The final bell is a distant echo by the time Izuku pushes through the school’s front doors. There’s a matte black SUV, windows tinted, idling with a low rumble in the front of the school. The driver’s side door opens. Katsuki Bakugou unfolds himself from the vehicle. He’s in full hero gear, minus his clunky gauntlets and mask, but the Dynamight gloves still on his forearms. His crimson eyes lock onto Izuku, and he gives a single, sharp nod.

“Let’s go,” Katsuki says, his voice cutting through the adolescent chatter.

Izuku ducks his head, avoiding the curious stares from a cluster of students, and makes his way over. The asphalt feels unsteady under his feet. “You didn’t have to come. I could’ve taken the train.”

“The hell you could.” Katsuki’s gaze sweeps the perimeter once, a professional hazard. “Until the lawyer draws a line in the sand with your mother, you’re with me. No exceptions.” He reaches into the open backseat of the SUV and pulls out a familiar item: his official Dynamight bomber jacket, the one sold in merch stores, orange ‘X’ patterns stark against the black.

Before Izuku can protest, Katsuki is draping it over his shoulders. The weight is immediate, substantial, like a weighted blanket made of Kevlar and intent. It’s still warm from his father’s body, the heat seeping through Izuku’s thin school shirt. The scent hits him next—cordite, clean sweat, and the particular, sharp spice that is just Katsuki. It envelops him completely.

“It’s getting cold,” Katsuki mutters, as if explaining himself. His hands come up to adjust the collar, his scarred knuckles grazing the bare skin of Izuku’s neck.

The touch lasts less than a second. It’s casual, paternal. It sends a bolt of pure lightning down Izuku’s spine, straight to his core. He stiffens, his breath catching in his throat. Beneath the heavy jacket, hidden from the world, a traitorous heat blooms between his legs, a slick, secret wetness that shames him. The contrast is dizzying: the public symbol of his father’s heroic protection, and his own body’s private, aching interpretation of possession.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow, missing nothing. “You cold?”

“N-no,” Izuku stammers, drowning in the fabric and the smell. “It’s… it’s warm.”

“Good. Get in.” Katsuki opens the passenger door, his hand a steady guide on Izuku’s upper back, and the touch burns through the jacket, through his shirt, branding him. Izuku slides into the seat, the leather cool against his thighs. He pulls the jacket tighter around himself, a cocoon of forbidden comfort, as his father closes him in.

The drive to the Dynamight Agency is a silent, pressurized thing. Izuku keeps the jacket wrapped tight, the scent of his father a constant, dizzying presence. He stares out the window, watching the city blur, feeling the wet heat between his thighs slowly cool into a sticky, shameful reminder.

Katsuki guides the SUV into a private, underground garage, the tires echoing in the concrete cavern. “My floor’s secure. No one gets up without my say-so.”

He leads Izuku to a private elevator, scanning his palm on a panel. The ascent is smooth, silent. The doors open directly into a spacious, minimalist office. One wall is all glass, overlooking the city. The other is lined with monitors, a single, severe desk at its center.

“Sit,” Katsuki says, gesturing to a sleek leather couch. He takes off the top to his hero costume to be more comfortable, the movement showing off his muscles. “You want anything? Water?”

“I’m okay,” Izuku murmurs, perching on the edge of the couch. He finally shrugs the heavy jacket off, folding it carefully beside him. The office air feels cold without it.

Katsuki leans against his desk, arms crossed, studying him. “It’s been two months since we left. Lawyer’s got the divorce moving. Restraining order’s in place.” He states it like a mission report. “How are you? Really.”

Izuku picks at a thread on his uniform pants. “I’m… managing. School’s fine.”

“The T?” Katsuki asks, his voice dropping, losing its edge. “The injections. Any side effects? You keeping up with it?”

“Yeah. Every week.” Izuku’s cheeks warm. Talking about his testosterone with his father always feels intensely private, a new intimacy. “My voice is… it cracks sometimes. I like it.”

Izuku’s eyes catch on the exposed line of his father’s back as Katsuki turns to grab a bottle of water from a mini-fridge. The muscles shift under skin marked with old, silvery scars. Izuku looks down at his own hands, his face hot. “The other changes are… happening, too.”

Katsuki turns, cracking the seal on the water. He takes a slow drink, his eyes never leaving Izuku. “What other changes?”

“The… the libido stuff. Like they said might happen.” The words feel too big for the sterile office. “And… bottom growth.”

“Bottom growth.” Katsuki repeats it flatly, without judgment, just processing. He sets the bottle down. “That’s the clitoris enlarging, right? Becoming more… prominent.”

Izuku nods, his throat tight. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe his father knows the clinical terms. “Yeah. It’s… sensitive.”

