Chapter 2: Rewrote
The world came back in shades of muted sound and blurry, disconnected sensation. The roar of the crowd was a phantom echo in Baki’s ears, replaced by the low, steady drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere in the arena’s bowels. He was on his back. The concrete was a frozen slab against his skin. He remembered the palm, the light exploding behind his eyes, the floor rushing up. Knockout.
Then, the touch.
It was this that truly disoriented him. Not the defeat, but the fingertips—rough as pumice stone, scarred from a thousand battles—trailing with impossible softness along his cheekbone, brushing back sweat-damp hair from his forehead. He knew that touch. It could crush skulls. It was tracing his features like it was reading Braille.
Baki forced his eyes open. Yujiro’s face filled his vision, closer than it had ever been outside of a killing strike. But there was no violence in his expression. His demonic eyes, usually slits of pure malice, were half-lidded, their gaze heavy and deep. He wasn’t smiling. He looked… focused. Intent.
“You’re back,” Yujiro murmured. His voice was a low rumble, but it lacked its customary edge of mockery. It was just a statement, warm as the breath that fanned across Baki’s face.
“Father, I…” Baki’s voice was a ragged scrape. He tried to move, to sit up, to put space between them. Yujiro’s other hand came to rest, palm flat and warm, on the center of Baki’s chest. The pressure was absolute, but it was not meant to pin him in threat. It was to still him. To calm him.
“Shhh.” The sound was absurd coming from The Ogre. “Just breathe.”
Yujiro’s thumb continued its slow caress along Baki’s jawline. He leaned down. Baki’s body locked, expecting a headbutt, a bite. Instead, Yujiro’s lips met his. They were firm, but not demanding. They moved with a startling patience, a gentle persuasion that parted Baki’s own lips without force. The kiss was slow, deep, exploring. It tasted of blood and something else, something earthy and primal. Baki’s mind screamed in protest, but his body, traitorously, melted into the concrete. A weak, confused sound hummed in his throat.
Yujiro drew back just an inch. “You fought well,” he said, his eyes searching Baki’s. It was a lie. Baki had been dismissed with a flick. But the way he said it… it felt like a truth.
Then Yujiro was moving, his hands shifting. They were under Baki, one cradling the back of his head from the hard floor, the other sliding beneath the small of his back. In one effortlessly fluid motion, he lifted Baki as if he weighed nothing, and carried him from the open arena floor into the shadowy recesses of the locker room corridor. He shouldered open a door marked ‘STORAGE’ and stepped inside a cramped, dark room smelling of mildew and old leather.
In the center was a stained wrestling mat, rolled out. Yujiro lowered him onto it. The mat was thin, but it was softer than concrete. He lay Baki down with a care that was utterly alien.
“What are you doing?” Baki whispered, his heart a frantic bird trapped in his ribs.
Yujiro didn’t answer with words. He knelt over him, his form blocking the dim light from the hallway. His hands went to the remains of Baki’s torn fight shorts. But instead of ripping, his fingers worked at the knot, slowly, deliberately untying it. The fabric fell away. The cool air kissed Baki’s skin, raising goosebumps. Yujiro’s eyes drank in the sight, not with lust, but with a profound, almost reverent attention.
Then his own clothes, the simple pants, were loosened and pushed down. Baki’s breath hitched. His father was fully erect, a thick, formidable length that made Baki’s stomach clench with a fear that was intimately tangled with a dark, pulling fascination.
Yujiro stretched out beside him on the mat, their bodies aligned. He kissed Baki again, a slow, drugging kiss that made time feel thick and slow. One hand wandered down Baki’s side, over the tense muscles of his abdomen, and lower. He took Baki in hand, his grip firm but not harsh, stroking him to a full, aching hardness. Baki moaned into his father’s mouth, the shame of his own arousal a bitter tide in his throat.
“It’s alright,” Yujiro breathed against his lips. “Let me.”
He shifted, moving over Baki again. He reached for a small, unmarked bottle on a dusty shelf—liniment oil. He poured a slick, generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands. The sharp, herbal scent filled the small space.
“This will help,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. His oil-slick fingers found Baki’s entrance. The touch was clinical at first, then insistently gentle, circling, pressing. Baki tensed, a sharp inhale catching in his chest.
