The lemon-polish smell of the sunroom is cloying in the heat. Izuku watches Natsuki’s eyelids flutter closed, his tiny chest rising and falling with the deep, trusting rhythm of a nap secured. The silence that follows is a physical weight, pressing in from the glass walls.
He straightens, the movement making the orange micro-skirt whisper against his thighs. No panties. The awareness is a constant, low hum between his legs, a secret he’s carrying through the sterile, wealthy house. The fishnet top itches where it digs into his shoulders, the band-aids over his nipples a ridiculous, thrilling claim. He dressed for an audience of one. An audience that hasn’t shown up.
“Three days,” he whispers to the humid air. His voice sounds cracked. It’s been three days since Katsuki came on his face and promised him more. Three days of tending to Natsuki, of jumping at every creak in the floorboards, of wearing these slutty outfits under his normal clothes like a second skin waiting to be revealed. Three days of nothing.
The denial is an ache. It’s a hollow, hungry thing nesting behind his navel. He palms himself through the thin skirt, a hiss escaping his teeth. Soaked. He’s already soaked. Just from thinking about it. Just from remembering the weight of that cock on his tongue, the taste of salt and skin.
“Daddy’s being mean,” he mutters, and the title, spoken aloud in the empty room, sends a jolt straight to his core. He can’t wait for permission anymore. He can’t.
He sinks onto the white linen couch, the material crisp against the back of his thighs. He hooks a finger under the hem of the skirt, pulling it up. The air conditioner’s hum kisses his exposed pussy, a shock of cool on fever-hot skin. He’s shaved bare. For him.
“Think about it,” he commands himself, his voice trembling. He lets his head fall back, eyes squeezed shut. He doesn’t need to imagine the face. It’s etched behind his eyelids. The sharp blonde hair, the crimson eyes that watched him suck with a terrifying, focused hunger. The thickness of him. The way his knuckles looked when he gripped the desk.
Izuku’s finger finds his clit. A sharp, bright spark. He moans, the sound too loud in the quiet. He circles, pressure building instantly. His other hand slides down, two fingers dipping inside himself without preamble. He’s so wet the slide is effortless, a filthy, wet sound that makes his cheeks burn. He imagines it’s not his fingers. He imagines the blunt, insistent head of Katsuki’s cock pressing there, not yet pushing in, just teasing.
“Please,” he whimpers to the phantom. His hips jerk up, fucking himself on his own hand. “Daddy, please, I’ve been good. I’ve been so good. I need it.”
He scissors his fingers inside, stretching, chasing the feeling of fullness that only that specific cock can give. The fantasy shifts—the office, the taste of come on his lips, the degrading promise of the lollipop in his ass. His breath comes in ragged pants. His clit throbs under his frantic circling.
His fingers aren’t enough. They’re just not. The stretch is pathetic, a mockery of what he truly needs. The fantasy shatters against the blunt reality of his own slender digits. A frustrated, choked sound tears from his throat. He needs to be filled. Properly.
His wild, glassy eyes scan the sunroom. The potted orchids. The polished side table. The bright, primary-colored toys scattered near the play mat. His gaze locks onto one: a chunky, hard plastic baby rattle, shaped like a cartoon sun with a thick, cylindrical handle. It’s stupid. It’s insane. He doesn’t let himself think.
Izuku lunges for it, his heels scrabbling on the couch fabric. The plastic is cool and smooth in his sweating palm. He doesn’t hesitate. He brings it to his soaked entrance, the rounded end of the handle pressing against his swollen folds. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer and a curse.
He pushes.
The stretch is immediate, shocking, perfect. Thicker than his fingers. Not as thick as Katsuki, but it’s something. It’s a presence. He moans, a high, reedy sound, and slaps his free hand over his own mouth. Natsuki. He can’t wake Natsuki. The terror of being caught wars with the desperate, clenching need in his cunt, and the need wins. It always wins.
He works the rattle inside, inch by brutal inch. The plastic is unyielding. It burns in the best way, the way he’s been craving for days. A tear leaks from the corner of his squeezed-shut eye. “Yes,” he hisses against his own palm. “Oh god, yes.”
