Chapter 2: Claiming the Omega
The blunt head of Bakugo’s cock breached him, a relentless, burning stretch that stole the air from Shoto’s lungs. The kiss with Kirishima broke as a sharp, punched-out gasp escaped him instead. Bakugo froze, his hands vise-like on Shoto’s hips, his own breathing ragged. He was huge, thicker and more real than any of the cold silicone toys now lying forgotten beside the nest.
“Fuck,” Bakugo gritted out, a tremor in his voice. “You’re clamping down like a fucking vice. Relax.”
He couldn’t. The sensation was too much, a searing fullness that bordered on pain. Shoto shook his head against the blankets, a high, thin whine leaking from his throat.
Kirishima shifted. He moved his mouth from Shoto’s lips to his ear, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated through Shoto’s skull. “Breathe, Sho. Just breathe. You can take it. You want it. Your body is screaming for it.” One of his big hands slid down Shoto’s chest, his thumb finding a pebbled, sensitive nipple and pinching, rolling it firmly. The sharp bite of pleasure-pain made Shoto jolt, his inner muscles fluttering involuntarily around the invasive pressure.
“That’s it,” Kirishima coaxed. “Let him in. Make room for your alpha.”
Bakugo took the fluttering as his cue. He pushed forward again, another ruthless, slow inch, sheathing himself in that impossibly hot, wet clutch. A groan was torn from him, raw and unfiltered. “Holy shit. Like a furnace. You’re burning me up, omega.”
He began to move, not with the brutal force he’d promised, but with a devastating, controlled slowness. Each withdrawal was a tease, leaving Shoto empty and aching. Each thrust was a deep, claiming nudge that stretched him further, touched places the toys never could. The drag of his thick cockhead over Shoto’s swollen inner walls was a lightning storm of sensation.
Shoto’s whines turned into a continuous, needy melody. He pushed back, trying to impale himself faster, but Bakugo’s grip was iron, dictating the pace.
“Uh-uh,” Bakugo chided, his voice dark with restraint. “You don’t set the pace. We do. You just take what we give you.” He snapped his hips forward, a sudden sharp thrust that made Shoto cry out. “You feel that? That’s what a real cock feels like. None of that plastic bullshit.”
Kirishima was everywhere, his mouth and hands mapping Shoto’s trembling skin. He latched onto the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth, biting down just enough to make Shoto arch and sob. His hand trailed lower, over the quivering plane of Shoto’s stomach, through the mess of slick and pre-come, until his fingers found Shoto’s small, hard cock. He gripped it, his calloused palm providing a rough, perfect friction.
“He’s dripping,” Kirishima muttered against Shoto’s skin, his own arousal thick in his voice. “Soaked. Fuck, Katsuki, you should feel how hard his little cock is. He’s fucking desperate for it.”
The dual assault was unraveling Shoto completely. He was babbling, words without sense. “Alpha—please—more—it’s too—don’t stop—”
Bakugo’s control was a fraying wire. The sight of Kirishima’s red head bent over Shoto’s body, the feel of this perfect, tight heat milking his cock, the sounds Shoto was making—it was all too much. His thrusts lost their measured pace. They became harder, deeper, driving Shoto forward into Kirishima’s touch with every piston-like drive.
The slap of skin against skin, wet and rhythmic, filled the room, underscored by Shoto’s choked cries and Bakugo’s guttural grunts. The nest, that carefully constructed sanctuary, was becoming a riot of scent and sweat and sex.
“You gonna come, omega?” Bakugo snarled, his fingers digging bruises into Shoto’s hips. “You gonna come just from having your ass wrecked? Before he even touches your pretty little hole?”
Shoto could only nod, his face mashed into the blanket, drool soaking the fabric. His orgasm was coiling, terrifyingly close, a live wire in his gut.
Kirishima understood. He released Shoto’s cock and moved with a startling, fluid grace. He positioned himself behind Bakugo, one hand spreading the globes of Shoto’s ass wider, giving himself a clear view of where Bakugo’s thick length was brutally fucking in and out, stretching the glistening, puffy ring of muscle. He leaned in, his tongue tracing the stretched rim where Shoto’s body clung to Bakugo’s shaft.
