Chapter 3: The Thief in the Nest
The heat came back not as a wave, but as a slow, deep boil.
Shoto woke to it radiating from his core, a persistent, aching throb that made his teeth feel too tight in his jaw. The heavy, satisfied exhaustion of the night was being burned away, replaced by a fresh, sharp-edged need. He was sticky between his thighs, a mess of dried slick and alpha come that should have disgusted him but instead made his cunt pulse with a fresh, wet pang.
He was still sandwiched between them. Bakugo’s chest was a solid wall against his back, one arm flung heavily over his waist. Kirishima was facing him, their legs tangled, his red hair a wild halo on the pillow, his breathing deep and even. The morning sun cut through a gap in the curtains, painting a stripe of gold across Kirishima’s shoulder.
Panic, thin and cold, threaded through the heat. He couldn’t wake them. Not for this. This needy, clawing emptiness was his to manage. They’d given him last night—a brutal, wonderful gift—but he couldn’t presume. He couldn’t be the pathetic omega whining for more the second his eyes opened.
He had to get out. To the living room. To the bathroom. Anywhere alone with his toys and his shame.
He began to move with painstaking slowness. He lifted Bakugo’s arm, millimeter by millimeter, letting it settle on the mattress behind him. He inched backward, out of the circle of Bakugo’s heat. He tried to extract his leg from between Kirishima’s thighs.
It was as he was shifting his hips, attempting to slide away, that the fabric of his thin sleep pants—borrowed from Kirishima and too big—dragged against his most sensitive flesh. The rough slide over his swollen clit made his breath hitch. A new, warm gush of slick dampened the material.
And then his hip bumped something solid. Kirishima’s thigh. A thick, muscular column of heat right there, right where he was aching and empty.
He froze. Every instinct screamed to pull away.
His body, traitorous and molten, pressed closer.
The contact was electric. A sharp, stunning jolt of sensation that went straight from his throbbing cunt to the base of his skull. A choked moan built in his throat. He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to taste the sharp, coppery tang of blood, shoving the sound back down. His eyes screwed shut.
He shouldn’t. This was a violation. They were asleep, trusting. He was using Kirishima’s body like a toy.
But the need was a physical weight, a knot of desperation in his gut. He was so empty. And the firm, unyielding pressure of that thigh was right there. A pathetic, silent sob shook his shoulders.
He gave in.
Carefully, so carefully, he rolled his hips forward, grinding the soaked, aching seam of his body against the hard muscle. The friction was exquisite, a rough, delicious counterpoint to the internal hollow ache. He did it again, a slow, deliberate roll. Pleasure, sharp and bright, licked up his spine.
He shoved his forearm against his mouth, teeth sinking into the skin of his own wrist to anchor himself in silence. His other hand fisted in the tangled sheets. He set a rhythm, shallow and desperate, riding the line between exquisite relief and agonizing frustration. The fabric of his pants was soaked through now, a translucent barrier that did nothing to mute the sensation. Each grind sent a fresh pulse of slick wetting his inner thighs, the scent of his own arousal—sweet frost and ozone—rising thick around him in the sunlit air.
He lost himself in the mechanical, secret pursuit. His thoughts dissolved into a single, focused point: the pressure, the friction, the building, coiling tightness in his lower belly. He was getting close, his breaths puffing hot and ragged against his own arm, his movements becoming less careful, more urgent.
A low, sleep-rough voice cut through the haze, right next to his ear.
“That’s a pathetic fucking way to get off, halfie.”
Shoto went rigid, a bolt of pure terror and shame shooting through him. His eyes flew open.
Bakugo was awake, propped on his elbow, watching him. His crimson eyes were sharp, completely alert, no trace of sleep in them. He’d been awake. He’d been watching.
Shoto scrambled back, a wounded noise escaping him, his face flooding with heat. “I—I wasn’t—”
“The hell you weren’t.” Bakugo’s gaze dropped to where Shoto’s cunt was still pressed, twitching, against Kirishima’s thigh. Kirishima stirred now, blinking awake, his expression shifting from confusion to comprehension as he felt the wet heat and saw Shoto’s horrified face.
“Sho?” Kirishima’s voice was gentle, concerned.
“He was trying to sneak off and use your leg as a fucking cocksleeve,” Bakugo announced, his tone merciless. “Bit his own arm raw to keep quiet about it. Look.”
He reached out and pulled Shoto’s forearm away from his mouth. The imprint of teeth was clear and red in the pale skin.
The exposure was unbearable. Shoto tried to curl in on himself, to disappear. “I’m sorry. I just… I needed… I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother us?” Kirishima sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist. He didn’t look angry. He looked… pained. “Sho, that’s what we’re here for. We said we’d see it through.”
