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Katsuki Bakugou had installed the security cameras three months ago, after Izuku had taken a nasty fall in the kitchen when a cabinet door swung open unexpectedly. His husband– his quirkless, delicate, frustratingly accident-prone husband– had bruised his hip and cried for twenty minutes, not from the pain but from the frustration of feeling like he couldn't even navigate their own home without something going wrong.
Katsuki told himself it was for safety. He told himself he needed to know if Izuku was hurt, if he fell, if there was an emergency. He told himself it wasn't about watching, wasn't about seeing, wasn't about the dark curiosity that had always lurked in the back of his mind about what Izuku did when he was alone.
He'd never told Izuku about the cameras. They were small, discreet, positioned in the living room, kitchen, hallway, and bedroom. He checked them obsessively at first, then less so as weeks passed without incident. Izuku was careful. Izuku was safe. The cameras became a background hum in Katsuki's consciousness, something he glanced at occasionally on his phone during lunch breaks at the agency, just to see Izuku's smile or watch him cook dinner.
He never expected to see what he saw on that Tuesday afternoon.
Katsuki was eating lunch at his desk, scrolling through his phone with mechanical boredom, when he opened the security app. The kitchen camera loaded first, and he nearly choked on his rice.
Izuku was there. But he wasn't cooking. He wasn't cleaning. He wasn't doing any of the domestic, adorable things Katsuki had grown accustomed to seeing.
Izuku was naked.
Completely, utterly naked, his back to the camera, his body on full display in the afternoon sunlight streaming through their kitchen window. Katsuki could see the defined muscles of his back, the curve of his waist, the swell of his hips. Izuku had filled out since their high school days– still lean, still compact, but with a softness to him now, a plushness that Katsuki loved to grip and bite and mark.
But that wasn't what made Katsuki's phone slip in his sweat-dampened palm.
Izuku was pressed against the kitchen island. Not just leaning– pressed. Humping. Grinding. His hips moved in slow, deliberate circles, his naked body undulating against the edge of the counter. Katsuki could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head was thrown back slightly, mouth open in a silent moan.
"What the fuck," Katsuki whispered to his empty office.
He zoomed in. The camera quality was good– expensive, because Katsuki didn't buy cheap shit– and he could see the flush spreading down Izuku's neck, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the desperate, needy rhythm of his movements.
Then Izuku shifted, and Katsuki saw it.
Between Izuku's legs. Izuku's... pussy. His cunt.
Alone in their kitchen, Izuku was grinding that sensitive flesh against the corner of the counter, his enlarged clit– fuck, it was huge, swollen and protruding, visibly throbbing– dragging against the smooth edge with desperate friction.
Katsuki's own cock stirred in his pants, thick and heavy and suddenly aching. He was large– had always been large, to the point where past partners had complained, had struggled, had tapped out. But Izuku had never complained. Izuku had taken him, all of him, again and again, his body somehow able to accommodate Katsuki's considerable size with desperate, grateful enthusiasm.
But this... this was different. This was Izuku alone, exploring himself, finding pleasure in ways Katsuki had never seen.
Izuku reached for something on the counter. His phone. He swiped at it, and even from the camera angle, Katsuki could see the screen light up with an image.
It was a picture of Katsuki. Naked. One that he'd sent Izuku months ago, lying in bed with his cock hard and heavy against his stomach, his hand wrapped around the base, a smirk on his face. A picture meant to tease, to make Izuku blush and stutter when they were apart.
Izuku was masturbating to Katsuki's nudes. Using Katsuki's image to get off, grinding his cunt against their furniture like a desperate, hungry thing.
"Fuck," Katsuki groaned, adjusting himself in his slacks. He should look away. He should close the app. This was an invasion of privacy, a violation of trust, even if Izuku was his husband, even if they shared everything, even if–
Izuku moaned. Loud enough that the camera's audio picked it up, a high, broken sound that went straight to Katsuki's cock.
He couldn't look away.
