🦢

Chapter 3: The Morning After

The morning light through the kitchen window was the color of warm honey, painting stripes across the polished floorboards and glinting off the chrome of the kettle. It was a lazy, golden Saturday. The kind of morning that felt stretched and soft at the edges, where time moved to the rhythm of dripping coffee and the distant coo of pigeons on the balcony.

Hizashi stood by the stove, his back to the room. He was shirtless, a simple pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. The muscles of his back and shoulders shifted under pale skin as he deftly flipped a fluffy omelette in the pan. Across the planes of his shoulders and down the elegant line of his spine, a series of faint, parallel scratches shone pink in the sunlight—yesterday’s history written lightly on his skin.

On the floor near his feet, Izuku sat surrounded by a fortress of plush animals. He was methodically working his way through a small bowl of mixed berries, his curls a wild dark halo around his head as he concentrated on stabbing a fat blueberry with a tiny fork. He was in his pajamas, feet bare, utterly content in the orbit of his daddy’s presence.

The domestic symphony was peaceful: the sizzle of butter, Izuku’s soft nom sounds, Hizashi’s quiet, tuneless humming. Then, a new note.

Shouta entered on silent feet, drawn from the shadowy hall into the sunlit kitchen like a cat seeking warmth. He’d just showered; his long black hair was damp and loose, dripping tiny dark spots onto the shoulders of his own t-shirt—one of Hizashi’s old band shirts, bleached soft and hanging slightly too big on his leaner frame. The column of his throat, usually hidden by his collar, was on full display, dusted with several unmistakable, bluish-purple marks.

He didn’t speak. He simply moved behind Hizashi, his arms sliding around the taller man’s bare waist, his palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He pressed his face into the space between Hizashi’s shoulder blades, nuzzling gently. He smelled of clean soap and shampoo, a crisp contrast to Hizashi’s scent of sleep, clean sweat, and cooking oil.

Hizashi’s humming didn’t stop. He leaned back into the embrace, his body relaxing against Shouta’s, his head tilting just enough to rest his cheek against Shouta’s damp hair. “Mmm. Someone’s clingy this morning.” His voice was a low rumble, still rough with sleep, effortlessly intimate.

“M’not clingy,” Shouta murmured into his skin, the words muffled. His lips brushed a faint scratch. “You’re warm.”

“You’re wet. You’re getting my pants damp.”

“Don’t care.”

Izuku looked up from his berries, observing the scene with the frank curiosity of a child. “Appa’s hugging.”

“He is,” Hizashi agreed, tilting the pan to let the uncooked egg run to the edges. “Appa’s a koala today. What do koalas say, Izuku?”

Izuku giggled. “They say… eep!”

Hizashi chuckled, the sound vibrating through where Shouta was plastered against him. “See? Even the kid knows.”

Shouta just tightened his hold, his fingers splaying against Hizashi’s lower abdomen. The action was possessive, needy. A week of enforced restraint had been lifted two nights ago, and Shouta had been almost pathetically, deliciously eager. The marks on both their bodies were a testament to that.

Hizashi set the spatula down and turned the burner off. He didn’t move from Shouta’s embrace, just reached back with one hand to tangle his fingers in Shouta’s damp hair. He tugged, not hard, but with enough authority to make Shouta’s breath hitch. “Careful, kitten,” Hizashi said, his voice dropping into a register meant only for Shouta’s ears, a velvet-wrapped threat. “Or I might bend you over this counter and teach you a lesson about distracting the cook.”

A full-body shiver went through Shouta. He pressed his forehead harder into Hizashi’s back, hiding his face. His ears flushed a dark red.

Izuku, missing the subtext but sensing a shift, stood up, his bowl clutched in his hands. “Daddy, I’m done. Can I watch Totoro?”

Hizashi’s demeanor shifted instantly, his voice brightening as he looked down at his son. “Did you eat all your fruit, superstar?”

“All gone!” Izuku proclaimed, holding up the empty bowl.

“Good job. Yes, you can. Go get it set up. Remember, quiet time until breakfast is ready.”

“‘Kay!” Izuku padded out of the kitchen, his plush army forgotten for the moment.

