The fabric of the crop top was thinner than Izuku expected.

It clung to the soft swell of his chest, the cool air of his bedroom making his nipples pucker into obvious, sensitive points against the material. He could see them, two dark pink shadows pressing insistently against the white polyester. He smoothed the short skirt over his hips, his stomach fluttering. The hem stopped high on his thighs. A breath would expose everything.

"This is for Daddy," he whispered to his reflection in the dark laptop screen. "To make him see."

But a deeper, secret part of him thrilled at the image. The way the skirt barely covered anything. The promise of what lay beneath. He let his hands drift down, fingertips skimming the inside of his own thighs. The skin there was so soft. He imagined Katsuki's sharp eyes on him, cataloging every detail from the sidelines, and a hot, slick pulse answered between his legs. He was ready.

His phone buzzed on the bed. Ochako.

He picked it up, biting his lip. "Hello?"

"Well? Do you have it on?" Her voice was a cheerful whisper. "The girls are gonna lose their minds when they see you. You've got the perfect build for stunting."

"It's… it's very short, Ochako."

"They're all short, dummy. That's the point. Makes the routines look cleaner." She paused. "You're not getting cold feet, are you? You were so determined."

"No. No cold feet." He turned slightly, watching the skirt flare in the blue light. "It just feels… different. On me."

"It looks hot, I bet. Send me a pic."

Izuku’s breath caught. A picture. Proof. He could send it to her, and it would just be between friends. But it felt like crossing a line. A line drawn directly toward his father’s office. "I can't. What if… what if someone else saw?"

"Who's gonna see? It's just me. Come on, I helped you steal the uniform from the locker room. I deserve a preview."

His thumb hovered over the screen. The fluttering in his stomach coiled tighter, lower. He lifted the phone, angling it down his body. The flash was off. The image would be dark, grainy. Suggestive. He took the picture. He looked at it. In the gloom, his curves were a pale suggestion, his nipples unmistakable peaks, the shadow between his thighs profound. A secret. He sent it.

The three dots appeared immediately. Then her reply. "Holy shit, Izuku."

"What?"

"Your tits look incredible. And your hips in that skirt… Coach is gonna have a stroke."

He knew she meant it as a joke. Coach Kacchan, the hardass, confused by a new recruit. But the words landed in Izuku’s gut like a lit match. *Coach. Daddy.*

"It's nothing," Izuku breathed into the phone, his voice tight. The image of his father’s face, stern and focused on the sidelines, was seared behind his eyes. "Just nervous. I'm on my way."

"Good! Meet me by the equipment shed. I'll get you lined up before warm-ups." Ochako’s tone was all business now. "And relax. You look amazing. He won't know what hit him."

He ended the call. The silence in his bedroom was heavy, broken only by the hum of his laptop. He looked down at himself. The skirt was a scant scrap of fabric. He hadn’t worn anything beneath it. The cool air from the vent whispered directly against his skin, a constant, shocking reminder. This detail was for one person only. A surprise. A secret laid bare for Daddy’s eyes alone.

His fingers traced the hem, lifting it slightly. A shudder ran through him. He was completely exposed. The thought of walking across campus, of bending, of moving… anyone could see. *Daddy* would see.

"This is for you," he whispered again, the words husky now. He said it like a promise, like a threat. He said it like he was begging.

He grabbed his team jacket, the one Ochako had also procured, and shrugged it on. The heavy fabric covered the crop top, but the skirt’s shortness was still blatant. His thighs were pale and bare in the dim light. He took a steadying breath, the fluttering in his stomach now a hard, hot knot of anticipation.

The walk to school was a blur of streetlights and shadows. Every gust of wind made the skirt dance against the backs of his thighs. The rough seam of the jacket’s lining brushed his nipples with each step, and they stayed hard, aching points of sensitivity. He was hyper-aware of the empty space between his legs, the vulnerable slickness that waited there. He kept his head down, but his heart hammered against his ribs.

The stadium lights glowed in the distance, a buzzing halo in the night. He could hear the distant roar of the crowd, the thump of the bass from the pep band. His pulse kicked faster. Somewhere in that chaos was Katsuki Bakugou. Coach. Daddy.

He found Ochako by the shed, as promised. Her eyes swept over him, lingering on the length of his legs below the jacket. "Ready for the big reveal?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Jacket off. Let's go. He does final visual checks before we hit the field."

Izuku’s hands felt numb. He unzipped the jacket slowly, letting it fall open. The cool night air hit the thin white top, and his nipples pressed against it instantly, two dark, perfect outlines. Ochako’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk playing on her lips. "Damn, Izuku. Commitment."

He let the jacket slide off his shoulders. The full effect was unveiled. The cropped top, the impossibly short skirt, his body on display. He felt naked. He felt powerful.

"Come on," Ochako said, grabbing his wrist. Her grip was firm. "Time to make an entrance."

The line of the team—and now Izuku—snapped into formation on the track, a blur of white and green under the stadium lights. Ochako pulled him into the back row, her hand a firm anchor on his wrist. On the sidelines, Katsuki Bakugou finished barking the sequence. "Pyramid off the triple-step, then straight into the basket toss. Clean lines. I see a sloppy landing, you run laps until you puke."

