The front hall light was too bright. Izuku stood frozen on the threshold, the scent of his father—sweat, cheap soap, pure Katsuki—wrapped around him in the oversized coaching jacket. The fabric whispered against his bare thighs under the skirt. A large, warm palm pressed firm against the base of his spine, a brand through two layers of cloth.
“You’re home!” Inko’s voice floated from the kitchen, warm as the light. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Katsuki’s hand didn’t move. His chest was a furnace against Izuku’s back. Izuku could feel the low, heavy beat of his father’s heart. His own cunt clenched, a slick, empty ache. He bit his lip.
“Move, nerd,” Katsuki grunted, the words a rough vibration against his ear. The hand on his back pushed, guiding him forward into the domestic glow.
Inko bustled into the hallway, wiping her hands on a green apron. Her smile was immediate, crinkling her eyes. “There are my boys! Katsuki, you’re later than I thought. Izuku, honey, you’re all bundled up. Are you cold?”
Izuku’s throat tightened. The jacket smelled like shame and want. “A little,” he whispered.
“He’s fine,” Katsuki said, his voice a graveled command. He finally removed his hand, the absence a shock of cold. He stepped around Izuku, a mountain of contained tension in his polo and track pants. “Long debrief after the game.”
“Well, wash up, both of you. Katsuki, can you grab the rice?” Inko turned back toward the kitchen, her long green hair swinging.
The moment she disappeared, the air crackled. Izuku’s eyes snapped to his father. Katsuki was staring at him, his red eyes dark, traveling from the messy green curls down to where the jacket hem brushed mid-thigh. His jaw was a hard line.
“Go change,” Katsuki ordered, his voice low. “Now.”
“Into what, Daddy?” Izuku asked, the title slipping out soft and deliberate. He saw his father’s pupils flare. “Pajamas? Or nothing?”
Katsuki took a single, swift step into his space, crowding him back against the wall beside the coat closet. The proximity was suffocating. Izuku could see the pulse hammering in Katsuki’s throat. “Don’t,” Katsuki warned, a ragged whisper. “Not here. Not with her in the next room.”
“Why?” Izuku breathed, tilting his head up. “You liked it in your office. You tasted me.”
A muscle in Katsuki’s cheek jumped. His eyes dropped to Izuku’s mouth. For a second, Izuku thought he’d kiss him right there, break the world in half. Then Katsuki shoved away, running a rough hand through his spiked hair. “Go. Put on real clothes. Or I swear to god.”
Izuku slipped past, his shoulder brushing Katsuki’s chest. He felt the hard muscle, the heat. He didn’t look back as he climbed the stairs, every step a conscious sway of his hips under the heavy jacket.
In the kitchen, Katsuki gripped the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain did nothing. His blood was a deafening roar. He could still smell Izuku on his own skin, a sweet, musky trace under the lemon soap. He stared out the dark window, seeing only the reflection of the bright kitchen—and the ghost of his son, skirt hitched, exposed and wanting in his office.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Inko asked, stirring a pot on the stove. “You seem tense.”
“Fine,” he bit out, forcing his hands to relax. He turned, grabbing the rice cooker. “Long day with the squad. New recruits.”
“Including our Izuku!” Inko beamed. “I still can’t believe he tried out. He must have worked so hard in secret to surprise you.”
Katsuki’s gut twisted. “Yeah. A real surprise.”
Footsteps padded down the stairs. Izuku reappeared in soft sweatpants and an old t-shirt. The casual clothes should have helped. They didn’t. Katsuki knew exactly what was under them—the soft curve of his chest, the tiny waist, the freckled skin he’d put his mouth on. Izuku’s eyes found his across the room, wide and green and knowing.
Dinner was a special kind of torture. The table was small. Izuku’s knee brushed Katsuki’s thigh under it. Once. Twice. The third time, it stayed, a warm, persistent pressure.
Inko chattered about her shift at the hospital. Katsuki grunted responses. Izuku was quiet, pushing food around his plate.
“So, Coach Kacchan,” Izuku said suddenly, his voice sweet. Inko smiled at the use of the public nickname. “What’s the first real practice like? For the new squad members.”
Katsuki set his chopsticks down. “Early. Hard. No room for slackers.”