The vibration, the wet, intimate touch on his most vulnerable place while being utterly filled—it shattered Shoto. He came with a scream that was raw at the edges, his cunt clamping down in violent, pulsing spasms around Bakugo’s cock. Another hot gush of liquid—slick, come, he didn’t know—splashed between his legs and onto the blankets below.
Bakugo swore, a long, filthy string of obscenities. The convulsive squeezing around him was too good. He fucked him through it, his thrusts turning jagged, animalistic. “That’s it—squeeze me—fucking milk me, you perfect little slut—”
Kirishima pulled back, watching, his own cock aching and neglected. He saw the base of Bakugo’s cock beginning to swell, the knot forming, stretching Shoto’s already strained entrance even wider with each pass. It wouldn’t fit. Not yet.
“Katsuki,” Kirishima said, his voice a command.
Bakugo understood. With a final, deep grind that pressed his swelling knot hard against Shoto’s rim, he pulled out entirely.
The feeling of sudden, profound emptiness was a shock so severe it felt like pain. Shoto wailed, a sound of pure loss, his body pushing back into nothing. “No—alpha—please—”
“Shhh,” Kirishima soothed, already moving. He guided Bakugo onto his back in the center of the nest. Then he turned to Shoto, whose face was tear-streaked and desperate. “Come here. You’re not done. You need a knot, don’t you? You need to be full.”
He helped Shoto, whose limbs were boneless, to straddle Bakugo’s hips. Bakugo looked up at him, his chest heaving, his cock standing up hard and angry-red, the knot at the base a pronounced, intimidating bulge.
“You wanna ride it, omega?” Bakugo growled, his hands coming up to grip Shoto’s trembling thighs. “You wanna sink down on this fucking knot and take it all?”
Shoto nodded, beyond words. He reached between his legs, guiding Bakugo’s slick tip to his abused, throbbing entrance. He sank down, his body remembering the stretch, accepting it more easily this time, driven by a need that overrode all discomfort. He took him deep, until his ass met Bakugo’s thighs.
“Now the hard part,” Kirishima murmured. He knelt behind Shoto, his chest pressing to Shoto’s sweat-slick back, his arms wrapping around to play with Shoto’s nipples again. He kissed Shoto’s shoulder, his neck. “You gotta work for it. Bounce for him. Get him nice and deep so his knot can pop inside.”
Shoto moved, tentatively at first, then with more force, lifting himself and slamming down, taking Bakugo to the hilt each time. His own oversensitive body was lighting up again, a fresh coil of heat building.
Bakugo’s head tipped back, a harsh groan tearing from him. “Fuck—yeah—just like that. Work that greedy cunt.”
Kirishima’s hands slid down Shoto’s stomach. One gripped Shoto’s cock, stroking him in time with his bounces. The other hand found the wet, swollen nub of his clit. He rubbed it with firm, circular pressure.
The overload was immediate and catastrophic. Shoto’s rhythm fractured. He was sobbing, riding Bakugo with frantic, messy abandon, chasing the dual friction inside and out. He felt Bakugo’s knot catch, a thick, insistent pressure against his rim, pushing, stretching him further than he thought possible.
“Now, Katsuki,” Kirishima breathed, his own hips thrusting against the air, beyond control. “Knot him. Fill him up.”
With a roar that was half triumph, half surrender, Bakugo thrust up off the bed, burying himself to the root. His knot swelled, locked, a brutal, perfect stretch that sealed them together. His release erupted inside Shoto, hot and endless, painting his deepest parts.
The sensation of being knotted, of being flooded with seed, tipped Shoto over another screaming edge. He came dry, his body seizing, his vision whiting out as he collapsed forward onto Bakugo’s chest.
