The final bell was a physical release, a slackening of the tension that had held Izuku’s body rigid all afternoon. He moved through the emptying hallway like a ghost, his backpack a light, forgotten weight. Every part of him ached with a deep, familiar soreness—a full-body bruise that felt like ownership. The mark Tesutesu had seen throbbed under the collar of his uniform.

“Midoriya. Hey.”

The voice came from his left, near the lockers. Izuku flinched, his whole body seizing. He turned, wide-eyed, to see Yo Shindo leaning against the metal, a concerned frown on his face.

“You okay?” Yo pushed off the lockers, taking a step closer. “You’ve been… spacey all day. And you jumped a mile just now.”

Izuku’s mouth was dry. He could smell the sterile hall, the faint lemon cleaner, and beneath it, the lingering scent of his father’s cigarette smoke and sweat on his own skin. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Yo’s brown eyes scanned him, not with Tesutesu’s grim understanding, but with a confused, persistent worry. “You look kinda wrecked. And you’ve been walking funny since this morning.”

A hot wave of shame flushed Izuku’s neck and face. He could feel the slick, tender ache between his legs, the chafing of the fresh underwear Katsuki had put on him. He bit his lip. “I’m just tired.”

“Right.” Yo didn’t sound convinced. He ran a hand through his fluffy black curls, shifting his weight. “Look, I don’t wanna be weird, but… you wanna get out of here? Maybe get a coffee or something? You seem like you could use a break from… whatever’s got you so tense.”

Izuku blinked. The offer lay between them, simple and alien. A break. From what? From Daddy? The concept was so absurd it almost made him laugh, a hysterical bubble in his throat. He swallowed it down. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Yo took another step. He was in Izuku’s space now, close enough that Izuku could see the earnest intent in his eyes. “Your dad gonna be mad?”

The word ‘dad’ was a jolt. Izuku’s breath hitched. He saw Katsuki’s hand on his leg in the car, heard the low promise in his voice. “He’s waiting for me.”

“So tell him you’re studying with a friend.” Yo smiled, a friendly, open expression. “It’s just coffee. I promise I don’t bite.”

Izuku stared at him. The subtext—the hitting-on, the flirtation—sailed completely over his head, lost in the static of his own reality. All he processed was the proximity, the unfamiliarity of a kind touch that wasn’t a prelude to pain. It felt wrong. It felt like a threat to the careful, shattered order of his world.

The word ‘friend’ echoed in the hollow space behind Izuku’s ribs. He stared at Yo’s offered smile, the casual lean of his body. A break. Just coffee. A moment where he wasn’t his father’s anything. The ache between his legs pulsed, a taunt. “Okay,” he heard himself say, the voice thin. “Just coffee.”

Yo’s face brightened. “Awesome. There’s a place a couple blocks over. Less… school-smell.”

Izuku followed him out a side door into the late afternoon glare. The sun felt foreign on his skin. He walked a careful half-step behind, his body moving with a stiff, sore precision. Every shift of his thighs reminded him of the morning, of the car. The clean cotton of his underwear was already dampening.

The cafe was small, quiet. Izuku took the seat farthest from the window, his back to the wall. Yo brought over two mugs, sliding one across the table. “So. Wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” Izuku’s hands wrapped around the warm ceramic. He focused on the heat, the solidness. Not the other heat, the slippery one.

“Whatever’s got you so tense you look like you’ll shatter.” Yo sipped his drink, watching him over the rim. “The walking funny. The jumping at shadows. The…” He gestured vaguely at Izuku’s neck, where the uniform collar didn’t quite cover the darkening bruise.

Izuku’s fingers twitched. He wanted to pull the collar higher. He didn’t. “I fell.”

“Uh-huh.” Yo leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Look, Midoriya. I’m not blind. And I’m not an idiot. Someone’s hurting you.”

The directness was a slap. Izuku flinched. “No.”

