The front door slams so hard the framed family portrait in the hallway shivers on its nail.

Izuku jumps, the feather duster in his hand trembling. He’s in the living room, sunlight streaming through the big bay window that faces the quiet suburban street. He hears the backpack hit the floor with a thud, hears the ragged, controlled breathing from the genkan. A predator in the entryway.

“Katsuki?” he calls, his voice too high, too soft. “Is everything—?”

He doesn’t finish. His son stalks into the living room, and the air turns to ice. Katsuki’s handsome face is a mask of contained fury, his crimson eyes burning. He’s still in his university clothes, but his knuckles are white where he fists his hands.

“Class ran long,” Katsuki says, the words clipped and sharp.

“Oh. I can fix you a snack, Kacchan,” Izuku offers, taking a nervous step back, the duster held to his chest like a shield. “You look tense.”

Katsuki doesn’t answer. He just looks at him. Looks through him. His gaze travels from Izuku’s worried green eyes, down the soft curve of his body in his floral-print apron and cute dress, and lands on the plush couch positioned directly before the window. The blinds are open. The street is empty, but it wouldn’t take much. A car passing. A neighbor walking a dog.

“Turn around,” Katsuki says, his voice low and devoid of all warmth.

Izuku’s breath hitches. “Baby boy, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“I said turn the fuck around, Mom.” The endearment is a weapon. “Face the couch.”

The command brooks no argument. It’s the voice from the tapes. The voice from the bedroom. Izuku’s fingers go numb. The feather duster drops silently to the plush carpet. He turns, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stares at the cream-colored upholstery, at the perfect, fluffed pillows. The window is a giant rectangle of light at his back. He feels exposed, even before anything happens.

He hears a step. Then a hand, brutal and sudden, plants between his shoulder blades. It shoves, hard.

Izuku cries out, a short, shocked gasp as he pitches forward. His palms slap against the back of the couch, stopping his fall, but his face is buried in the cushions. The smell of fabric softener fills his nose. His apron and dress flip up. Before he can push back, a heavy weight presses against him—Katsuki’s entire body, pinning him down. A hard, insistent ridge digs into the cleft of his ass through their clothes.

“He had green hair,” Katsuki snarls into his ear, his breath hot and angry. “Like yours. Freckles. Not as many. Was fucking trembling in the library study room. So scared. So weak.”

“Katsuki—”

“Shut up.” A hand fists in his green curls and yanks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the cushion. His son’s face is right there, eyes blazing. “I could smell it on him. The fear. I had him cornered. I was going to take him into the fucking storage closet.”

Izuku whimpers, understanding dawning. The frustration. The rage. He held back. He came home.

“But I made a promise, didn’t I, Mommy?” Katsuki grinds his hips forward, the denim of his jeans rough against Izuku’s thin, delicate panties. “So I walked away. I came straight here. To you.”

His free hand slides down Izuku’s side, over the swell of his hip, and grips a handful of his ass through the fabric. He squeezes, hard enough to bruise. “This is what I get instead. This perfect ass, right here in my own living room. And you know what?”

He leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku’s ear. He doesn’t lower his voice. “I don’t give a single fuck who sees.”

Izuku stays quiet. He stares at the empty street through the window, his cheek mashed into the cushion, and feels a hot, shameful rush of wetness between his legs. The terror is real, a cold knife in his gut. But beneath it, coiling tight and undeniable, is a throbbing heat. Seeing that violence aimed at a stranger had sickened him. Feeling it aimed at him, his son’s brutal possession, makes his pussy ache.

“You’re soaking through these,” Katsuki growls, his fingers hooking into the lace of Izuku’s panties. He doesn’t slide them down. He yanks. The delicate fabric tears with a sharp, final sound. The cool air of the living room hits Izuku’s exposed skin.

Then Katsuki’s hand comes down. A loud, stinging crack that echoes in the quiet room.

Izuku jolts, a broken moan pulled from his throat. The pain is bright and shocking. It melts instantly into a deep, radiating heat that pools right where he’s already wet.

