The guilt was a physical weight in Toshinori’s gut, a cold stone he carried from room to room. It had been two days. He’d washed the sheets himself, scrubbing at a phantom stain beside his sleeping wife. He’d avoided Izuku’s eyes at breakfast, his own gaze snagging instead on the boy’s throat, the delicate line of it as he swallowed his juice. The memory was a film reel he couldn’t shut off: the wet heat, the choked sounds, the way his own hips had moved of their own volition. He’d touched himself in the shower that morning, fist flying over his cock as he pictured it again, and the shame that followed was so profound he’d nearly been sick.

He found Izuku in the living room after school, curled in an armchair with a textbook. The afternoon sun caught the dust motes and the soft green of his hair. Toshinori stood in the doorway, frozen. His son’s socked feet were tucked under him, his school shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of freckled skin above his uniform pants. That tiny waist. Those hips.

“Studying?” Toshinori’s voice was too tight.

Izuku jumped, looking up. His eyes were wide, guileless. “Yeah. Modern Literature. It’s, um, it’s not too hard.”

“Good. That’s good.” Toshinori didn’t move. He could smell the laundry detergent on Izuku’s clothes, the faint, clean scent of him. It was wrong. Everything in him screamed it was wrong. But the stone in his gut was heating, melting into a different kind of ache. He wanted to put his hands on that slender neck. He wanted to see if that pretty mouth remembered the shape of him.

Izuku shifted, the textbook sliding to his lap. He seemed to sense the charged silence. A faint pink touched his cheeks. “Is… is everything okay, Daddy?”

The title was a slap. It should have stopped him. It did the opposite. It coiled the heat tighter. This was his son. The boy he’d taught to ride a bike. The one he’d bandaged scraped knees for. And he’d ruined him. And he wanted to ruin him again.

“No,” Toshinori heard himself say. The word was raw. “It’s not.”

He crossed the room. The textbook tumbled to the floor as Toshinori’s hands, those large, bony hands, framed Izuku’s face. He tilted it up. Izuku’s breath hitched, his lips parting. There was no fear in his eyes. Just a deep, waiting green. Acceptance.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Toshinori whispered, his thumb brushing Izuku’s lower lip. “About you. Your… your little body. Taking me.”

“I know,” Izuku breathed back, the words a secret. “I think about it too.”

Toshinori kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, a desperate press of lips and tongue, trying to taste the ghost of himself. Izuku melted into it, a soft sound escaping his throat. That sound. Toshinori’s hands slid down, gripping the arms of the chair, caging him in. He broke the kiss, panting. “I want to fuck your throat. Right here. Right now.”

Izuku’s eyes fluttered. He nodded, once, a quick jerk of his chin. He slid from the chair to his knees on the carpet, the movement practiced. He looked up, his fingers already going to Toshinori’s belt. The click of the buckle was obscenely loud in the quiet living room. Toshinori watched, heart hammering against his ribs, as Izuku freed his cock. It was already hard, leaking. Izuku didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth.

The heat was instantaneous, shocking. Toshinori’s hand flew to Izuku’s hair, tangling in the green curls. He didn’t thrust. Not yet. He let Izuku work, let that clever tongue lap at the slit, let those lips stretch. Spit slicked the length. Izuku’s eyes were open, watching him, green and deep and utterly debauched. “That’s it,” Toshinori groaned. “Just like that. Take it.”

He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper. The head of his cock bumped the back of Izuku’s throat. Izuku gagged, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He relaxed, letting Toshinori slide deeper. The wet, tight heat was unbearable. Toshinori fucked into that willing mouth, his hips setting a rough, driving rhythm. The sounds were lawd: choked gags, slick suction, his own ragged groans. He was going to come. He was going to come down his son’s throat in the middle of the living room, in the broad daylight.

He pulled out at the last second, his cock sliding from Izuku’s lips with a wet pop. Izuku gasped for air, saliva and pre-come shining on his chin. “Not yet,” Toshinori panted. “I want your cunt. I need to feel it.” He hauled Izuku up by the arm, turning him, bending him over the arm of the chair. He yanked his skirt up and underwear down in one rough pull, baring that round, freckled ass, that tiny, dripping pussy. It was already glistening, pink and exposed. Toshinori ran a thumb over the swollen lips, feeling Izuku shudder. “You’re soaked. For me?”

“Yes,” Izuku whimpered, pushing his hips back. “Always for you, Daddy.”

