Chapter 1: Heat and Fury
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The hallway smelled of damp concrete and the distant, ozone promise of rain. Flickering emergency lights painted the cracked linoleum in sickly yellow stripes, doing nothing to dispel the shadows clotting in the corners. Another argument, the same one they’d been having for months, had boiled over the threshold of their apartment and into this hollow space.
“You’re not even listening!” Bakugo’s voice was a sharp crack, too loud for the confined space. He stood rigid, muscles corded under his shirt, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light from their open door.
“I am listening, Katsuki. I always listen.” Kirishima’s voice was lower, a steady rumble trying to placate a landslide. He reached for Bakugo’s arm, his fingers brushing against tense forearm. “You’re just not saying anything new. It’s just noise now.”
“Noise?” Bakugo jerked his arm away, a scoff ripping from his throat. “My feelings are noise to you? That’s fucking rich, Ei. Real manly.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Kirishima’s patience was wearing thin, the kind, easygoing set of his jaw beginning to harden. Their scents, both alpha—Bakugo’s a volatile spike of burnt caramel and nitroglycerin, Kirishima’s a steadier, earthier scent of iron and petrichor—clashed in the still air, amplifying the hostility. “We keep having the same fight. We go in circles. I’m tired of shouting. I’m tired of the way everything feels like a battle.”
“Then what do you want?” Bakugo took a step forward, crowding him. His crimson eyes were like hot coals. “You want me to just shut up and take it? To be some docile little—?”
“I want you to be happy! And I want to be happy with you!” Kirishima’s voice finally rose, not to Bakugo’s explosive decibels, but with a resonant force that echoed down the empty corridor. “This? This constant tension? This isn’t it. We’re grinding each other down. Can’t you feel it?”
The truth of it hung between them, uglier than any insult. Bakugo’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated the sting behind his eyes, the raw, vulnerable ache in his chest that Kirishima’s words had just carved open. He wanted to roar, to blow something up, to make the world feel as jagged and shattered as he did inside. But the fight was leaching out of him, leaving a cold, hollow fatigue.
He opened his mouth, another retort on his tongue, when it hit him.
A scent.
It slipped under the door of the apartment next to theirs, a fragile, whispering tendril that cut through the thick aggression of two arguing alphas like a laser. It was sweet, unmistakably omega-sweet, but layered with something cold and clean like frost-bitten air, and beneath that, the faint, aching promise of woodsmoke. It was vulnerability incarnate. It was heat.
Bakugo froze. Every muscle locked. His nostrils flared.
Kirishima saw the change instantly—the way Bakugo’s predatory focus shifted from him to that thin strip of light under Shoto Todoroki’s door. He inhaled, deeply, and the same scent flooded his senses. His own alpha instincts, usually so carefully leashed, surged forward with a possessive rumble that started deep in his chest. All the anger between them was suddenly irrelevant, shoved aside by a deeper, more primal programming.
They stood there, two alpha statues in the flickering gloom, caught in the pull of it.
Bakugo’s breath came shorter. His mind, so loud and chaotic a second ago, went strangely, sharply quiet. The scent was a key turning in a lock he’d kept sealed for years. It didn’t just call to his body; it called to the gnawing, secret emptiness he’d been shouting about. It was the softness he never allowed himself to want. The silence he craved. His mouth went dry.
Kirishima was the first to move, his hand coming up not in anger, but to grip Bakugo’s shoulder, holding him there, grounding them both. His dark eyes were wide, not with competition, but with a dawning, staggering understanding.
“Katsuki,” he breathed, the name barely a sound.
Bakugo couldn’t tear his gaze from the door. “He’s alone.” The words were gravelly. An observation. A verdict.
“I know.” Kirishima’s grip tightened. He was thinking, fast and hard, the protector in him eclipsing everything else. He knew that scent, knew the quiet, isolated man it belonged to. Todoroki wouldn’t have called anyone. He’d just suffer through it, locked away, thinking he was a burden. The idea of it, of that pain and solitude happening just a few feet away while they stood out here tearing strips off each other, made something in Kirishima’s heart clench.