“That’s it,” Katsuki mutters, his voice dark with satisfaction. He spanks the other cheek, harder. Izuku’s body arches, a silent plea. “Moan for the whole street, Mom. Let them hear.”

His palm lands again, and again, painting Izuku’s ass a fierce, hot pink. Each blow makes Izuku shudder, makes his hips push back against Katsuki’s denim-clad erection. The shame is a live wire. The arousal is a flood.

Katsuki leans over him, his breath hot on Izuku’s ear. His hand stops, just resting on the heated skin. “This perfect ass. Tell me. Has anyone else ever fucked it?”

Izuku shakes his head, the motion frantic against the cushion. “No. Never.”

“Your husband? Never wanted this?”

“Masaru… he doesn’t… like this,” Izuku pants, the confession spilling out.

Katsuki’s smirks; Izuku can feel it against his temple. “Good. Then I’m taking it first. Your ass is mine, Mom. I’m taking your anal virginity.”

Anal. The word screams in Izuku’s head. He’s heard stories. Pain. Tearing. A different, deeper violation. A fresh wave of fear chills his spine. It wars with the slick heat gathering between his thighs, a treacherous, eager pulse. The idea of Katsuki claiming something even Masaru hadn’t… it excites him more.

He hears Katsuki spit. A wet, vulgar sound. Then a cold, slick droplet lands directly on his clenched hole. Izuku flinches, a gasp catching in his throat.

“Gotta open you up for me,” Katsuki says, his tone clinical, almost bored. “Can’t have you tearing. Not yet.” A single, blunt finger presses against the tight ring of muscle. It’s dry, rough. It pushes. Izuku cries out, his body locking up. “Relax,” Katsuki commands, his other hand fisting in Izuku’s curls again. “Or I’ll do it dry.”

Izuku forces a shuddering breath out. He tries to let go, to soften. The pressure increases, inexorable. There’s a burning stretch, a sharp, shocking breach. Katsuki’s finger sinks in to the first knuckle.

“Fuck,” Katsuki breathes, his controlled rage flickering into something like awe. “You’re so tight, Mommy. Like a fucking vise.” He begins to move, a slow, cruel push and pull. The burn is intense, but the spit provides a scant, shameful slickness. Izuku whimpers, his nails digging into the couch fabric.

“You like that,” Katsuki states, feeling Izuku’s body clench and flutter around him. “You’re fucking dripping onto the couch. My little slut-mom, getting her ass fingered in front of God and everybody.” He adds a second finger alongside the first. The stretch is blinding, a white-hot ache. Izuku sobs, his hips pushing back again, betraying him completely.

“Please,” Izuku chokes out, not knowing what he’s begging for. For it to stop. For it to never stop. For the window to be empty. For the whole world to see.

“Please what?” Katsuki croons, scissoring his fingers, stretching him wider. The sounds are obscene—wet, soft squelches in the silent room. A car drives by outside. Izuku freezes, his entire body seizing up.

Katsuki doesn’t stop. He curls his fingers, rubbing hard inside him. “They can’t see this part,” he whispers. “But they’ll see the rest. They’ll see me pounding into you. Think about that. While I get you ready to take my cock.”

The third finger presses in alongside the others, a brutal, stretching burn that steals the air from Izuku’s lungs. He arches, a raw, ragged cry torn from his throat—a sound he’s never made before, deep and slutty and desperate. The stretch is agony. It’s ecstasy. His body seizes, then melts, accepting the invasion with a wet, shuddering clench.

“You like it,” Katsuki grunts, his voice strained. He works his fingers deeper, the squelch obscenely loud. “Your ass is sucking me in, you fucking whore.”

“I do,” Izuku sobs, the confession bursting out of him, fueled by the piercing fullness. He turns his face toward the window, toward the empty street that isn’t empty enough. “I want them to see. I want… I want the whole neighborhood to watch you fuck my ass. I want them all to see my son claim me.”

Katsuki’s rhythm falters. His breath hitches. “What did you say?”