“I’m not a slacker,” Izuku said, holding his gaze. “You know how hard I can work when I want something.”
The air thickened. Inko laughed, oblivious. “He gets that from you, Katsuki! That single-minded focus.”
Katsuki’s knuckles were white around his water glass. Under the table, Izuku’s knee pressed harder. Katsuki could feel the heat of it through his track pants, a direct line to his cock, which was heavy and full, pressing against his zipper. He shifted, trying to find relief. There was none.
“I’m done,” Katsuki announced, standing abruptly. His chair scraped the floor. “I have… film to review.”
He didn’t look at Izuku. He couldn’t. He carried his plate to the sink and walked out, his stride stiff, every step an effort to hide the thick, aching outline in his pants. The hunger was a living thing, coiled tight in his gut, and his wife’s kitchen light was too bright to bear.
The master bedroom door clicked shut, sealing Katsuki in with the warm, familiar scent of his wife—vanilla lotion and clean sheets. Inko stood by the bed, already in her silky lavender nightgown, her smile soft in the lamplight. Room right next to there’s, through the thin wall, Izuku’s bedroom was silent. A listening silence.
“You’ve been so distant tonight,” Inko said, sliding under the covers. She patted the space beside her. “Come here. Let me help you relax.”
Katsuki stripped to his boxers, his movements stiff. The bulge there was still present, a dull, persistent ache. He slid into bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Inko immediately curled into his side, her hand settling on his chest.
“That’s it,” she murmured, her fingers stroking through the coarse blonde hair. Her touch was gentle, practiced. It usually unwound him. Now, it felt like a brand. “Just breathe.”
He closed his eyes. He saw the office. The desk. The skirt hitched up to freckled hips. The taste—musky, sweet, uniquely Izuku—flooded his mouth. He jerked as Inko’s hand drifted lower, over his abs.
“So tense,” she whispered, her lips brushing his shoulder. Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, her fingers wrapping around his thick, half-hard cock. He was already leaking. “Oh,” she breathed, pleased. “Someone’s been thinking about me.”
Katsuki’s breath hitched. He wasn’t. His cock swelled fully in her grip, a traitorous response to the wrong fantasy. He saw green curls. Heard a soft, defiant, “Daddy.”
Inko began to stroke him, her rhythm steady and sweet. “That’s it,” she cooed. She shifted, her nightgown rucking up, and swung a leg over his hips. He could feel the damp heat of her through her panties against his thigh.
His hands found her hips on instinct, big palms spanning the soft curves. But his thumbs brushed the lace edge of her underwear, and his mind screamed it was the wrong lace, the wrong hips, too wide, not the slender, boyish frame currently pressed against a wall the next room over.
“Katsuki,” Inko sighed, lowering herself to kiss his neck. She guided him to her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against damp cotton. “I need you.”
He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The rhythm of her hips was a gentle rock. All he could hear was the rustle of sheets, her soft sighs, and the deafening, imagined sound of his own son’s breathing through the wall. Was Izuku awake? Was his ear pressed to the plaster? Was his hand between his own thighs, thinking of him?
Katsuki couldn't take it. A guttural sound tore from his throat. He ripped Inko’s nightgown over her head, the lavender silk catching for a second on her wedding ring. Her panties followed, a scrap of cotton tossed into the dark. He shoved his own boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and angry and dripping. He flipped her onto her back, the mattress groaning, and drove into her with one brutal thrust.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes screwed shut. She was wet, ready, but she wasn’t who he was fucking. He saw green curls against his office wall. A short skirt rucked up to slender hips.
“Katsuki!” Inko gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. He was never this rough, this desperate. She arched under him, a soft cry escaping as he set a punishing pace, the headboard slamming into the wall with every drive of his hips. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a raw scrape. He kept his eyes closed, picturing the freckles he’d tasted. “Take it. You want it, don’t you? Been teasing for it all fucking day.”
Inko moaned, her nails digging into his biceps. She loved the ferocity, the possession in his touch. “Yes—!”