Toshinori lined himself up. He didn’t wait. He pushed inside in one long, brutal stroke. The tight, clenching heat swallowed him whole, and he saw stars. Izuku cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was swallowed by the upholstery. Toshinori held himself there, buried to the hilt, feeling the incredible, sinful grip of him. “God,” he choked out. “You feel… you’re made for this.” He began to move, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. Each thrust rocked the chair, jolting Izuku’s body. The slap of skin filled the room. Toshinori gripped Izuku’s hips hard enough to bruise, his own mind blank, consumed by the sensation, by the wrongness, by the perfect, devastating rightness of it.

Toshinori’s thrusts stuttered. His gaze, wild and desperate, landed on the bookshelf across the room. A silver frame. A beach photo from years ago: Inko smiling in a sunhat, a tiny, gap-toothed Izuku on Toshinori’s shoulders, both of them squinting against the sun. The perfect family. The lie.

“Look,” Toshinori grunted, his voice thick with strain. He fisted a hand in Izuku’s hair, wrenching his head up. “Look at it.”

Izuku’s eyes, glazed with pleasure, struggled to focus. They found the photo. A soft, broken noise escaped him.

“That’s your mother,” Toshinori hissed, driving into him harder, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips. “That’s me. That’s you. Look what we are. Look what you’re letting me do.”

“I see it,” Izuku whimpered. His body clenched around Toshinori’s cock, a hot, rhythmic pulse. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the happy image.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see… my family.”

“And what am I doing to you?” Toshinori’s other hand slid around Izuku’s hip, fingers finding his soaked, swollen clit. He pressed down, hard. Izuku jerked, a sharp cry tearing from his throat.

“You’re… you’re fucking me,” Izuku gasped, his hips pushing back against the thrusts and forward into the cruel pressure of Toshinori’s hand. “You’re fucking your son’s pussy, Daddy.”

The admission, spoken while staring at their past, shattered something in Toshinori. A groan ripped from his chest, raw and agonized. He buried his face in the crook of Izuku’s neck, his pace becoming frantic, animal. “I am. God help me, I am. And you love it. Your little cunt is milking me. You’re begging for it.”

“I am,” Izuku sobbed, the tears finally spilling over. They tracked hot lines down his cheeks as he stared, unblinking, at the smiling faces in the frame. “I need it. Please, Daddy, don’t stop.”

The plea was Toshinori’s undoing. His control snapped. He released Izuku’s hair, both hands now gripping his hips like vices, holding him open as he pistoned into that tight, slick heat. The room dissolved into sound: the wet slap of their joining, the creak of the old chair, Toshinori’s ragged grunts, Izuku’s high, continuous whines.

“Gonna come,” Toshinori warned, his voice a broken thing. “Gonna fill you up right here, right in front of… of everything we were.”

“Yes,” Izuku chanted, his own climax coiling tight, pulled by the rough friction inside him and the relentless circle on his clit. “Do it.”

Toshinori’s release hit him like a seizure, a deep, groaning pulse that emptied him into the clenching heat of his son’s body. Izuku screamed, a raw, shattered sound, as his own orgasm tore through him. A hot gush of fluid, not just from inside but from his swollen clit, soaked Toshinori’s cock and thighs, splattering the carpet beneath the chair with a sound like rain. The scent of sex and salt filled the overheated room.

For a long moment, Toshinori stayed buried inside him, his forehead pressed to Izuku’s trembling spine, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The reality of what he’d done—the photo, the words, the mess on the floor—crashed down. He pulled out slowly, the sight of his own spend leaking from Izuku’s used pussy making his stomach turn even as his spent cock gave a weak, traitorous twitch.

Izuku slumped over the chair arm, boneless. A shaky, breathless laugh escaped him. He turned his head, his cheek against the upholstery, his green eyes hazy with satisfaction. “You came so much, Daddy,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse, teasing whisper. “You filled me up right in our living room.”

“Don’t,” Toshinori said, the word choked. He stumbled back, fumbling with his pants, avoiding the sight of the damp, glistening evidence between Izuku’s thighs.

“Why not?” Izuku pushed himself up, wincing slightly. He didn’t cover himself. He turned, leaning back against the chair, his skirt still rucked up, his cunt openly on display. He looked at the puddle on the floor, then back at his father’s horrified face. A slow, knowing smile touched his swollen lips. “You want to do it again. I can tell.”

“I don’t,” Toshinori lied, his voice cracking. He could feel the phantom grip of that tight heat around him still. He saw himself bending Izuku over the kitchen table. Pinning him against the hallway wall. Taking him on the stairs. The images were vile, intrusive, and they made his mouth water.