“Yeah. They are.” Yo’s foot nudged his under the small table. “And I’m just saying… you don’t have to go back to that. There are other places to be. Other people.” His gaze was intent, loaded. “People who’d be… gentler.”

Izuku’s heart hammered. Gentler. The concept was as terrifying as kindness. Gentleness wasn’t possession. Gentleness didn’t leave you full and claimed and desperately, shamefully wet. He shook his head, a frantic little motion. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

“I can’t,” Izuku whispered, his fingers tightening on the mug. The heat was solid, real. Everything else was a slippery, shameful dream.

Yo’s hand slid from his own wrist, up his forearm, a light, exploratory touch. “You’re shaking.” His thumb brushed the sensitive skin near Izuku’s elbow. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Izuku didn’t feel safe. He felt exposed. The touch wasn’t rough, wasn’t claiming. It asked a question he didn’t know how to answer. He sat perfectly still, letting it happen. This was what people did, wasn’t it? They touched. They were gentle. This was the wanting he was supposed to understand.

“Your skirt’s all bunched up,” Yo murmured, his voice low and intimate in the quiet cafe. His fingers trailed down, over the fabric of Izuku’s uniform skirt, smoothing it against his thigh. The touch lingered, palm flat against the muscle. “You’re so tense right here.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. The touch was alien, but his body, traitorous and well-trained, responded. A fresh slickness seeped into his cotton underwear, the tender flesh between his legs throbbing in time with his pulse. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

Yo’s hand slid higher, under the hem of the skirt. His fingertips brushed the bare skin of Izuku’s inner thigh. “See? You’re all wound up.”

“Don’t,” Izuku breathed, but it was air, not a command. His legs trembled. He didn’t push the hand away. He was supposed to want this. A nice boy. A gentle touch. This was the escape.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Yo’s eyes were dark, focused. He leaned closer, his other hand coming to rest on Izuku’s knee, holding him in place. His fingers crept higher, through the fine, hairless skin, until the rough pad of his thumb found the damp cotton covering Izuku’s cunt. He pressed. A soft, wet sound.

A sharp, unbidden gasp tore from Izuku’s throat. His hips jerked, a tiny, involuntary thrust against the pressure. Shame burned through him, hotter than any arousal.

“Fuck,” Yo whispered, his own breath catching. He rubbed slowly, firmly, through the fabric. “You’re soaked. Right here in the cafe.” He sounded awed, hungry. “Do you like that? Do you like when I touch you there?”

Tears pricked Izuku’s eyes. He shook his head, a frantic denial, even as his tiny cunny clenched, empty and aching. “Please.”

“Please what?” Yo’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear, dipping beneath. The direct contact of skin on skin was a shock. Yo’s touch was clumsy, curious. Not like Daddy’s. It explored the slick folds, the swollen entrance, with a boyish urgency that felt all wrong. “God, you’re so wet. So tight.”

Izuku’s vision blurred. He could feel Yo’s finger circling his hole, pressing but not entering. It was an offer. An invitation. It felt like nothing. It felt like a betrayal. His body wept for it anyway.

“We can’t… here,” Yo muttered, though his finger didn’t stop its slow, maddening circles. He glanced toward the counter; the barista had their back turned. “The bathroom. Single stall. Lock the door.” His eyes found Izuku’s, blazing with teenage lust. “You want to? Let me make you feel good.”

Izuku’s mind was white noise. The bathroom. A locked door. A different kind of being filled. This was the script. A boy likes you. You go to the bathroom. This is normal. This is what he’s supposed to crave.

He nodded, a brittle, mechanical motion. “Okay.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, the lock sliding into place with a final, metallic sound. The stall was narrow, smelling of bleach and cheap air freshener. Yo immediately crowded him against the door, his hands going to the buttons of Izuku’s uniform shirt. “Let’s see you,” he breathed, fingers fumbling in his haste.

