The front door clicks shut behind Masaru, the sound swallowed by the silent, cedar-scented air of the entryway. He sets his briefcase down, the leather soft against the polished floor. "I'm home," he calls out, his voice warm, expecting the usual rustle from the kitchen, the bright greeting, the scent of dinner.

Nothing.

"Izuku?"

He walks into the living room. Empty. The house feels still, a held breath. It’s wrong. Izuku is always here. A thread of unease pulls tight in his chest. "Katsuki?"

Silence answers. Then—a sound. Muffled, distant. From upstairs. A low, choked cry.

Masaru freezes. That was… a moan. He knows that sound. He’s pulled it from Izuku’s throat a thousand times. His brain stutters, rejects the data. Not possible. He’s hearing things. The stress of the trip. He starts unknotting his tie, fingers clumsy.

Another sound cuts through the quiet. Clearer. A wet, rhythmic slap. Skin on skin. Fast. Hard. And a gasp—Izuku’s gasp—broken by a deep.

"No," Masaru whispers to the empty room. His feet are moving before his mind can catch up, carrying him toward the staircase, toward the terrible, impossible noise. Each step up the stairs is heavy, the wood creaking under his weight. The sounds grow louder. Izuku is sobbing. Not in pain—in pleasure. A raw, desperate keening that Masaru has never heard from him. Ever.

The door to the master bedroom is ajar. A sliver of dim light cuts across the hallway floor. The sounds are crystal clear now. The slap of flesh. The slick, wet squelch of penetration. Katsuki’s ragged breathing, punctuated by low, filthy words. "Take it, Mommy. Take all of it."

Masaru’s hand shakes as he reaches for the doorframe. He leans, just enough to see into the room. Into his room. His bed.

Izuku is on his hands and knees, body bowed, green curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. His back is a map of red scratches. Katsuki is behind him, naked, muscles corded with effort, driving into him with a brutal, piston-like rhythm. Each thrust makes Izuku’s small body jerk forward, a sharp cry ripped from his lips each time.

"That’s it," Katsuki snarls, his hand fisted in Izuku’s hair, yanking his head back. "You love it. Tell me you love it."

"I love it," Izuku wails, voice shattered. "Katsuki, please—"

Masaru’s vision tunnels. The world shrinks to the obscene connection of their bodies, to the sight of his son’s thick cock vanishing into his wife. It’s wrong. It’s monstrous. His stomach lurches.

And a thick, hot ache blooms in his groin, a violent surge of blood that makes his own cock swell painfully against the front of his tailored slacks. He stares, horrified, as his body betrays him entirely. The wrongness is a fire in his veins. The proof of his perfect family’s ruin is the hardest he’s been in years.

His hands are moving before he can think, fumbling with his belt, the buckle loud in the hallway. His fingers are numb, stupid. He gets the leather open, yanks at his zipper. It catches. He jerks it down, shoves his slacks and boxers past his hips until they tangle at his knees. His cock springs free, thick and painfully hard, flushed dark and already leaking.

He wraps his hand around himself. The touch is electric, a jolt of shame so acute it whites out his vision for a second. He stares at the scene in the bedroom, his grip tightening.

“Whose cunt is this?” Katsuki snarls, the bedframe slamming against the wall with each thrust.

“Yours!” Izuku screams, the word raw and broken. “It’s yours, Kacchan, it’s always been yours—”

Masaru’s hand starts moving. A short, frantic stroke. His breath hitches. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. The precome smears slick over his palm, making the glide easier, hotter. He matches the rhythm he sees, his fist pumping in time with his son’s hips.

He can’t look away. He sees the way Izuku’s body yields, the way his own wife pushes back onto that invading cock, seeking it. The obscene, wet sound of the penetration fills the air, a counterpoint to Katsuki’s grunts and Izuku’s sobbing pleas.

“You gonna come, Mommy?” Katsuki’s voice is guttural, close. “Gonna come on your boy’s dick while Dad’s at work?”

