The office was silent except for the hum of the industrial fluorescents overhead. Katsuki sat behind his steel desk, hands flat on the surface, every muscle locked. He wore his coaching polo like armor. The door clicked open.

Izuku stepped inside and closed it softly behind him. The short skirt swayed with the motion. "You wanted to see me, Coach Kacchan?"

"Don't." The word was a low detonation. Katsuki’s red eyes burned across the space between them, from the green curls to the white sneakers. "Don't you fucking start with that. Sit."

Izuku moved to the chair in front of the desk, the pleats of his skirt riding up his freckled thighs as he sat. He folded his hands in his lap. The crop top stretched tight across the soft, small curves of his chest.

Katsuki’s gaze didn't waver. "What is this stunt?"

"It's not a stunt. I made the squad."

"You lied. You forged signatures. You hid it."

"You weren't looking." Izuku’s voice was soft, but it didn't tremble. "You never look."

"I'm looking now." Katsuki leaned forward, the desk creaking. His eyes dropped to Izuku’s chest, to the two distinct, dark points pressing against the thin fabric. "Your nipples are hard."

Izuku inhaled, a sharp little sound. He didn't cover himself. "It's cold in here."

"Bullshit." Katsuki’s own blood was roaring, a counter-rhythm to the quiet room. "That uniform is a violation. It's for the squad. Not for you."

"I am on the squad."

"You're my son."

"I know." Izuku bit his bottom lip, holding it between his teeth for a second before releasing it. "You saw the routine. Was I any good, Daddy?"

The name, said like that here, was a grenade. Katsuki’s control splintered. "The skirt," he growled. "It's a joke. Every jump, every spin. There's nothing under it."

"There is."

"I saw. Everyone saw. You're shaved bare."

Izuku’s green eyes were huge, fixed on his father’s face. He shifted in the chair, a deliberate, slow slide that made the skirt hike higher. The chair leather creaked. "Maybe I wanted you to see."

Katsuki stood up so fast his chair shot back and hit the wall. He loomed over the desk, his shadow swallowing Izuku. "Why?"

"You tell me." Izuku’s breath hitched. His gaze flickered down, just for an instant, to the formidable bulge straining against his father’s coaching pants. Then back up. "You watched the whole time. What were you looking at, Daddy?"

The air left the room. Katsuki could smell him from here—laundry soap, adolescent sweat, and underneath, something muskier. His cock throbbed, a brutal, aching demand. "You have no idea what you're playing with."

"I do." Izuku whispered. He uncrossed his legs slowly, letting his knees fall apart just a little. The shadowed space between his thighs was a secret in the bright office light. "You want to know what else?"

Katsuki couldn't speak. He was shaking.

Izuku leaned forward, his voice a low, conspiratorial heat. "When I was out there… thinking about you watching… my pussy got so wet." He held his father’s volcanic stare. "Do you want to look at it?"

Izuku stood up.

His fingers hooked into the hem of the short pleated skirt. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He lifted it, slow and deliberate, bunching the fabric at his waist. The cold office air hit his bare thighs, the shadowed junction between them. He was completely exposed.

Katsuki stopped breathing.

There was nothing but the sight. Shaved bare, just as he’d accused. Pink and swollen, glistening wet. The tiny, perfect folds were slick, a bead of moisture clinging to the very bottom. Izuku’s freckles dusted the soft skin of his inner thighs, leading the eye right to the center. To the undeniable proof.

“Do you think anyone else saw, Daddy?” Izuku’s voice was a soft, poisonous honey. His fingers trailed down his own stomach, not touching the wetness yet, just tracing the freckled path. “All those people in the stands. All the guys on the football team. Do you think they saw my little hairless pussy while I was jumping?”

Katsuki’s throat worked. He couldn’t look away from the glistening proof.

“Or Ochako,” Izuku continued, tilting his head. “My best friend. She helped me get ready. She tied my bow. I wonder if she guessed how wet I was getting.” He finally let his fingertips brush the slick folds, a feather-light touch that made his breath shudder. “I wonder if she knew it was for you.”

“Stop.” The word was sandpaper.