Izuku's movements became more frantic, his hips jerking in tight, desperate circles. He kept his eyes on the phone, on Katsuki's image, his free hand reaching down to spread himself open, to expose that swollen, dripping clit to better friction against the counter edge. Katsuki could see the wetness now, could see the shine of arousal smearing against the wood, could see how soaked Izuku was, how his body trembled with approaching orgasm.
"Kacchan," Izuku whimpered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. "Kacchan, Kacchan, please..."
Katsuki's hand found his own cock through his pants, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He watched, transfixed, as Izuku's body went rigid, as his hips stuttered and jerked, as a stream of clear fluid suddenly erupted from between his legs, splashing against the counter, dripping down his thighs, soaking the floor beneath him.
Izuku was squirting. Violently, messily, his whole body convulsing as he continued to grind against the counter, as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through him. He screamed Katsuki's name– screamed it, voice breaking, tears streaming down his face from the intensity of it.
And then he collapsed, slumping against the counter, his body shaking with aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, his phone still clutched in his hand. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up, looked at the mess he'd made– the puddle on the counter, the drips on the floor– and panic crossed his features.
Katsuki watched as Izuku scrambled for a towel, frantically wiping down the counter, cleaning the floor, erasing all evidence of what had just happened. He watched Izuku dress with shaking hands, pulling on sweatpants and a loose shirt, returning to the domestic normalcy of their home as if nothing had occurred.
When Katsuki came home that night, Izuku greeted him at the door with a smile, a kiss, and a question about his day. He acted perfectly normal. Perfectly innocent. His eyes were bright, his cheeks slightly flushed, and if Katsuki hadn't seen what he'd seen, he never would have known that his husband had spent the afternoon fucking their kitchen counter to a picture of Katsuki's cock.
"How was your day?" Katsuki asked, hanging up his coat, his eyes tracking Izuku's movements.
"Oh, you know," Izuku said, turning away to stir something on the stove. "Quiet. I cleaned a bit, did some reading. Nothing special."
Nothing special. Katsuki's cock twitched in his pants. "Nothing special at all?"
Izuku's ears turned pink, but his voice stayed steady. "Nope. Just a normal day."
Katsuki let it go. For now.
The next day, Katsuki found himself unable to focus. His mind kept drifting to the footage, to the image of Izuku's body convulsing in pleasure, to the sound of his name screamed in ecstasy. He'd jerked off twice in the shower that morning, once thinking about it, and still he was hard, still he was distracted, still he was counting down the minutes until he could check the cameras again.
He told himself it was wrong. He told himself to delete the app, to uninstall the cameras, to confess, to be honest about what he'd seen. But the curiosity was too potent, the arousal too intense. He needed to know if it would happen again. Needed to see if Izuku's desperation was a one-time thing or a pattern, a secret habit his husband had been hiding.
At 2:00 PM, during his lunch break, Katsuki opened the app.
The living room camera loaded, and there was Izuku, sprawled on the couch in just an oversized t-shirt– Katsuki's t-shirt, the one he'd been wearing the day before, the one that smelled like him. Izuku's legs were spread wide, his hips lifted slightly off the cushions, and he was moving.
Not just moving. Humping. Grinding.
Between his legs was a pillow. One of the decorative throw pillows from the bedroom, the soft velvet one that Katsuki liked to prop behind his back when they watched movies. Izuku had it folded, wedged against his crotch, and he was rutting against it with shameless, desperate abandon.
His phone was propped up on the arm of the couch, and even from the camera angle, Katsuki could see the screen. Another nude. This one showed Katsuki in the shower, water streaming down his muscular body, his hand wrapped around his thick, erect cock, the head flushed and leaking. Izuku had taken it last month when Katsuki had teased him, had refused to touch him until Izuku begged, until he cried, until he promised to be good.
Now Izuku was using that image to fuel his pleasure, his hips snapping faster, his face buried in the pillow's edge as he inhaled Katsuki's scent, as he imagined his husband's body, his husband's cock, his husband's hands on him.
"Kacchan," Izuku moaned, the sound muffled but audible through the camera's microphone. "Kacchan, please, I need you, I need your cock, please..."
