The bus air was thick and smelled of diesel and stale air conditioning. Izuku slumped in the back seat, the vinyl squeaking under his damp skirt. His daddy’s fluids had cooled, a sticky map plastering the thin fabric of his top to his small tits, the skirt glued to the soft curve of his pussy. Every shift made the material peel and cling with a wet, shameful sound. He was a mess. A marked, used mess, and the emptiness between his legs was a throbbing echo.

An old man sat across the aisle from him. He kept glancing his way. Not a quick look. A slow, lingering stare that crawled over Izuku’s wet chest, down to where the skirt was bunched and translucent. Izuku saw it all. The old man’s knobby hands gripping his knees. The way his jaw worked, like he was chewing on the sight of him.

Izuku’s breath hitched. His pussy clenched, aching. A fresh trickle of heat seeped out, making the wet spot bigger. The man’s eyes widened a fraction. He’d seen it.

“See something you like?” Izuku murmured, his voice too soft to carry. But his body spoke louder.

He let his knees fall open. Slow. The short cheer skirt rode up, exposing the pale, freckled skin of his inner thighs, all the way to the damp, darkening fabric at the very center. The old man froze, his stare locking there. Izuku’s fingers, resting on his own thigh, began to move. He traced the hem of the skirt where it touched his skin.

“It’s so wet,” Izuku whispered, a little louder now, his green eyes fixed on the old man’s profile. “My daddy made it this way.”

The old man’s breath caught, a ragged sound in the quiet bus. Izuku smiled, a thin, brittle thing. His fingers hooked under the hem of his skirt.

“You wanna see what he did?” he said, voice still low but clear now. “What my daddy did to me?”

He flipped the skirt up. All the way. The damp fabric pooled around his waist, exposing him completely to the stale air and the stranger’s hungry stare. His pussy was pink and swollen, tiny and hairless, glistening wet. A fresh bead of slickness welled at the opening. Izuku spread his thighs wider, planting his cheer sneakers on the gritty floor.

“Look,” he commanded, his own breath starting to quicken. His left hand went to his chest, fingers pinching one puffy, dark pink nipple through the soaked fabric of his top. He pulled at it, making it peak harder, the outline clear. “He made a mess of me everywhere.”

His right hand slid down his belly and found his clit. A sharp gasp left him. He was so sensitive, so raw. He circled it, his green eyes locked on the old man’s horrified face.

“He fingered me right in the middle of practice,” Izuku whispered, pushing two fingers inside himself with a wet, squelching sound. The old man jumped. “He fucked me with his fingers until I screamed. You like that? You like hearing how my daddy fucks his little boy?”

He pumped his fingers, the motion messy, frantic. His other hand tugged his top up, baring his small tits completely. The cold bus air made his nipples tighten into painful points. He twisted one, pain and pleasure sparking up his spine.

“He watches me,” Izuku panted, his hips rocking onto his own hand. “He watches me all the time. He can’t help it. I’m his favorite thing to look at.”

The old man said nothing. He just stared, his mouth slightly open, his knuckles white on his knees. A part of Izuku wanted him to speak, to condemn him, to validate the filth he felt. The rest of him just needed to finish.

“Gonna cum,” Izuku choked out, his fingers moving faster, flicking his clit harder, rougher. It wasn’t the building, aching pressure that promised a flood. It was a tight, desperate coil in his gut. “Gonna cum for you just like I do for him. You’re watching, right? You see his slut?”

The orgasm hit him like a short circuit—a sharp, clenching spasm that left him gasping, his back arching off the sticky vinyl. It was small. Unsatisfying. A feeble pulse of pleasure that vanished instantly, leaving a deeper hollow behind. He shuddered, his fingers stilling, soaked.

A mechanical voice announced his stop. The bus hissed to a halt.

Izuku let his skirt fall. He pulled his top down. He didn’t look at the old man again. He stood on shaky legs, the evidence of his climax cooling on his inner thighs, and walked down the aisle toward the doors. He left the smell of sex and diesel behind him, stepping out into the twilight.

The front door clicked shut behind Izuku, the familiar quiet of the house swallowing the sound of his frantic breathing. He took the stairs two at a time, his damp skirt clinging, the smell of sex and bus exhaust trailing him like a ghost. He locked his bedroom door, peeled the uniform off with trembling hands, and shoved it deep into his laundry hamper under a pile of other clothes. Only in the shower, under scalding water, did the shaking begin.

Hours later, the living room was dark save for the flickering light of the television. Inko stretched, yawning. “I’m turning in,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to Katsuki’s temple. “Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

The moment her footsteps faded upstairs, the air in the room thickened. Izuku, curled at the opposite end of the couch, uncoiled. He crawled across the cushions, his oversized sleep shirt riding up his thighs. He didn’t stop until he was kneeling on the floor between Katsuki’s legs, his hands on his father’s knees.

“Daddy.” The word was a hushed, feverish prayer.

Katsuki didn’t look away from the silent TV. His jaw was a hard line. “Go to bed, Izuku.”

