The door opens before Shota can knock.

Hitoshi stands there, framed by the dim light of his apartment hallway. His fluffy indigo hair is a mess. The heavy bags under his violet eyes look darker, deeper. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and sweats. He doesn’t speak. He just stares.

Shota clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet. “I said I’d come.”

Hitoshi’s eyes well up instantly. It’s not a slow build. It’s a dam breaking. A choked sound escapes him, and then he’s moving, surging forward, his arms wrapping around Shota’s neck with a force that staggers them both back a step.

Shota’s own breath catches. The hug is desperate, tight, Hitoshi’s face buried against the rough fabric of his jumpsuit collar. He can feel the tremors running through his son’s strong frame. Slowly, his own arms come up, encircling Hitoshi’s back. He holds on. His vision blurs. A hot, silent tear tracks through the scruff on his cheek, soaking into Hitoshi’s hair.

They stand like that in the doorway for a long time. The only sound is Hitoshi’s ragged, wet breathing.

“You came,” Hitoshi finally whispers, the words muffled against his neck.

“I did.”

Hitoshi pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, searching Shota’s face. “Why now?”

Shota doesn’t look away. “A kid. A student. Like I said. He looked me in the eye and told me I was a coward for letting you go.” He swallows. “He was right.”

Hitoshi steps back, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. He gestures inside. "Come in. Eri's asleep."

Shota follows him into the small living room. The air is warm, smelling of cedar and the faint, sweet scent of a child's shampoo. A single lamp glows in the corner, casting long shadows across worn tatami mats. Hitoshi sinks onto the couch, pulling his knees up. Shota sits beside him, leaving a careful foot of space between them.

"Tell me," Hitoshi says, his voice still thick. "About the kid."

Shota stares at his own hands, calloused and scarred. "His name is Izuku. Bakugou. His mother rejected his transition. His father—Katsuki—took him away. Protected him. Started a divorce." He pauses, the next part heavier. "They're together now. In every way."

Hitoshi goes very still. "Together."

"He's pregnant. Six weeks. I confirmed it myself after he got sick in my class." Shota's jaw works. "He looked at me, Hitoshi. He said it was love. That it was who he is. He told me I was a coward for letting you go."

A slow, shaky breath leaves Hitoshi. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And you believed him."

"I saw it," Shota corrects, his monotone cracking with fatigue. "The certainty. The way he claimed it. It wasn't confusion. It was... conviction. It mirrored something. It forced me to look at the empty space in my own life. The silence."

"The cage," Hitoshi whispers.

Shota nods once, sharp. "Yes."

Hitoshi turns his head to look at him. His violet eyes are dark in the low light, unblinking. "Do you think they're wrong?"

"I think the world will call them monsters." Shota meets his gaze. "I think they don't care. I came here because I realized I'd rather be in the cage with you than stand outside it, alone, pretending the bars were for your protection."

The words hang in the warm, quiet air. Hitoshi's breath hitches. He shifts on the couch, closing the distance between them until their thighs are almost touching. "You mean that."

"I do."

Hitoshi's hand comes up, hesitant, and rests on Shota's knee. The touch is electric through the rough fabric of the jumpsuit. "I never stopped needing you, Dad. Not for a single day. It's a physical ache. Here." He presses his other hand low on his own stomach.

Shota's black eyes trace the movement. The raw confession doesn't shock him anymore. It feels like a key turning in a long-locked door. "I know."

"Do you?" Hitoshi's voice drops, raw and hungry. "Because I need you to know what you're walking into. It's not just forgiveness. It's this. It's me, wanting you. Always." His fingers tighten on Shota's knee. "It's the want that built the cage."

Shota doesn't pull away. He lets the heat of Hitoshi's hand seep into him. He studies his son's face—the exhaustion, the hope, the desperate want that mirrors his own buried shame.

Shota’s hand comes up, cupping the back of Hitoshi’s neck. He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls him forward and kisses him.

It’s deep from the first second. A claiming. A surrender. Hitoshi makes a broken, grateful sound against his mouth and melts, his whole body going pliant as he surges into the contact. His arms wrap around Shota’s shoulders, fingers digging into the black jumpsuit. He kisses back like a man finally breathing after years underwater.

Hitoshi breaks it, gasping, their foreheads pressed tight together. His violet eyes are wide, wet, desperate. “Please,” he whispers, the word a ragged prayer. “Please don’t regret this again, Daddy. Don’t leave me alone in this cage again.”

Shota shakes his head, his own breath coming hard. He feels the truth of it in his bones, in the hollow space that isn’t hollow anymore. “Never again.”

