid off the stool, his kimono robe flaring open for a second before he tied it shut. “I’m gonna go shower. Kaito’s picking me up at eleven. We’re going to that new exhibit at the contemporary museum.”
“Culture,” Shouta said, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Followed by presumably less cultural activities.”
Izuku stuck out his tongue as he walked toward the hallway. He paused at the doorway, his back to his father. “Hey, daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For not being weird about it.”
Shouta watched his son’s retreating back, the cascade of black curls against the dark silk. “It’s my job,” he said quietly, to the empty room.
But as he sat there, the sun warming his skin, the cat purring on the counter next to the condoms, he knew it was so much more than that. It was his life. It was love, expressed in the most unorthodox, grating, visceral vocabulary imaginable. And as he listened to the distant sound of the shower starting, he let himself feel the fierce, terrifying pride of it for just a moment, before burying it under another sip of cold coffee.