“There was an old man on the bus,” Izuku whispered, his green eyes wide and bright in the blue glow. He pressed his forehead against Katsuki’s thigh. He could feel the dense muscle tense. “He stared at me the whole time. He saw the mess you made. He saw everything.”

“Stop talking.”

“I showed him more.” Izuku’s voice hitched, his fingers digging into Katsuki’s sweatpants. “I pulled my skirt up. I touched myself. I told him what you did to me. I came for him, right there on the seat.”

Katsuki’s head snapped down. His eyes, finally meeting Izuku’s, were black with fury. And something hotter, deeper. “You did what?”

“I told him I was your slut,” Izuku breathed, his own confession making his pussy clench, empty and aching. “I told him my daddy made me this wet, this messy. He watched me. Just like you watch me.”

A low, animal sound rumbled in Katsuki’s chest. His hand shot out, fisting in Izuku’s green curls, forcing his head back. “You let some disgusting stranger look at you?”

“Yes.” Izuku’s lips parted, his throat exposed. “He was so hungry for it. Just like you are. I could see his old hands shaking. I spread my legs wider for him, Daddy. I showed him my pussy, all swollen from you.”

Katsuki’s grip tightened. Izuku whimpered, the pain a bright, clean spike. “You’re fucking sick.”

“I’m yours,” Izuku corrected, his voice trembling. “That’s what I told him. I said I belonged to my daddy. That you marked me. He couldn’t look away.”

Katsuki released his hair with a shove. He leaned forward, his face inches from Izuku’s. His breath was hot. “You get off on that? On being some public fucking spectacle?”

“I get off on you,” Izuku said, simple and devastating. His hand crept up Katsuki’s thigh, towards the thick bulge straining against his sweatpants. He palmed it, feeling the massive, hard heat. “I get off on knowing you own this. That you own me. Even when I’m covered in your come on a bus with some pervert staring, it’s still you. It’s always you.”

Katsuki stared at him, his chest rising and falling hard. The conflict was a visible storm on his face—disgust, possession, a need so profound it bordered on violence. Izuku held his gaze, his small hand rubbing slowly, insistently, over the outline of his cock.

“Please,” Izuku whispered, the word cracking. “I’m so empty. I need you to fill me up. I need you to make it so I can’t even remember that old man’s face.”

Katsuki’s free hand, the one not fisted in his hair, came up to encircle Izuku’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, not yet. The threat of it was a cold band of pressure. “You’re a filthy little whore who needs to learn his place.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Izuku rasped, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Katsuki’s palm.

“Strip. Everything. And stay on your fucking knees.”

Izuku scrambled to obey, his fingers fumbling with the hem of his sleep shirt. He pulled it over his head, his small tits bouncing free, nipples already tight. He shimmied out of his shorts, kicking them aside until he was naked on the living room rug, the fibers scratching his knees. He kept his head bowed, his green curls hiding his face.

Katsuki stood, looming over him. His shadow swallowed Izuku whole. “Look at you. Still wet for anyone who looks. That bus seat get you this slick?”

“No,” Izuku whispered. “You did.”

Katsuki’s hand tightened on his throat, cutting off his air. Izuku’s eyes flew open, wide and startled. He clawed at Katsuki’s wrist, but the grip was iron. Spots danced in his vision. “You think I believe that?” Katsuki snarled, his face close. “You came for a stranger. You get off on being seen. That means this cunt,” he said, his other hand sliding down to roughly palm Izuku’s pussy, making him jolt, “isn’t mine right now. It’s public property. And public property needs to be punished.”

He released Izuku’s throat. Izuku gasped, coughing, drawing ragged breaths as Katsuki stepped back. “On your back. Legs in the air. Spread them. Let me see what that old man saw.”

Izuku obeyed, lowering himself to the rug. He hooked his hands behind his knees, pulling his legs up and apart, exposing himself completely. The cool air hit his swollen folds. He was dripping, a fresh trickle of wetness making a dark spot on the rug beneath him.

Katsuki knelt between his splayed thighs. His eyes were black, unreadable. He didn’t touch him at first. He just looked. “So eager. So messy. You really are a slut.”

His hand came down not as a caress, but as an open-palmed slap. The crack was shockingly loud in the quiet room. A sharp, stinging heat exploded across Izuku’s pussy.

Izuku cried out, his body bowing off the floor.

“Quiet,” Katsuki ordered, and spanked him again. Another wet, sharp slap. The impact jolted through Izuku’s clit, a bolt of pain that melted instantly into a deep, shameful throb. He bit his lip, drawing blood to keep from screaming.

“You like showing this off?” Katsuki spat, delivering another slap, then another, a relentless rhythm. Each blow made Izuku’s cunt clench, each sting drew more wetness, the slick sound of the spanks growing obscene. “You like letting dirty old men see what belongs to me?”

“N-no, Daddy,” Izuku sobbed, tears streaming into his hairline. His thighs trembled violently. The pain was a bright, clarifying fire, burning away the memory of the bus, the old man’s stare, everything that wasn’t this room and his father’s punishing hand.

