The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a dying insect trapped in the fixture. It cast a sickly, flickering glow over the two men standing between the concrete pillars. Katsuki leaned against Aizawa’s car, arms crossed. The smell of exhaust and hot asphalt clung to the air.

“Enjoy the show, Eraserhead?” Katsuki’s voice was flat, devoid of its earlier performative heat. It was a challenge, pure and simple.

Aizawa didn’t move from where he stood, ten feet away, a shadow in his black jumpsuit. He rolled his eyes, a slow, tired gesture. “Shut up.”

“You followed us. You watched. You jacked off.”

“I saw a child in distress,” Aizawa said, his monotone cutting through the garage’s hum. “And a man exploiting it. This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Dynamight.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “It’s not a game. It’s protection and love. You don’t know a damn thing about my son.”

“I know more than you think.” Aizawa’s black eyes held Katsuki’s, unblinking. The bags beneath them seemed darker in the uneven light. “I’m speaking from experience.”

A beat of silence, thick and heavy. The light flickered, throwing their shadows into frantic motion against the wall.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Katsuki asked, his voice dropping lower.

Aizawa looked away, his gaze fixing on a stain of oil on the concrete floor. “I have a son. Hitoshi.” He said the name like it was a weight.

Katsuki didn’t speak. He just waited, his crimson eyes sharp.

“He was the aggressor,” Aizawa continued, the words dragged out of him. “Started young. Begging for my… attention. For my dick. Since he was a teenager.”

The memory hit Aizawa with the force of a physical blow, dragging him out of the stale garage air and back into the muted, familiar silence of his own apartment, years ago.

He’d just come off a forty-eight-hour patrol, his body a single ache, the scent of city grime and blood still clinging to his jumpsuit. He’d barely gotten the door locked before a weight slammed into him from the side, pinning him against the wall by the entryway. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Daddy.”

Hitoshi. Eighteen. Fluffy indigo hair a mess, violet eyes blazing with a need that had long since crossed the border from childish affection into something terrifying. He was strong—stronger than Shota had realized, all lean muscle and desperate force. His chest, now flat and scarred from surgery, pressed against Shota’s armored shoulder.

“Hitoshi. Get off.” Shota’s voice was gravel, exhausted.

“No.” Hitoshi’s breath was hot against his neck. One hand fisted in Shota’s capture weapon, the other clawed at the zipper of his jumpsuit. “I need it. I’ve been waiting. I need your cock, Daddy. Your huge fucking cock.”

“Stop this.” Shota didn’t fight back. He couldn’t. The fatigue was a cage. The shame was a thicker one.

“I want to suck it,” Hitoshi babbled, his hips grinding against Shota’s thigh. Shota could feel the damp heat of him through both their clothes. “I want to taste you. I want it fucking my needy pussy. Please, Daddy. It’s all I think about. Please.”

The words were a litany, a prayer to a god that had already failed. Hitoshi’s mouth found the skin of his throat, biting, sucking, not in passion but in frantic, starving claim. Shota stood rigid, pinned by his own son’s desperation and the crushing weight of his own failure. He had let this happen. He had let this need grow in the dark, watered by loneliness and a father’s love twisted into something monstrous.

Back in the present, the garage light buzzed. Aizawa blinked, the ghost of his son’s heat fading from his skin, replaced by the chill of concrete and Katsuki’s silent, waiting stare.

“So,” Katsuki said, the word a soft explosion in the quiet. “You’re an expert.”

“I’m a cautionary tale,” Aizawa corrected, his voice hollow. “It doesn’t end well, Bakugou.”

The memory didn't stop at the wall. It dragged him deeper, to the inevitable. The first time he’d broken. Aizawa’s eyes lost focus on the oil stain, seeing instead the dark of his own bedroom.

He’d been asleep. A deep, dead sleep after a brutal patrol. Something woke him—a weight, a heat, a rhythmic, wet sound. His body registered the sensation before his mind: a tight, slick heat sheathing him, taking his cock deep. He groaned, half in dream, his hips lifting instinctively into the velvet grip.

Then his eyes snapped open.