Katsuki's hand was on his own erection before he could stop himself, stroking through his slacks as he watched his husband lose himself to debauchery. Izuku's movements were becoming erratic, his hips jerking in short, staccato thrusts. The pillow was darkening with wetness, soaked through with Izuku's arousal, and still he ground against it, chasing his peak with single-minded obsession.
Then Izuku shifted, sitting up slightly, and Katsuki got a perfect view of what was happening between his legs. Izuku had pulled the t-shirt up, exposing his lower body completely. His pussy was on full display– swollen, dripping, the lips spread open around the edge of the pillow. His clit was enormous, protruding from its hood, throbbing visibly with his pulse. Izuku reached down with one hand, spreading himself wider, exposing that sensitive bundle of nerves to direct friction against the soft velvet.
"Oh god, oh god, Kacchan," Izuku whimpered, his voice high and broken. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum thinking about your big cock, your huge dick filling me up, stretching me open–"
Katsuki groaned, his hand moving faster. He was leaking precome into his underwear, his cock straining against the fabric, desperate for release. But he didn't want to cum yet. He wanted to watch. Needed to see Izuku fall apart.
Izuku's body went rigid. His back arched, his head thrown back, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then the sound came– a wail, a cry of absolute ecstasy that made Katsuki's balls tighten. Izuku's whole body convulsed, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he squirted violently against the pillow, the couch, his own thighs. It was a flood, a gush of clear fluid that soaked the velvet completely, dripped down onto the leather couch beneath, made a mess of everything.
But Izuku didn't stop. He kept grinding, kept rubbing, kept fucking the pillow even as he came, drawing out his orgasm until he was sobbing with overstimulation, his body shaking, his legs twitching, his pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan," he chanted, tears streaming down his face, his body still wracked with aftershocks. "Love you, love your cock, need you inside me..."
Finally, finally, Izuku collapsed. He lay sprawled on the couch, chest heaving, the ruined pillow clutched to his body, his phone still showing Katsuki's image. He looked debauched. Destroyed. Beautiful.
And then, slowly, guilt crept across his features. He sat up, looked at the mess– the soaked pillow, the wet spot on the couch, his own trembling body– and panic set in. He scrambled up, hiding the pillow under a blanket, wiping down the couch with frantic, jerky movements, checking his phone with wide, terrified eyes as if expecting Katsuki to have somehow seen, to know, to judge.
Katsuki watched him clean, watched him dress, watched him try to erase every trace of his pleasure. When Katsuki came home that night, the pillow was already in the laundry basket, the couch was spotless, and Izuku greeted him with a kiss that tasted like mint toothpaste and desperation.
"How was work?" Izuku asked, his voice too bright, too casual.
"Productive," Katsuki said, his eyes tracking to the couch, to the spot where he'd watched his husband cum so hard he'd screamed. "You have a good day?"
"Mm, fine. Quiet. Just did some laundry."
"Just laundry?"
Izuku's cheeks flushed pink. "And some reading. Relaxing, you know?"
"Sure," Katsuki said, smirking internally. "Relaxing."
Katsuki became obsessed.
He told himself he would stop watching. Told himself it was wrong, invasive, a breach of trust that could destroy their marriage if discovered. But he couldn't stop. Every day at lunch, he opened the app. Every day, he found Izuku doing something new, something filthy, something that made Katsuki's cock ache with need.
Wednesday, Izuku had used the arm of the couch, straddling it backwards, rubbing his swollen clit against the firm edge while he looked at a video Katsuki had sent him—Katsuki jerking off, growling Izuku's name, showing off his thick length and heavy balls. Izuku had cum so hard he'd squirted all over the floor, had to mop it up, his hands shaking.
Thursday, Izuku had used the edge of the dining table, leaning back on his hands, legs spread wide, humping the wooden corner with desperate, circular motions. He'd been looking at a picture of Katsuki's bare ass, the muscular globes flexed, a hint of his heavy balls visible between his thighs. Izuku had bitten his lip to stay quiet, but the camera had caught his whimpers, his gasps, the wet sounds of his arousal as he soaked the table edge.