“Liar,” Katsuki growled. He paused, his own breath heavy. He looked at his hand, glistening with Izuku’s arousal, then back at the red, heated flesh between Izuku’s legs. “Look at it. It’s getting wetter. You’re getting off on your own punishment, you sick fuck.”

He shoved two fingers inside Izuku, deep and rough. Izuku screamed, a short, sharp sound he choked off into a whimper. “You see? Soaking. This is what you are. A punished little whore who comes when her daddy hurts him.” He curled his fingers, scissoring them, stretching him. “Now you stay quiet. You take it. Or I stop, and you stay empty.”

“Please,” Izuku whimpered, his body trembling around Katsuki’s punishing fingers. “Daddy, please, can I come? I need to come so bad.”

Katsuki stilled his hand, the two fingers buried deep inside him. “No.”

Izuku sobbed, his hips hitching helplessly. “Why? I’m being good, I’m taking it, please—”

“You don’t get to come until I say you’ve earned it back.” Katsuki’s voice was a low, controlled rumble. He twisted his fingers, watching Izuku’s face contort. “This cunt was on public display. You have to earn the right to feel good with it again.”

“I’ll earn it,” Izuku babbled, tears streaking his temples. His hands were white-knuckled behind his knees, holding himself open. “I’ll do anything, just tell me how. Please, Daddy, it hurts, it aches—”

“Did you squirt for him?” Katsuki demanded, his fingers stilling deep inside Izuku. “On that bus. For that stranger. Did that filthy cunt give him a show?”

“No,” Izuku gasped, his hips twitching. “No, Daddy. It was weak. It was nothing. Just… a mess. I need you to make it proper. Please.”

“You don’t get to decide what you need.” Katsuki withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the slick gleam on them in the low light. He brought them to Izuku’s mouth. “Clean them. Then beg me for it. Properly.”

Izuku’s tongue darted out, lapping at his own taste from Katsuki’s skin. Salt, musk, shame. He sucked the fingers into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, his green eyes locked on his father’s. “Please, Daddy,” he mumbled around them. “Let your slut come. I’ll be good. I’ll earn it. Just let me feel you.”

Katsuki pulled his fingers free with a pop. He shifted his weight, his sweatpants tented obscenely. He freed his cock—massive, thick, ruddy and leaking at the tip. The sight of it made Izuku’s pussy clench around empty air. “You want to come? Then come. On my hand. Show me what mine looks like.”

He didn’t give Izuku time to prepare. His thumb found Izuku’s swollen clit and began to move. Not a circle, not a rub. A furious, rapid flickering back and forth, a blur of relentless pressure.

Izuku shattered.

A broken scream tore from his throat. His back arched off the rug, his legs splaying wider. The orgasm didn’t build—it detonated. It was a white-hot wire pulled taut from his clit to the base of his spine and then snapped. His cunt clenched, spasmed, and then released. A hot gush of fluid, not a trickle, but a fountain, a pulse that splashed against Katsuki’s wrist and soaked the rug beneath his hips. It kept coming, wave after wave of it, each shuddering contraction milking out more fluid until Izuku was lying in a warm, spreading pool, his body jerking with aftershocks.

Katsuki watched, mesmerized. His furious motion slowed, then stopped. He looked from the soaked, trembling boy to the mess he’d made. “Fuck,” he breathed, the anger gone from his voice, replaced by raw awe. “Look at that. You really are a fucking fountain.”

Izuku couldn’t speak. He panted, tears of overwhelming sensation leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was empty, spent, floating.

Katsuki leaned down. He dipped his fingers into the pool between Izuku’s thighs, gathering the mixed fluid. He painted it over Izuku’s freckled chest, over his small, heaving tits, circling his puffy nipples. “Mine,” he stated, his voice low and final. “Every drop. You don’t spill this for anyone else. Ever.”

Izuku managed a weak nod, his curls stuck to his damp forehead. “Yours,” he whispered.

Katsuki’s hand, slick from Izuku’s climax, wrapped around his own cock. He didn’t stroke it. He squeezed, a brutal, possessive fist, his gaze locked on the mess he’d painted across his son’s chest. His hips jerked twice, a rough, hurried motion. A low groan tore from his throat as he came, thick white stripes joining the wet shine already coating Izuku’s small tits and puffy nipples.

He panted, his shoulders heaving. He tucked his spent cock back into his sweatpants, not bothering to clean himself. “Clean this up,” he said, his voice ragged but firm. “Then go to bed.”

Izuku lay motionless, his green eyes huge. The new warmth of his father’s cum mixed with the cooling wetness of his own. “Daddy…”

“Don’t, be a good boy.” Katsuki stood, looming over him. The domestic scene—the sofa, the low light, the family photos on the wall—made the boy on the floor look like a violated offering. “Not another word. You got what you wanted. Now clean your mess and get out of my sight.”

He turned and walked toward the hallway, his steps heavy on the hardwood as he walked upstairs to his marital bed. He didn’t look back.

Izuku whimpered, but did as he was told.