The worn carpet in his stepfather’s study bit into Izuku’s knees. The scent of old books and stale tea was a sickening contrast to the slick heat between his own thighs. His phone camera glared up at him from where he’d propped it against a stack of law journals, capturing his flushed face, the silver chain Kacchan had given him glinting at his throat, his school uniform skirt rucked up around his waist. Overhead, a floorboard creaked. His mother’s voice, muffled by the floor, drifted down. “Izuku? Are you studying?”

His heart hammered against his ribs. “Y-yes!” he called back, voice too high. He waited, breath held, until he heard her footsteps move away. The danger was a live wire in his chest. He looked at the screen, at the text thread open with Kacchan. The last message was a command, sent twenty minutes ago: *Show me where you are. Now.*

Izuku’s trembling fingers tapped the screen to switch to the camera. He angled it down, capturing the desperate picture: his bare thighs parted, the dark wet patch on his white panties, the way his body was already yielding, already open. He sent it. The read receipt appeared instantly.

His phone buzzed, a video call request. Izuku fumbled to accept, his breath catching when Kacchan’s face filled the screen. He was in his own apartment, leaning back in a leather chair, shirtless. The low light carved the planes of his chest. His expression was predatory calm. “Look at you,” Katsuki’s voice was a low growl through the speaker. “In your daddy’s study. You even wet for me there, you little slut?”

“Yes,” Izuku whispered, his eyes darting toward the closed door.

“Say it.”

“I’m… I’m wet for you, Kacchan. Here.”

“Touch yourself. Let me see.”

Izuku’s hand slipped under the waistband of his panties. He was soaked. His fingers slid through the slickness, a soft gasp escaping him as he circled his clit. He kept his eyes on the screen, on Kacchan’s unblinking crimson gaze.

“Wider. Show me what you’re ruining.”

Izuku hooked his fingers into the lace and pulled the fabric aside, exposing himself completely to the camera. The air in the study felt cold on his heated skin. He heard a low, approving sound from the phone. “Good. Now put two fingers in. Think about my cock stretching you open in that room.”

Izuku obeyed, pushing his fingers inside himself with a choked-off moan. The stretch was familiar, a hollow ache that belonged only to the man on the screen. He worked his fingers, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet, book-lined space.

“You hear that?” Katsuki murmured. “That’s the sound of you being mine where you’re supposed to be a good son. Deeper.”

Izuku fucked himself on his hand, his hips rocking into the motion. His other hand braced against his stepfather’s heavy oak desk. The risk was a drug, sharpening every sensation. His mother was right above him. His stepfather’s diplomas watched from the walls. And he was here, split open on his own fingers for his teacher.

“I’m gonna come,” Izuku whimpered, the pressure coiling tight.

“You don’t come until I tell you. Stop.”

Izuku stilled, his body trembling with the denied release. A whine built in his throat.

“Look at me.” Katsuki’s command was absolute. Izuku forced his hazy eyes to focus on the screen. Katsuki’s hand was in his lap, moving slowly. “You see what you do? This is yours. All of it. And you’re going to sit there, dripping on your father’s carpet, and watch me take what’s mine.”

Katsuki’s hand moved on his cock with a slow, obscene rhythm, his gaze locked on the screen. “Talk. What do you see?”

Izuku’s mouth was dry. “I see… your hand. Your cock. It’s so big, Kacchan.”

“What else?” Katsuki’s thumb swiped over the head, spreading precum. The wet sound was crisp through the speaker.

“It’s leaking. For me.” Izuku’s own fingers were still inside himself, motionless but aching. “I want to taste it.”

“You will. Later. Now tell me the fantasy. The one you think about in class.” Katsuki’s pace increased slightly, his abs tightening.

Izuku’s face burned. “I think… I think about you bending me over your desk after everyone leaves. Lifting my skirt. You don’t even take my panties off, you just move them aside and push in. And you tell the whole empty room that I’m your student.”