The second the boy was out of sight, Hizashi’s hand in Shouta’s hair tightened. He used it to guide Shouta around him, maneuvering him until Shouta’s back was against the counter’s edge. Hizashi caged him in, hands on the counter on either side of Shouta’s hips, his taller body leaning in. He looked down at Shouta’s flushed face, the vivid bruises on his neck, the way his dark eyes were wide and a little glazed.

“You’re being insatiable,” Hizashi murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s barely nine AM. You came so hard last night I thought you were gonna pass out. Twice. And here you are, rubbing against me like a cat in heat the second I’m trying to make your child sustenance.”

Shouta swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the marks. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. Your entire body is screaming it.” Hizashi leaned in closer, his lips a breath away from Shouta’s ear. “What do you want? Hmm? Want me to fuck you right here? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Against the counter. Quick and dirty while the eggs get cold and our son watches cartoons twenty feet away.”

Shouta made a small, choked sound. His hands came up to grip Hizashi’s biceps, not to push him away, but to hold on. “Zashi…”

“That’s what you’re thinking about. I can see it.” Hizashi pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, his green gaze knowing and warm. “You’re so easy to read, my love. All those big, dark, brooding looks for the outside world, and for me? You’re an open book. A very, very dirty open book.”

He kissed him then, not the gentle morning kiss of earlier, but a deep, claiming thing that tasted of mint toothpaste and uncomplicated want. Shouta melted into it, his fingers digging into Hizashi’s arms. When Hizashi finally pulled away, Shouta was panting softly.

“Later,” Hizashi promised, his voice a dark caress. He gave Shouta’s hip a firm, possessive squeeze that made him jolt. “If you’re good. If you help me get through this morning without setting anything on fire. Now, make yourself useful and get the plates. And for god’s sake, put your hair up. You’re dripping everywhere.”

He turned back to the stove, leaving Shouta leaning against the counter, dizzy and buzzing. Shouta took a second to breathe, to let the trembling in his knees subside. Then, obediently, he fetched two plates from the cupboard. His movements were deliberate, a way to ground himself. He found a hair tie on the windowsill and gathered his damp hair into a sloppy, high knot.

The normalcy returned, but it was charged now, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of their actions. They moved around each other with a practiced, domestic synchronicity—Hizashi sliding perfect portions of omelette onto the plates Shouta held out, Shouta retrieving chopsticks and pouring glasses of water, Hizashi grabbing the jar of homemade pickles from the fridge. But every brush of arms, every exchanged glance, carried the weight of the previous moment.

They brought the food to the low kotatsu table in the living room, where Izuku was already ensconced, his eyes fixed on the screen where Totoro was waiting on pause. The giant, friendly creature filled the TV, a stark contrast to the visceral imagery of Chainsaw Man from weeks past. Shouta felt a familiar pang of guilt, quickly soothed by the sight of Izuku’s utterly enraptured face.

“Breakfast delivery,” Hizashi sang, setting the plates down.

“Yay! Thank you, Daddy!” Izuku chirped, already reaching for his chopsticks with careful, practiced fingers.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of porcelain and the cheerful studio Ghibli soundtrack. Shouta watched his family. Hizashi, shirtless and beautiful, patiently cutting Izuku’s omelette into smaller, manageable bites. Izuku, utterly absorbed, chewing with a thoughtful expression as he watched Mei and Satsuki discover soot sprites.

The peace was profound. This was what they had built. This was what his momentary lapse had threatened. The thought made Shouta reach out under the table, his hand finding Hizashi’s bare knee. He just rested it there, a point of contact.

Hizashi didn’t look at him, but he shifted his leg, pressing his knee more firmly against Shouta’s hand. A simple acknowledgement.

“Appa,” Izuku said around a mouthful of egg, his eyes still on the screen. “Totoro is nicer than the chainsaw man.”

Shouta nearly choked. Hizashi’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“He… is,” Shouta managed, clearing his throat. “Totoro is a very good friend.”

“Does he have a chainsaw?”

“No, buddy. He has an umbrella.”

Izuku pondered this, his little face serious. “Umbrella is better. For the rain.”