He starts to move it. In and out. The wet, slick sounds are obscene, echoing the hum of the air conditioner. He fucks himself with it, his hips pistoning up to meet each thrust. The rounded end bumps deep inside him, hitting a spot that makes his toes curl in the stripper heels. He’s so loud. He’s making so much noise. The plastic squeaks faintly with the violent rhythm.
“Daddy,” he whimpers around his hand, the phantom now given form by the hard, invading object. “Daddy, see? See what you do? I’m using a baby’s toy. I’m a fucking mess.”
The confession, spoken raw into the silent room, tips him closer. His clit throbs, neglected and desperate. He releases his death-grip on the rattle’s sun-shaped head and brings his slick fingers back to it, circling frantically. The dual sensations are too much. He’s going to come. He’s going to squirt all over this pristine white couch and he doesn’t even care.
The orgasm builds, a tsunami in his gut, tightening every muscle. His back arches off the linen, now damp with sweat and his own slick. The rattle is buried to the hilt inside him. He grinds down on it, chasing the peak, his mouth open in a silent scream.
The orgasm detonates, a white-hot fracture behind his eyes. His body seizes, back bowing off the damp linen, and a gush of hot fluid erupts from him, soaking the rattle’s handle, the couch, his own trembling thighs. The silent scream in his throat becomes a choked, sobbing gasp as he pulses around the hard plastic, vision spotting.
And that’s when he sees him.
Katsuki is leaning against the sunroom doorway, one shoulder propped on the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression is pure, unadulterated amusement. Red eyes rake over the scene: the soaked skirt shoved to Izuku’s waist, the rattle still buried inside him, the glistening mess on the white couch.
Another violent squirt jets from Izuku’s cunt at the sight, a helpless, humiliating response. His hips jerk.
“Well,” Katsuki says, his voice a low, rolling thunder in the quiet room. “Look at this filthy fucking pervert.”
Izuku can’t speak. Can’t move. He’s paralyzed, pinned by that gaze, his spent body still convulsing with aftershocks. The word ‘pervert’ lands in his gut and blooms there, hot and shameful and true.
Katsuki pushes off the doorframe and walks toward him, his steps slow, deliberate. The click of his dress shoes on the tile is the only sound besides Izuku’s ragged breathing. He stops beside the couch, looking down at the wreck of him. “Fucking your slutty cunt with my baby’s toy. Is that what you’ve been doing while you’re supposed to be working?”
“D-Daddy,” Izuku whimpers, the title slipping out like a plea for mercy.
“Don’t ‘Daddy’ me, you desperate little whore.” Katsuki’s hand shoots out, wrapping around the sun-shaped head of the rattle. Izuku cries out, oversensitive and full, as Katsuki gives it a rough, experimental pull. “You made a mess. You think that’s enough? You think one little solo squirt means you’ve earned anything?”
Before Izuku can form a answer, Katsuki leans over him, his other hand planting on the couch by Izuku’s head, caging him in. His cologne—spice and expensive soap—fills Izuku’s senses, drowning out the lemon and sex. “You’re not even close to done.”
Katsuki yanks the rattle out and slams it back in, a brutal, punishing stroke.
Izuku shrieks, his body arching. It’s too much, he just came, it’s—
“You wanted to be full?” Katsuki growls, setting a ruthless, piston-fast rhythm. The hard plastic pounds into him, the wet, slapping sounds obscenely loud. “Here. Be full. Take it. You wanted my cock? You get the toy. You get what you chose, you nasty little pervert.”
Izuku is sobbing, hands fisting in the ruined linen. It hurts. It’s perfect. His cunt is clamping down, greedy and traitorous, another orgasm already coiling tight in his belly from the sheer brutality of it. “I’m sorry—I’m—!”
“You’re not sorry.” Katsuki fucks him harder with the toy, his grip relentless. “Look at you. Squirting again. Like a fucking sprinkler.”
