The kitchen smells of scorched chili oil and the expensive whiskey Izuku uses to deglaze the pan, a sharp, adult aroma that cuts through the usual homey scents. Cold granite presses against his lower back where he leans against the island, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, the only light a harsh, clinical blue from the range hood overhead.

“No, no, everything’s perfect here,” Izuku says, his voice a warm, practiced melody. He stirs the contents of the wok with his free hand. “Katsuki’s at a late seminar on forensic toxicology. Can you believe it? He’s already lightyears ahead of his cohort.”

Masaru’s voice, tinny and familiar, fills his ear with details about hotel conference rooms and tedious client dinners. Izuku listens, humming in the right places, asking gentle questions. He does love him. The sound is a comfort, a worn sweater. But the feeling is muted now, a lamp dialed low next to the sun.

The front door opens and closes with a soft, definitive click. Izuku doesn’t turn, focused on Masaru’s story about a misplaced presentation.

Footsteps, silent on the hardwood, approach the kitchen. Izuku feels the shift in the air before he feels the heat. “Oh, I’m sure you wowed them, honey,” he says into the phone, his eyes sliding shut as large, familiar hands settle on his hips.

Katsuki doesn’t speak. His thumbs hook into the waistband of Izuku’s leggings and his cute lace panties beneath, yanking them down to his thighs in one sharp motion. The cold air hits his exposed skin, then the hotter press of Katsuki’s body.

“Everything okay?” Masaru asks.

“Perfect,” Izuku breathes, the word hitching as Katsuki forces him to bend over the cool granite island, his cheek nearly pressed to the phone. He hears the rustle of Katsuki’s jeans, the slick sound of his cock, already hard and leaking, freed from his pants.

“You sound a little winded,” Masaru says, a note of concern threading through his voice.

“Just… stirring,” Izuku manages, biting his lip hard as the broad, blunt head of Katsuki’s cock pushes against his entrance. He’s soaked. He has been for days, his body thrumming and ready since Masaru left. Katsuki has used him in every room, on every surface, and his cunt opens for him now without a shred of resistance, a slick, welcoming heat.

Katsuki sheathes himself in one deep, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch is glorious, a fullness that steals the air from Izuku’s lungs. A broken moan claws its way up his throat, and he muffles it into the back of his hand, teeth sinking into his own skin.

“Izuku?”

“It’s— it’s the chili,” he gasps out, forcing a light laugh. “Went down the wrong pipe. So, the client was impressed?” He reaches back with his free hand, fingers tangling in Katsuki’s jeans, urging him deeper. The drag out is slow, torturous. The push back in is a claiming.

Katsuki sets a brutal, possessive rhythm, his hips pistoning against Izuku’s ass, the wet slap of their skin a secret, obscene percussion under Masaru’s voice. Izuku’s knuckles are white where he grips the phone. His other hand fists in his own green curls, holding on as the pleasure builds, hot and coiled low in his belly.

“Tell him you miss him,” Katsuki whispers, his voice a dark, low rasp directly into Izuku’s ear, his breath hot.

Izuku’s eyes roll back. He swallows. “I miss you, Masaru,” he says, the words sweet and true even as his son’s cock splits him open on every inward drive.

“I miss you too. Just a couple more days.”

“I know,” Izuku murmurs, and he drags the conversation out, asking about the weather there, the food, anything to keep Masaru talking, to keep this electric, terrible wire live between the voice in his ear and the body wrecking him from behind. He loves it. The deception is a flavor. The violation is a sacrament. Katsuki’s hand slides around his hip, fingers finding his swollen clit, and Izuku sees stars, a ragged sound trapped behind his teeth.

The sharp flick against his clit punches a ragged moan from Izuku’s throat, high and helpless.

“Izuku? What was that?” Masaru’s voice sharpens with concern through the speaker.

“Sorry! Sorry, honey,” Izuku gasps, his words jolting with each of Katsuki’s deep, driving thrusts. “Katsuki just… got home. Startled me. He’s helping me taste the sauce.” He bites down on a knuckle, stifling another sound as Katsuki’s fingers return, circling his clit with brutal, focused pressure.