“Definitely better for the rain,” Hizashi agreed, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he shot a look at Shouta. “Much more practical.”

After breakfast, the rhythm of the day took over. Shouta cleaned the dishes while Hizashi supervised Izuku’s attempt to get dressed. This usually involved a negotiation of epic proportions regarding socks.

“The green ones have dinosaurs, Daddy!”

“The green ones are also in the laundry hamper because you wore them to the park and they have mud on them. The blue ones have stars.”

“But I want dinosaurs!”

Shouta listened to the familiar back-and-forth, a smile tugging at his lips. Hizashi’s patience was a bottomless well. He never raised his voice. He just presented alternatives with the calm certainty of a man who knew he would eventually win.

“Tell you what,” Hizashi’s voice floated down the hall. “You wear the star socks today, and after your nap, we’ll draw our own dinosaurs on a fresh pair of white socks. How’s that?”

A moment of contemplative silence. Then, a triumphant, “Okay!”

Crisis averted.

By mid-morning, they were out the door. The air was crisp, a gentle spring breeze carrying the scent of blooming cherry trees from a nearby park. They walked, Izuku’s small hand securely in Hizashi’s, Shouta a step behind, carrying the canvas tote bag Hizashi had packed with snacks, water, and a spare sweater for Izuku. They were headed to the local community center for Izuku’s weekly Saturday soccer class—a chaotic swarm of four- and five-year-olds chasing a ball with more enthusiasm than coordination.

The walk was peaceful. Izuku chattered about Totoro and soot sprites. Hizashi pointed out different flowers in neighborhood gardens, teaching Izuku their English names. “Hydrangea. Azalea. Camellia.”

“Camelia,” Izuku repeated, his tongue stumbling over the syllables.

Shouta watched them, his heart a tender, aching thing in his chest. He loved these mundane moments more than anything. The domestic script of their life.

At the community center field, they joined the small cluster of parents on the sidelines. Hizashi was immediately social, exchanging easy greetings with a few of the mothers and another gay couple who had a daughter in the class. Shouta hung back, offering silent nods. He wasn’t unfriendly, just selectively social. His attention was solely on the green field where Izuku, in overlarge shin guards, was diligently listening to his coach.

“He’s really getting the hang of it,” Hizashi said, sidling up next to him, their shoulders brushing.

“He listens well. Doesn’t get distracted like some of the others,” Shouta observed, pride warming his voice.

“Takes after his Appa that way. Focused.” Hizashi bumped his hip against Shouta’s. “Though his Appa gets distracted by very specific things these days.”

Shouta elbowed him lightly in the ribs, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

It was a simple, stupid exchange. It made Shouta feel seventeen again.

After the class, Izuku was buzzing with expended energy and triumph—he’d actually kicked the ball once. They decided to extend the outing with a trip to the park. Izuku raced ahead to the playground, instantly assimilating into the ecosystem of shrieking children.

Shouta and Hizashi found an empty bench in the sun. Hizashi sat, stretching his long legs out. Shouta settled beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. For a while, they just sat in comfortable silence, watching Izuku determinedly climb a ladder too big for him.

“He’s fearless,” Shouta mused.

“He gets that from you, too,” Hizashi said. He slung an arm around Shouta’s shoulders, pulling him in. Shouta went willingly, settling against his side, his head finding the perfect niche against Hizashi’s shoulder. Hizashi pressed a kiss into his hair. “My brave, reckless men.”

They sat like that, a quiet unit. The sun was warm on their faces. An old man walked a dachshund past their bench. A couple argued quietly by the fountain. Life, normal and sprawling, unfolded around them.

“Remember the first time we brought him here?” Hizashi said, his voice nostalgic. “He could barely walk. He just sat in the sand and ate it.”

“You cried.”

“I did not cry. I was… expressing profound concern about his mineral intake.”

Shouta snorted. “You cried. Big, wet, dramatic tears. ‘Shouta, he’s eating the ecosystem!’”

Hizashi pinched his side, making him squirm. “You’re a terrible liar. And cruel to your husband.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Hizashi admitted easily, his fingers idly tracing patterns on Shouta’s arm. “I really, really do.”