“I know what you are,” Shoto whispered, his voice cracking. He couldn’t meet their eyes. “You’re alphas. You solved the problem. The heat is my problem. I can handle it.”
Bakugo made a sound of pure disgust. “Handle it? By grinding on furniture like a dog in rut? Fuck that.” He moved suddenly, hooking a hand behind Shoto’s knee and yanking him flat onto his back. Before Shoto could process it, Bakugo had straddled his thighs, pinning him. His weight was immense, inescapable. “Your heat is our problem now. You don’t get to decide that. We do.”
Shoto stared up at him, his heart hammering against his ribs. The shame was still there, but under it, a darker, hotter current of relief was rising. The decision was being taken from him.
“Katsuki,” Kirishima said, a note of caution in his voice.
“No,” Bakugo snapped, not looking away from Shoto. “He needs to understand. You don’t sneak. You don’t settle. You come to us.” He leaned down, his face inches from Shoto’s. His scent, that burnt-caramel dominance, was overwhelming. “You want something, you use your fucking words. Or you take it. But you don’t hide.”
“What if you don’t want to give it?” Shoto breathed, the question ripped from a deep, scarred place.
Bakugo’s eyes flashed. For a second, the mask of anger slipped, revealing something raw and ferociously protective underneath. “Did we look like we didn’t want to be here last night?”
“Then tell me what you want right now,” Kirishima said, his hand coming to rest on Shoto’s ankle, a grounding touch. “Exactly.”
Shoto swallowed. The words were a humiliation, but a necessary one. A test. “I’m… empty. I’m throbbing. I need to be filled. I need…” He forced his eyes to Bakugo’s. “I need your cock. I need you to fuck me until I can’t think. And I need Kirishima to hold me down while you do it.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across Bakugo’s face. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was a predator’s smile. “See? Was that so fucking hard?”
He didn’t wait. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shoto’s borrowed pants and yanked them down and off in one rough motion. The cool air hit Shoto’s wet, exposed flesh, making him gasp. Bakugo’s gaze locked onto the sight—the slick-glistening folds, the swollen, needy clit, the pink, fluttering hole that was already desperate for stretch.
“Look at that,” Bakugo murmured, almost to himself. “Dripping. And you thought you should handle this alone.” He spat into his own palm, a crude, efficient gesture, and wrapped his fist around his already-hardening cock, giving himself a few rough, slicking strokes. He was thick and ruddy, the head already beading with pre-come.
Kirishima moved. He came up behind Shoto, sliding his arms under Shoto’s shoulders and locking his hands behind Shoto’s head, creating a living cage of muscle. He pulled Shoto’s back flush against his chest, his breath warm on Shoto’s neck. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, the words vibrating through Shoto’s bones.
Bakugo positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Shoto’s entrance. He didn’t tease. He looked Shoto dead in the eyes.
“No biting your arm. No hiding. You scream if you need to. You come when you’re told. Understand?”
Shoto nodded, a frantic, helpless motion.
Bakugo drove into him in one brutal, deep lunge.
The invasion was immediate and absolute. Shoto’s back arched off the bed, a raw, ragged scream tearing from his throat, unimpeded. Kirishima held him fast, absorbing the convulsive jerk. He was so full, so suddenly, the burn of the stretch a bright, white-hot pain that melted instantly into a pleasure so profound it felt like dying.
“Fuck, yes,” Bakugo grunted, pausing for a second, buried to the hilt, letting Shoto’s body clench and spasm around him. “That’s the sound. Give me that.”
He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in. And then he started to fuck him in earnest.
It was nothing like the slow, exploratory pace of the night before. This was pure, unadulterated claiming. Bakugo’s hips pistoned, a relentless, driving rhythm that punched the air from Shoto’s lungs with every thrust. The bed frame slammed against the wall with a rhythmic, percussive bang. Bakugo’s grunts were animalistic, guttural sounds of effort and pleasure.
Shoto was unraveling. He was sobbing, screaming, begging. Words dissolved into syllables, into pure, wanton noise. He was held immobile by Kirishima, completely at Bakugo’s mercy, and the surrender was the most liberating thing he’d ever known. Every nerve ending was on fire. Each deep, punishing stroke dragged against that spot inside him that made his vision blur.
“You feel that, you tight little slut?” Bakugo snarled, his hands digging bruises into Shoto’s hips, his own sweat dripping onto Shoto’s stomach. “This what you needed? This what you were trying to get from his fucking thigh?”
“Yes! Alpha, yes, please!” Shoto babbled.
“Gonna come?” Bakugo’s pace became frantic, jarring. “Gonna come all over my cock like a good, used-up omega?”
Shoto could only nod, his orgasm a tsunami building from his toes, ready to obliterate him.
