Chapter 5: The Heat's True Test
Consciousness returned in a slow, syrupy drip. Shoto’s body was a map of pleasant aches, a heavy, used feeling that spoke of thorough possession. He was warm, nestled between two larger, hotter bodies. Kirishima was still a solid wall at his back, one arm slung heavily over his waist. Bakugo faced him, his breathing even, eyes closed, but the hand possessively cupping Shoto’s ass cheek told Shoto he wasn’t truly asleep.
The peace was a fragile, stolen thing. The heat had ebbed, not broken, but retreated into a low, persistent hum in his blood. It left a clarity in its wake that was almost worse. He could feel everything with hyper-real intensity: the dry stickiness on his skin, the phantom stretch in his cunt, the deep, internal pulse where Kirishima’s seed was supposedly still pooled inside him. The idea of it—of being a vessel, chosen, filled—sent a fresh, shameful thrill through his spent nerves.
Kirishima stirred behind him, a deep breath shifting the mattress. His softening cock, still partially sheathed, slipped a fraction further out. Shoto held perfectly still, not wanting to break the connection, a low sound of protest forming in his throat.
“‘S okay,” Kirishima mumbled into his hair, his voice gravelly with sleep. His hand slid down from Shoto’s waist to the join of his thighs, fingers gently probing. “Knot’s going down. Gotta let it.”
“No,” Shoto whispered, the word a pathetic scrape of sound. He clenched internally, a feeble attempt to hold on, but his muscles were too tired, too abused to obey.
“Shhh, I know, baby. I know you want to keep it.” Kirishima pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. “But biology’s a bitch. Here we go.”
With careful, inexorable pressure, Kirishima eased himself out. The deflating knot offered one last, fleeting stretch before it slipped free entirely.
The sensation that followed was a betrayal. A hot, sudden gush of fluid spilled out of him, soaking the already ruined sheets beneath their hips. It was Kirishima’s release, mixed with his own slick, leaking out of his well-used hole. The emptiness that flooded in after it was a physical shock, a void that screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.
A broken cry tore from Shoto’s lips. He twisted, burying his face against Bakugo’s chest, his shoulders shaking. “It’s coming out,” he sobbed, the words muffled and desperate. “It’s all coming out, Daddy, it’s— I can’t keep it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
His composure, carefully rebuilt in the hazy afterglow, shattered completely. The earlier promises, the branding declarations of being their breeding slut, crashed over him with the weight of his failure. He was leaking their claim onto the sheets. He was failing his most basic purpose.
“Stop your sniveling,” Bakugo’s voice cut through his panic, sharp but not unkind. A hand fisted in his hair, pulling his head back. Bakugo’s crimson eyes were clear, alert, burning with intent. “You wanna keep it? Then we put more in. Simple.”
Before Shoto could process the words, Bakugo was moving. He shoved Kirishima’s arm aside and rolled Shoto onto his back. He grabbed Shoto’s ankles, his grip like iron manacles, and hoisted his legs up. He didn’t stop until both of Shoto’s calves were resting on his broad shoulders, folding Shoto nearly in half, his hips lifted high off the mattress, his dripping cunt utterly exposed.
The position was brutally vulnerable. It opened him up, stretched his tender inner muscles, and presented his red, swollen entrance like an offering. The cool air hit his exposed flesh, and he shuddered.
“Look at that,” Bakugo growled, his gaze fixed on the mess between Shoto’s legs. “Still gaping for us. Still hungry. You see that, Ei? He’s crying ‘cause one load wasn’t enough.”
Kirishima, now propped on an elbow beside them, ran a thumb through the rivulet of spend trailing down Shoto’s inner thigh. He brought it to Shoto’s lips. “Taste it. That’s what you’re so upset about losing. So we’ll give you more. Enough to drown in.”
Shoto obediently sucked the salty-bitter fluid from Kirishima’s thumb, his whines quieting to choked hiccups. His eyes, wide and wet, were locked on Bakugo, who was positioning himself, the thick, heavy length of his cock nudging against Shoto’s oversensitive entrance.
“You want it deep, don’t you?” Bakugo asked, not waiting for an answer. He leaned forward, using the leverage of Shoto’s legs on his shoulders to drive himself inside in one long, brutal stroke.
The penetration was shocking. The angle was different, inhumanly deep. Bakugo wasn’t just filling him; he was spearing him, the head of his cock pressing against a place so internal Shoto couldn’t breathe. A sharp, punched-out gasp was all he could manage.
“There,” Bakugo grunted, sinking to the hilt, his pelvis flush against Shoto’s ass. He held there, a human cage. “That’s where it goes. That’s where you keep it. You feel how deep I am?”
Shoto could only nod, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was split open, impaled, the burning stretch a brand-new kind of possession. The emptiness was gone, violently evicted, replaced by a fullness that threatened to reshape his very bones.
Bakugo began to move. His thrusts were not fast; they were deliberate, powerful pistons. Each withdrawal was a slow, devastating drag along every overstimulated nerve. Each return was a conquest, hitting that same deep, secret spot with unerring accuracy. The wet, obscene sound of their connection filled the room.
“This is how you get bred,” Bakugo panted, sweat beading on his temple. He leaned even further forward, increasing the angle, bending Shoto almost in half. Shoto’s spine protested, a sweet ache. “Not by lying there and taking a knot. By getting fucked so deep the come has nowhere to go. It’s gonna pool right in your belly, you understand? You’re gonna feel it.”
“Yes, yes, alpha, please—” Shoto babbled, his hands scrambling for purchase on Bakugo’s corded forearms.
“Tell me what you are.”