“Good.” Katsuki’s voice is low. “That means it’s working. The T’s doing what it’s supposed to.” He pushes off the desk and walks over, sitting on the low coffee table in front of the couch, putting them at eye level. His knees almost brush Izuku’s. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Just… aware of it. All the time.” Izuku’s whisper is a confession. He stares at the scar on his father’s knuckle. “The dreams don’t help.”

Katsuki goes very still. “What dreams?”

Izuku shakes his head, a frantic little motion. “Nothing. Bad dreams. Since we left.”

“Look at me.”

Izuku forces his gaze up. His father’s eyes are intent, searching. There’s no anger there, just a focused calm that’s somehow more terrifying.

“Are they about her?” Katsuki asks, his voice dangerously soft. “About your mother?”

“No.” The word falls out, too fast, too definite. Izuku sees the understanding flicker in Katsuki’s eyes a second before he looks away again, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Okay,” Katsuki says finally, the word an exhale. He doesn’t press. He just leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and runs a hand through his spiky hair. “This is a lot. The hormones, the divorce, the new place… your body changing in ways you can’t always control. It’s a fucking storm. It’s normal to feel… overwhelmed.”

“It doesn’t feel normal,” Izuku chokes out.

“It is.” Katsuki’s hand comes up, hesitates, then rests on Izuku’s shoulder. The weight is solid, grounding. “Listen to me. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever’s happening in your head or your body… it’s not wrong. You’re not wrong.”

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. The warmth of his father’s hand bleeds through his shirt. The scent of him is everywhere. Protection and possession, wound into one. “I’m scared, Daddy.”

The old childhood name slips out, fragile and small. Katsuki’s hand tightens, just for a second. “I know. But you’re not alone in it. Yeah?”

Katsuki’s hand slides from Izuku’s shoulder, around his back, and pulls him into a tight hug. Izuku goes rigid for a second before melting, his face pressing into the solid warmth of his father’s chest. The scent of smoke and clean sweat fills his lungs. He feels small, safe, claimed.

And he feels the hot, slick pulse between his thighs, a traitorous rush of wetness that soaks his boxers. He squeezes his legs together, a frantic, hidden motion, praying his father doesn’t notice.

“Got something else to tell you,” Katsuki says, his voice a low rumble against Izuku’s ear. He doesn’t let go. “Bought a place. For us.”

Izuku pulls back just enough to look up, his heart doing something complicated. “A place?”

“A penthouse. Top floor. Ten minutes from UA.” Katsuki’s eyes scan his face, reading the shock. “Security’s fucking impenetrable. Big windows. A kitchen you can actually cook in. It’s ours. We move in this weekend.”

“You… you bought a penthouse?” The scale of it is dizzying. Another act of absolute, devastating care. Izuku’s throat tightens. “Daddy, that’s… that’s too much.”

“It’s what you deserve.” Katsuki’s thumb brushes a stray tear from Izuku’s cheekbone, a gesture so tender it makes the heat in Izuku’s core clench. “No more hotel rooms. No more temporary. A home. Just you and me.”

Izuku nods, unable to speak. The words ‘you and me’ echo in the hollow, hungry parts of him. He shifts on the couch, acutely aware of the damp fabric of his pants against his skin.

The first night in the penthouse, Izuku lies in his new bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar. The silence is a physical weight. The dreams hadn’t stopped. They’d gotten worse, more detailed, the phantom feel of his father’s hands a brand on his skin long after he woke up sweating and wet. His body aches with a need that feels bigger than the room. With a shaky breath, he reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out the small, black rabbit vibrator he’d bought online, the packaging hidden deep in the school trash.

He clicks it on. The low buzz fills the quiet. He pushes his boxers down, his hand trembling. The air is cool on his overheated skin. He’s already wet, the slickness a shameful truth he can’t escape. He guides the toy inside him, the silicone rabbit ears finding his clit—more prominent now, just like the doctor said, a sensitive nub that makes him gasp the second it makes contact.

He closes his eyes, and the memory crashes over him: the dream from two nights ago. Not a rooftop this time. His father’s agency office. The same couch he’d sat on that afternoon. In the dream, Katsuki hadn’t hugged him. He’d pushed him down into the leather, his hero gear rough against Izuku’s thighs.

“Daddy,” Izuku whispers into the dark, the word a broken plea as he presses the vibrator harder. The memory sharpens. In the dream, his father’s voice had been a low growl in his ear. “You’re mine. Say it.”

Izuku’s hips jerk off the mattress. The toy slips, the buzzing shaft rubbing against his soaked entrance. He moans, biting his lip to stifle the sound. The penthouse walls are thick, but his father is just down the hall. The thought—the risk—sends a fresh flood of heat between his legs.

In the dream, Katsuki hadn’t asked. He’d taken. His hands, those scarred, capable hands, had pinned Izuku’s wrists above his head. Izuku could feel the ghost of that grip now, the absolute certainty of it. The dream-cock, huge and thick, had pressed against him, a blunt, impossible promise.