He is. Another gush of fluid spills out around the plastic, soaking Katsuki’s hand. Izuku is coming apart, screaming, his heels digging into the couch as he’s driven up toward the armrest with each thrust. The pleasure is a razor’s edge, so intense it borders on pain, and he’s split open on it, completely exposed.
“Say it,” Katsuki commands, his breath hot against Izuku’s ear. His rhythm never falters. “Tell me what you are.”
“A pervert!” Izuku wails, the confession torn from him. “I’m a nasty—a filthy pervert—!”
“Again.”
“A pervert! Daddy, I’m your pervert, please—!” The words trigger another convulsive release, his body seizing, squirting in a continuous, shameful stream. Katsuki doesn’t stop. He fucks him through it, through the scream, through the trembling, through the next cresting wave that follows instantly, no space to breathe.
Katsuki doesn’t stop. The hard plastic pistons into Izuku’s oversensitive, clenching cunt with a wet, rhythmic slap that seems to echo off the glass walls. Izuku sobs, his body a raw nerve, each thrust sparking a fresh, shameful gush of fluid that soaks the couch, Katsuki’s hand, everything. “Please, Daddy, stop, I can’t—!” he begs, his voice shredded.
“You can,” Katsuki growls, his own breathing ragged with arousal now. He leans over, his free hand gripping Izuku’s jaw, forcing his head to the side. “Look. Look at the mess you’re making on my son’s toy. You’re fucking yourself with a baby rattle and squirting like a broken hydrant. That’s what you are.”
Izuku’s blurred gaze drops to where they’re joined. The bright yellow sun of the rattle is slick and shiny with his release, Katsuki’s knuckles white around it. Another helpless flood spills out at the sight, a visceral confession. He is that. He’s exactly that.
“You don’t get to tell me when to stop,” Katsuki says, his voice dropping to a heated, private rumble right against Izuku’s ear. “This cunt decides when it’s done. And it’s not done. It’s still hungry. Look at it, sucking on this plastic. Disgusting.” He punctuates the word with a particularly brutal thrust that makes Izuku scream, his toes curling in the stripper heels.
Finally, with a last rough shove that buries the rattle to the hilt, Katsuki releases it. He leaves it there, a hard, humiliating plug inside Izuku’s spent pussy. Izuku goes limp, gasping, a fleeting, foolish hope for respite flooding his oxygen-starved brain. Maybe now. Maybe he’ll just pull it out and—
But Katsuki is fumbling with his own belt, the sharp click of the buckle louder than a gunshot. Izuku watches, dazed, as Katsuki yanks his slacks and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It’s thick and heavy, fully hard, the flushed head already beading with pre-come. The sight of it, after days of longing, after the brutality of the rattle, makes Izuku’s spent cunt give a weak, eager throb around the plastic inside him.
“You thought you got a break?” Katsuki sneers, his hand wrapping around his own length, giving it a rough, slick stroke. He spits into his palm, the sound crude and final. “You don’t get breaks. You get what I give you.”
He doesn’t guide himself to Izuku’s soaked, waiting entrance. Instead, the broad, hot head of his cock presses against the tight, untouched pucker of Izuku’s asshole. Izuku’s eyes fly wide. “N-no, wait—Daddy, not there, I’m not—!”
“You’re everything I say you are,” Katsuki grunts, and he pushes.
The stretch is blinding, a white-hot lance of pain that steals the air from Izuku’s lungs. He’s full, impossibly full, the rattle buried in his cunt and now Katsuki’s cock splitting his ass open. He’s being stuffed in both holes, stretched to his absolute limit, his body bowed and trembling between the two invasions. A broken, guttural sound tears from his throat.
“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses, his own composure cracking for a second as he sinks deeper, his hips meeting the backs of Izuku’s thighs. “Jesus. That’s it. Take it. You’re double-penetrated. A baby toy in your slutty pussy and my cock in your ass. This is what you wanted, right? To be full of me?”
Izuku can’t speak. He can only feel. The brutal, burning stretch, the overwhelming presence, the dizzying sensation of being completely occupied and owned. Tears stream down his temples into his hair. He’s a vessel. A toy. A pervert.