He looked at Bakugo—really looked. He saw the barely-contained tremble in his partner’s clenched jaw, the desperate hunger warring with rigid control in those fierce eyes. He saw not just an alpha called by an omega’s heat, but the man he loved, starved for a kind of peace Kirishima, for all his devotion, had never been able to provide.
The idea came to him not as a shock, but as a settling, inevitable truth. A dangerous, perfect, crazy truth.
His voice was low, urgent, stripped bare of any pretense. “We could help him.”Bakugo’s head snapped around. His eyes searched Kirishima’s face, looking for the joke, the trick. He found only fierce, earnest intensity. “What”
“We could. Together.” Kirishima stressed the word, his thumb rubbing a tense circle on Bakugo’s shoulder. “Not just… not just for the heat. But after. He shouldn’t be alone. We… we don’t have to be, either.”
The implication hung in the scented air, thicker than the humidity. It wasn’t just about tending to an omega in need. It was an offer. A proposal to build something entirely new, to fill the hollow spaces in all of them.
Bakugo stared. The part of him that was all pride and territory and explosive independence screamed that this was insane, a weakness, a complication they did not need. But the deeper, hungrier part, the part that had just been soothed by a single breath of sweet smoke and frost, was roaring louder. It was looking at Kirishima—his steadfast, stupidly brave Kirishima—and seeing not an opponent, but the other half of a foundation. It was looking at Todoroki’s door and seeing a future that wasn’t just another empty, shouting tomorrow.
He didn’t agree. Not out loud. But he didn’t pull away from Kirishima’s grip. He gave a single, almost imperceptible jerk of his chin toward the door, his gaze still burning with a challenge, a question.
Kirishima took a deep, steadying breath. He kept one hand on Bakugo, anchoring him, as he raised the other and knocked softly on the wood. The sound was deafening in the silent hallway.
They waited, two alphas on a threshold, the scent of an omega’s heat weaving around them, tangling with their own, and the fragile, terrifying possibility of something new hanging in the balance.
They waited, two alphas on a threshold, the scent of an omega’s heat weaving around them, tangling with their own, and the fragile, terrifying possibility of something new hanging in the balance.
The door opened a few inches.
Shoto stood there, backlit by a single dim lamp from his spartan apartment. He was flushed, his heterochromatic eyes glassy with fever. He wore only a thin, wrinkled t-shirt. And white boxers. They were soaked through, plastered to his thighs, the cotton transparent with slick. The fabric clung obscenely, outlining the small, delicate swell of his omegan cock and, below, the full, puffy lips of his cunt. It glistened, a slick trail already making its way down his inner thigh.
Bakugo’s breath hitched, a low growl building in his chest. His vision tunneled, zeroing in on that pretty, drooling pussy. Every civilized thought burned away, replaced by a single, roaring imperative.
Kirishima’s hand tightened on his shoulder, a silent command to hold steady. He took a half-step forward, his body deliberately blocking Bakugo’s immediate line of charge, his voice carefully soft. “Hey, man. We… we could smell you from our place. Wanted to check if you needed any help. You’re burning up.”
Shoto shook his head weakly, a trembling hand coming up to clutch the doorframe. His knuckles were white. “N-no. I’m… I’m fine. I have suppressants. I just need to…” His voice was a thready whisper, ruined by want.
“Like hell you’re fine,” Bakugo snarled, the words ripping out of him. He didn’t push past Kirishima, but he let his control slip, just a fraction. A wave of alpha pheromones rolled off him—dominant, demanding, promising. It was pure, untamed command, the scent of claiming and conquest.
Shoto’s knees buckled. A sharp, needy whine escaped his throat, high and desperate. He clutched the door, his body sagging, his pretty hole visibly clenching around nothing. The scent of his heat spiked, sweeter and more urgent, mixing with Bakugo’s dominance in the air.
“See?” Bakugo’s voice dropped to a rough, predatory murmur. He leaned into Kirishima’s block, his crimson eyes locked on Shoto’s wrecked expression. “You’re not fine. You shouldn’t be alone for this. It’s fucking torture. You need it. You need two strong alphas to take care of you, to fuck you through it properly.” He paused, letting the image sink in, letting the pheromones do their work. Shoto was panting now, little puffs of air, his resistance melting under the chemical onslaught. “You wanna be a good little omega for us, right? You wanna let us help you?”