“Yes—yes, please, I’m close, I’m so close—”

Masaru’s strokes become punishing, his own hips jerking into his fist. He’s panting, sweat beading on his temple. The betrayal is a live wire in his gut, fused now with a perverse, mounting thrill. This is his wife. His son. In his bed. And he’s getting off on it.

“Do it,” Katsuki commands, his pace turning brutal, erratic. “Come. Now.”

Izuku’s body seizes, a violent tremor running through his spine as he screams. A gush of clear fluid erupts from him, soaking the sheets beneath their bodies, the sound a sharp, wet rush that cuts through the grunts and slaps.

Masaru’s hand stutters on his cock. He’s never seen that. In twenty-five years, he’s never made Izuku do that. The humiliation is a cold knife twisting in his gut, and his own orgasm rips through him with no warning, a white-hot detonation that blots out all thought. He bites back a choked cry as stripes of hot come paint the doorframe and the hallway floor, his hips jerking helplessly into his fist until he’s spent and trembling.

Inside the room, Katsuki’s thrusts slow to a deep, grinding roll. He doesn’t pull out. His eyes, sharp and knowing, find the crack in the doorway. “Did you like the show, old man?”

The voice isn’t raised. It’s casual. Conversational. It slices through Masaru’s post-climax haze like a razor.

Masaru can’t speak. He’s slumped against the wall, his own release cooling on his skin and the wood, his mind a howling static.

“Cat got your tongue?” Katsuki’s hand strokes Izuku’s trembling flank. “Want a closer look? See how deep I can get in Mommy’s pussy?”

The words are filth. They are an invitation. And against all reason, against the sickening shame pooling in his stomach, Masaru feels the thick, hot ache return to his groin. His spent cock twitches, then begins to stiffen again, rising heavy and full against his thigh.

“K-Kacchan,” Izuku whimpers, face still buried in the mattress.

Katsuki’s gaze never leaves the door. “Well, Dad? You just gonna lurk out there?”

Masaru’s breathing is ragged. He looks down at himself—pants around his knees, shirt rumpled, a mess. He looks at the proof of his own complicity on the floor. The wrongness is a fire he can’t put out. He fumbles with his clothes, kicking his slacks and boxers away, pulling his shirt over his head with frantic, graceless movements until he stands naked in the hallway.

He pushes the door open. It groans softly. The scene is brighter now, closer. The smell hits him—sex, sweat, Izuku’s scent mixed with Katsuki’s. Izuku is trembling, soaked, his back heaving. Katsuki is still buried inside him, a possessive hand splayed across Izuku’s hip.

Katsuki’s mouth curves into a slow, vicious smile. “There he is.”

Masaru’s cock stands fully hard, curving up toward his belly. He can’t meet Izuku’s eyes. He stares at the point where their bodies are joined, at the slick, stretched evidence of his son’s claim.

“Come here,” Katsuki says, his voice dropping into a command. “Kneel. Watch.”

Masaru’s feet move. The carpet is soft under his knees. He kneels beside the bed, close enough to feel the heat coming off their skin, to see the detailed glide of Katsuki’s cock as he begins to move again, slow and deliberate.

“Up,” Katsuki grunts, and in one fluid, powerful motion he pulls Izuku back with him, sitting up in front of Masaru. He drags Izuku into his lap, his cock still buried to the hilt, and hooks his arms under Izuku’s knees, spreading him wide. “Look, Dad. See what you’ve been missing.”

The view is obscenely clear. Masaru is eye-level with their joined bodies, inches away. He can see the stretched, glistening ring of Izuku’s pussy clinging to Katsuki’s shaft, the way the thick cock drags back, shiny with slick, before plunging deep again. Each thrust is a wet, smacking punch of sound and motion.

“Kacchan, w-wait—” Izuku whimpers, his head lolling back against Katsuki’s shoulder, his body limp and pliant.

“Shut up,” Katsuki breathes into his ear, his hips driving up hard. “He needs to see. He needs to know.”