“I want everyone to see!” Izuku shouts, the words ripping through his shame, leaving something feral and hungry in its place. He reaches back with one trembling hand, fingers digging into his own heated flesh. He spreads his ass cheeks apart, exposing his stretched, glistening hole around Katsuki’s buried fingers. “Please, Kacchan. Please, fuck your mommy’s ass. I need it. I need your cock. Give it to me.”

Katsuki makes a choked sound. The cold, controlled predator is gone. In its place is something ravenous, unmoored. He yanks his fingers free with a wet pop. Izuku whines at the sudden emptiness, pushing his hips back, begging wordlessly.

“Look at you,” Katsuki breathes, his hands fumbling with his jeans. The click of his belt, the rasp of his zipper are the only sounds besides their heavy breathing. “Begging for it in front of the window. My perfect mommy. My perfect slut.”

He shoves his pants and boxers down just past his ass. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and brutally hard, the foreskin drawn back, the head leaking steadily. He spits into his palm, once, twice, a harsh, wet sound. He works the spit over his length, the glide messy and crude.

“This is what you want?” he growls, aligning the broad, slick tip against Izuku’s loosened hole. He doesn’t push. Not yet. He just presses, a promise of pressure. “You want the whole world to see me ruin this perfect ass?”

“Yes,” Izuku whimpers, pushing back against him, trying to force the entrance. “Yes, baby. Please. Ruin Mommy's asshole.”

Katsuki shudders, a full-body tremor that runs through his hands gripping Izuku’s hips. The crude, spit-slicked head of his cock presses insistently against the loosened ring of muscle. Izuku’s words hang in the air between them, a filthy, desperate prayer. Then Katsuki snaps.

He doesn’t push. He slams.

His hips drive forward in one brutal, unyielding thrust. The thick, unforgiving width of him pounds into Izuku, a searing, blinding stretch that breaches him completely in an instant. Izuku’s mouth flies open, but the scream that rips out isn’t one of pain alone. It’s a ragged, broken moan of shocking pleasure, pitched high and wanton, loud enough to echo off the front window.

“Fuck!” Katsuki grunts, his own voice strangled, buried to the hilt inside the clenching, scorching heat. He freezes for a second, his body bowed over Izuku’s, trembling. “Oh, fuck, Mommy. Your ass… it’s swallowing me.”

Izuku sobs, his fingers clawing at the couch fabric. The fullness is agonizing, a deep, internal burn that steals his breath. But beneath the burn is a pulse of pure, shameful ecstasy, radiating from his core. He’s split open, claimed, pinned against the furniture for anyone to see. “Deeper,” he chokes out, the words mangled. “Please, Kacchan. Fuck Mommy’s ass. Ruin it.”

Katsuki obeys. He pulls back, the drag a rough, exquisite torture, and pistons forward again. The rhythm is immediate and vicious, no warm-up, no mercy. Each thrust jolts Izuku forward, his small breasts rubbing against the coarse upholstery, his face turned toward the glass. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the quiet living room.

“Look,” Katsuki growls, his breath coming in hot puffs against Izuku’s neck. His fingers dig bruises into the soft flesh of Izuku’s hips. “Look out the window, you slut. Look who’s watching.”

Tears blur Izuku’s vision. He forces his green eyes to focus. Two figures are walking a dog across the street. They’re facing away, but any moment they could turn. Any moment they could see the frantic movement in the Bakugou living room window. The danger is a live wire against his spine. “They’re there,” he whimpers, pushing back to meet Katsuki’s next punishing thrust. “Oh, god, they’re right there.”

“Let them see,” Katsuki snarls, snapping his hips harder, faster. His cock drags over a spot inside that makes Izuku see white. “Let them all see what a perfect whore my mother is. Taking her son’s cock in his ass. You love it. Say it.”

“I love it!” Izuku cries, the admission torn from him. His body is a live wire of sensation—the brutal fullness, the public shame, the cresting pleasure. “I love my son’s cock in my ass! I love it!”