The moment stretched, sweet and sun-drenched. Then, Hizashi’s tracing fingers stilled. His voice, when he spoke next, was quieter, more thoughtful. “You’ve been good lately. Really good. With the check-ins. With him.”

Shouta knew he wasn’t just talking about media. He meant everything. The careful, attentive parenting since the incident. The way Shouta had thrown himself into the prescribed penance, had communicated more, had been present in a deliberate way. “Trying to be,” he said, his own voice low.

“I know. And I see it.” Hizashi’s hand moved up to cup the back of Shouta’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin under his ear. It was a possessive, comforting gesture. “You’re a good father, Shouta. You know that, right? One mistake doesn’t change that.”

The words were a balm Shouta hadn’t realized he still needed. He nodded, his throat tight. He couldn’t speak.

Hizashi understood. He always did. He just held him a little tighter as they watched their son conquer the playground.

The afternoon was a slow, hazy drift. They returned home. Izuku, spent from sun and play, went down for his nap without a fuss, clutching his new sheep plush. The apartment settled into a deep, quiet peace.

In their bedroom, with the door closed softly, the dynamic shifted again. The sunlight here was different—softer, diffused through the linen curtains. It painted Hizashi gold as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. The scratches on his back were more visible now, a stark reminder of the night before.

Shouta stood by the dresser, watching him. The week of restraint had been a lesson in many things. In obedience, yes. But more so in anticipation, in the slow, sweet build of wanting. Now, with permission regained, the wanting was a live wire under his skin.

Hizashi caught his gaze in the mirror. He didn’t turn around. “See something you like?”

“Always.”

Hizashi smiled, a slow, predatory curl of his lips. “Come here.”

Shouta went. He walked to the bed and stood before Hizashi, who was still sitting, forcing Shouta to look down at him for once. It was an illusion of control. Hizashi reached out and hooked his fingers in the waistband of Shouta’s sweatpants, pulling him forward until he was standing between his knees.

“You were so good today,” Hizashi murmured, his hands settling on Shouta’s hips. “Patient. Attentive. You didn’t even complain when Izuku wanted to go on the swings twelve times.”

“I like the swings,” Shouta said, his breath already coming quicker.

“Liar. You get motion sick.” Hizashi leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Shouta’s stomach, right over the soft cotton of his shirt. The heat of his breath seeped through. “You did it for him. You’re so good for us.”

His hands slid around to cup Shouta’s backside, squeezing firmly through the fabric. Shouta made a soft sound, his hands coming to rest on Hizashi’s shoulders.

“I think,” Hizashi said, his voice dropping to that intimate, rough register that went straight to Shouta’s core, “you’ve earned your reward. Don’t you?”

Shouta could only nod.

Hizashi’s smile was wicked. “Use your words, kitten. Do you want me to fuck you? Right now? In our bed, in the afternoon light where I can see every single expression on your beautiful face?”

The crudeness of the words, delivered in that soft, loving tone, unraveled Shouta completely. “Yes,” he breathed. “Please, Zashi. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Hizashi’s hands went to the hem of Shouta’s shirt and pulled it up and off in one smooth motion. He took a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight—the pale skin, the lean muscle from years of martial arts training, the dusting of dark hair across his chest. Then he pushed Shouta’s sweatpants and underwear down in one go, leaving him bare.

Hizashi didn’t let him move. He kept him there, standing, exposed, while he just looked. His gaze was like a physical touch. “Gorgeous,” he whispered, before leaning in and taking Shouta into his mouth.

Shouta cried out, his hands flying to tangle in Hizashi’s blonde hair. It was too much and not enough—the warm, wet heat, the skillful tongue, the sheer shamelessness of the act. Hizashi hummed, the vibration wringing another ragged moan from Shouta’s throat. He was relentless, holding Shouta’s hips steady when they tried to buck, setting a devastating pace that had Shouta shaking within minutes.

“Z-Zashi… I’m gonna…” Shouta gasped, his knees threatening to give way.

Hizashi pulled off with a lewd, wet sound. “Not yet.” He was breathing hard himself, his eyes dark with lust. He gave Shouta’s length a firm, warning stroke. “On the bed. On your hands and knees. Now.”