Friday, Izuku had used the headboard of their bed, kneeling against it, his pussy pressed to the wooden slats, grinding back and forth while he looked at a collage he'd made of Katsuki's various nudes– his cock from different angles, his muscular torso, his smirking face. He'd cum three times, each orgasm more violent than the last, until he was a trembling, incoherent mess, unable to walk properly for an hour afterward.
Katsuki saved every video. Told himself it was for evidence, for confrontation, for some future moment when he would confess and they would laugh about it. But he knew the truth. He watched them at night, in bed next to his sleeping husband, jerking off to the image of Izuku's body convulsing in pleasure.
He was going to hell. He was going to hell, and he didn't care.
Saturday. Katsuki was supposed to be at the agency for a half-day, but he'd finished early, had come home with plans to surprise Izuku with lunch, with flowers, with a confession of what he'd seen and an offer to help, to participate, to be the real thing instead of just the image on a screen.
But when he opened the app to check if Izuku was awake, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
Izuku was in the laundry room. He was wearing just a thin tank top and boxer shorts, his hair tied up in a messy bun, looking domestic and adorable and completely unaware that he was about to change everything.
He was doing laundry. Loading the washing machine with the week's clothes, including– the pillow, Katsuki realized, the velvet pillow from Tuesday, finally being cleaned. Izuku added detergent, closed the door, turned the dial.
And then he paused.
The washing machine began to cycle. The spin cycle. And it was loud, vibrating intensely, shaking slightly with the motion.
Izuku's eyes widened. He stared at the machine, watching it shake and rumble, and Katsuki saw the moment realization dawned. Saw the way Izuku's gaze tracked to the top of the washer, flat and slightly padded, vibrating with mechanical intensity.
"No," Katsuki whispered, though he didn't know if he was hoping Izuku would or wouldn't.
Izuku looked around, as if checking to make sure he was alone. Then, slowly, he reached for his phone. Opened it. Swiped to his photos.
Katsuki's nudes. Of course.
Izuku bit his lip, his free hand tracing down his own body, over his tank top, down to the waistband of his boxers. He hesitated for just a moment, a blush spreading across his cheeks, his ears turning red. Then, with a soft whimper of surrender, he pushed his boxers down.
Katsuki's breath caught. He was sitting in his car outside their apartment building, phone clutched in his hand, watching his husband undress in their laundry room. Izuku stepped out of his boxers completely, leaving him naked from the waist down, his pussy already glistening, his clit beginning to swell.
Izuku looked at the washing machine again. It was still vibrating, still rumbling, still offering its mechanical pleasure. With trembling hands, Izuku pulled up a photo on his phone– Katsuki's favorite nude, the one where he was fully erect, his cock looking enormous and intimidating and delicious, a drop of precome visible at the tip.
Holding the phone in one hand, Izuku climbed onto the washing machine.
He didn't sit on the edge. He sat right over the center, where the vibration was strongest, his pussy pressed directly against the top of the machine. The moment he made contact, his whole body jerked, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.
"Oh," Izuku breathed, the sound barely audible but enough to make Katsuki's cock throb. "Oh, fuck, oh god..."
Izuku began to move. Not grinding this time– he didn't need to. The washing machine was doing the work for him, vibrating against his sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure through his body with every rumble. He just had to sit there, legs spread wide, pussy pressed to the machine, and let the vibrations do their work.
But Izuku had never been passive. Even now, he rolled his hips slightly, finding the perfect angle, the perfect spot where the vibration hit his clit just right. His free hand went to his pussy, spreading his lips open, exposing that swollen bundle of nerves to direct contact with the shaking surface.
"Kacchan," Izuku moaned, his head falling back, his eyes glued to the phone screen. "Kacchan, feels so good, vibrating against my clit, making me so wet..."
Katsuki was hard as a rock, his cock straining painfully against his jeans. He should go inside. Should burst in, catch Izuku in the act, offer him the real thing. But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. This was the hottest thing he'd ever seen, his innocent, sweet husband riding their washing machine like a mechanical bull, desperate for friction, desperate for pleasure, desperate for Katsuki.