The words clicked something deep in Shoto’s heat-addled brain. A submissive cascade. His glazed eyes flickered between them—Bakugo’s fierce promise, Kirishima’s steady strength. The last shred of solitary pride dissolved. A full-body shudder wracked him, and a fresh gush of slick darkened the already soaked fabric.
He nodded, a tiny, helpless jerk of his chin.
Then he moved, stumbling back, pulling the door wide open in silent, total surrender.
The invitation was absolute.
Bakugo didn’t wait. He moved past Kirishima in a single, fluid stride, crossing the threshold like he owned it. Kirishima followed, closing the door behind them with a soft, definitive click, sealing them inside. The scent in the apartment was overwhelming, a concentrated cloud of sweet, smoky, icy heat. It was on everything. It was Shoto.
Shoto stood swaying in the middle of his own living room, exposed, waiting. Bakugo circled him, a shark. He came up behind him, so close the heat from their bodies mingled. He didn’t touch him yet. He just inhaled, deeply, right at the juncture of Shoto’s neck and shoulder, where his scent would be strongest.
“Fuck,” Bakugo breathed, the word ragged with want. “You’re fucking dripping.”
His hand came up then, not to Shoto’s neck, but lower. He palmed the soaked cotton of the boxers, his big hand covering the entire damp, hot curve of Shoto’s cunt. He pressed, hard.
Shoto cried out, back arching, pushing into the touch. The fabric was a pathetic barrier. Bakugo could feel everything—the split of his lips, the hard nub of his cock, the desperate, pulsing heat of him.
“These are in the way,” Bakugo muttered, and his other hand hooked into the waistband. He didn’t peel them down. He ripped them. The tear of cotton was loud in the quiet room. The ruined fabric fell to Shoto’s ankles, leaving him bare from the waist down, his perfect, slick-smeared ass and pussy fully exposed to the cool air and their hungry gazes.
Kirishima watched, his own cock straining against his jeans. He saw the way Bakugo looked at Shoto—not just with lust, but with a kind of awestruck greed he hadn’t seen in years. He moved to stand in front of Shoto, cupping his fevered face. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a hot cheek. “We’ve got you. We’re gonna take care of you. Just let go.”
Shoto nodded, leaning into Kirishima’s touch, even as Bakugo’s fingers, now bare and rough, trailed through the dripping mess between his legs from behind.
Bakugo found his clit, swollen and eager. He rubbed tight, fast circles over it, his other arm wrapping around Shoto’s waist to haul him back against his own rigid erection. “This what you needed, omega? Somebody to just fucking take over? To use this pretty hole until you can’t think straight?”
Shoto sobbed, his head falling back against Bakugo’s shoulder. “Yes! P-please, alpha, please—”
“Please what?” Bakugo bit his earlobe, not gentle. “You want a knot? You want to be filled?”
“Yes—”
“Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart.” Bakugo pushed two fingers into him without warning, sinking into obscene, drenched warmth. Shoto screamed, his body clamping down around the invasion. “Fuck, you’re tight. Soaking, but so fucking tight. Which one of us do you want first? Huh? Or do you even know?”
Or do you even know?”
Shoto didn’t answer with words. His body gave the reply, seizing up around Bakugo’s plunging fingers. A broken, wet gasp ripped from his throat as his hips stuttered, and then he was coming, hard—a hot, gushing flood of slick that wasn’t just slick. It pulsed out of him in a transparent stream, soaking Bakugo’s wrist and hand, dripping onto the floorboards with a soft, obscene patter. He squirted, trembling violently, his eyes rolling back.
“Fuck yeah, look at that,” Bakugo growled, working him through it, his fingers crooked inside that fluttering channel. “Couldn’t even hold it. Pathetic.”
While Shoto was still shuddering, Kirishima had moved. He dropped to his knees in front of them, his warm hands spreading Shoto’s trembling thighs wider. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and licked a broad, firm stripe up the length of Shoto’s small, hard cock, then buried his face between his ass cheeks, his tongue delving deep into the sopping, stretched hole Bakugo’s fingers were still fucking.