“Such a tight little cunt,” he panted, the filthy words falling from him like stones. He was talking to a ghost. “Gripping me like you’re starving for it. You are, aren’t you? My greedy little—” He caught himself, biting back the endearment that belonged to someone else. He snapped his hips harder, burying himself to the hilt, his low-hanging balls slapping against her.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the room, syncopated with the banging headboard. Through the thin wall, it would be a concert. A announcement. Katsuki hoped it was. He hoped Izuku was pressed against the other side, listening, his own small hand shoved into his sweatpants. The thought made his cock throb, a fresh pulse of pre-cum leaking deep inside his wife.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his breath hot against Inko’s ear. His mind screamed a different name. “I feel you clenching. Do it. Now.”
Inko obeyed, her body shuddering, a muted cry smothered against his neck as her climax washed through her. Katsuki followed, a ragged groan torn from his chest as he emptied himself, his vision white with the image of his son’s face. He collapsed atop her, spent, the sweat cooling on his back. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by their ragged breathing and the ticking of the clock downstairs.
After a long moment, Inko traced a finger down his damp spine. “Wow,” she whispered, a sleepy, satisfied smile in her voice. “What got into you?”
Katsuki rolled off her, staring at the ceiling. The shame was a cold tide, rising fast. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just… stress.”
“Well,” she sighed, curling into his side, her body soft and warm and entirely wrong. “I’m not complaining.” Within minutes, her breathing evened out into sleep.
Katsuki lay rigid in the dark. The phantom taste of musk was still on his tongue. From the other side of the wall, he heard it: a faint, rhythmic squeak of bedsprings. Slow. Deliberate. Then a soft, stifled gasp, unmistakable in the quiet house.
The squeaking springs were a metronome. Slow, then frantic, then slow again. Katsuki lay frozen, his wife’s soft snore a mockery against his shoulder. From beyond the wall came a wet, rhythmic sound—slick, unmistakable—followed by a hitched, muffled gasp. Izuku’s gasp.
Katsuki’s hand drifted down his own stomach, over the coarse trail of hair. His cock, spent and soft just minutes before, was already filling again, thickening against his thigh with a dull, urgent ache. He wrapped his fingers around the base. It was hot. Heavy. He gave a slow, tentative stroke.
Another wet sound. A soft, bitten-off whimper. “Daddy…”
The word was a ghost through the plaster, but Katsuki heard it. He knew that breathy, needy tone. His grip tightened. Pre-cum beaded at his tip, slicking his stroke. He matched the rhythm from the other room, his fist moving in a filthy mirror.
“You hear me,” Izuku’s voice came, slightly louder, a trembling whisper meant to penetrate. “Don’t you, Coach?”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer. He just listened, his fist pumping his cock, the glide made easy by his own release and the new, shameful leak of his arousal. The headboard gave a distinct, rhythmic tap against the wall. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*
“I can hear you thinking,” Izuku breathed. A sharp, wet squelch. A choked moan. “You’re so loud. Even when you’re quiet.”
“Shut up,” Katsuki growled, the words a raw scrape in the dark. He hadn’t meant to speak.
Izuku heard. A breathy, triumphant little laugh. “Make me.”
The springs squealed, the tempo increasing. Izuku’s breathing broke into sharp, open-mouthed pants. Katsuki could picture it: the slender body arching on the bed, green curls stuck to a sweaty forehead, a small hand pistoning between his own thighs. That tiny, hairless cunt, soaked and clenching around his own fingers.
“I’m thinking about your office,” Izuku gasped, voice trembling with effort. “About your tongue. About how bad you wanted to fuck me on your desk.”
“Stop.” Katsuki’s stroke turned rough, frantic. His balls drew up tight, a familiar pressure building at the base of his spine. He was close. Again. From a fucking voice through a wall.
“You’re touching yourself right now, aren’t you?” Izuku’s words were a slurred, desperate chant. “You’re so hard for me. I know it. That big, fat cock—aching for my pussy—”
Katsuki came with a silent, violent shudder, his teeth grinding together to stifle the groan. Thick stripes of cum painted his stomach and chest, hot and accusing in the dark. He rode the pulses, his fist slowing, the pleasure sharpened into razors by guilt.
The sounds from the other room peaked—a high, strangled cry, the wet sounds becoming a frantic slosh, then a sudden, dripping silence. Followed by a long, trembling exhale.
Katsuki lay there, sticky and hollow. The only sound was Inko’s sleep-steady breath and the relentless tick of the clock downstairs, counting the seconds of his ruin.