Hitoshi. Naked astride him in the moonlight, his top surgery scars pale lines across his heaving chest. His head was thrown back, indigo hair sticking to his damp forehead. He was bouncing, fucking himself on Shota’s cock with a frantic, sobbing intensity. “Daddy… daddy…”

“Hitoshi—” Shota’s hands flew to his son’s hips, not to push him away, but to feel the reality of it. The boy’s skin was on fire. His cunt was soaked, dripping down Shota’s balls and onto the sheets. It had already been happening. He was already buried to the hilt.

“Couldn’t wait,” Hitoshi panted, his violet eyes glazed, meeting Shota’s for a shattered second. “You were hard in your sleep. I just… I got on. Needed it. Needed you.”

Something in Shota snapped. A dam of exhaustion, of loneliness, of paternal failure gave way under a flood of raw, undeniable sensation. His son’s hungry body. The exquisite clutch of him. A low, animal sound ripped from Shota’s throat.

His fingers dug into Hitoshi’s hips. He pistoned his own upwards, driving deeper, a brutal, answering thrust that knocked a scream from Hitoshi’s lips.

“Yes! Fuck, Daddy, just like that!”

It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. Shota flipped them, pinning Hitoshi to the mattress, the boy’s legs wrapping around his waist. He fucked him hard, each drive a punishment for them both, the wet slap of skin filling the room. Hitoshi chanted beneath him, a broken record of please and more and yours.

Shota came inside his son, a hot, pulsing surrender. Hitoshi followed, his cunt clenching wildly, soaking Shota’s thighs. They collapsed, gasping, sticky, ruined.

It was just the start. After that, they fucked like it was air. On the couch. In the shower. Against the kitchen counter. Hitoshi’s need was a constant, and Shota’s resistance was ash.

Things kept escalating. Shota stood at the front of his classroom, his voice a dry monotone explaining quirk theory, while his son sat in the front row. Hitoshi wore the uniform skirt that day. He let his knees fall open, just a little. Just enough for Shota to see the shadowed cleft between his thighs, the bare skin. No panties.

Shota’s sentence faltered. He looked away, back to the whiteboard, the marker squeaking in his grip.

He heard the soft, wet sound. A subtle shift in rhythm. He couldn’t help but look back. Hitoshi’s hand was under the desk, his arm moving. His violet eyes were locked on Shota’s, glazed and defiant. He was fingering himself. Rubbing hard at his clit. Right there.

“The application of Newton’s third law in close-quarters combat—” Shota’s voice was gravel. He saw the flush spreading up Hitoshi’s neck, the way his breath hitched. The whole room felt airless, hot. The other students scribbled notes, oblivious.

The bell rang. Bodies shuffled, bags zipped. Shota didn’t move. Hitoshi didn’t either. He stayed seated, his hand still working under the desk, until the last student filed out and the door clicked shut.

Silence. Then the slick, obscene sound of Hitoshi’s fingers pushing in and out of his cunt filled the empty classroom.

“Daddy,” Hitoshi breathed, his voice ragged.

Shota was across the room in three strides. He hauled Hitoshi out of the chair by his arm, spinning him to face the teacher’s desk. He shoved the boy’s skirt up around his waist, exposing his bare, dripping pussy. “You little slut.”

“Your slut,” Hitoshi gasped, bending over, presenting himself. “Fuck me. Please. I’m so empty.”

Shota didn’t bother with his jumpsuit zipper. He tore the reinforced fabric at the seam, his cock springing out, already thick and leaking. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and drove into the sopping heat of his son in one brutal thrust.

Hitoshi screamed, his hands scrambling against the polished wood of the desk. Shota fucked him like he was trying to erase him, each slam of his hips knocking a choked cry from Hitoshi’s throat. It was punishment. It was surrender. The room echoed with the slap of skin, the creak of the desk, Hitoshi’s broken sobs of *yes* and *more* and *daddy*.

Shota came inside him, a hot, pulsing flood. He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, catching his breath against Hitoshi’s back, feeling the boy’s cunt flutter around him. “Again,” Hitoshi whimpered, pushing back. “Fill me up again.”

And Shota did. He fucked him on the floor next. Against the chalkboard, white dust coating their sweat-slick skin. He lost count of how many times he came, pumping his seed deep until Hitoshi’s belly was soft and full with it, until the boy could barely stand.