The dual sensation—Bakugo’s rough pistoning inside, Kirishima’s wet, hungry mouth on his most sensitive places—drove a shattered scream from Shoto’s lungs. He convulsed, his legs giving out entirely. He would have collapsed if Bakugo’s arm hadn’t been a steel band around his waist, holding him up, letting him take it. He was just a trembling, whimpering weight, fully supported, used.
Bakugo watched Kirishima work, saw the redhead’s shoulders move as he ate Shoto out with a focused, earnest hunger. It was a dizzying sight. His alpha, on his knees for another man. For their omega. The possessiveness that flared was molten, but it wasn’t violent. It was settling. Right.
He slowly pulled his slick-smeared fingers free. Shoto whined at the loss.
“Ei,” Bakugo said, his voice a low rumble against Shoto’s ear.
Kirishima pulled back, his chin glistening. He looked up, eyes dark.
“Stop for a second.” Bakugo nuzzled the sweat-damp hair at Shoto’s temple. “Our pretty little omega made a nest, didn’t you?”
Shoto, dazed and floating, managed a weak, shaky nod against his shoulder.
“Yeah? You wanna show us?”
Another nod, shy, almost embarrassed.
“C’mon then,” Bakugo said, easing his hold but keeping Shoto firmly against his side. Kirishima stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Shoto led them, steps unsteady, down the short hall to his bedroom. He pushed the door open.
The nest dominated the room. It was meticulous, almost heartbreaking in its detail. Every blanket, pillow, and piece of soft fabric Shoto owned was layered and arranged on the bed into a deep, inviting basin. It smelled intensely of him—that sweet, smoky, icy scent woven into the very fibers.
And in the center of the nest, laid out like a shameful offering, was the evidence of his long, lonely struggle. A variety of dildos and vibrators, all in muted colors, were placed neatly on a soft towel. They were all wet, gleaming under the bedroom’s soft light, thoroughly coated in the proof of his futile attempts to satisfy the unbearable itch. A fat, knotted silicone toy lay to one side, particularly slicked up.
Kirishima’s breath caught. “Oh, Shoto…”
Bakugo felt something crack open in his chest. It wasn’t pity. It was a fierce, blazing certainty. This perfect, proud creature had tried to handle this alone, had arranged his nest with such care, had tried every toy he had, and it hadn’t been enough. He’d needed them. He’d been waiting for them without even knowing it.
He guided Shoto to the edge of the nest. “All this work,” Bakugo murmured, his voice losing its razor edge, turning into something warmer, dangerously possessive. “And these stupid plastic things still left you empty. Hurting.”
Shoto shuddered, staring at the toys as if seeing his own failure.
“That’s ‘cause you need the real thing, omega.” Bakugo’s hands went to the hem of Shoto’s t-shirt. He pulled it up and over his head, tossing it aside, leaving him completely bare. “You need us.”
He placed a hand in the center of Shoto’s back and pushed, gently but firmly. Shoto folded forward over the edge of the nest, his upper body sinking into the soft blankets, his perfect, slick-glazed ass presented to them.
Bakugo’s eyes met Kirishima’s over the trembling form. A silent conversation passed between them, six years of partnership crystallizing in a glance. Kirishima gave a slight nod, his gaze dropping to Shoto’s exposed body with open reverence and want.
Bakugo unbuckled his own belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp whisper. “You prepared yourself all nice, huh? Opened yourself up with these toys.” He kicked his pants and briefs off. His cock sprang free, thick and heavily veined, already dripping. He nudged the head against Shoto’s soaked entrance, not pushing in, just applying pressure. “But you didn’t prep for this, did you? Didn’t prep for a real alpha cock. For my knot.”
He looked at Kirishima, who was stripping quickly, his own erection impressive and eager. “You wanna open him up for me, Ei? Get him ready to take what he needs?”
Kirishima climbed onto the bed, moving into the nest beside Shoto’s head. He cupped Shoto’s cheek, turning his face toward him. “Gonna be a good boy for us, right? Take everything we give you?”
Shoto’s heterochromatic eyes were blown wide with fear and desperate need. “Y-yes.Please. Alpha. Please.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima said, leaning down to kiss him, deep and claiming, as behind him, Bakugo finally began to push.