Izuku stood rigid, his head tilted back against the cool metal. He stared at the water-stained ceiling tile, dissociating from the hands opening his shirt, baring his small, freckled chest and the puffy brown nipples Katsuki loved to bite. The air was cold on his damp skin.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” Yo muttered, his gaze hot. He palmed one tiny breast, his thumb rubbing roughly over the nipple. It peaked under the touch, a traitorous reflex. “So sensitive.”

“Don’t…” Izuku whispered again, the word automatic, meaningless. His eyes stayed fixed upward. Daddy’s hands were bigger. Daddy’s touch was sure, possessive, a brand. This was just groping.

Yo leaned in, mouth closing over the other nipple, sucking wetly. Izuku flinched, a full-body shudder. It didn’t feel like ownership. It felt like being tasted. He could feel Yo’s hard cock pressing against his thigh through their uniforms, rutting impatiently.

“Gotta see it,” Yo panted, pulling back, saliva shining on Izuku’s skin. He shoved Izuku’s pleated skirt up around his waist, exposing his plain cotton underwear, the front already darkened with wetness. Yo groaned, grinding himself against Izuku’s bare thigh. “Take these off. Let me see that pussy.”

Izuku’s hands moved without his command. They hooked into the waistband of his underwear and pushed them down his trembling thighs, letting them pool at his ankles. The bathroom air hit his naked cunt, a shock that made his hole clench. He was so exposed. So wet.

Yo stared, his breath catching. “Holy shit.” He dropped to his knees, his face level with Izuku’s crotch. His hands spread Izuku’s thick thighs wider, pushing them apart against the door. “It’s so little. And hairless. You’re fucking dripping.”

A thick strand of slickness trailed from Izuku’s entrance down his inner thigh. Yo didn’t wait. He leaned forward and licked it up, a long, slow swipe of his tongue from perineum to clit.

The sensation—foreign, wet, inquisitive—jolted through Izuku. A choked sound escaped his throat. It wasn’t the brutal, claiming suction of his father’s mouth in the car. This was exploratory, hungry in a different way. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.

“You taste so good,” Yo mumbled against him, his tongue circling Izuku’s swollen clit. He sucked it lightly, then pushed two fingers against his soaked entrance. “Let me in. I wanna fuck this tiny pussy so bad.”

Izuku’s body opened, a slick, shameful yield. Yo’s fingers sank inside, a shallow, clumsy penetration. They weren’t thick enough. They didn’t reach deep enough. They moved, scissoring, curling, searching for a spot they didn’t know how to find. It was friction. It was nothing. Tears welled in Izuku’s wide green eyes, spilling over to track silently through his freckles. He was so empty.

“You’re so tight,” Yo grunted, working his fingers, his other hand fumbling with his own belt. “Gonna feel my cock. You want it, right? You’re soaked for it.”

Izuku’s mind floated somewhere near the buzzing fluorescent light. He heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle. A script played in his hollow core. *A nice boy. A gentle touch. This is normal. Say yes.* His daddy’s face, sneering, possessive, flickered behind his eyes. The phantom feel of a thick, familiar cock stretching him wide made his cunt pulse around the inadequate fingers.

“Yeah,” Izuku heard himself say, the voice flat and distant. “Fuck my pussy.”

Yo’s cock pushed into him, and Izuku’s breath stuttered. It was a different stretch. Not the familiar, brutal fullness that split him open and claimed his insides. This was thinner, shorter, an insistent pressure that bottomed out too soon. It didn’t touch the deep, aching place only his daddy ever reached.

“Fuck,” Yo groaned, his forehead dropping against Izuku’s shoulder. He held himself there, panting. “You’re so tight. Jesus.” He began to move, shallow, frantic thrusts that rocked Izuku’s body against the bathroom door.

The metal was cold through his shirt. Izuku stared over Yo’s shoulder at the graffiti on the stall wall. His body accepted the intrusion, his cunt slick and accommodating, but it felt like nothing. Like friction. A hollow, mechanical pumping.

“You feel so good,” Yo muttered, his hips snapping faster. His hands gripped Izuku’s thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “So wet for me. God, your little pussy’s gripping me.”