Kirishima watched them, connected, spent. A profound, peaceful hunger settled in him. He leaned down, nuzzling into the space between Shoto’s neck and Bakugo’s shoulder, breathing in their mixed scents—burnt sugar, iron, frost, and smoke. He wrapped his arms around both of them, holding the knot-bound pair as Bakugo’s thrusts slowed to shallow, helpless pulses, emptying himself completely.
They stayed like that for long minutes, a tangle of limbs and slow breaths in the wrecked nest. Finally, Bakugo’s knot began to soften. He slipped out, followed by a messy, warm trickle that made Shoto shudder.
Bakugo’s hand, surprisingly gentle, came up to brush Shoto’s mismatched hair from his damp forehead. His crimson eyes were heavy-lidded, satiated, softer than Kirishima had seen them in years.
Kirishima shifted. He hadn’t come. The need was a dull, persistent throb. He moved to lie beside them, on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
The quiet was a living thing, thick with the smell of sex and satisfied alpha and the sweet, smoky exhaustion of omega. Kirishima lay there, the ache in his gut a familiar, dull companion. He heard the soft, wet sound of Bakugo slipping free from Shoto’s body, a sigh, the rustle of the nest as they adjusted.
Then, a whisper. Bakugo’s voice, stripped of its usual granite edge, was a low rasp against Shoto’s ear. “Still with us, half ‘n half?”
A soft, affirmative hum. Kirishima kept his arm over his eyes, letting them have the moment. He felt the dip of the mattress, the shift of weight.
“S’good?” Bakugo mumbled, the question impossibly vulnerable.
“Mm.” Shoto’s voice was sleep-rough, ruined. “Full. It’s… different. Better.”
The simplicity of the answer seemed to disarm Bakugo completely. Kirishima heard a gentle rustle that might have been Bakugo carding his fingers through that split-colored hair. He smiled faintly under his arm. This was the thing they’d been missing. This quiet.
The mattress shifted again. Closer to him. Kirishima detected the faint, clean scent of frost and smoke mingling with Bakugo’s burnt caramel. A warmth hovered near his side. He remained still, playing at sleep, curious.
He could hear them whispering beside him, their words blurred and private. Then, without warning, the warmth solidified. He felt the brush of a knee against his thigh, the tentative press of a palm on his stomach. He moved his arm from his eyes.
Shoto was looking down at him, his heterochromatic eyes still hazy but focused. He was moving with a slow, liquid grace, straddling Kirishima’s hips. His inner thighs were slick, painted with the evidence of Bakugo’s claim. Bakugo watched from his side, propped on an elbow, his expression unreadable but his gaze intense, possessive of the scene itself.
“Your turn,” Shoto whispered, not to Kirishima, but to the space between them, as if it were an agreed-upon law of nature.
Kirishima’s breath caught. He let his hands fall to the rumpled blankets, palms up, a surrender. “Okay,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Your pace, Sho.”
Shoto nodded, biting his plush, kiss-swollen lower lip. He reached between them, his fingers wrapping around Kirishima’s neglected cock. It jumped in his hand, thick and heavy, a vein pulsing along its length. He guided the blunt head, slick from his own spent arousal and Bakugo’s release, to his entrance.
He sank down with an excruciating slowness that made Kirishima see stars. It was a profound, wet, yielding heat. Kirishima’s head fell back, a sharp gasp hissing through his teeth. His hands clenched in the blankets. Shoto took him inch by devastating inch, his body reluctantly opening, his face a mask of concentrated sensation.
“Fuck,” Shoto breathed out, finally seated fully, his ass resting on Kirishima’s thighs. He was impossibly tight, the channel stretched anew, fluttering around the unfamiliar girth. “You’re… different. Bigger here. It’s—ah—.”
Kirishima smiled, a sweet, genuine curve of his lips despite the primal hunger clawing at his insides. “Just relax into it. Explore. I’m not going anywhere.”
Shoto began to move, a tentative roll of his hips. He rose up, his wetness glistening on Kirishima’s shaft, then sank back down, a slow, deep plunge. His eyes were half-lidded, watching where their bodies joined, feeling every ridge and vein of Kirishima’s cock as it dragged against his oversensitive walls. A broken whine escaped him. “So full. It’s so much. You’re stretching me… it burns.”