The command brooked no disobedience. Shouta scrambled onto the bed, his body humming with urgency. He heard the sound of Hizashi undressing behind him, the rustle of clothes, the snap of a cap. Then the bed dipped behind him.

Hizashi’s hands were on him again, spreading him open. A slick finger pressed inside, and Shouta buried his face in the duvet with a groan. It had only been a day, but he was so eager, so ready. Hizashi knew his body better than he knew it himself, working him open with practiced, cruel efficiency—first one finger, then two, crooking them just so until Shouta was a writhing, pleading mess.

“Please… god, please…”

“What do you need, baby?” Hizashi’s voice was a teasing whisper against the skin of his back.

“You. Need you. Now.”

A third finger stretched him, making him gasp. “Like this? You’re so open for me. So greedy.”

Shouta couldn’t form words. He pushed back against the fingers, a wordless plea.

Finally, the fingers withdrew. The blunt, hot pressure of Hizashi’s cock replaced them, nudging against him. Hizashi leaned over him, blanketing Shouta’s body with his own, his mouth close to Shouta’s ear. “Remember what I said this morning? About bending you over the counter?”

Shouta nodded frantically.

“This is better,” Hizashi breathed, and then he was pushing in, slow and inexorable, until he was fully sheathed.

The feeling was blinding. The stretch, the fullness, the deep, shocking intimacy of it. Shouta sobbed into the covers, his fingers clutching the fabric.

Hizashi didn’t move for a long moment, letting them both adjust, letting Shouta feel every inch of him. Then he began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips that had Shouta seeing stars.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Hizashi grunted, his pace gradually increasing. “All morning. Clinging to me. Brushing against me. You wanted this. To be filled up. Owned.”

“Yes,” Shouta choked out. “Yes, yes…”

“Whose are you?”

“Yours. Zashi, I’m yours.”

The words seemed to break Hizashi’s control. He snapped his hips forward, driving into Shouta with a force that pushed him up the bed. The rhythm became harder, faster, perfectly aimed. Each thrust jolted through Shouta, a lightning bolt of pure pleasure. Hizashi’s hands were everywhere—gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, fisting in his hair, splayed across his heaving back.

The room filled with the sounds of their lovemaking: skin slapping against skin, Shouta’s muffled cries, Hizashi’s ragged breaths and low, filthy praise whispered directly into his skin.

“You take me so well… fucking perfect… mine…”

It was overwhelming. The physical sensation was eclipsed only by the psychological surrender, the complete and utter trust of giving himself over like this. This was their language. This was how they reforged their connection, how Hizashi reaffirmed his dominance and Shouta his devotion, how they shattered each other and put one another back together in the same breath.

Shouta felt the coil of pleasure tightening unbearably low in his stomach. “Zashi… I’m close…”

Hizashi’s hand snaked around his hip, gripping him in a tight, practiced stroke. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice ragged with his own impending release. “Let me feel it.”

That was all it took. Shouta came with a shattered cry, his body convulsing around Hizashi, vision whiting out. The intensity of it wrung a deep groan from Hizashi, who followed him over the edge moments later, thrusting erratically before collapsing over Shouta’s back, shuddering.

For a long time, the only sound was their harsh breathing slowly returning to normal. Hizashi’s weight was a warm, heavy comfort. He nuzzled the sweaty nape of Shouta’s neck before carefully pulling out and rolling them onto their sides, pulling Shouta back against his chest. He didn’t let go.

They lay like that, tangled and sticky and utterly spent. The afternoon sun had moved across the floor, painting a new pattern of light and shadow.

Eventually, Hizashi stirred, pressing a soft kiss to Shouta’s shoulder. “Bath. We’re a mess.”

“Mm. In a minute.”

Hizashi chuckled, his arms tightening. “You say that every time. Then you fall asleep and I have to carry your limp ass.”

“You like carrying my limp ass.”

“I do. I’m embarrassingly fond of your ass in all its states.”

They lapsed back into silence. The comfortable, sated kind. Shouta could feel his heartbeat slowing,