The force of the movement sends droplets of their mixed fluids flying. Warm, slick spatters hit Masaru’s cheek, his chin. The smell is overpowering—musk, salt, sex. His own hand is around his cock again, pumping in a frantic, matching rhythm before he even decides to move.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Masaru,” Izuku babbles, tears cutting clean tracks through the sweat on his face. His green eyes are glazed, unfocused. “He’s… he’s too good. He fucks me too good.”

“Don’t apologize to him,” Katsuki snarls, his pace turning punishing, the bedframe slamming. “Tell him whose pussy this is.”

“Yours!” Izuku screams, the word tearing from his throat as his body convulses around the invading cock. “It’s yours, Kacchan, it’s always—ah!—been yours!”

Another hard thrust. A gush of fluid, hot and slick, splashes across Masaru’s face. He doesn’t flinch. He licks his lips, tasting salt and bitterness and his own wife’s arousal. His hand works his cock faster, his hips jerking up into his fist.

“He came to me,” Katsuki pants, his voice raw with effort and triumph. His eyes lock on his father’s. “Found my tapes. Offered himself up. Your perfect wife. My mom. Begged me to use him instead of strangers.”

Masaru’s breath seizes. The confession lands like a physical blow, but his hand never stops moving. The truth is worse than he imagined. It’s a pact. A choice.

“He’s been mine for weeks,” Katsuki grunts, pistoning up into the clutching heat. “Every day you’re at work. Every night you’re asleep. My cunt. My mom. You get the leftovers.”

Izuku is sobbing now, a continuous, broken noise of pleasure and shame as he’s bounced in Katsuki’s lap, his small tits jiggling with each impact. “K-Kacchan… gonna come… please, let me come again—”

“Do it,” Katsuki orders, his voice cracking. “Soak my dick. Let him see.”

Izuku’s body arches, seizing, and a fresh flood of fluid spills out around Katsuki’s thrusting cock, soaking his thighs and splattering Masaru’s chest. The sight, the smell, the sheer brutal ownership of it pushes Masaru over the edge. His orgasm rips through him silently, his mouth open in a soundless gasp as he empties himself onto the carpet at his knees, his vision whiting out at the edges.

Katsuki follows a few seconds later, a guttural roar muffled against Izuku’s neck as he slams up one final time and holds, his body rigid, pumping his own release deep inside. Masaru watches, spent and hollow, as his own son claims what was once his.

Katsuki pulls out with a wet, sucking pop. Izuku’s pussy clenches around nothing, a desperate, fluttering grip, and a thick rope of white immediately spills out onto the sheets beneath him.

“Look,” Katsuki commands, his voice rough. He hooks two fingers into Izuku’s slick, swollen opening and spreads him wide. The view is obscene: a gaping, pink ring, stretched and used, flooded with so much cum it drips in a steady, creamy stream onto the ruined bedding.

Masaru stares, his breath gone. The smell is potent, primal—his son’s release inside his wife.

“I’m gonna get Mommy pregnant,” Katsuki says, his thumb rubbing circles around the abused entrance, smearing the evidence. “Gonna keep filling this cunt. Every day. Until he’s big and round with my kid.” He looks up, his crimson eyes locking onto his father’s. “You can watch that, too.”

Horror is a cold stone in Masaru’s throat. His perfect family. His wife. A grandchild that would be his son’s child. The wrongness of it should hollow him out. But his cock, lying heavy and spent against his thigh, gives a thick, traitorous twitch. It thickens, rising again in a slow, shameful swell.

Katsuki sees it. His smirk is a vicious, knowing thing. “Pathetic. You want more, old man?”

Masaru’s mouth is dry. He looks from his son’s triumphant face to Izuku’s wrecked, blissful expression, to the dripping proof of his own cuckolding pooled on his marital sheets. The word is a whisper, ripped from a place he didn’t know he had. “Yes.”