Izuku's movements became more frantic. He was getting close, Katsuki could tell—the way his thighs trembled, the way his breath hitched, the way his free hand had moved to pinch his own nipples through his tank top. He was going to cum. Going to squirt all over the washing machine, make a mess of it, ruin another piece of their furniture with his desperate need.
Katsuki should let him. Should watch, should record, should save it for later.
But suddenly, desperately, Katsuki wanted to hear him. Wanted to be part of it. Wanted Izuku to know that he knew, that he'd seen, that he loved every filthy, desperate moment.
With shaking hands, he dialed Izuku’s number. Then switched back to the security app once it started ringing to watch Izuku’s reaction.
On the camera, he watched Izuku freeze. Watched his eyes go wide, his body go rigid, panic flooding his features. The phone on the washing machine buzzed, the screen lighting up with Katsuki's name.
For a moment, Izuku didn't move. Didn't answer. Just stared at the phone with terrified, aroused, desperate eyes.
Then, with a trembling hand, he picked up.
"H-hello?" Izuku's voice was high, breathless, barely controlled. He hadn't gotten off the washing machine. Katsuki could see him still sitting there, still spread open, still being vibrated against his will– or rather, with his complete consent.
"Hey, Deku," Katsuki said, keeping his voice casual, normal, as if he couldn't see his husband naked and desperate on their washing machine. "How's your day going?"
"G-good!" Izuku squeaked, trying to sound normal but failing spectacularly. His voice was shaking, his breath coming in short gasps. "Just, um, just doing laundry! How was work?"
"Finished early," Katsuki said, smirking as he watched Izuku's eyes go even wider. "Thought I'd come home, surprise you. I'm actually in the parking lot right now."
"W-what?!" Izuku nearly shrieked, his body jerking. The movement made him press harder against the washing machine, and Katsuki saw his eyes roll back slightly, his mouth fall open in a silent moan. "You're– you're here? Now?"
"Mm," Katsuki hummed, enjoying the panic, the arousal, the desperation. "Be up in a few minutes. You okay? You sound... breathless."
"Fine! I'm fine! Just, um, heavy lifting! The laundry basket!"
"Sure," Katsuki said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "So, what else have you been up to today? Besides laundry?"
Izuku was squirming now, trying to stay still, trying not to give himself away, but the washing machine was relentless. Katsuki could see his hips twitching involuntarily, his free hand gripping the edge of the machine until his knuckles were white.
"N-nothing much," Izuku stammered. "Just... relaxing. Reading. Watching TV."
"On the couch?" Katsuki asked, knowing exactly what Izuku had done on the couch this week.
"Y-yeah! The couch!"
"Which pillow did you use?" Katsuki asked, his voice dropping slightly, becoming something darker, more knowing.
Izuku froze. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the washing machine vibrating, the sound of Izuku's ragged breathing.
"I... what?" Izuku whispered.
"The velvet one, right? The one from the bedroom? Did you clean it, Deku? Or did you just stuff it in the machine and hope I wouldn't notice how soaked it was?"
Silence. Absolute silence. On the camera, Katsuki watched Izuku's face cycle through emotions– panic, realization, embarrassment, and finally, devastating arousal.
"You... you know?" Izuku breathed, his voice barely audible.
"I know everything, baby," Katsuki said softly, cruelly, lovingly. "I know about the counter on Tuesday. I know about the pillow on Wednesday. I know about the couch arm, the table, the headboard. I know you've been fucking our furniture while you look at pictures of my cock. I know you've been desperate and alone and so fucking hungry for it that you'd rub your pretty little pussy against anything that would give you friction."
"Oh god," Izuku whimpered, his body shaking. "Oh god, Kacchan, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to–"
"Are you still on the washing machine?" Katsuki interrupted.
Izuku went quiet. Then, small, defeated, embarrassed: "...Yes."
"Are you close?"
"...Yes."
"How close?"
Izuku's breath hitched. "V-very. Kacchan, please, I'm gonna–"
"Don't you dare," Katsuki growled, his voice dropping into a command that made Izuku's whole body jerk. "Don't you dare cum yet. Stay right there. Keep that phone to your ear. And when I walk through that door in thirty seconds, you better still be sitting on that machine with your legs spread, or I'll make you wait all night."