“Put him on, I’ll say hello.”

“He’s— ah— he’s washing up first,” Izuku manages, his vision blurring. The pleasure is a live wire, sizzling from his clit straight to his core, which clenches greedily around the cock splitting him open. “It’s a… a messy recipe.”

Katsuki’s rhythm becomes punishing, each snap of his hips slamming Izuku harder into the island’s edge. The wet, slapping sounds grow louder, impossibly obscene. Izuku’s free hand scrambles for purchase on the smooth granite.

“Tell him about the keynote speaker,” Izuku blurts, desperate to keep the words flowing, to feed the delicious, sickening lie. “The one from yesterday. Was he as dull as he sounded?”

Masaru laughs, a distant, pleasant sound. He begins recounting the speech. Izuku lets the words wash over him, a bland soundtrack to the ruin of his body. Katsuki’s breath is hot on his neck, his own low grunts a private counterpoint to his father’s oblivious narration.

“You love this, don’t you, Mommy?” Katsuki rasps into his ear, his voice a dark, possessive whisper. “Talking to Dad while I fuck you?”

Izuku can only nod, a frantic little movement. He does. God, he does. The deception is a drug. The violation is a crown.

The coil in his gut winds tighter, tighter, pulled taut by Katsuki’s relentless fingers and the deep, claiming grind of his cock. Izuku’s excuses to Masaru become breathier, less coherent, punctuated by sharp inhales he can’t fully disguise.

“The chili is just… really… active tonight,” he chokes out, and then the world whites out.

The orgasm detonates through him, violent and total. A broken scream tears from his lips, barely muffled, as his body convulses, clenching and releasing around Katsuki’s length. Heat gushes from him, a hot, soaking rush that splatters audibly onto the kitchen tiles below. He shakes through it, powerless, the phone nearly slipping from his sweat-slicked shoulder.

He comes back to the sound of Masaru’s voice, saying his name, confused. Izuku’s mouth opens, but only a ragged sob comes out. He can’t speak. He’s empty of everything but sensation.

A large, wet hand reaches past his face and plucks the phone from his shoulder. Katsuki brings it to his own ear, his hips never stilling, his cock driving into Izuku’s oversensitive, shuddering cunt with a new, relentless purpose.

“Hey, Dad,” Katsuki says, his voice perfectly even, almost bored. The only sign of exertion is the faintest catch of breath. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just burned himself a little on the pan. I’ve got it.”

“Burned himself?” Masaru’s voice comes through the speaker, tinny and laced with a new, sharp edge. “That sounded… serious. Is he okay? Put him back on.”

Katsuki’s hips drive forward, a deep, grinding thrust that punches a wet gasp from Izuku’s throat. His oversensitive cunt clenches, a fresh trickle of heat dripping down his thigh. “He’s fine, old man,” Katsuki says, his voice a study in casual dismissal. “Just being dramatic. You know how he is.” He reaches around with his free hand, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh of Izuku’s hip. “Aren’t you, Mom?”

Izuku nods frantically, his cheek slick against the cold granite. He can’t speak. The aftershocks of his orgasm still ripple through him, making his legs tremble.

“I want to hear his voice, Katsuki.” Masaru’s tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice he uses in boardrooms. “Now.”

Katsuki’s eyes, dark and intent, lock with Izuku’s dazed reflection in the dark oven door. He slowly pulls the phone away from his own ear and holds it in front of Izuku’s face. His other hand slides up Izuku’s spine, a warning and a claim. “Say hello to Dad, Mommy.”

Izuku swallows, his throat tight. He forces his voice into something light, something normal. “M-Masaru? I’m here. I’m okay.” The sentence breaks as Katsuki pulls his cock almost all the way out, then slams back in, a brutal, full-bodied stroke that makes Izuku’s small breasts sway. “Just… a little clumsy tonight.”