Katsuki’s pace turns frantic, his control fraying. One of his hands leaves Izuku’s hip and fists in his green curls, yanking his head back to arch his spine. The new angle is deeper, more devastating. Izuku’s moans are constant now, a stream of broken, needy sounds. He can feel Katsuki’s heavy balls slapping against his soaked pussy with every drive forward.

The people outside stop. They turn. Izuku locks eyes with a middle-aged woman for one heart-stopping second. Her mouth falls open. She grabs her companion’s arm.

“She sees,” Izuku gasps, his body clenching violently around Katsuki’s length. The realization doesn’t make him hide. It makes him push back harder, his own hips meeting every thrust. “Kacchan, she’s watching us!”

“Good,” Katsuki rasps, his own climax building, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more erratic. His forehead drops between Izuku’s shoulder blades. “Let her watch. Let her see… who you belong to.”

“Fuck me faster!” Izuku screams, his voice breaking as he shoves his hips back to meet Katsuki’s erratic thrusts. The woman outside is still staring, her hand clamped over her mouth. “Show them! Show them how good you fuck your Mommy!”

Katsuki snarls, a raw, animal sound. He drives into Izuku with renewed fury, his balls slapping wetly against Izuku’s soaked cunt. “You want to put on a show, you filthy slut?”

“Yes! Make me squirt for them!” Izuku sobs, the words a desperate chant. He braces his hands on the fabric against his sweating palms. He spreads his legs wider, his thighs trembling, and arches his back, tilting his hips up. The movement presents the obscene tableau perfectly to the street: his son’s thick cock pistoning into his ass, his own pussy bare and dripping onto the couch cushions below. “Let them see everything!”

“Look at you,” Katsuki grunts, his rhythm fracturing into hard, short pumps. His hands vise around Izuku’s waist, holding him in place for the perfect, violating angle. “Offering up your cunt like a fucking buffet. You’re insane.”

“Cum in me!” Izuku wails, his green eyes wide and wild, locked on the horrified face outside. “Cum in Mommy’s guts in front of them! Breed me right here! Let them watch you fill me up!”

That does it. Katsuki’s control shatters. A guttural roar tears from his throat as he slams home and stays there, buried to the hilt. His body convulses, his hips stuttering against Izuku’s ass as he pulses deep inside, hot and relentless. Izuku feels the wet, rhythmic heat flooding him, marking him, and it triggers his own collapse.

His vision whites out. A sharp, electric scream rips from his throat as his body seizes. His pussy clenches violently around nothing, and then he’s gushing, a hot torrent of release spraying across the room, splattering the inside of his own thighs. The orgasm is a brutal, full-body convulsion that steals his breath and his sanity, leaving him sobbing and trembling in front of the window.

Katsuki sags over him, his forehead pressed between Izuku’s shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged, hot gusts. He’s still inside, still pulsing weakly. Outside, the woman finally turns and yanks her companion away, hurrying down the sidewalk without a backward glance.

The street is empty again. The only sound is their labored breathing and the wet, intimate drip of spent fluid onto upholstery. Katsuki’s voice is a hoarse whisper against Izuku’s damp skin. “You really are perfect.”

Izuku moves first, his body trembling as he pushes himself up on shaky arms. Katsuki’s softening cock slips from his ass with a wet, obscene sound. Fluid leaks down the back of Izuku’s thigh. He turns, his green eyes glassy but focused, and places a hand on Katsuki’s sweat-slicked chest.

“Sit,” Izuku says, his voice hoarse but clear. He pushes against Katsuki until the younger man, looking dazed and spent, stumbles back and collapses into the deep leather armchair facing the window even closer.

Katsuki blinks up at him, his crimson eyes struggling to recalibrate. “What the fuck, Mom?”

“The show’s not over yet,” Izuku whispers. He turns his back to his son, presenting himself to the glass again. The street is still empty, but the daylight is stark, unforgiving. He reaches down, gathers the hem of his rumpled dress, and holds it up. The movement exposes the full, freckled curve of his ass, the glistening, used hole, and above, the plush lips of his pussy, bare and slick.