“Of course he ended up pregnant,” Aizawa said, the words flat and final in the garage’s stagnant air. He finally looked at Katsuki. “It doesn’t end well. It ends with choices. Hard ones.”

The memory was a fever. Hitoshi, nine months pregnant, belly a taut, heavy curve between them. He was on his hands and knees on Shota’s bed, his back arched, his swollen cunt dripping. Shota knelt behind him, his cock buried to the hilt in that impossibly hot, slick clutch. They were both slick with sweat, moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. The pregnancy had made Hitoshi ravenous, insatiable. It made Shota feel like a god and a monster all at once.

“Deeper,” Hitoshi sobbed, pushing back against him. “Please, Daddy, I can feel you in my throat.”

Shota obliged, his hands gripping the swell of Hitoshi’s hips, driving in with brutal, perfect strokes. The room smelled of sex and sweat. It was a drug. Shota’s balls tightened, the familiar heat coiling at the base of his spine. He was close.

A sharp, wet pop. A gush of warm fluid flooded Shota’s thighs, soaking the sheets beneath them.

Shota froze. “Hitoshi—”

“Don’t stop.” Hitoshi’s voice was a ragged command. He looked back over his shoulder, violet eyes wild. “Don’t you fucking stop. I need it. I need you to come in me.”

“Your water just broke. We have to—”

“No.” Hitoshi pushed back, sheathing Shota’s cock completely again, a low groan tearing from him. A contraction visibly tightened his belly, a hard ripple under skin. He gasped, his cunt clenching like a vise around Shota. “Fuck me through it. Please, Daddy. Please fuck me all through it. Don’t stop.”

It was madness. It was the logical end of everything they’d become. Shota’s resistance was a ghost. He started moving again, a slower, deeper grind, his cock stroking that fevered, pulsing heat as another contraction seized his son. Hitoshi cried out, a sound of pain and ecstasy, his body bowing.

“That’s it,” Shota murmured, his own voice broken. He leaned over, biting the juncture of Hitoshi’s neck and shoulder as he thrust. “Take it. Take your daddy.”

Shota kept fucking him. Through the next contraction, a brutal vise that made Hitoshi scream into the mattress. Through the frantic, primal urge to stop, to help, to be a father instead of this. His cock was a piston in that slick, clenching heat, each thrust a blasphemy. He felt the change. A yielding. An opening. The head of his cock pressed against something that wasn’t just tight—it was a gateway, dilating, swallowing him deeper than he’d ever been.

“Daddy, I feel it—I feel you—” Hitoshi sobbed, his body bowing.

That was it. The sensation of his son’s cervix opening around him, a hot, impossible ring of flesh giving way, tore the orgasm from Shota’s gut. He came with a ragged shout, pumping his release directly into the heart of the labor, deep into the heart of his son. It was a flood, a claiming, an end.

He wrenched himself out. Hitoshi came the second he did, a violent, body-arching climax that wasn’t just pleasure—it was expulsion. Fluid gushed, clear and then pink, and with a final, gut-wrenching push from Hitoshi, the crown of a tiny, dark-haired head appeared.

The rest was a blur of blood and sweat and instinct. Shota caught his grandson as he slid into the world, a slippery, wailing thing. He cut the cord with hands that didn’t shake. He cleaned him. Wrapped him. Placed him on Hitoshi’s heaving chest. They were both crying. Shota didn’t know whose tears were whose.

“He was lucky,” Aizawa said, his voice scraping the silence of the parking garage. The fluorescent light buzzed above them. “The baby was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. Hitoshi… he was fine. Physically. We got lucky.”

Katsuki hadn’t moved. He stood like a statue carved from the garage’s shadows, his crimson eyes fixed on Aizawa’s face. He hadn’t interrupted. Hadn’t looked away.

“It doesn’t stay in the bedroom,” Aizawa continued, the monotone back, but thinner now, stretched over something raw. “It leaks. It becomes the air. It becomes the baby in your arms that has your eyes and his hair. It becomes the only truth you know. And then you have to choose. Do you let that become his entire world?”

“You sent him away.” Katsuki’s voice was low. Not a question.