Katsuki begins to move, a slow, torturous withdrawal followed by a deep, claiming drive back in. The rattle shifts inside Izuku’s cunt with the motion, a secondary torment. “Feel that?” Katsuki pants, his hands gripping Izuku’s hips hard enough to bruise. “You’ll never be empty again, baby boy. Never.”
Katsuki’s slow, torturous pace shatters without warning. He pulls back and then slams home, a brutal, piston-drive thrust that punches the air from Izuku’s lungs in a ragged sob. The rhythm that follows is violent, punishing, a relentless hammering into his ass that jolts his entire body up the couch with each impact.
“There,” Katsuki grunts, his voice thick with exertion, his hands like vices on Izuku’s hips. “Take it. That’s what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it?”
Izuku’s head flies back, his eyes rolling, vision blurring into the sun-drenched ceiling. The stretch is immense, a burning fullness that ignites every nerve. He can’t form words, only broken, wet sounds as Katsuki pounds into him, the slap of skin on skin a brutal metronome in the hot room. The rattle shifts wildly inside his cunt with the force, a secondary, maddening stimulation. He’s being fucked in both holes, utterly ravaged, and his body seizes, another torrent of release gushing out around the plastic toy, soaking his thighs and the couch anew.
“Look at that,” Katsuki snarls, never slowing his devastating rhythm. He leans over, his breath scorching against Izuku’s sweat-slicked neck. “Squirting again. You’ve lost count, haven’t you? You don’t even know how many times you’ve come on my cock.”
“I—I can’t—” Izuku wails, the pleasure a white-hot wire threaded through his core, pulling tighter and tighter.
“You can. You will.” Katsuki’s hand leaves his hip, snatching the rattle’s handle. He starts moving it in time with his own thrusts, a ruthless counter-rhythm that fucks Izuku’s pussy in tandem with the assault on his ass. The sensation is overwhelming, a dizzying, all-consuming fullness that blots out every thought except need. “Both holes. My baby’s toy in your cunt, my cock in your ass. You’re full of me. Say it.”
“I’m full!” Izuku screams, his back arching, his body a bowstring pulled to snapping. “Daddy, I’m so full of you!”
Another orgasm rips through him, a convulsive, endless wave that has him squirting in a continuous, shameless stream. He’s sobbing, babbling, completely broken open. He’s never felt anything like this—this all-consuming possession, this total annihilation of self. It’s better than any fantasy. It’s everything.
Katsuki’s rhythm turns frantic, his own control fraying. His thrusts become shorter, harder, deeper, his groans raw against Izuku’s skin. “You’re my favorite toy,” he rasps, the confession rough and heated. “My perfect, needy little slut. Gonna fuck you like this every time she leaves. Gonna keep you full and dripping and mine.”
The words are a final trigger. Izuku comes again, a silent, seismic release that locks his throat and whites out his vision. His cunt milks the hard plastic, his ass clenching desperately around the thick cock splitting him open. He feels Katsuki stiffen, hears a choked, guttural roar, and then a scalding flood fills his ass, a deep, claiming heat that seems to brand him from the inside out.
Katsuki collapses over him, his full weight a crushing, delicious anchor. They’re both trembling, slick with sweat and come and Izuku’s endless release, breaths heaving in the silent sunroom. The only sound is the low hum of the air conditioner and their ragged panting.
Slowly, carefully, Katsuki pulls out of him. The loss is profound, a sudden, hollow cold. He extracts the rattle next, the sound obscenely wet. Izuku whimpers at the emptiness, his spent body shuddering.
Katsuki hasn’t moved away. He’s still braced over Izuku, one hand planted on the couch by his head, his breath a hot, ragged counterpoint to Izuku’s shudders. His crimson gaze is locked between Izuku’s spread thighs.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, awed rasp stripped of its usual command. It’s just heat. Just hunger. “Just look.”
Izuku whimpers, turning his face into the damp linen. He can’t look. He’s too empty, too raw.