“Look at you,” Katsuki breathes, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. His cock, already stirring back to life against his thigh, gives a thick twitch.

Izuku doesn’t answer. He spreads his legs wide, planting his feet on the floor, and braces his hands on the window sill. He looks out at the quiet suburban street, his breath fogging the glass. Then he reaches back between his own legs. His fingers find Katsuki’s shaft, guiding the blunt, leaking head back to his entrance. The muscle is loose, swollen, tender.

“Watch,” Izuku moans, as he sinks down, taking the first inch with a slow, controlled roll of his hips. A shuddering gasp escapes him. “Watch them watch me.”

Katsuki’s head falls back against the chair, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as Izuku impales himself fully, sheathing Katsuki’s renewed hardness in the tight, scorching clutch of his ass. “Fuck, Mommy.”

Izuku begins to move. He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, rising until only the tip remains inside, then sinking back down with a deep, full-bodied shudder. He keeps his dress held up, his back arched, ensuring the view from the street is unimpeded: the junction of their bodies, the thick length of his son disappearing into him, the dripping evidence of his own arousal coating his inner thighs.

A car slows at the stop sign across the street. The driver’s head turns. Izuku sees it. A sharp, needy sound catches in his throat. He meets the next downward plunge with more force, his ass clenching around Katsuki’s girth.

“They see,” Katsuki grunts, his hands coming up to grip Izuku’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “They fucking see you.”

“Yes,” Izuku hisses, his pace quickening. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin fills the room again, a counterpoint to their ragged breathing. Two teenagers on bikes pedal past. One of them glances over, does a double-take, and nearly swerves into a mailbox. They stop, staring, mouths agape.

“More,” Izuku chants, riding Katsuki harder, his small breasts bouncing with each descent. “Oh, god, more people. Look at them, Kacchan. Look at them watching your mommy.”

Katsuki’s thumbs rub bruising circles into Izuku’s hip bones. His own hips jerk upward, meeting Izuku’s frantic pace. “You’re a fucking lunatic. A perfect, beautiful lunatic.”

An older couple walking a small dog pauses on the sidewalk. The woman points. The man pulls out his phone. Izuku sees the lens flash in the sunlight. A bolt of pure, electric shame ignites into even hotter arousal. He moans, loud and long, throwing his head back.

“They’re recording!” Izuku cries, his movements becoming erratic, desperate. “They’re making a movie of us!”

“Let them,” Katsuki snarls. He bucks his hips up, driving deeper, forcing a broken scream from Izuku’s lips. “Let the whole world have the tape. Let them see what you are.”

Izuku’s rhythm breaks. He grinds down, circling his hips, milking Katsuki’s cock with the tight, clenching heat of his body. His green eyes are wide, fixed on the growing audience—the teenagers gaping, the couple with the phone, a curtain twitching in a house across the way. He feels utterly, terrifyingly seen. And he’s never been more turned on in his life.

“I’m your mom,” he sobs, the words a hot, shameful confession to the street. “And you’re fucking my ass in the living room. And they all know.”

“Say it again,” Katsuki demands, his voice ragged with impending climax.

“You’re fucking your mommy’s ass!” Izuku wails, his body tightening, coiling. “You’re breeding your mommy right in front of the window!”

"Spread it," Katsuki snarls, his voice shredded and raw. His hands leave Izuku’s hips to clamp around his mother’s wrists. "Open your fucking cunt for them. Show them what you are."

Izuku’s body obeys before his mind can protest. Lets his son guide his hands back between his own legs. His fingers, slick with sweat and other fluids, find his own swollen lips. He hooks two fingers into his pussy, spreading himself wide open for the street, for the phone cameras, for the gaping teenagers. The pink, glistening interior is fully exposed, clenching helplessly around nothing just above where his son’s cock is brutally pistoning in and out of his ass.

"Look at that," Katsuki grunts, and then he starts to move. He bucks his hips up like a jackhammer, a punishing, relentless rhythm that punches the air from Izuku’s lungs. The wet slap of skin becomes a frantic, staccato beat.