“You screamed.” Masaru’s words are flat. Disbelieving. “It didn’t sound like a burn.”

“It startled me!” Izuku insists, the pitch rising as Katsuki sets a slow, deliberate, deep rhythm, each inward push a concentrated ache of pleasure-pain. “The oil… spattered. Katsuki’s taking care of it.” He reaches a shaky hand back, fingers tangling in Katsuki’s hair, gripping for balance.

“What’s that sound?” Masaru presses. “A rhythmic… thumping. Are you sure everything’s alright over there?”

Katsuki leans down, his chest pressing against Izuku’s sweaty back, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku’s ear. “Tell him you’re helping me stretch,” he whispers, a dark, private joke. “For track. I’m using your weight for resistance.”

Izuku’s mind scrambles. “It’s… Katsuki. He’s doing his workout. In the living room. Plyometrics.” He moans, low and helpless, as Katsuki’s thumb finds his swollen, puffy clit again, rubbing slow, torturous circles. “The floor… creaks.”

A long silence stretches on the line, filled only by the wet, rhythmic slide of Katsuki’s cock, the ragged pull of Izuku’s breath, and the low, satisfied grunt Katsuki lets out against his neck.

“You two seem… very busy,” Masaru says finally, the suspicion not gone, but banked, shrouded in a weary confusion. “I should let you go. Call me if you need anything. For real, Izuku.”

“I will. I love you,” Izuku breathes, the words automatic, a twenty-five-year habit. He means them. They just live in a different universe now, separate from the heat of his son inside him.

“Love you too. Bye, Katsuki.”

Katsuki doesn’t reply. He simply ends the call and tosses the phone onto the counter with a dull clatter. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by their panting and the obscene, slick sounds of their joining.

“He knows,” Katsuki murmurs, his voice thick with arousal and something like pride. He nips at Izuku’s shoulder. “Not the truth. But he knows something’s wrong.”

“He doesn’t,” Izuku argues weakly, pushing his hips back, taking Katsuki deeper, needing the stretch to obliterate the guilt. “He just worries.”

Katsuki’s hand fists in his green curls, pulling his head back. “He should.” His thrusts become faster, less controlled, his own climax building. “His perfect wife. Bent over his kitchen. Taking his son’s cock. Dripping with it.” He licks a stripe up Izuku’s neck. “You came so hard for me, Mommy. Soaked the floor. While he talked about keynote speakers.”

Izuku whimpers, the truth of it a dark, thrilling current under his skin. His body arches, completely pliant, completely claimed. “Yes.”

“Tell me you’re mine,” Katsuki growls, his rhythm fracturing into desperate, pounding drives. “Tell me who this cunt belongs to.”

“You,” Izuku sobs, the word ripped from him. “Kacchan. It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Katsuki’s release hits him like a seizure, a raw, guttural shout tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt and pumps his seed deep into Izuku’s clinging heat. Izuku feels the hot pulses, the possessive claim, and a second, smaller orgasm shivers through him, a faint echo that leaves him boneless and dripping.

They stay like that for a long minute, Katsuki slumped over him, both of them slick with sweat, the kitchen air thick with sex and scorched chili. Finally, Katsuki pulls out with a soft, wet sound. Izuku sags against the island, his legs barely holding him.

Katsuki turns him around, his crimson eyes scanning Izuku’s flushed, tear-streaked face. He swipes a thumb over Izuku’s bitten, swollen lip. “Perfect,” he says, and it’s not a lie this time.

Izuku surges forward and kisses him, hard, his tongue pushing past Katsuki’s lips, tasting himself and salt and a shared, terrible victory. He doesn’t break it until the insistent buzz of his phone vibrates against the granite between them, the screen lighting up with Masaru’s name again.

“Hold that thought, baby,” Izuku murmurs, his voice wrecked but his movements sure. He hooks his thumbs into the ruined waistband of his leggings and the soaked scrap of his panties and pushes them down his thighs, stepping out of the pooled fabric with a small, deliberate sway. He doesn’t look away from Katsuki’s burning gaze as he hoists himself up onto the cold kitchen island, scattering a wooden spoon and a jar of chili flakes. He leans back on his hands, spreads his legs wide, and with one hand, reaches down to pull his swollen, glistening lips apart, offering himself. “Get your cock back in there, baby.”