Izuku’s eyes burned. He felt a tear slide down his temple into his hairline. He was so empty. The thrusts were too fast, too shallow, a pointless rhythm that built nothing inside him. He could feel Yo’s balls slapping against his ass, a wet, smacking sound that echoed in the tiny room.

“Look at me,” Yo breathed, his voice strained. He cupped Izuku’s cheek, forcing his face around. His brown eyes were glazed with lust. “I wanna see you. You gonna cum for me?”

“No,” Izuku breathed, the word a broken thing. A fresh wave of tears spilled over, hot and silent. He shook his head, his cheek still trapped in Yo’s hand. “I’m not. I can’t.”

Yo’s thrusts faltered, his lust-glazed eyes blinking in confusion. “What?”

“Stop.” It was a whisper, then a sob. “Please, stop. It’s not… it doesn’t feel right.” His body was rigid, his tiny cunny clenching rhythmically around the invading cock not in pleasure, but in spasms of distressed rejection. “It’s not his.”

“Whose?” Yo panted, still buried inside him, his hips making shallow, aborted movements. He sounded annoyed, his fantasy interrupted. “What are you talking about?”

“Stop,” Izuku repeated, the word gaining a thin, sharp edge. He pushed weakly at Yo’s chest, his fingers barely making an impression. “Get out. Get out of me.”

Yo groaned, frustration overriding concern. He thrust once, hard, burying himself to the hilt. “You said yes. You’re fucking dripping. You want it.”

“I don’t.” Izuku’s voice cracked. The thrust had jolted him, a punctuation of wrongness. His body was a traitor, slick and accommodating, but his mind was screaming. “It’s not right. Please, stop.”

“You’re gonna make me cum like this,” Yo panted, his rhythm turning erratic, selfish. He gripped Izuku’s hips, holding him still for his frantic pumping. “Just take it. It’ll feel good.”

“No!” The word ripped from Izuku’s throat, louder now, echoing off the tile. He thrashed, his back scraping against the door. “Stop! Get off! GET OFF!”

Tears streamed down his face, hot and uncontrollable. He wasn’t whispering to Daddy anymore. This was a raw, panicked scream for a stranger to stop. His hands clawed at Yo’s shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his uniform.

Yo ignored him, his face buried in Izuku’s neck, his breaths coming in ragged grunts. “Almost… fuck… almost there…”

“STOP!” Izuku screamed, the sound raw and shredded. He bucked wildly, a useless, frantic motion. “I SAID STOP! DON’T! PLEASE, DON’T!”

The bathroom door flew open with a bang, cracking against the porcelain toilet. A massive hand clamped onto Yo’s shoulder and wrenched him backward, pulling his cock free from Izuku’s cunt with a wet, sucking pop.

“What the hell is going on in here?” a deep voice boomed.

Izuku slumped against the door, exposed, his skirt rucked around his waist, slickness glistening on his inner thighs. The cold bathroom air hit his used hole, making it clench emptily. He wrapped his arms around his small chest, trying to vanish.

The manager, a broad-shouldered man in a coffee-stained apron, had Yo pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed to the boy’s throat. Yo sputtered, his pants still around his ankles. “We were just— he wanted it!”

“He was screaming no,” the manager snarled, his face a mask of disgust. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of Izuku—trembling, tear-streaked, clearly a student. “Jesus Christ, kid. Are you okay?”

A young barista, her face pale, slipped into the room. She didn’t touch him. “Hey. Can you look at me? What’s your name?”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He shook his head, a frantic little motion. His vision swam. The barista’s concern felt like a physical weight, a strange, smothering blanket. He could hear muffled voices from the café beyond the bathroom door. *…calling the cops… heard yelling…*

“I’m gonna kill you, you little shit,” the manager growled at Yo, giving him a shake.

“He said yes!” Yo insisted, his voice cracking with panic and indignation. “He was dripping wet! He told me to fuck his pussy!”