“I had to. He was drowning in me. I was drowning in him. There was no room for him to become anything else. So I built him a life somewhere I wasn’t. Gave him space to breathe air that wasn’t just my scent.” Aizawa finally met Katsuki’s gaze. “It broke him. It broke me. But he’s alive now. He has a life. A son he loves. A partner who isn’t his father.”

“You think that’s us?” Katsuki’s jaw was tight.

“I know it is. The details are different. The poison is the same. You’re building a cage, Bakugou. You’re just lining it with your own skin so he thinks it’s a home.”

Katsuki took a step forward. The scent of nitroglycerin, faint and sharp, cut through the exhaust fumes. “You don’t know a damn thing about my home.”

“I know you fucked his mouth in a car while I watched. I know you’re teaching him his worth is between his legs. I know that look in his eyes—it’s the same one Hitoshi had. It’s worship and hunger and a complete fucking erasure of himself. You have a choice now. Before the water breaks. Before there’s a third heartbeat in the room.”

The words hung there, ugly and final. Aizawa looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes like bruises.

Katsuki stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned, his leather jacket creaking, and walked toward the elevator. He didn’t look back. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Eraserhead.”

The elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside. Only when they closed, cutting off the sight of Aizawa standing alone under the flickering light, did Katsuki lean back against the wall. He closed his eyes. He didn’t see Izuku’s face. He saw a tiny, dark-haired head crowning. He heard a wail that wasn’t pleasure.

He shouldn’t be hard at thought of his son having his child.

Katsuki’s hand was already on his zipper, the image of that tiny, dark-haired head seared behind his eyelids. The elevator hummed, ascending. He freed his cock, thick and heavy and already leaking, the head flushed a deep red. He wrapped his fist around it, a low groan tearing from his throat as he leaned back against the cold metal wall.

He shouldn’t be hard. The story was a horror show. A warning. But his blood was molten, pumping south, his balls tight and aching. He saw it. Not Hitoshi. Izuku. Izuku on his hands and knees, belly round and taut with Katsuki’s child, his back arched, his cunt dripping and begging for it.

“Fuck,” he hissed into the empty elevator, his fist beginning to move in slow, brutal strokes. The pre-come made the glide slick, the sound wet and obscene in the sterile space. He pictured it—Izuku’s small body swelling, changing, marked by him in the most fundamental way. His hips jerked, driving his cock into his own fist.

“You want that?” he muttered, his voice ragged, talking to the phantom Izuku in his mind. “You want me to knock you up? Fill you so deep you taste it for months?”

He saw Izuku nodding, tears on his lashes, mouth open in a silent ‘yes’. He saw the moment of conception—his own orgasm ripping through him, pumping his seed so deep it took root. The possessive, primal thrill of it burned through the shame Aizawa had tried to instill. It felt like victory. Like forever.

His rhythm faltered, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He was close. Too close. He forced his eyes open, staring at his own reflection in the polished doors—a disheveled man, jacket open, face twisted with need, fucking his own fist like a teenager. The degradation of it only spiked the heat. This was what Aizawa didn’t understand. The filth was part of the point.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open on their penthouse floor. Katsuki didn’t stop. He stood there in the doorway, his cock in his hand, stroking faster, his gaze fixed on the empty hallway leading to their apartment. To where Izuku was waiting.

He came with a choked-off roar, his release painting the elevator floor in thick, white stripes. His body shuddered, his knees buckling slightly as he rode it out, the image of a pregnant Izuku finally shattering into blinding white static.

He stood there for a long moment, panting, spent. The smell of sex and nitroglycerin filled the small space. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand. Leaving his mark on the floor of the elevator.

The apartment was quiet when he entered. The lights were low. Katsuki found his boy asleep in his father's bed.

Katsuki stripped down to his boxers in the dark room, the scent of his own release still clinging to his skin. He slid into the bed behind Izuku, his larger body curving around his son’s sleeping form. He pulled Izuku back against his chest, one heavy arm settling over his waist, and pressed his nose into the soft green curls.

“Gonna make it perfect for you,” he murmured into the dark, his voice a low rasp. His mind began to map it out—the location, the timing, how he’d open him up slow, make him feel every inch. A proper claiming. His hand splayed over Izuku’s lower belly, possessive. “Your first time’s gonna be perfect. I’ll make sure of that.”