“Good burn,” Bakugo murmured from the sidelines, his own hand drifting lazily over his stomach. “Take it. You can.”
Shoto’s rhythm was becoming uneven, his strength waning as the fresh, deep stimulation warred with his exhaustion. His lifts grew shallower, his drops less controlled. A fine tremor worked through his thighs. Kirishima saw the effort, the dazed frustration on his beautiful face.
“C’mere,” Kirishima whispered. He brought Shoto’s hand to his mouth and kissed the reddened knuckles, a gesture of startling tenderness. Then his hands snapped up and latched onto Shoto’s narrow hips, his grip absolute.
He took over.
He moved Shoto up and down on his dick like a doll, with a steady, relentless force that stole the omega’s breath. No more tentative exploration. This was use. Kirishima lifted him almost completely off his cock, the head catching at Shoto’s fluttering rim, then slammed him back down, sheathing himself to the root in one brutal motion.
“Ei—!” Shoto cried out, his hands flying to Kirishima’s wrists for balance, his body pliant.
“You wanted a knot,” Kirishima grunted, his own composure fracturing. His hips began to meet Shoto’s forced descents, driving up into that sublime, clutching heat. “Gotta work for it. Gotta make me lose it.” The slap of flesh grew faster, wetter. Shoto was sobbing again, overstimulated and rapturous, his body bouncing, utterly controlled.
Kirishima felt the base of his cock swell, the knot forming, a thick, urgent pressure. He angled his next thrust, pulling Shoto down as he drove up. The thickened bulb pressed against Shoto’s desperate rim, stretching it wider, impossibly wider, than before.
With a final, broken shout, Kirishima locked them together. His knot popped inside, a violent, perfect stretch that sealed Shoto shut around him. His orgasm ripped through him, a torrent of release flooding Shoto’s depths, joining the mess already inside. Shoto convulsed, a silent scream on his lips, his body clenching in a final, shuddering peak.
Kirishima held him there, impaled and trembling, as he pumped him full.
Kirishima held him there, impaled and trembling, as he pumped him full. The pulses seemed to go on forever, a deep, internal claiming that left Shoto’s body feeling fundamentally rearranged. When the last shudder passed through Kirishima’s frame, the strength bled from his arms.
Shoto collapsed forward, a boneless weight atop Kirishima’s broad chest. They were still locked together, Kirishima’s knot a firm, undeniable anchor inside him. Kirishima’s hands came up, one splaying across the sweat-damp skin of Shoto’s back, the other tunneling gently into his tangled, two-toned hair. He guided Shoto’s head down, letting the omega nuzzle his face into the solid muscle of his chest with a exhausted, whuffling sigh.
Bakugo turned on his side to face them, his expression unreadable in the dim light. After a moment, his hand came up and settled on the small of Shoto’s back. His thumb began to move, rubbing slow, soothing circles over the knobs of his spine. The gesture was startling in its uncalculated tenderness.
“You good?” Kirishima murmured into Shoto’s hair, his voice a low rumble Shoto could feel through his ribs.
Shoto simply hummed, a vibration of pure, sated agreement against Kirishima’s skin. He didn’t have words. The all-consuming fire was banked, leaving a heavy, liquid warmth in its wake. The nest held them, a ruined, scent-soaked island.
They lay in a silence that was neither empty nor awkward. It was filled with breath, and slowing heartbeats, and the faint, wet sound of Kirishima’s knot still holding them fast. Bakugo’s rhythmic stroking continued, mapping the territory of Shoto’s back.
“Fuckin’ finally,” Bakugo grumbled after a long while, his voice rough but lacking its usual edge. “Your knots take a goddamn geological age to go down, Ei. I always get stuck in the worst fucking positions waiting on you.”
A weak chuckle shook Kirishima’s chest. “You’re just jealous ‘cause yours pop too fast.”