The barista’s eyes flicked to Izuku’s face, then down to his exposed body, taking in the hairless skin, the tiny, swollen cunt. Her breath caught. “Oh, honey.”

“Don’t,” Izuku whispered, finally finding his voice. It was a raw scrape. He pushed his skirt down, his movements jerky. The cotton fabric stuck to his wet skin. “Don’t call anyone.”

“He assaulted you,” the manager said, not letting go of Yo.

“No.” Izuku shook his head harder, tears flying. “I… I let him. It’s my fault.” The script was crumbling. This wasn’t the aftermath with Daddy. There was no rough clean-up, no claiming hand on his leg. This was pity. It was wrong. “Please. Just let him go. I want to go home.”

“You can’t go home like this,” the barista said softly. “You’re hurt.”

The barista’s voice was soft, cutting through the buzzing in his ears. “Is there someone we can call? A parent?”

The word ‘parent’ shattered something brittle in Izuku’s chest. A sob wrenched out of him, ugly and wet. He nodded, his forehead thumping against the cold bathroom door. “My daddy.” The title was a plea, a confession, a prayer. “Call my daddy.”

He rattled off the number, the digits falling from his lips like a memorized incantation. The barista repeated them into her phone, her voice low and urgent. Izuku didn’t hear the words. He heard the distant wail of sirens growing closer, cutting through the afternoon.

“They’re coming,” the manager said, still pinning a pale, silent Yo against the wall. “Cops.”

“No,” Izuku whimpered. He curled tighter into himself, his arms wrapping around his knees. The tile was freezing under his bare thighs. “I don’t want them. I want my daddy. Just my daddy.”

The barista knelt, keeping a careful distance. “He’s on his way. He said five minutes.”

The sirens cut off abruptly outside, replaced by the slam of car doors. The bathroom door, still ajar, framed the chaos of the café—patrons staring, the manager holding Yo—and then a new shape filled it, blocking the light. Katsuki Bakugou’s broad shoulders nearly scraped the frame. His eyes, burning crimson, scanned the room in a millisecond—the barista kneeling, the manager, Yo pinned and pale—and landed on the small, shivering form curled on the floor.

He moved. Not a step, but a launch. He crossed the space in two strides, his fist already pulling back. It wasn’t a thought. It was a piston firing.

The crack of his knuckles against Yo’s jaw was a sick, wet pop. The manager’s grip vanished as Yo’s head snapped sideways, his body slumping against the wall before sliding down it. The sound was meat and bone.

The manager just stepped back, hands raised in a clear, simple surrender. He made no move to stop it, no sound of protest. He simply watched Yo crumple, his face blank, and took another step away from the mess.

Katsuki didn’t look at him. He was already turning, shrugging out of his leather jacket in one smooth motion.

“Izuku.”

Katsuki's voice was a low thrum, cutting through the static. He didn't kneel. He descended, his leather jacket draping over Izuku's shivering shoulders, engulfing him in heat and the familiar, sharp scent of smoke and his father. Large hands, knuckles split and bleeding from the punch, framed Izuku's face, forcing his gaze up. "Look at me. Breathe."

Izuku hiccuped, a wet, broken sound. He melted forward, his forehead pressing into Katsuki's solid chest. The world outside the circle of his father's arms ceased to exist. He fisted his hands in Katsuki's shirt, trembling. "D-Daddy… he…"

"I know." Katsuki's arms wrapped around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, possessive and firm. "I'm here now. Nobody else touches you. Ever."

Boots clomped in the hallway. Two police officers appeared in the doorway, their eyes taking in the scene: the unconscious boy slumped by the wall, the manager and barista standing back, and the large man shielding a smaller, crying figure on the floor.

"Alright, what's the situation here?" the older officer asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Katsuki didn't release Izuku. He turned his head, just enough to meet the officer's gaze over his shoulder. His voice was deceptively calm, a controlled rasp. "That piece of shit raped my son. I stopped him."

The younger officer moved toward Yo, checking his pulse. "He's out cold. Sir, did you assault this boy?"