Izuku didn’t stop. He used two fingers to slowly spread himself open, revealing the pink, swollen flesh beneath, glistening and utterly exposed. The air caught the intimate scent, musky and sweet, and it hit Katsuki’s nostrils like a physical blow. “Look. Look how wet I am, just from you watching. Just from saying ‘Daddy’ in this office.”

That did it. The last thread of Katsuki’s shock snapped.

He moved. Not the controlled stride of a coach, but the lunge of a starving man. He nearly jumped over his desk, his massive frame dwarfing Izuku. His hand shot out and caught Izuku’s wrist, wrenching his fingers away from his own pussy.

“You think this is a game?” Katsuki snarled, his face inches away. His other hand clamped onto Izuku’s hip, the grip brutal, pinning him in place. “You parade yourself in front of a thousand people, you flaunt this… this body at me, and you think I’m just going to watch?”

Izuku gasped, his green eyes wide. Not with fear. With triumph. “No.”

“No what?”

“No, I don’t think you’re just going to watch.”

Izuku’s voice was a breathless, triumphant whisper. The fingers Katsuki had wrenched away from his own pussy were still slick. With a deliberate slowness that screamed defiance, Izuku raised them. He pressed his wet fingertips against his father’s lips.

The contact was electric. Katsuki flinched, but he didn’t pull back. The scent was overpowering this close—musk, salt, the pure, undeniable proof of his son’s arousal. His tongue betrayed him, darting out to taste it.

“See?” Izuku murmured, watching his father’s face shatter. “I told you. Just for you, Daddy.”

Katsuki’s grip on Izuku’s hip tightened, sure to leave bruises. He sucked Izuku’s fingers into his mouth, cleaning them with a rough, thorough stroke of his tongue. The taste was ruinous. It flooded his senses, went straight to his already throbbing cock. He released the fingers with a wet sound.

“You little slut.” The words were a reverent curse.

“Your slut,” Izuku corrected, his chest heaving. The cropped top strained with each breath, the dark, puffy circles of his nipples clearly outlined against the thin fabric. “You gonna do something about it, Daddy? Or just keep calling me names?”

Katsuki’s other hand came up, calloused fingers brushing the hem of the cheer top. He didn’t lift it. He traced the line where it met the soft, freckled skin of Izuku’s stomach. “This top is a disgrace.”

“You picked the uniforms.”

“Not for you.” His thumb swept higher, rasping over the sensitive underside of Izuku’s tiny breast. He felt the nub of the nipple, hard as a pebble, pressing into his palm through the fabric. “These. Everyone saw these.”

Izuku arched into the touch, a silent plea. “Did you like what you saw?”

Katsuki’s control was a frayed wire, sparking. He leaned in, his mouth hovering over Izuku’s ear. “I saw my son. My beautiful, perfect boy, shaking his ass and bouncing his tits for a stadium full of strangers.” His voice dropped to a guttural rasp. “It made me sick. It made me so hard I thought I’d tear my fucking pants.”

Katsuki’s hand fisted in the thin fabric of the cheer top. He didn’t pull it off. He yanked it up, just enough to bare Izuku’s chest to the cold, dusty air. His tiny tits, the soft, freckled mounds, were exposed. The nipples were dark pink, puffy and hard as pebbles, standing at tight, desperate attention.

“You see these?” Katsuki growled, his thumb scraping roughly over one stiff peak. Izuku cried out, his back arching. “Out there. Bouncing. Every jump. Every fucking stunt. I saw them.”

“Daddy—”

“I had to leave,” Katsuki cut him off, his voice a low, shameful confession against Izuku’s skin. He leaned down, his breath hot. “Right after your routine. I walked into that locker room, and I put my hand down my pants. I was so hard it hurt.”

Izuku whimpered, his fingers digging into Katsuki’s shoulders.

“I thought about this.” Katsuki’s mouth closed over the other nipple, sucking it in with a wet, filthy sound. He laved it with his tongue, rough and possessive, before pulling back to look at the glistening, abused flesh. “I thought about your little hairless pussy, on display for everyone. My boy. My perfect boy.”

He switched to the other nipple, biting down just shy of pain. Izuku sobbed, his legs buckling again. Katsuki held him up effortlessly, his big hand splayed across the small of Izuku’s back.