"Kacchan–"
"Thirty seconds, Izuku."
Katsuki hung up. He didn't wait to see Izuku's reaction, didn't watch the camera anymore. He was out of his car, into the building, up the stairs, his heart pounding, his cock aching, his mind racing with all the things he was going to do to his husband.
He unlocked the door with shaking hands, stepped inside, walked down the hall to the laundry room.
And there was Izuku.
Exactly as ordered. Naked from the waist down, legs spread wide, pussy pressed against the vibrating washing machine, phone still clutched in his hand. His face was flushed, his eyes were wet with tears of desperation, and his body was trembling on the edge of orgasm.
"Kacchan," he whispered, the moment he saw Katsuki in the doorway. "Please, please, I need to cum, I've been so good, please let me–"
Katsuki crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed Izuku's face in one hand, forcing him to look up, to meet his eyes. With his other hand, he reached down between Izuku's legs, felt the wetness, the heat, the swollen flesh vibrating against his palm.
"I've been watching you," Katsuki said, his voice low and dangerous. "Through the cameras I installed. You didn't know, but I knew. I've seen everything, Izuku. Every desperate, filthy moment. And now you're going to get the real thing."
He pulled Izuku off the washing machine, ignoring his whimper of loss, and spun him around. Izuku gasped as Katsuki bent him over the machine, his chest pressed to the still-vibrating surface, his ass in the air.
"Kacchan, wait, your cock, it's too big, I need to–"
"Shut up," Katsuki growled, already freeing himself from his jeans. He was enormous, painfully hard, precome dripping from the tip. "You've been fantasizing about this for days. Begging for it in your little solo sessions. Now take it."
He didn't wait. Didn't prep. Didn't need to– Izuku was soaking wet, dripping, his pussy fluttering open with need. Katsuki aligned himself and thrust forward in one brutal, claiming movement.
Izuku screamed.
It was the same scream Katsuki had heard through the camera on Tuesday, but louder, rawer, real. Izuku's body convulsed, his back arching, his hands scrambling for purchase on the washing machine. He was tight– so fucking tight, even wet as he was, and Katsuki had to pause, had to breathe, had to keep himself from cumming immediately at the feel of those walls fluttering around him, adjusting to his size.
"Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan," Izuku chanted, tears streaming down his face, his body shaking. "So big, too big, gonna split me open–"
"Good," Katsuki snarled, pulling back and thrusting forward again, harder, deeper. "You want to be split open? Want to be fucked so hard you can't walk? That's what you've been begging for, isn't it? My cock inside you instead of just pictures?"
"Yes, yes, please, fuck me, please—"
Katsuki fucked him. Hard. Brutal. The way he'd been wanting to all week, the way he'd held back, the way he'd been gentle and careful when Izuku needed him to be rough and claiming. He pounded into Izuku's body, each thrust making the washing machine shake, making Izuku's body jerk, making him scream and cry and beg for more.
Izuku's pussy was a vice around him, milking him, desperate for his release. Every thrust hit something deep inside that made Izuku wail, made his legs give out, made him collapse against the machine only to be pulled back up by Katsuki's grip on his hips.
"Touch yourself," Katsuki commanded, his own voice ragged with pleasure. "Rub that swollen clit while I fuck you. Show me how you did it on the counter. Show me how desperate you were."
Izuku's hand scrambled between his legs, finding his clit, rubbing it in frantic circles. The moment he made contact, his whole body went rigid.
"Kacchan, I'm gonna– I'm gonna squirt, please, please–"
"Do it," Katsuki growled, pounding harder, faster, chasing his own peak. "Cum on my cock, Izuku. Squirt for me like you did for the furniture. Show me how much you need me."
Izuku broke.
It was catastrophic. Violent. Beautiful. His body convulsed, his pussy clamping down on Katsuki's cock with impossible tightness, and then he was gushing, squirting, his release coating Katsuki's thighs, dripping down his legs, making a mess of the floor. He screamed Katsuki's name until his voice broke, until he was sobbing, until he was nothing but sensation and pleasure and Katsuki's cock filling him up.