Izuku whimpers. “Kacchan…”

“Quiet,” Katsuki says, not unkindly. He withdraws his fingers, wiping them on Izuku’s thigh. He leans back, his own cock, still semi-hard and gleaming, resting against his abdomen. He studies his father. “You can clean it up.”

Masaru freezes. “What?”

“You heard me.” Katsuki’s gaze is unwavering. “You came twice watching me fuck your wife. You’re hard again just looking at my cum leaking out of him. So clean it up. Lick it up. Prove you know what this is.”

The command hangs in the air, humid and impossible. Masaru’s mind screams. His body trembles. He looks at Izuku’s spread thighs, the mess glistening there. His stomach churns. His cock aches.

He moves without conscious thought. He crawls forward on his knees, the carpet rough under his skin, until his face is level with Izuku’s hips. The scent is overwhelming—musk, salt, sex, and the distinct, earthy tang of his son’s seed.

“Masaru, don’t—” Izuku breathes, but it’s a weak protest, muffled by shame and exhaustion.

Masaru closes his eyes. He leans in. His tongue, hesitant and flat, swipes through the sticky mess on Izuku’s inner thigh. The taste is bitter, foreign, a violation so complete it sears his soul. His cock throbs, a full, painful erection.

“Good cuck,” Katsuki murmurs above him.

The humiliation is a live wire in Masaru’s veins. He does it again. He licks a broader stripe, cleaning the spillage, his mouth filling with the taste of their sin. He feels Katsuki’s hand settle on the back of his head, not pushing, just resting. A claim.

“Now get it from the source,” Katsuki says, his voice low. “Get it while it’s still fresh.”

Masaru’s eyes flutter open. He stares at the puffy, dripping cleft. He obeys. He presses his mouth to Izuku’s spent cunt, his tongue delving into the slick, salty heat, chasing the richer, bitter flavor of the seed deep inside. Izuku shudders, a broken sob escaping him.

Katsuki watches, his breathing slow and even. “You’re gonna learn your place,” he says, his hand flexing in Masaru’s hair. “You provide. You watch. You clean up. This,” he gestures between himself and Izuku’s trembling form, “this is what this house is now.”

Katsuki’s grip in his hair tightens, pulling Masaru’s mouth away from Izuku’s slick flesh with a soft, wet sound. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with approval. “Now it’s my turn.”

Before Masaru can process the words, Katsuki shifts on the bed. He guides his father’s head with that unyielding hand, turning him. The flushed, wet head of his son’s cock, still thick and heavy, bumps against Masaru’s lips. The taste of Izuku is still on it, mixed with Katsuki’s own musky pre-come. Masaru’s eyes widen behind his glasses.

“Open,” Katsuki commands.

Masaru shakes his head, a tiny, frantic motion. “I can’t—I’ve never—”

“You will.” Katsuki doesn’t ask. He shoves forward.

The thick crown pushes past Masaru’s lips, stretching them wide. It hits the back of his throat instantly. Masaru gags, a raw, choking sound tearing from him. His hands fly up, hovering uselessly at Katsuki’s hips, not pushing, not holding.

“Suck it,” Izuku breathes from the bed. His voice is wrecked, but clear. His fingers are circling his own clit, a slow, mesmerized rhythm. “Be a good daddy, Masaru. Suck our son’s whole dick.”

The words are a lightning strike. Masaru’s body seizes. He was a straight man. He is a straight man. And now his own son’s cock is fucking into his mouth, sliding deep over his tongue, a brutal, claiming invasion. Saliva floods his mouth, dripping down his chin as he gags again.

Katsuki groans, his head tipping back. “Fuck. Tighter than Mom’s cunt. Never had a dick in your life, have you, old man?”

He pulls back, just until the head rests on Masaru’s tongue, then thrusts in again, a shallow, punishing rhythm. Masaru chokes, tears springing to his eyes. His nose is filled with the scent of his son’s sweat and sex. His own cock, still hard and aching, drips onto the carpet between his knees.

“Relax your throat,” Katsuki grits out, his hips snapping forward. “Take it. It’s what you’re for now.”