“Yours! I’m yours, I’m your good boy, your—your breeding slut, please, Daddy, fill me up, put your pups in me, I want it, I want it so bad—”
His pleas degenerated into meaningless noise as Bakugo’s pace lost its measured control. The deep, punishing strokes became faster, harder, driving the air from Shoto’s lungs with every impact. The pleasure was a taut wire, pulled from his throbbing clit to that deep, ravaged place inside. He was a instrument being played with ruthless expertise.
Kirishima watched, his own cock hard again, fisted in his hand. He leaned over, capturing Shoto’s mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing his cries. “Take it,” he murmured against his lips. “Take everything he gives you. You can hold this. I know you can.”
Bakugo’s rhythm fractured. A guttural, raw sound ripped from his chest. He slammed in one final, devastating time, his body locking as he buried himself to the root. Shoto felt the hot, sudden flood deep inside, a scalding geyser that seemed to have no end, jetting against his deepest walls. The claim was visceral, a internal marking.
The sensation of being filled so profoundly, combined with the ragged, possessive sounds tearing from Bakugo’s throat, tipped Shoto over an edge he didn’t know existed. His orgasm was a silent, shattering convulsion, a white-out of pure sensation that seized every muscle. His cunt clamped down in rhythmic, milking pulses around the cock still pumping release into him, trying to pull every last drop deeper.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the wet, intimate drip of fluid. Bakugo, still buried to the hilt, slowly released his grip on Shoto’s legs, letting them slide down to rest on his hips. He leaned over him, both hands braced on the mattress beside Shoto’s head, his face inches away.
“It’s in there now,” Bakugo breathed, his voice raw.“Deep. You try and leak that out, I’ll just put more in. Until it takes.”
Until it takes.”
He must have passed out again. Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, syrupy seep into his bones. The world was soft, warm, and quiet. The raging inferno in his blood had banked to coals, a dull, manageable warmth humming under his skin. For the first time in days, his thoughts weren’t frayed wires of need.
He was on his side, nestled securely against a solid, familiar heat. Kirishima’s arm was a heavy, comforting weight around his waist, his breath a steady rhythm against the back of Shoto’s neck. The alpha scent was soothing now, not maddening. Safety. That was the word his sluggish mind supplied. It felt alien.
Awareness expanded, moving inward. There was a distinct, persistent fullness between his legs. Not the hard, stretching presence of a cock or knot. This was different. Solid, unyielding, and strangely… secure. He shifted his hips experimentally and felt it—a smooth, thick intrusion lodged deep inside his cunt, keeping him stretched and plugged. His face heated. They’d put something in him while he slept. To keep everything in. The implication, the sheer possessiveness of the act, sent a weak thrum of something through his exhausted body. Not arousal. Something quieter, more profound.
Carefully, he extricated himself from Kirishima’s hold. The alpha grumbled in his sleep, his hand flexing on empty sheets before stilling. Shoto sat up, the movement making the plug shift inside him. He gasped softly, biting his lip. It was a constant, undeniable reminder.
The bedroom was a disaster zone. The smell of sex, sweat, and layered alpha musk was overpowering. Sunlight streamed through the half-open window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the wreckage of sheets and discarded clothes. He needed air. He needed… something else.
He padded naked and sore into the hallway, the wooden floor cool under his feet. A different, richer smell hit him—garlic, ginger, something savory frying. The sound of a pan clanging came from his small kitchen. His stomach clenched, empty and interested.
He found Katsuki at the stove. The alpha was barefoot, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his back a tapestry of muscle and faint, old scars. He was cursing under his breath, shuffling through a chaotic pile of ingredients on the counter. Shoto recognized his own nearly-empty bottle of soy sauce, a sad-looking onion. The rest—fresh vegetables, packs of noodles, a container of rich-looking broth—were foreign.
“The fuck do you live on, air and spite?” Katsuki growled, not turning around. He’d heard him approach. “Your fridge is a barren wasteland. Had to go next door and raid our place for anything edible.”
Shoto leaned against the doorway, sleep still clinging to his limbs. The sight was surreal. Explosive, volatile Katsuki Bakugo, scowling at a saucepan in his kitchen. “Sorry,” Shoto murmured, his voice raspy from disuse and screaming.
“Damn right you’re sorry.” Katsuki finally glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes scanning Shoto from head to toe. They lingered for a moment on the subtle, telltale fullness at the junction of Shoto’s thighs before snapping back to his face. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“I woke up.”
“No shit.” Katsuki turned the flame down and wiped his hands on a dish towel. He walked over, his movements all contained, purposeful alpha grace. He didn’t ask. He simply reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Shoto’s forehead, then his cheek. His touch was surprisingly clinical.
The calloused skin was cool against his own. The frantic, feverish heat that had radiated from him for days was gone. Katsuki’s stern expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The hard line of his mouth softened a fraction.
“Hn. Finally.” His hand slid down to cup Shoto’s jaw, his thumb brushing over Shoto’s bottom lip. “About fucking time your body listened.”
Then he leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t like the kisses from the heat—demanding, consuming, a prelude to possession. This was a firm, closed-mouth press of lips, dry and lingering. A reward. A brand of a different sort. It lasted only a few seconds, but it stole the air from Shoto’s lungs more effectively than any deep thrust had.
Katsuki pulled back, his gaze searching Shoto’s face. “The worst is over. Don’t get cocky. It’ll linger.” He jerked his head toward the living room. “Go sit. Food’s almost ready. You need to eat something that isn’t come.”
He turned back to the stove, leaving Shoto standing there, his lips tingling, his cunt plugged with their claim, and a bewildering, fragile warmth unfolding in the hollow of his chest. The kitchen smelled like real food, and for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like an empty, echoing hallway. It felt, impossibly, like a home he was only just beginning to recognize.