Then, with his free hand, he swipes the phone and answers, bringing it to his ear as he lets his head fall back. “Masaru? Hey, sorry about that.” His voice is light, a little breathless, perfectly wifely.

“You cut out,” Masaru says, and the line is staticky, a bad connection or a bad conscience. “I was worried. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Katsuki steps between his spread thighs, his hands sliding up Izuku’s freckled legs, his thumbs digging into the soft inner flesh. He doesn’t hesitate. He guides his thick, still-wet cock to Izuku’s entrance and pushes back inside with one slow, inexorable thrust, filling the stretched, aching heat.

Izuku’s breath hitches, a sharp, audible intake. He covers it with a soft laugh. “I’m perfect. Just cleaning up a spill. Katsuki’s helping.” He rolls his hips, taking Katsuki deeper, feeling the delicious burn of the renewed stretch. His cunt clenches greedily around the intrusion.

“You’re still breathing funny,” Masaru insists. “Is your asthma bothering you? Do you need your inhaler?”

“No, no asthma,” Izuku manages, as Katsuki begins to move, a slow, deep rocking that sends waves of pleasure radiating from his core. He bites his lip, hard, to stifle a moan. “Just… multitasking. You know how it is.”

Katsuki leans over him, bracing his hands on the island on either side of Izuku’s hips. His face is inches away, his crimson eyes locked on Izuku’s, watching every micro-expression. “Tell him what you’re multitasking, Mommy,” he whispers, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. His hips snap forward, a little harder.

A choked sound escapes Izuku. He fumbles for words, for the script of his old life. “I’m… folding laundry. And, uh, prepping veggies for tomorrow.” He arches his back, presenting his chest, his small breasts with their puffy nipples pebbled tight from the cold air and the heat coursing through him. “It’s a… a lot of bending over.”

Katsuki’s mouth crashes onto his, swallowing the next lie, his tongue tangling with Izuku’s. The kiss is filthy, open-mouthed, a wet sharing of breath and taste. He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting them. “Tell him you miss him again,” Katsuki breathes against his lips, his thrusts gaining a possessive rhythm. “Say it.”

Izuku’s eyes flutter. He brings the phone back, his hand trembling. “I really miss you, Masaru,” he says, and the ache in his voice is real, it’s just for all the wrong reasons. “The bed’s too big without you.”

“I miss you too, ‘Zuku.” Masaru’s voice softens, believing the performance, soothed by the familiar script. “Just a few more days. We’ll have a nice dinner when I get back. That new Italian place.”

“That sounds lovely,” Izuku gasps, as Katsuki changes the angle, hitting a spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind his eyelids. His free hand flies to Katsuki’s shoulder, nails digging into the hard muscle. He’s so full, so perfectly used. “I… I can’t wait.”

“Listen, I should let you get back to your… chores,” Masaru says, a fond resignation in his tone. “Call me tomorrow, okay? And tell Katsuki not to work out so late. The neighbors might complain about the noise.”

“I’ll tell him,” Izuku promises, the words dissolving into a shaky exhale as Katsuki’s pace becomes relentless, the wet slap of their skin filling the kitchen. “Love you. Bye.”

He ends the call and drops the phone. It clatters onto the tile floor, forgotten. The pretense shatters with it.

“He wants to take you to dinner,” Katsuki snarls, his control slipping, his hips pistoning. “He doesn’t know you’re my dinner. He doesn’t know I’m eating you alive right here on his fucking counter.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Izuku agrees, his voice a ragged, wanton thing. He wraps his legs around Katsuki’s waist, locking him in, pulling him deeper. “He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know me. Not anymore.”

Katsuki’s face contorts, something raw and desperate breaking through the predatory mask. “Who do you belong to, Mommy?” It’s a plea wrapped in a demand.