Masaru tries. He forces his jaw wider, lets his throat go slack. The next thrust sinks deeper, the thick shaft bulging in his neck. The bitter-salt taste of precum coats his tongue. His glasses are fogged.

“Look at him,” Izuku moans. He’s watching intently, his green eyes dark with a feverish heat. “Look at my good husband. Sucking so good for Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s pace quickens, turning relentless. The wet, slapping sounds of his balls against Masaru’s chin mix with the choked, gurgling noises Masaru can’t suppress. Each thrust is a violation. Each one makes his own traitorous dick jump. He feels Katsuki’s heavy, hairy balls brush his chin. He smells the proof of where this cock has just been.

“Gonna cum down your throat,” Katsuki pants, his control fraying. His fingers are claws in Masaru’s brown hair. “Gonna fill you up. Swallow it, you pathetic cuck. Swallow every drop.”

Masaru closes his eyes. He doesn’t fight. He lets the rhythm pound into him, accepts the ache in his jaw, the burn in his throat. He is a straight man. And he is sucking his son’s dick. And his body is singing with the truth of it.

"Do it, Kacchan," Izuku breathes, his voice a raw, hungry scrape. His fingers work faster at his clit, a frantic, circular rhythm. "Cum in his mouth. Let him taste you. Let him have what's yours."

The words are the final trigger. Katsuki's control snaps. A guttural roar tears from his throat as he slams his hips forward, burying his cock to the root in Masaru's convulsing throat. He holds there, shuddering, as the first hot, bitter pulse rockets down Masaru's esophagus.

Masaru gags, his body jerking, but Katsuki's hand is an iron vise on the back of his head, holding him impaled. The cum is thick, relentless, flooding his throat, coating his stomach with a heat that feels like branding. He can't breathe. He can only swallow, a desperate, reflexive gulping that pulls another broken groan from his son.

Izuku watches, his green eyes wide and unblinking. The sight of his husband's throat bulging, of Katsuki’s brutal ownership, tips him over. A sharp cry escapes him as his body arches off the bed. A hot, clear stream of fluid erupts from him, splashing across Masaru’s glasses, his cheeks, his gaping mouth.

The sensation of Izuku’s arousal soaking his face, mixing with his own tears and saliva, is the final, impossible violation. Masaru’s own untouched cock, thick and heavy between his legs, gives a violent twitch. A strangled sob is ripped from his stuffed throat as he climaxes, helplessly, pathetically. Hot stripes of cum paint the carpet beneath his knees, his body seizing as he milks his son’s cock with his throat through his own shameful orgasm.

Katsuki finally stills, his breathing ragged. He slowly pulls his softening cock from Masaru’s ruined mouth with a wet, obscene pop. Masaru collapses forward onto his hands, coughing, strings of saliva and cum dripping from his lips to the floor.

"Look at that," Katsuki pants, nodding at the mess on the carpet. "Came like a bitch in heat. Didn't even touch yourself."

Izuku slides off the bed, his legs shaky. He kneels in front of Masaru, using the edge of the sheet to wipe his own fluid from his husband’s face. His touch is terrifyingly gentle. "You did so good," he whispers, his thumb brushing Masaru’s swollen lip.

Masaru flinches away. The kindness is worse than the violence. "Don't."

"Don't?" Katsuki barks a laugh, slumping back against the headboard. "He’s yours, isn't he, Mommy? You wanted him to see. You wanted him to know. So tell him what he is."

Izuku’s gaze doesn't waver. His green eyes hold Masaru’s shattered ones. "You're ours," he says, simple and final. "This is your place now. Watching. Cleaning. Belonging to us."

The clock on the wall ticks. The scent of sex and sweat and submission is a fog in the room. Masaru looks at the proof of his own pleasure on the floor. He looks at his son, sated and triumphant in his bed. He looks at his wife, whose devotion has curdled into this dark, possessive love.

He has no words left. He has no self left. He just kneels, empty, in the ruins of the life he built.