Katsuki’s thumb, rough and warm, strokes the trembling skin of Izuku’s inner thigh. “Your perfect little holes. All ruined for me. Pussy’s still fluttering, trying to suck something back in. And your ass…” He exhales, a shaky sound. “Gaping open for me. So pretty. My perfect little fuck doll.”
The words aren’t cruel. They’re reverent. They sink into Izuku’s hollow core and ignite a fresh, desperate ache. He squeezes his eyes shut, a fresh tear cutting through the mess on his cheek.
“You still hungry, baby boy?” Katsuki asks, his thumb drifting higher, circling but not touching his oversensitive, swollen entrance. “After all that? This needy little slut still want more?”
Izuku’s body answers before his mind can. A full-body tremor, a weak clench around nothing. His voice is a shattered whisper. “Yes.”
Katsuki goes very still above him. “What?”
“Yes,” Izuku sobs, the confession dragged from his ruined throat. He turns his head, meeting Katsuki’s intense stare. His green eyes are flooded, desperate. “Daddy, please. More. I need… I need your perfect cock. Please. Fill me up again. Please.”
Katsuki stares at him, his expression unreadable. The air conditioner hums. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. The ordinary world exists, but in here, there’s only this wrecked boy begging to be ruined further.
“You’re an insatiable slut,” Katsuki says finally, but there’s no anger in it. There’s something like wonder. His hand leaves Izuku’s thigh to cup his cheek, his thumb smearing tears and come. “A bottomless little thing. My own personal sex toy.”
“Your sex doll,” Izuku breathes, nuzzling into the touch, his lips brushing Katsuki’s palm. “Only your cocksleeve, Daddy.”
Katsuki’s control fractures. He lowers his head, capturing Izuku’s mouth in a kiss. It’s deep, consuming, a messy tangle of tongues and shared breath that tastes of salt and sweat and him. It’s a claiming, but it’s also an answer. When he pulls back, both of them are breathing harder.
The low, grinding rumble of the garage door opener cuts through the humid silence of the sunroom like a siren. Izuku’s eyes fly open, wide with animal panic. Katsuki freezes above him, his body going rigid. For one suspended second, they are a tableau of guilty heat—Izuku sprawled and ruined on the soaked couch, Katsuki braced over him, both of them slick and exposed.
“Fuck,” Katsuki snarls, the word a whip-crack. He’s moving before Izuku can process, surging to his feet and snatching his discarded suit jacket from the floor. “Get up. Now.”
Izuku scrambles, his limbs loose and trembling. The world snaps into a terrifying, hyper-focused clarity. The orange fabric of his micro-skirt is twisted, his fishnet top torn at the shoulder. He can feel the cold air on his wet thighs, the sticky mess cooling on his skin. “My clothes—my bag is in the hall closet—”
“Go,” Katsuki barks, already shrugging into his jacket, trying to cover the dark, wet patch of come and squirt plastering his dress shirt to his stomach. He looks feral, his hair disheveled, his crimson eyes scanning the wrecked room. “Your regular clothes. Put them on. Sixty seconds.”
Izuku stumbles toward the doorway, his stripper heels clicking a frantic, uneven rhythm on the tile. His mind is a white-noise scream. *She’s home she’s home she’s home*. He fumbles with the closet door, yanking out his backpack. His hands shake so badly he can barely unzip it. He pulls out the soft, high-necked sweater and the loose, khaki trousers he’d worn that morning.
Behind him, he hears Katsuki moving with terrifying efficiency. The snap of a lock on the sunroom’s French doors. The low, muttered curse as he surveys the couch—the linen upholstery dark and soaked through, a lost battlefield. “Spilled a whole fucking pitcher of iced tea,” Katsuki is rehearsing under his breath, his voice a gravelly, controlled calm that somehow makes Izuku’s panic worse. “Slipped. Ruined it. Need to replace it.”
Izuku peels the fishnet top off, the bandaids over his nipples pulling painfully. He shoves the slutty orange outfit into the bottom of his bag, his fingers closing around the damp, slick plastic of the baby rattle. A fresh wave of shame burns his cheeks. He stuffs it deep, zips the bag shut, and yanks the sweater over his head. The soft cotton feels like a lie against his oversensitive skin.