"I defended my child," Katsuki stated, not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. His hand stroked down Izuku's back, a slow, grounding pass. "Izuku. The officers need to hear it from you. Can you tell them what happened?"

Izuku clutched him tighter, his face still hidden. The words felt like glass in his throat. "I… I went to the cafe with him. He… he touched me. I let him. I thought…" He hiccuped again. "But then he pushed me in here. I said no. I screamed it. He didn't stop."

"Did you know your assailant?" the older officer asked, kneeling a few feet away, keeping his distance.

"He's in my class," Izuku whispered, the confession leaving him hollow. "Yo Shindo."

The barista spoke up softly. "I was the one who called. I heard the screaming. The door was locked. When the manager got it open, this young man was on the floor, and the other one was…" She gestured, her face pale. "He was actively penetrating him. The victim was clearly stating 'no' and 'stop.'"

The manager nodded. "Can confirm. Had to pull the kid off him."

The older officer stood, his expression grim. "Okay. We're going to need statements from everyone. And an ambulance for him." He nodded toward Yo, who was starting to groan. "Sir, we'll need you to come down to the station as well."

Katsuki’s arms tightened around Izuku. "My son isn't going anywhere without me. He's in shock. You can take his statement right here, or you can follow us to the hospital. But I'm not letting him go."

Izuku felt the rumble of his father's voice through his chest. The finality of it. The world wanted to pull him apart, to ask questions that had no answers, but Daddy's arms were a wall. He nodded against Katsuki's shirt, a tiny, desperate movement. "I want to stay with Daddy."

The officers exchanged a look. The older one sighed, pulling out a notepad. "Alright. Let's start with what you remember, son. Take your time."

Izuku spoke into Katsuki's chest, his voice muffled and small, recounting the cafe, the bathroom, the terrifying moment his numbness shattered into pure panic. Through it all, Katsuki held him, a silent, immovable monument. His hand never stopped its slow stroking along Izuku's spine, a rhythm that said *mine, mine, mine* more clearly than any words.

When the statement was done and the ambulance arrived, the paramedics found them on the cold tile. Katsuki didn’t let go, not until the lead medic, a woman with steady hands, spoke directly to Izuku. Asked him. Izuku gave a tiny, terrified nod against Katsuki’s neck.

Katsuki laid him on the gurney himself, the leather jacket still a shield. He stood, a pillar of cracked granite, while they worked. His knuckles were a map of split skin and dried blood.

They asked their questions in low voices. They needed to take the uniform. They needed to check him. The words were clinical, but each one was a fresh violation. Izuku’s breath hitched, a ragged sound. Katsuki’s jaw ached from clenching. He watched a stranger in blue gloves touch Izuku’s thigh, swab a scrape there, and the red rage behind his eyes was a living thing.

He saw the exact moment Izuku left his body. The green eyes went vacant, fixed on the ceiling. Katsuki moved then. He shouldered a tech aside, not gently, and put his hand on Izuku’s damp hair. Not to stop them. To anchor him. His palm was a brand, a fixed point in the chaos. Look at me, his touch said. Only me.

They bagged the ruined clothes. They collected their evidence. Through it all, Katsuki’s thumb stroked Izuku’s temple, a relentless, grounding rhythm. Mine. You are here, with me.

When it was over, they offered the hospital. Katsuki refused with a single shake of his head. He wrapped Izuku in a fresh blanket, lifting him from the gurney. The weight of him was frighteningly slight.

He carried him out, past the flashing lights, and into the waiting car. He buckled him in, his fingers careful on the clasp. He crouched, his face level with Izuku’s. The scent of antiseptic and strangers clung to them both.

“You’re safe now.”

Izuku’s eyes focused, slowly, on Katsuki’s face. “You came.”

“Always.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushed a final tear from Izuku’s cheek, smearing the salt into his skin. A promise. A claim. Then he shut the door.

The engine roared. He did not drive toward the hospital. He drove toward home.