“Tch. Efficient, is what it is.”
The casual bickering, so familiar from the other side of the wall, now woven around him, sparked a sleepy curiosity in Shoto. He turned his head slightly, his cheek still pressed to Kirishima. His voice was a mumble. “You’re both alphas.”
“Astute,” Bakugo drawled, his thumb pausing for a second before resuming its circles.
“How did you… manage? Before. Ruts.” The question was intimate, prying into a history he had no claim to. But he was knotted to one of them and being gently petted by the other; the usual rules seemed dissolved.
Kirishima laughed, a real, warm sound. His fingers scratched lightly at Shoto’s scalp. “Very, very carefully.” He paused, and the amusement in his voice took on a darker, wry tint. “And normally with a muzzle.”
Bakugo snorted. “A necessary precaution. His teeth are no joke when the red mist descends. And the shit he’d say, all that ‘manly’ talk dialed up to a thousand, babbling about durability while trying to chew through the headboard.”
“You weren’t any better, Mr. ‘I’ll Murder Everything In This Room Including You’,” Kirishima shot back, his tone fond. “Locked rooms. Pre-arranged food deliveries. A lot of mutual, uh… manual assistance. It was messy. It was functional.” He squeezed Shoto gently. “It wasn’t this.”
The ‘this’ hung in the air, thick with meaning. This wasn’t functional. It was a shared heat, a knotted omega between them, a peace that felt neither messy nor fraught. Shoto absorbed it, the history and the implicit comparison. He’d been a problem to be managed alone with toys. They’d been a volatile equation to be carefully contained. This, now, felt like a solution.
He felt Kirishima’s knot finally begin to soften, the relentless grip inside him easing. A thick, warm trickle escaped as the connection broke, a visceral reminder of what they’d done. Shoto made a small, overwhelmed sound at the sensation.
“Easy,” Bakugo muttered, his hand moving from Shoto’s back to his hip, steadying him as Kirishima carefully helped him roll off. Shoto ended up on his back between them, staring up at the ceiling, feeling utterly spent and profoundly exposed. The cool air hit the mess between his legs, making him shiver.
Neither alpha moved away. Kirishima shifted onto his side, mirroring Bakugo, boxing Shoto in. Their legs tangled with his. Bakugo’s hand returned, not to his back, but to settle possessively on his stomach, palm flat. Kirishima reached over and tucked a strand of white hair behind Shoto’s ear.
The protectiveness was a physical weight, a blanket. Shoto’s eyes drifted shut. The frantic need was gone, but a different, quieter ache remained—the fear that this was a heat-induced mirage, that the door would open and they’d leave, and he’d be alone again with the silence and the slick-stained toys.
As if hearing the thought, Bakugo’s voice cut through the drowsy silence, low and uncompromising. “We’re not done. Your heat’s got days left. We’re staying.”
Shoto’s eyes flew open. He turned his head to look at Bakugo, searching for the lie, the pity.
He found neither. Only a fierce, exhausted certainty. Bakugo’s crimson gaze held his, and then flicked to Kirishima over Shoto’s head. A silent communication passed.
“He’s right,” Kirishima said, his voice a sleepy murmur near Shoto’s temple. His arm draped over Shoto’s waist, his hand coming to rest over Bakugo’s on Shoto’s stomach. A unified front. “We started this. We see it through. All of it.”
The finality of it, the sheer audacity of the claim, unmoored Shoto completely. A hot tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracing a slow path into his hairline. He didn’t try to hide it.
Bakugo saw it. His thumb, still resting on Shoto’s stomach, stroked once, a faint, awkward swipe. “Go the fuck to sleep, halfie,” he ordered, but the words lacked heat. They were an anchor. A promise.
Shoto let his eyes close again. The soreness was a deep, full-body throb. The smell of them—of sex and sweat and tangled alpha dominance and his own sweet, broken scent—was a narcotic. Encased in their heat, held by their hands, he did something he hadn’t done in years, not during a heat.
He surrendered to a sleep that felt, for the first time, entirely safe.