“I came so fast,” Katsuki rasped, lifting his head. His red eyes were wild, unguarded. “Thinking about you. My son. A slut in a skirt I bought. I had to clean it off the wall.”

“You… you touched yourself for me?” Izuku’s voice was shattered, awed.

“Don’t sound so proud of yourself, you little devil.” But Katsuki’s words lacked heat. He was tracing the wet trails his mouth had left on Izuku’s chest, circling the swollen nubs with a calloused fingertip. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To break me.”

“I wanted you to see me.” Izuku’s green eyes were full of tears, but he was smiling. A broken, beautiful smile. “I wanted you to want me. Just like this.”

Katsuki groaned, a sound of pure defeat. He leaned his forehead against Izuku’s, their breath mingling. “I’ve always wanted you. Like this. Since you were too young to even understand what that meant. It’s a sickness in me.”

“It’s not.” Izuku shook his head, his curls brushing Katsuki’s cheek. “It’s just us. Tell me more. Tell me what you thought about when you were… when you were in there.”

Katsuki’s hand slid down from Izuku’s back, over the curve of his ass, gripping him through the skirt. “I thought about bending you over that fucking podium on the fifty-yard line. Lifting this skirt. Showing everyone who you belong to.” His other thumb pressed hard on Izuku’s nipple, making him gasp. “I thought about these in my mouth. About how you’d taste.”

“And now you know,” Izuku whispered, pushing his chest forward into the tormenting touch.

“Now I know.” Katsuki dipped his head again, sucking a bruise into the soft skin beside the nipple. “You taste like sin. My sin.”

The sound of a distant locker slamming shut in the empty boys' section echoed like a gunshot. Katsuki froze, his mouth an inch from Izuku’s bruised nipple, his hand still gripping the soft flesh of his ass. The fluorescent hum of the lights overhead, which he’d tuned out, now screamed in his ears.

He was in his office. The coaches’ office, walled with fogged glass on three sides, sitting in the heart of the co-ed locker room. The main lights were off, but the security beam from the hall cut a dusty diagonal across his desk—across Izuku’s form. Any late-returning athlete, any janitor, could walk past. Could see the silhouette of a cheerleader Coach Bakugou’s arms.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a vapor of cold reality.

In one swift, brutal motion, he stood Izuku up. His son whimpered at the sudden loss of contact, his legs unsteady. Katsuki’s hands, which moments before had been instruments of worship, now moved with a clinical efficiency. He yanked the tiny cheer top back down over Izuku’s chest, the fabric snapping against damp skin. He smoothed the short skirt back into place, his fingers lingering for a forbidden second on the wet heat he could feel through the material.

“What are you—” Izuku started, his voice dazed.

“Look around, you idiot,” Katsuki hissed, his red eyes scanning the glass walls. His own reflection stared back—hair wild, polo disheveled, a man utterly undone. “We’re in school. Anyone could walk in here.”

Izuku followed his gaze, his green eyes wide. The arousal was still a flush on his freckled cheeks, but understanding dawned, sharp and chilling. “But… you didn’t…”

“Not here.” Katsuki’s voice was final, the coach’s voice reasserting itself over the sinner’s. He adjusted his own pants, the massive, throbbing outline of his cock a blatant lie to his words. “This stops. Now.”

“You’re just going to stop?” Izuku’s whisper cracked. He took a step closer, the scent of their mingled sweat and his own arousal still clinging to him. “After all that? After telling me you… you touched yourself thinking of me?”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He could still taste Izuku on his tongue. “It was a mistake. This is a mistake.”

“Liar.” Izuku didn’t shout. He said it softly, with a devastating certainty. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the obscene tent in Katsuki’s track pants. Katsuki jerked back as if burned. “You’re so hard it’s hurting you. Just like you said.”

“Izuku.” It was a warning, a plea, a prayer.

“Take me home, Daddy.” Izuku bit his swollen bottom lip, his eyes holding Katsuki’s.

Katsuki’s throat worked. The word “home” was a lifeline and a sentence. “Yeah,” he managed, his voice gravel. “We’re going. Now. Your mother will be wondering where the hell we are.”

He grabbed his coaching jacket from the back of his chair. He didn’t put it on. He draped it over Izuku’s shoulders, the heavy material swallowing his slender frame, covering the uniform, the damp skin, the evidence.