“Thirty seconds,” Katsuki growls from behind the locked glass doors, his back to Izuku as he stares out at the driveway. “You dressed?”
“Yes—yes, sir,” Izuku chokes out, buttoning the trousers with fumbling fingers. He toes off the heels, shoves his feet into plain white socks and sneakers from his bag. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls, trying to force them into some semblance of order. He feels naked in this disguise, the good boy costume hanging on his well-fucked body.
Katsuki turns, his gaze sweeping over him. The businessman’s mask is back in place, sharp and impenetrable, but his eyes are still dark with residual heat. He gives a short, sharp nod. “Go to the nursery. Check on Natsuki. You were putting him down for a nap and heard a noise. You came out to investigate and found me dealing with a mess. We spoke briefly. That’s all.”
“Okay,” Izuku whispers, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hesitates, his eyes darting to the locked sunroom, to the evidence of what they’d done. “Katsuki—”
“Not now,” Katsuki cuts him off, his voice low and final. “Go.”
Izuku goes. He pads down the hall on silent feet, his body aching with every step. The house feels different—charged, dangerous. The front door clicks open in the distance, followed by the bright, familiar sound of Ochako’s voice calling, “I’m home!”
He slips into the nursery’s dim quiet and closes the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a second, trying to catch his breath. The room smells of baby powder and clean linen. And there, in his crib, is Natsuki. The baby is fast asleep on his back, his little chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, one tiny fist curled near his cheek. He didn’t stir. He didn’t cry.
A shaky, disbelieving breath escapes Izuku. He crosses the room on trembling legs and looks down at the sleeping infant. The baby’s blond hair is a soft halo, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. He looks peaceful. Perfect. *He slept through it all*, Izuku thinks, a hysterical gratitude swelling in his throat. *Through my screaming. Through everything. Thank you. Thank you for being such a perfect, heavy sleeper.* He reaches out, his finger hovering just above Natsuki’s small, starfish hand, not daring to touch. He just looks, and lets the innocent, milky calm of the child anchor him against the storm still raging in his own body.
The tension in the nursery doesn't break with a scream, but with the mundane, muffled sound of conversation from down the hall. Izuku presses his ear to the door, his heart a trapped bird. He hears Ochako’s light, unconcerned laugh. “A whole pitcher? You’re such a klutz, Kats. Just order a new one.” There’s a low, gruff response he can’t make out, then the sound of her footsteps retreating upstairs. The crisis, it seems, has been averted. The world has swallowed their sin whole.
Katsuki opens the nursery door twenty minutes later. He’s changed into a fresh grey t-shirt and sweatpants, the domesticity of it a bizarre contrast to the man who’d just been buried inside him. His expression is shuttered, professional. “She’s upstairs for the night. You’re done for today. Go home.”
“But—” Izuku’s protest dies as Katsuki’s crimson eyes flash a warning. The promise from the sunroom—*my perfect little fuck doll*—is gone, locked away behind the employer’s gaze. “Yes, sir,” Izuku whispers, the title ash in his mouth.
The walk to the bus stop is agony. Every step rubs the soft khaki against his oversensitive cunt, a brutal reminder of the fullness he’d had and lost. His ass aches, a deep, hollow throb where Katsuki had come. His body is a map of a country he was evicted from. He gets to his tiny apartment, locks the door, and slides down it to the floor. The silence is deafening. He can still smell Katsuki’s sweat on his skin, beneath the clean cotton of the sweater.
He doesn’t go to his bed. He crawls to his backpack, his hands shaking as he unzips it. He pulls out the orange fabric, the torn fishnet, and finally, the plastic baby rattle. It’s still slightly damp. He stares at it, his face burning with shame so hot it feels like purity. *This is what I am*, he thinks, spreading his legs right there on the scratchy apartment carpet. He doesn’t need lube. He’s still slick, still open. He pushes the rounded end of the rattle inside his cunt, and it slides in with an obscene, familiar ease. It’s nothing. It’s a ghost. It’s not the thick, uncut cock he’s dying for.