“You do,” Izuku insisted, his tone soft, conspiratorial. He brought a hand down, fingers sliding through the mess on his inner thigh. He held them up, glistening. “Your cock gets hard just thinking about my pussy, doesn’t it? You touched yourself remembering me. You want to fuck your son’s throat in the kitchen. You want to ruin me in your bed, right next to Mommy.”

“Stop it!” Toshinori roared, but it was a plea. He was shaking. The guilt was a cold, heavy stone in his gut again, but beneath it, the heat was already stirring, persistent and shameful. He saw it all: Izuku on his knees by the fireplace, Izuku’s back arched over the sofa, that tiny, perfect body yielding everywhere, for him.

Izuku’s smile didn’t fade. He licked his fingers clean, his eyes locked on his father’s. “It’s okay to want it. I want it too. I’m your good boy, aren’t I? Your secret.”

The word ‘boy’ was the final twist of the knife. Toshinori looked away, his gaze landing on the family photo. The happy lie. The man in that picture was dead. He’d killed him. “Clean this up,” he whispered, the fight gone from his voice, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. “Before your mother gets home. Use your… use your clothes. Then wash. I don’t want to see you.”

Izuku nodded, the submission instantaneous. But as Toshinori turned to flee the room, he spoke again, his voice sweet and low. “I’ll tell Kacchan all about it. How good you were. How deep you came. He’ll want to know every detail.”

Toshinori froze in the doorway, his back rigid. He didn’t ask who Kacchan was. He didn’t want to know. It was another layer of filth, another man’s claim on the ruin he’d helped create. He just walked out, leaving his son kneeling in the aftermath, the scent of their sin clinging to the air, and the desperate, hungry fantasy of doing it all again already taking root in the dark soil of his shame.

The silence after Toshinori left was thick and warm, smelling of sex and lemon polish. Izuku stayed on his knees for a moment, feeling the cool air on his wet thighs, the ache deep inside him. He looked at the puddle on the carpet, then at the family photo. He smiled.

He used his discarded underwear to wipe the worst of the mess from the floor, the fabric soaking through quickly. He cleaned himself next, his fingers sliding through the sticky evidence of his father’s release mixed with his own. He brought his fingers to his nose, inhaling the musky, intimate scent, before licking them clean. The taste was salt and Toshinori and shame. It was delicious.

Upstairs, the shower ran for a long time. Izuku dressed, smoothed his skirt, and was pretending to read a textbook when the water finally stopped. He heard the heavy, weary tread of his father’s footsteps pass the living room doorway. They paused. Izuku didn’t look up.

“Izuku.” Toshinori’s voice was sandpaper.

“Yes, Dad?” Izuku kept his eyes on his book.

Toshinori stood in the doorway, hair damp, wearing fresh clothes. He looked hollowed out. “We will not speak of this. Ever. It was a… a moment of profound weakness. It will not happen again.”

Izuku turned a page. “Okay.”

“Do you understand me?”

“I understand.” Izuku finally looked up, his green eyes wide and guileless. “It won’t happen again unless you want it to.”

Toshinori’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He turned and walked away, toward the kitchen. Izuku heard the fridge open, the clink of a bottle. He went back to his book, a small, secret smile playing on his lips. He could feel the man’s eyes on him from the kitchen doorway. A hungry, haunted stare that lingered on the back of his neck, on the curve of his shoulder where his t-shirt slipped down.

The afternoon bled into evening. Inko would be home soon. Toshinori moved through the house like a ghost, jumping at every sound Izuku made. When Izuku got up to get a glass of water, Toshinori was there, at the sink, his body blocking the way. They stood too close in the narrow kitchen.

“You’re in my way, Dad,” Izuku said softly.

Toshinori didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on Izuku’s throat. “That name,” he whispered. “Who is Kacchan?”

“My teacher.”

“Your…” Toshinori’s breath hitched. The pieces clicked into a worse, more terrible picture. “Does he… know? About us?”

“He knows everything.” Izuku took a step closer, forcing his father to either touch him or retreat. Toshinori stood his ground. “He’s the one who told me to go to your room that night. He watched us.”

The color drained from Toshinori’s face. “He what?”

“He likes to watch.” Izuku’s voice was a conspiratorial murmur. He reached past Toshinori for a glass, his arm brushing against his father’s chest. He felt the frantic heartbeat beneath the cotton shirt