His sharp red eyes swept across the squad as the music kicked in. Checking posture, checking spacing. A predator scanning his territory. Then they stopped.

Izuku was moving. He knew the routine; he’d practiced in secret for weeks. His body was all fluid grace, a jump, a spin, his skirt flaring. Katsuki’s brain short-circuited. The green curls. The freckles. The determined set of the mouth he’d kissed goodnight for eighteen years.

"What the fuck," Katsuki breathed, the words lost in the pounding music.

His gaze locked. The thin white crop top was plastered to Izuku’s chest from the exertion, the soft swell of tiny tits, the perfect, puffy outlines of dark pink nipples, hard and obvious. Every bounce, every twist, they pressed against the fabric, begging for attention.

Izuku dropped into a low squat for a base position, knees wide. The short skirt rode up. Katsuki’s breath vanished. There was nothing underneath. Just smooth, freckled thighs and the shadowed, hairless swell of his son’s pussy, glistening faintly in the harsh light. A silent, obscene reveal.

Heat exploded in Katsuki’s gut, a furnace blast of pure, forbidden want. His massive cock, thick and uncut, went from soft to a throbbing, aching stone in his coaching pants in two heartbeats. It strained against the seam, a heavy, urgent weight. His low-hanging balls drew up tight.

"Hey, nerd! Eyes up!" Ochako’s cheerful command cut through Izuku’s focus. Izuku’s wide green eyes snapped forward as he rose, but not before they flickered to the sidelines. To his father.

Their eyes met across twenty yards of artificial turf. Izuku’s were dark, knowing. Katsuki’s were blown wide, a storm of shock and raw hunger. The music faded to a dull roar in Katsuki’s ears. All he could see was the damp spot on the white top, the tempting shadow between his son’s thighs.

"Coach?" One of the flyers called out, confused by the stalled sequence. Katsuki didn’t hear her.

He took a single, involuntary step forward. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. Every instinct screamed to grab Izuku, to drag him out of this line-up, to cover him up. To claim him. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

Izuku held the gaze for a heartbeat longer, a faint, defiant flush on his cheeks. Then he turned, executing a perfect roll-up into Ochako’s waiting hands, his skirt riding high again on his thighs. A gift. A challenge.

Katsuki stood frozen on the sideline, his cock throbbing relentlessly against his zipper, a prisoner to the vision of his own son. The secret was out. And it was the most beautiful, devastating thing he’d ever seen.

The final notes of the routine were a distant, tinny echo as Katsuki turned on his heel. He didn't look back. He just walked, his stride stiff and purposeful, away from the field, through the gate in the chain-link fence, and into the concrete mouth of the stadium tunnel. The heavy metal door to the locker room slammed shut behind him, sealing him in sterile, fluorescent silence.

"Fuck," he snarled, the word cracking in the empty room. He braced his hands against a bank of cold lockers, head hanging. The image was burned onto the backs of his eyelids: the white fabric clinging to soft tits, the shadow between freckled thighs.

His cock was a brutal, aching weight against his zipper. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a relentless demand. He could feel the damp spot of pre-cum soaking through his briefs. "Izuku," he breathed, the name a prayer and a curse. His baby boy. His nerd.

His hands shook as he fumbled with his belt. The buckle clattered loud in the quiet. He shoved his coaching pants and briefs down in one rough motion, freeing his cock. It sprang up against his stomach, thick and flushed dark red, the foreskin pulled taut over the swollen head. A thick pearl of wetness gleamed at the slit.

"Look at what you did," he growled to the empty room, as if Izuku were there. His fist wrapped around his girth, and he hissed at the contact. It was too much, too sensitive. He was already on the edge. He gave one slow, punishing stroke from root to tip, his thumb smearing the slickness. His hips jerked.

He closed his eyes and it was worse. All he saw was the skirt riding up. The smooth, hairless skin. The glistening pink hint of his son's pussy, swollen and ready. He imagined it was his thumb brushing there, not cool air. He imagined the hot, silken clutch of it.

"Daddy would ruin you," Katsuki muttered, his strokes turning faster, rougher. The slap of skin was obscene. "You think you want my attention? You have no idea what you're asking for." He pictured bending Izuku over the lockers right here, hiking that tiny skirt up, spreading those thick thighs. He pictured the boy's face, those green eyes wide, begging.

A groan tore from his chest. His balls drew up tight, heavy and full. Pressure coiled at the base of his spine. "You're mine," he panted, his rhythm frantic now. "My boy. My secret."

Release hit him like a physical blow. Thick, white ropes shot across the locker door, splattering with a wet sound. He kept stroking, milking himself through it, a shudder wracking his big frame. His knees nearly buckled.

Silence rushed back in, broken only by his ragged breathing. He looked down at the mess on the metal, then at his own softening cock. Shame curdled in his gut, hot and immediate. He leaned his forehead against the cold locker, the sweat cooling on his skin.

The door handle rattled. "Coach? You in there? The team's asking about cool-down stretches." It was Ochako's voice, bright and curious through the metal.

Katsuki's head snapped up. He yanked his shorts up, zipped himself away, the evidence of his sin stark on the locker in front of him. "I'll be out in a minute," he barked, his voice gravel. "Start without me."

He waited until her footsteps retreated. He was a champion coach. A husband. A father. And he was utterly, completely fucked.