“Not yet,” Kirishima’s voice growled in his ear. One of Kirishima’s hands released its hold behind Shoto’s head and snaked down his chest, over his trembling stomach. His fingers found Shoto’s swollen, neglected clit. He didn’t stroke it. He pressed down on it, hard, with the pad of his thumb, a constant, unyielding pressure.
The added stimulation was the final spark. Shoto’s world exploded into white, silent static. His cunt clamped down on Bakugo’s driving cock in a series of violent, rhythmic convulsions. His scream was soundless, his mouth open in a silent ruin of ecstasy as he shook apart between them.
The violent milking of his inner walls was too much for Bakugo. With a final, broken roar, he shoved in deep, his knot swelling rapidly, locking them together as he poured his release into Shoto’s pulsating depths in hot, endless pulses.
The spasms gradually subsided into twitches. Shoto went limp in Kirishima’s arms, boneless, his senses utterly blitzed. He was aware of Bakugo collapsing forward, his forehead resting on Shoto’s shoulder, his breath heaving. He was aware of Kirishima’s lips on his sweat-damp temple.
The knot held, a full, stretching ache that anchored him to the present, to them.
After a long moment, Bakugo lifted his head. His face was flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked down at the wreckage of Shoto beneath him, at the tear tracks and bite marks and blooming bruises. He snorted, a soft, exhausted sound.
“Next time you wake up needy,” he panted, his voice wrecked, “you wake me the fuck up. With your mouth. Not your pathetic grinding.”
It wasn’t an apology. It was a rule. A new law for their shared world.
Shoto, too drained to form words, nodded against Kirishima’s chest. He believed him.
The deep, satisfied silence that followed was punctuated only by their slowing breaths and the distant sound of a bird outside the window. Bakugo’s knot held them fast, a tangible, stretching reminder of his claim as Shoto drifted into a hazy, contented sleep against Kirishima’s chest. He slept deeply, a dreamless void of exhaustion, wrapped in the scent of spent alpha and his own submission.
He woke to fire.
It was a slow, creeping awareness that became a roaring inferno in seconds. Every nerve ending screamed, a live wire of need that made the sheets feel like sandpaper against his skin. Moving his leg a mere inch sent a sharp, aching throb straight to his core, a fresh gush of slick immediately coating his inner thighs. The heat was back, vicious and demanding, erasing the memory of satiation like it had never happened.
Bakugo’s words from earlier echoed in his skull, a command cutting through the panic. You wake me the fuck up.
With a trembling hand, Shoto reached behind him where Bakugo was still a solid, sleeping wall of heat. He shook his shoulder, a weak, desperate motion. “Bakugo,” he whined, the word dripping with helpless need. The movement made slick seep out of him, a warm, unmistakable wetness beginning to soak the sheet beneath his hips.
Bakugo stirred, then stilled. A low, knowing chuckle vibrated against Shoto’s back. “Well, look at that,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and smug satisfaction. He turned onto his side, facing Shoto. In the dim room, his crimson eyes gleamed. “You actually listened. Good boy.”
His hand slid down, palming the wetness between Shoto’s thighs. Shoto jerked, a sob catching in his throat. “It hurts,” he gasped, pushing his hips into Bakugo’s touch. “It’s—I can’t—please.”
“I know, I know,” Bakugo said, his tone infuriatingly calm. He smoothed a hand over Shoto’s hip. “You’re being perfect for us. Dripping and desperate just like you should be.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Shoto’s ear. “But I fucked you last. It’s Ei’s turn to wreck this pretty cunt first. Rules of the road, halfie.”
Shoto’s eyes widened. He shook his head, frantic. “No, you—you can’t just—I need it now.” The whine pitched higher into a cry as another cramp of need twisted his stomach. He felt more slick escape, the pool beneath him growing. “Please, alpha, don’t make me wait.”
“You’ll wait,” Bakugo said, but his hand was moving. His fingers trailed through the mess, gathering slick, before circling Shoto’s throbbing clit with a deliberate, lazy pressure. “We wait for him. He deserves his turn. But I can keep you simmering.”
The touch was electric, a bright, shocking contrast to the hollow ache inside him. Shoto’s protest died on a sharp inhale. His hips stuttered, chasing that clever finger. A broken sound, half-whimper, half-sigh, leaked from his mouth.
Bakugo’s thumb pressed down, a firm, rotating circle that made Shoto’s toes curl. “See? You can be patient. Just focus on this. On my hand. Let everything else fade.” He maintained the rhythm, a maddeningly slow tease that stoked the fire without quenching it. Shoto’s cries softened into continuous, shaky whines, his body arching into the touch, the order to wait already dissolving in the primal need for friction, for anything. His mind, so frantic moments before, began to blissfully unravel, floating on the sensation of Bakugo’s calloused finger tracing his most sensitive flesh over and over.