“Good. What else?”

“I think about you making me suck you off in the supply closet. Holding my head and fucking my throat until I cry. And you keep going.” Izuku’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think about you coming inside me. Filling me up so much it leaks out into my uniform.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched, a sharp, gratifying sound. “You’re a filthy little thing. Dreaming about your teacher’s cock ruining you in school. Now touch yourself. Match my rhythm.”

Izuku’s fingers began moving again, a relieved sob escaping him as the sensation returned. He watched Katsuki’s fist pump his thick length, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the flushed, wet head. Every stroke was a promise.

“I’m close, Kacchan. Please.”

“Look at where you are. Look at the books. The desk. You’re going to come all over your stepfather’s study. You’re going to ruin it. Do it.”

The permission shattered him. Izuku’s back arched, a silent scream on his lips as the orgasm ripped through him. His hips jerked, and a hot gush of fluid splashed from him, soaking his thighs, spattering onto the worn carpet and the leg of the heavy oak desk.

He slumped forward, trembling, watching his own release pool on the floor. The scent of it, musky and sweet, cut through the smell of old paper.

“Look at the mess you made,” Katsuki growled, his own movements becoming frantic, brutal. “That’s my mark. On his things. In his space.” A low groan tore from him, and Izuku watched, mesmerized, as stripes of white painted Katsuki’s stomach and chest. “Mine.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, a distinct creak from the hallway outside the study door.

Izuku froze, his blood turning to ice. His mother’s voice, clearer now, just on the other side of the wood. “Izuku? Who are you talking to in there?”

“Kacchan,” Izuku whispered into the phone, his voice a thin thread of panic. “She’s right outside. What do I do?”

On the screen, Katsuki’s face showed no alarm, only a dark, simmering interest. He didn’t bother to wipe the spend from his stomach. “You stay perfectly still. You don’t make a sound. Let her listen.”

“Izuku?” His mother’s voice came again, closer. The doorknob rattled lightly. “Are you on the phone? It’s late.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He was half-naked, his uniform skirt bunched at his waist, his panties pulled aside. The evidence of what he’d done gleamed wetly on the carpet by his knees. “She’s going to come in,” he breathed, the words barely audible.

“No, she’s not. It’s locked, isn’t it?” Katsuki’s tone was a calm, terrifying anchor. “Look at me. Not at the door. At me.”

Izuku forced his gaze back to the screen. Katsuki’s crimson eyes held him, a command as physical as a hand on his throat.

“You’re mine in this room. Her voice is just noise. Now, put your fingers back where they belong. Slowly.”

A soft, desperate sob escaped Izuku. His mother called his name once more, then he heard her muffled footsteps retreating down the hall. The immediate danger passed, leaving a hollow, vibrating fear in its wake. His trembling hand obeyed, slipping back through the slick folds between his legs. He was still impossibly sensitive, and the touch made his thighs jerk.

“Good boy,” Katsuki purred. “You see? You belong to me, not to that house. Not to them. The risk just makes you wetter, doesn’t it? I can hear it.”

He could. The obscene, slick sound of Izuku’s fingers moving in his own cunt was unmistakable over the line. Izuku nodded, tears pricking his eyes from the overload of fear and want.

“Say it.”

“It makes me wetter,” Izuku choked out, his hips beginning a small, helpless roll. “I’m… I’m still dripping for you, Kacchan. Even now.”

Katsuki leaned closer to his camera, his image filling Izuku’s screen. “I want you to clean it up. The mess you made for me on the floor. Use your fingers. Then taste it.”

The command sent a fresh jolt of shameful heat through Izuku’s core. He withdrew his fingers, shiny with his own arousal, and dragged them through the small, cooling puddle on the carpet. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on Katsuki’s, and sucked them clean. The taste was musky, intimate, a secret he was swallowing in the heart of his family’s home.

“All of it,” Katsuki demanded, his voice low and rough. “Don’t leave a trace for anyone else.”