Izuku reaches up, frames Katsuki’s face with his hands, making him look. “You, Kacchan. Only you.” He sees the crack in his son’s armor, the scared, obsessed boy inside the monster, and it floods him with a power more intoxicating than any orgasm. “Now prove it. Fuck me like you mean it. Like you’re never letting go.”

With a guttural sound, Katsuki obeys.

The phone buzzes on the tile floor where Izuku dropped it, the screen lighting up with a new notification. Katsuki’s rhythm doesn’t falter, his hips driving deep, but his crimson eyes flick down. “Your husband’s texting,” he grunts, the words punched out with each thrust.

Izuku, boneless and buzzing with aftershocks, just moans, his head lolling back against the cold granite. “Ignore it.”

“No.” Katsuki pulls out of him with a slick, sudden pop, leaving Izuku clenching around empty, aching air. He bends, scoops up the phone with one hand while the other keeps Izuku pinned by the hip against the island’s edge. He taps the screen, his eyes scanning. A slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. “Oh, this is good.”

“What?” Izuku pants, pushing himself up on trembling elbows. His spent cunt throbs, wet and exposed.

Katsuki turns the screen toward him. It’s a text thread with Masaru’s name at the top. The latest message reads: ‘Miss you so much. Thinking about you. Can’t wait for our dinner… and dessert.’ Below it, a photo loads: Masaru’s soft, familiar dick, half-hard against his thigh in what looks like a hotel bathroom. The caption: ‘Already getting started without you.’

Katsuki lets out a sharp, derisive bark of laughter. “Look at that pathetic thing, Mommy. He’s ‘getting started’. That’s what he calls it?” He zooms in with his thumb, shoving the phone closer. “That’s a cocktail wiener. I’ve seen bigger thumbs.”

Izuku’s cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with arousal. It’s a pang of something like pity, sharp and uncomfortable. “Kacchan, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Katsuki drops the phone onto Izuku’s bare stomach, where it rests against his freckled skin. He leans in, his breath hot on Izuku’s ear. “Tell me the truth. Did that ever really fill you up? Or did you just close your eyes and think of me?”

“That’s not fair,” Izuku whispers, but his traitorous cunt pulses, dripping anew onto the granite. His eyes are locked on the image of his husband’s earnest, lonely offering.

“Fair?” Katsuki snorts. He picks the phone up again, his thumb swiping to type. “He’s sending dick pics to the wife who’s still dripping with my cum. Nothing about this is fair.” He shows Izuku the screen. He’s typed a reply: ‘Miss you too, honey. Can’t wait. You look so sexy.’ He hovers his thumb over the send button. “Should I? Let him think he’s turning you on? While I’m about to fuck you again so hard you forget your own name?”

Izuku’s heart hammers against his ribs. The deception is a live wire, terrifying and exhilarating. He looks from the cruel delight in his son’s eyes to the sad, hopeful photo. The love for Masaru is there, but it’s distant, like a song played in another room. The need for Katsuki is here, in the ache between his legs, in the salt taste of him on his tongue. He reaches up, wraps his hand around Katsuki’s wrist, and guides his thumb down, pressing the ‘send’ button himself. The message whooshes away. “Do it,” Izuku says, his voice low and raw.

"Take a picture," Izuku gasps, his hips pushing back against Katsuki's still form, his own need overriding the shame. "Of my tits. Send it to him. While you're inside me."

Katsuki's eyes flare, the cruelty in them igniting into something hotter, more approving. He doesn't question it. He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it with a thumb, and switches to the camera. He holds it up, framing Izuku's torso where it's splayed across the granite. The cold device hovers just above Izuku's flushed skin.

"Look at the lens, Mommy," Katsuki orders, his voice thick. "Look at it like you're looking at him."

Izuku turns his head, his green eyes glazed and wanton, focusing on the small black circle. He arches his back further, making his small, soft breasts more prominent, the puffy brown nipples stiff and begging for attention. The phone clicks, the flash momentarily bleaching the kitchen in harsh white light.