The feel of Izuku cumming around him, the wet heat, the fluttering walls, the desperate noises– it was too much. Katsuki growled, his hips stuttering, and then he was cumming too, flooding Izuku's tight heat with spurt after spurt of his release, marking him, claiming him, making him his in the most primal way possible.
They collapsed together, Katsuki's weight pressing Izuku into the washing machine, both of them shaking, gasping, coming down from the high. Katsuki could feel Izuku's pussy still fluttering around him, still milking him for every drop, and he groaned at the sensitivity, the overstimulation, the perfect, messy reality of what they'd just done.
"Kacchan," Izuku whispered, his voice hoarse, ruined. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I was just so embarrassed, and you're so busy, and I didn't want to bother you–"
"Idiot," Katsuki said, but there was no heat in it. He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from Izuku's used, swollen pussy, feeling a primal satisfaction at the sight. "You could never bother me. I installed those cameras because I worry about you. But I'm glad I got to see... all of you. Even the desperate parts."
Izuku turned around, his face still flushed, his eyes soft and wet. "You really don't mind? That I... that I do that?"
"Mind?" Katsuki laughed, pulling Izuku into his arms, not caring about the mess, the sweat, the cum drying on their thighs. "Deku, I have hours of footage saved on my phone. I'm going to jerk off to it for the rest of my life. And next time you're desperate and I'm not home, you call me. I'll talk you through it. Or I'll come home early. But no more fucking the furniture unless I'm there to watch, understand?"
Izuku buried his face in Katsuki's neck, his body shaking with relieved laughter. "Yes, Kacchan. I understand."
"Good." Katsuki lifted him up, bridal style, ignoring Izuku's squeak of surprise. "Now let's get you cleaned up. And then we're going to bed, and I'm going to fuck you again, properly this time, slow and deep until you can't remember your own name. And then we're going to cuddle, and you're going to tell me exactly what else you've been fantasizing about, so I can make every single one of those fantasies come true."
Izuku wrapped his arms around Katsuki's neck, his legs around his waist, holding on as Katsuki carried him out of the laundry room, past the counter where it had all started, toward their bedroom.
"I love you," Izuku whispered, pressing soft kisses to Katsuki's jaw. "So much. Thank you for... for everything. For watching. For knowing. For being mine."
"I love you too, you perverted little furniture-humper," Katsuki said, but he was smiling, his heart full, his cock already stirring again at the thought of round two. "Now shut up and let me take care of you."
Izuku laughed, bright and happy and sated, and let himself be carried to bed.
They spent the rest of the day in their bedroom, exploring each other with a new kind of freedom, a new intimacy born from secrets shared and desires confessed. Katsuki made love to Izuku slowly, worshipfully, learning every inch of his body, every sensitive spot, every way to make him moan and squirm and cum until he was delirious with pleasure.
And when the sun set and the room grew dark, they curled together under the blankets, Izuku tucked against Katsuki's chest, his head resting over Katsuki's heart. Katsuki stroked his hair, his back, his hips, holding him close, never wanting to let go.
"Can we... can we still use the cameras?" Izuku asked sleepily, his voice muffled against Katsuki's skin. "For safety, I mean. And... other things?"
Katsuki chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah, baby. We can use them for whatever you want. But next time you want to get off, you tell me. No more secrets. No more hiding. I want to know every filthy thought in that pretty head of yours."
"Okay," Izuku whispered, pressing closer, his body warm and soft and perfect. "No more secrets."
They fell asleep like that, tangled together, sated and happy and deeply, completely in love. The security cameras continued their silent watch over the apartment, but now they were just another tool of their intimacy, another way to stay connected, another secret shared between husbands who trusted each other with everything– their bodies, their hearts, and their deepest, most desperate desires.
And in the morning, when Izuku woke up first and felt Katsuki's morning erection pressed against his thigh, he didn't reach for his phone. He reached for his husband, and whispered in his ear exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it, exactly how desperate he was to be filled again.
And Katsuki, awake and hungry and so fucking in love, gave him everything he asked for and more.