Then they’re kissing again, deeper, hungrier. Shota’s tongue slides against his son’s, tasting salt and years of longing. Hitoshi moans, low and broken, and climbs into Shota’s lap, straddling his thighs on the worn couch. The weight is familiar and new all at once.

“I need you,” Hitoshi pants against his lips, grinding down. The hard line of Shota’s cock, already thick and heavy in his jumpsuit, presses against the damp heat of Hitoshi’s sweats. “I need you so much it fucking hurts.”

Shota’s hands slide under Hitoshi’s shirt, mapping the scars of top surgery, the tight muscles of his stomach. His touch is rough, reverent.

Shota’s hands still on Hitoshi’s skin. He pulls back from the kiss, his black eyes sharp in the dim light. “Your room. Now.”

Hitoshi blinks, dazed. “Here is fine.”

“Behind a lock,” Shota says, his voice a low rasp. A faint, tired smirk touches his mouth. “Don’t want our daughter catching us.”

The words hit Hitoshi like a physical blow. His breath leaves him in a soft, shattered exhale. “Our daughter,” he repeats, the sound reverent. He scrambles off Shota’s lap, his hands trembling as he grabs Shota’s wrist. “Yes. Okay. Come on.”

He pulls Shota down a short, dark hallway, past a closed door with a child’s crayon drawing taped to it. He pushes open another door and drags Shota inside, shutting it and twisting the lock with a definitive click. The bedroom is sparse—a low bed, a dresser, a single window looking out at the dark.

They don’t speak. Their hands find each other’s clothes with a frantic, shared urgency. Hitoshi yanks at the heavy zipper of Shota’s jumpsuit, peeling the black fabric down his shoulders. Shota pushes Hitoshi’s shirt up and over his head, exposing the flat planes of his chest, the scars pale and smooth in the moonlight. Sweatpants and briefs are shoved down in one rough motion, pooling at Hitoshi’s ankles. He kicks them away, standing naked and shivering.

Shota steps out of his own boots and the puddled jumpsuit, finally naked. The air is cool on his skin. Hitoshi’s violet eyes drink him in, wide and hungry, lingering on the thick, heavy cock already curving up from a thatch of dark hair.

“Daddy,” Hitoshi breathes, the word full of awe and need. He closes the distance, his hands coming up to frame Shota’s face. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” Shota confirms, his monotone gone, replaced by a gravelly warmth. He lets his own hands slide down Hitoshi’s back, over the swell of his ass, pulling him close until their bodies align. Hitoshi’s hard clit presses against Shota. The wet heat of his pussy smears against Shota’s thigh.

Hitoshi kisses him again, deep and searching. He grinds forward, a slow, desperate roll of his hips. “Need you inside,” he murmurs against Shota’s lips. “Please. It’s been so long. I’m so empty.”

Shota guides them backward until Hitoshi’s knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushes him down onto the mattress, following him, covering him. The weight is familiar, an anchor. He kisses down Hitoshi’s throat, over his collarbones, his tongue tracing a scar. Hitoshi arches up with a broken gasp, his fingers tangling in Shota’s long, dark hair.

“Tell me,” Shota says, his mouth hovering over a nipple. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” Hitoshi pants, his hips canting up, seeking friction. “Your cock. In my pussy. Filling me up. Making it so I can’t walk tomorrow. I need to feel it for days, Daddy. I need everyone to look at me and know I’m yours again.”

Shota’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down at Hitoshi’s flushed, desperate face. “Okay.”

He shifts back, kneeling between Hitoshi’s spread thighs. The sight is a punch to his gut—his son, naked and wanting, his pussy glistening in the faint light, his clit hard and swollen. Shota wraps a hand around the base of his own cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke. The pre-cum smears, slick and hot.

“Look at me,” Shota says, his voice rough.

Hitoshi’s violet eyes snap to his, wide and obedient. He watches as Shota guides the thick, blunt head of his cock through the wetness, notching it at his entrance. Hitoshi whimpers, his hips lifting off the mattress.

“Daddy, please—”

Shota pushes in.

The stretch is immediate, breathtaking. Hitoshi cries out, a raw, shattered sound, his back arching. His pussy clenches tight, a hot, slick vise around the invading girth. Shota groans, the sound torn from deep in his chest. He sinks in slowly, relentlessly, watching Hitoshi’s face contort with pleasure-pain.

“Fuck,” Hitoshi gasps, his hands scrabbling at Shota’s shoulders. “So full. God, you’re still so big.”

Shota bottoms out, his hips flush against Hitoshi’s ass, his balls heavy against his skin. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting them both feel it. The ache of years apart. The relief of connection. Hitoshi’s inner muscles flutter around him, greedy.

“Mine,” Shota grunts, the word final.