Izuku’s head falls back, a choked scream ripping from his throat. His green eyes roll back, whites showing, as the dual sensations detonate—the brutal invasion from behind and the shameful, open display in front. His body convulses, his spine bowing.

"I can’t—" he gasps, but the protest is a lie. He can. He does.

A hot, violent geyser erupts from his spread-open pussy. It’s not a trickle. It’s a pressurized spray, a clear, copious torrent that arcs through the air and splatters against the window glass with a loud, wet smack. The sound is obscene. It runs down the pane in rivulets, blurring the outside world.

"Fuck yes," Katsuki roars, never slowing his brutal pace. "Squirt for the whole goddamn neighborhood. Let them see you ruin the window."

Izuku’s body seizes, but the release doesn’t stop. Another gush follows the first, soaking his thighs, dripping onto Katsuki’s lap, pattering onto the floor. He’s a fountain, a broken pipe, his climax wrung from him by the violent fucking and the devastating exposure. Each hard thrust milks another hot jet from his cunt. The air fills with the tang of his release.

"They’re getting it all, Mom," Katsuki pants, his own rhythm becoming ragged, desperate. "Every drop. They see you coming on yourself while your son wrecks your ass."

Izuku can only sob, his fingers still holding himself obscenely open, his body a shuddering vessel for his son’s fury and his own bottomless shame. The phone across the street is still up, recording. He meets the lens for a second, his face a mask of tear-streaked, broken ecstasy, before another convulsion takes him and he sprays the glass again.

Katsuki’s thrusts lose all rhythm. He slams into Izuku with a final, gut-deep drive and freezes, buried to the hilt. A broken groan tears from his chest as he empties himself inside his mother’s ass for the second time, his release hot and profound, mixing with the mess already there.

They collapse together into the chair, a heap of sweat-slicked limbs and spent hunger. Izuku’s hand finally falls away from his ravaged pussy. For a long minute, the only sound is their ragged, overlapping breaths and the slow drip of fluid onto the floor. Outside, the spectators begin to disperse, silently, as if leaving a crime scene.

Izuku’s head lolls against Katsuki’s shoulder, his breath still coming in ragged hitches. He feels Katsuki’s hand, heavy and warm, cup his jaw and turn his face. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a claiming, a shameless tangling of tongues that tastes of salt and spent lust. Izuku moans into it, weak and pliant.

“Look at that,” Katsuki murmurs against his mother’s mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. His crimson eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a kind of reverent hunger. “A perfect ass. A perfect, fucking insane slut. You squirted like a goddamn firehose all over the window.” His thumb smears a wet streak from Izuku’s cheekbone. “Best mommy I ever could’ve asked for.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku breathes, the childish nickname a soft, shattered thing.

“Come on.” Katsuki’s voice is softer now, almost tender in its command. He shifts, helping Izuku’s trembling body off his lap and onto unsteady feet. He stands, his own movements languid with satisfaction, and surveys the wreckage of the chair and the floor. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t have my perfect mommy making dinner covered in my come.”

He steers Izuku toward the hallway bathroom, a firm hand on the small of his back. Inside, Katsuki wets a cloth with warm water. He doesn’t hand it over. He turns Izuku to face the mirror and begins wiping him down himself, his movements surprisingly methodical. The cloth swipes over the freckled curve of Izuku’s ass, cleaning the sticky evidence from his thighs. “Next time,” Katsuki says, his voice low and promising as he works. “Next time, I’m not going for your ass. I’m going straight here…” His hand slips around, fingers tracing the plump lips of Izuku’s pussy. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up. Breed it. Get you so fat with me everyone will know.”

Izuku shudders, his green eyes meeting his son’s in the mirror. He doesn’t speak. He just turns, rises on his toes, and seals the promise with one last, slow kiss. Then he slips past Katsuki, pulling his rumpled dress back into place. “I’ll start dinner,” he whispers, and pads out, leaving his son alone in the bathroom, the soiled cloth still in his hand.

Katsuki is a very good boy for his mother and cleans up the living room while Izuku cooks dinner for their perfect family.