Katsuki glances at the screen, grunts in satisfaction, and his free hand comes up to roughly knead the flesh he just captured. "Perfect. He's gonna jerk his sad little dick to this thinking it's for him." He begins typing one-handed, his other hand still gripping Izuku's hip hard enough to bruise.

"What are you saying?" Izuku whispers, his insides clenching around the thick intrusion as Katsuki starts to move again, a slow, deliberate drag that makes Izuku see stars.

"'Thinking of you too,'" Katsuki reads aloud, his voice a mocking singsong as he thrusts in time with the words. "'Wish you were here.'" He shows Izuku the screen—the photo is there, brutally intimate, Izuku's abused chest and dazed expression a stark contrast to the domestic kitchen behind him. Katsuki's thumb hovers over send. "This is it. The last thing he sees before I ruin you for anyone else. You sure?"

Izuku reaches up, his fingers tangling in Katsuki's hair, pulling his head down. "Send it," he breathes against his son's mouth. "I'm sure."

The whoosh of the sent message is silent, but Izuku feels it, a line crossing, a betrayal sealed in digital light. Katsuki tosses the phone onto the counter beside them. It lands with a clatter, screen-up, the sent photo glaring back at them.

"Now he has something to remember you by," Katsuki snarls, and the last shred of restraint evaporates. His hands clamp onto Izuku's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his ass, and he starts fucking him in earnest, deep, punishing strokes that slam Izuku's body against the unforgiving the island. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the room, obscene and loud.

Izuku cries out, the sound ripped from him, no longer any need to stifle it. He fists his hands in the dish towel still lying crumpled near his head. "Yes! Kacchan, yes!"

"He's never had you like this," Katsuki grunts, his breath coming in ragged bursts against Izuku's neck. "Never made you scream. Never made you beg. You faked it for him, didn't you? All those years. Faked every fucking sigh."

"I didn't know," Izuku sobs, the truth tumbling out with each brutal drive inside him. "I didn't know it could feel like this. God, I didn't know!"

Katsuki's rhythm stutters, overwhelmed by the confession. He presses his forehead between Izuku's breasts, his voice cracking. "You're mine. You're mine, you're mine, you're mine." It's a chant, a prayer, a curse.

Izuku’s mouth crashes against Katsuki’s, swallowing the ragged “I love you” that tears from his son’s throat as his orgasm hits. Katsuki’s hips stutter, then drive deep one final time, a guttural groan vibrating into Izuku’s mouth as he pumps his release inside, hot and claiming. Izuku’s own climax rips through him in answer, a shuddering, helpless wave that has him squirting onto Katsuki’s thighs and the floor below, the wet sound obscene in the quiet kitchen. They kiss through it, a messy, desperate tangle of tongue and teeth and shared breath, the words “I love you, I love you” mumbled against lips, between gasps, a frantic mantra.

Katsuki finally breaks the kiss, forehead resting against Izuku’s, both of them panting. “Mine,” he whispers, his voice shot. “My mommy. My cunt. My mess.”

“Yours,” Izuku agrees, his hands coming up to cup Katsuki’s jaw, thumbs stroking the sharp bones. He feels delirious, stuffed full, dripping. The sent photo glows accusingly from the counter. “Always yours.”

Katsuki’s eyes, dark and sated, drift to the phone. The cruel amusement is gone, replaced by a heavy, possessive satisfaction. “He’s looking at that right now. Touching himself. Thinking he did that to you.”

Izuku shivers, the deception a cold thrill down his spine. He feels Katsuki’s cock, still half-hard inside him, give a weak twitch. “He didn’t.”

“No.” Katsuki pulls out slowly, and Izuku whimpers at the loss, the sudden emptiness, the rush of their combined fluids down his thighs. Katsuki looks down between them, at the mess on the floor, on Izuku’s skin. “Look at that. You ruined the kitchen, Mommy.”

“You ruined me,” Izuku breathes, not bothering to hide the awe in it.