“Fuck,” Izuku breathes, his free hand fisting in the sheet. He grinds down onto the toy, chasing the sensation, the full feeling he craves. His back arches. The vibrations are a steady, maddening pulse, but it’s not enough. It’s not him.

He imagines the weight of his father on top of him, the smell of smoke and sweat overwhelming. Imagines the stretch, the burn, the way his dream-self had opened for it, wanted it, begged for it. “Please,” he whimpers now, to the empty room, to the ghost in his head. “Please, Daddy, I need—”

The orgasm hits him like a seizure, sudden and violent. His whole body locks, a silent scream trapped in his throat. Pleasure whites out his vision, sharp and shocking, followed by a gushing rush of wetness that soaks the toy, his thighs, the sheet beneath him. He convulses through it, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

When it’s over, he’s boneless, panting. The toy falls from his slack fingers onto the damp mattress. The buzz is a distant, annoying hum. Shame floods in behind the pleasure, cold and familiar. He stares at the dark ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs. The scent of his own release hangs in the air, musky and intimate.

A soft knock on his bedroom door makes his blood freeze.

“Izuku?” His father’s voice, sleep-rough and close. “You okay? Heard a noise.”

Izuku’s voice cracks, thin and high. “I’m fine, Daddy. Just… dropped something.”

The door swings open before Izuku can even breathe. The light from the hall silhouettes his father’s broad frame, his hair mussed from sleep. Katsuki’s sharp eyes take in the scene in one devastating sweep: Izuku, frozen halfway under the rumpled sheet, the black vibrator buzzing softly on the damp mattress beside his bare thigh.

Izuku scrambles, yanking the sheet up to his chin, his whole face burning. “Dad! Don’t—get out! I’m fine!”

Katsuki doesn’t move. His expression doesn’t change. He just stands there, one hand still on the doorknob. “Dropped something, huh?”

“Please.” Izuku’s voice is a strangled whisper. The scent in the room is unmistakable—musky, intimate, his. He wants to die.

Katsuki steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. The click of the latch is final. The room is dark again, save for the sliver of hall light under the door. “Kid. Breathe.”

“I can’t.” Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. He hears the faint buzz of the toy, a humiliating counterpoint to the silence. He feels his father’s weight settle on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping.

“Look at me.”

Izuku shakes his head, the sheet pulled tight under his chin.

“Izuku.” Katsuki’s voice is low, a command that brooks no argument. “Eyes on me. Now.”

Izuku forces them open. In the dim light, his father’s face is all shadow and sharp angles, but his eyes are clear. There’s no disgust there. No anger. Just that terrifying, focused calm.

“You’re eighteen,” Katsuki says, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got a body. It does things. This,” he gestures vaguely toward the toy, “is normal. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Katsuki reaches out, his scarred fingers closing around the still-buzzing toy. He lifts it, the faint hum loud in the quiet room. He turns it over in his hand, examining the silicone rabbit ears with a detached, almost clinical curiosity.

Izuku watches, mortified, his breath stuck in his throat. The sheet is a damp, clinging prison.

“Decent model,” Katsuki says finally, his voice still that infuriating calm. He clicks it off. The sudden silence is worse. “Good battery life. The angled tip’s smart.” He sets it on the nightstand with a soft click. “You do your research, kid.”

“Stop,” Izuku chokes out. “Just… stop analyzing it. Please.”

“Why?” Katsuki turns his head, his crimson eyes catching the sliver of light. “It’s a tool. You needed something. You got it. That’s practical. That’s smart.”

“It’s not—!” Izuku’s voice breaks. He fists his hands in the sheet. “You’re not supposed to see this.”

"Did you finish?" Katsuki asks, his voice still that detached, clinical calm. He doesn't look at Izuku's face. His crimson eyes are fixed on the damp patch on the sheet, the evidence of the orgasm that just wrecked him.

Izuku can't speak. He gives a tiny, jerky nod, the motion making the scent of his own release waft up between them. Katsuki’s nostrils flare slightly, taking it in. "Good," he says, the word simple, final. "The body needs that. Especially with the T." His hand, the one that had held the toy, comes to rest on the mattress, close enough that Izuku can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Izuku yanks the sheet completely over his head, the damp fabric clinging to his flushed skin. “Go away,” he pleads, his voice muffled and thick. “Just leave, please.”

Katsuki chuckles, a low, rough sound in the dark. "Alright, kid. Good night." He stands, the mattress shifting with his weight, and his hand comes down to ruffle Izuku's hair through the sheet. "Try to get some sleep."

Izuku stays frozen, buried, until he hears the door click shut. Only then does he lower the sheet, gulping in the cool air of the room that still smells like sweat and shame and him. The black silhouette of the toy sits on the nightstand, a silent accusation. Down the hall, his father's bedroom door closes, a soft, final sound.