He pulls back, almost all the way out, then drives back in. Hard. The slap of skin echoes in the quiet room. Hitoshi shouts, his nails digging in.

“Yes! Like that, Daddy, just like that—”

Shota sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and claiming. The bedframe knocks against the wall with every drive. He fucks him like he’s trying to rewrite history, to carve this moment so deep into their bones that the past can’t touch them. Hitoshi takes it all, his legs hooking around Shota’s waist, pulling him deeper.

“You feel that?” Shota pants, his monotone shattered. “You feel how deep I am?”

“I feel it,” Hitoshi sobs, his head thrashing on the pillow. “I feel you in my stomach. Don’t stop. Never stop.”

Shota leans down, capturing his mouth in a sloppy, breathless kiss. He can taste salt—sweat, tears. He fucks him through it, his thrusts growing more erratic, more desperate. The wet, filthy sound of their joining fills the room.

“Gonna come,” Hitoshi warns, his voice high and broken. “Daddy, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” Shota commands, his own control fraying. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

Hitoshi shatters. His whole body seizes, his pussy clamping down in a vice grip before it lets go. He sobs, a broken sound, and then he’s squirting—a hard, heavy gush that soaks them both, hot and relentless after so long waiting.

The intense, clenching heat is too much. Shota grunts, driving in one last, brutal time, and spills deep inside him.

He collapses, his weight pressing Hitoshi into the mattress. They’re both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. Shota’s cock is still buried inside, twitching with the last pulses of his release.

They go again. And again. And again.

Shota’s cock softens inside him, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried, his weight a warm, heavy blanket, until he feels himself hardening again against the slick, clenching heat of Hitoshi’s pussy. Hitoshi feels it, too. He lets out a shaky, wet laugh against Shota’s shoulder.

“Already?”

“You said non-stop,” Shota murmurs, his voice gravel from exertion. He rolls his hips, a slow, testing grind that makes Hitoshi gasp and arch.

“I did. I meant it. Fuck me, Daddy. Keep fucking me.”

So Shota does. He fucks him slow this time, a deep, rolling rhythm that’s less about claiming and more about relearning. His hands map every scar, every ridge of muscle. He kisses the hollow of Hitoshi’s throat, the shell of his ear. Hitoshi clutches at him, his breaths coming in soft, punched-out sounds.

“Missed your weight,” Hitoshi whispers. “Missed how you smell. Like coffee and underground.”

Shota doesn’t answer with words. He answers with a deeper thrust, a groan muffled in Hitoshi’s hair. He comes again like that, quietly, his release a hot pulse deep inside, mingling with the mess already there.

They don’t clean up. They shift. Hitoshi pushes at his chest, wordless, until Shota gets the message and rolls onto his back. Hitoshi straddles him, his violet eyes dark in the shadows. He’s a silhouette against the faint window light, sweat-slick and trembling.

“My turn,” Hitoshi says, his voice raw.

He sinks down onto Shota’s cock, which hasn’t even fully softened. The slide is obscenely wet, a squelching, intimate sound. Hitoshi throws his head back, a choked-off moan escaping him as he takes every inch. He sets a frantic, desperate pace, riding him like he’s trying to fuse them together.

“Look at you,” Shota rasps, his hands gripping Hitoshi’s hips, guiding the punishing rhythm. “So greedy for it.”

“Starved,” Hitoshi corrects, gasping. “I was starved.”

He leans forward, bracing his hands on Shota’s chest, and changes the angle. The new depth wrings a broken cry from him. Shota can feel the flutter and clench around him, the telltale tightening. He slides a hand between them, his thumb finding Hitoshi’s swollen clit.

“Come for me, son.”

The command, the word, does it. Hitoshi shatters with a sob, his body seizing, another gush of wet heat soaking Shota’s stomach and thighs. The violent clenching pulls another orgasm from Shota, less a peak and more a deep, rolling aftershock.

Exhaustion finally begins to pull at them. Hitoshi collapses forward, his face pressed into Shota’s neck. They’re both sticky, spent, breathing in the thick, musky air of the room. The distant sound of a car passing outside feels like it’s from another world.

“We should…” Hitoshi starts, but doesn’t finish. He makes no move to get up.

“Later,” Shota says. His arms tighten around Hitoshi’s back. He can feel the rapid flutter of his son’s heart against his own. The weight is perfect. The cage, he thinks, isn’t bars. It’s this. It’s the smell of their sex and the sound of their breathing and the absolute, terrifying rightness of it.

Hitoshi’s breath evens out into sleep first. Shota stays awake, listening. To Hitoshi. To the quiet house. To the absence of his own loneliness, which now feels like a phantom limb. He presses a kiss to the sweaty indigo hair.

He doesn’t let go. Never again.