“Look at me,” Yujiro said, and Baki did. In his father’s eyes, he saw that terrifying, absolute focus, but it was channeled now into this single act of preparation. It was disarming. Yujiro’s finger pressed inside, slowly, working the oil into him with a patient, rhythmic curl. The intrusion was strange, burning slightly, but the pain was muted by the shocking gentleness of the motion. A second finger followed, stretching him with a careful, deliberate pace. Baki’s body, trained to withstand and adapt, began to relax into the sensation, a low heat pooling in his gut.
When Yujiro withdrew his fingers, Baki felt oddly empty. He watched, hypnotized, as his father slicked himself with the remaining oil, his hand moving in slow, sure strokes. The sight was obscene. It was beautiful.
Yujiro positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Baki’s loosened opening. He held himself there, not pushing, just letting the pressure speak. His eyes were locked on Baki’s.
“Tell me to stop,” Yujiro said, his voice trembling with a restraint Baki had never heard. It was the most frightening thing he had ever witnessed.
Baki couldn’t speak. He could only shake his head, a tiny, desperate movement. He wanted this. He wanted to understand this hideous, tender thing between them.
Yujiro leaned down and kissed him, deep and sweet, as he began to push forward.
It was a glacier’s pace. An inexorable, millimeter-by-millimeter invasion that stole the air from Baki’s lungs. He felt himself stretching, burning, accommodating an impossible girth. A whimper escaped him. Yujiro swallowed the sound, his tongue soothing, his hands cradling Baki’s face. He paused, buried only an inch inside.
“Breathe, boy,” he rasped, his own body taut with strain. “Just breathe for me.”
Baki sucked in a shuddering breath. Yujiro pushed again, another impossible fraction deeper. The burn was intense, a white-hot brand of possession, but laced through it was a fullness, a completeness that made Baki’s head spin. Yujiro kept going, stopping whenever Baki tensed, kissing him, murmuring nonsense against his lips—good, just like that, take it, my boy—until, with a final, slow roll of his hips, he was sheathed to the hilt.They were joined. Fully. Baki could feel every inch, every pulse, the frightening, intimate reality of his father inside him. Yujiro held perfectly still, his forehead resting against Baki’s, sweat dripping from his brow onto Baki’s face. He was shaking with the effort of his control.
“Baki,” he whispered, the name a prayer.
Then he began to move. Withdrawing with the same agonizing slowness, then sliding back in, a smooth, rocking tide. There was no violence, only a deep, sensual claiming. Each stroke dragged against a spot inside Baki that sparked liquid fire along his nerves. His own cock, trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, leaked steadily. He wrapped his legs around Yujiro’s waist, heels digging into the hard muscles of his back, pulling him deeper.
The pace gradually increased, building from a slow tide to a steady, passionate rhythm. The slap of skin was a soft, wet percussion in the dark room. Yujiro’s thrusts grew more powerful, but remained measured, each one aiming to bury himself as deeply as possible, to fuse them together. His mouth was everywhere—on Baki’s lips, his throat, his collarbone—biting and sucking with a passionate ferocity that never tipped over into pain.
The coil in Baki’s groin tightened beyond bearing. He was babbling, nonsense words, pleas, dad, father, please. Yujiro’s control was fraying. His thrusts became harder, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He drove into Baki with a desperate, hungry intensity, his eyes wild and locked on his son’s.
“I love you,” Yujiro growled, the words ripped from some deep, hidden chamber of his soul. “I love you, Baki Hanma!”
The confession, roared in the throes of passion, shattered the last of Baki’s resolve. A sob wrenched from his chest. “I love you,” he cried out, the truth of it awful and magnificent. “I love you, father. I always have.”
It was the permission Yujiro needed. With a broken, guttural roar, he slammed home one final time and came, his body convulsing. Baki felt the hot, pulsing flood deep inside, the intimate violation so profound it triggered his own climax. He came untouched, stripes of white painting both their stomachs, his vision whiting out as he clenched around his father, milking him through the shuddering waves.
Yujiro collapsed on top of him, a dead weight of muscle and spent passion. They lay like that for a long time, still joined, Yujiro’s face buried in Baki’s neck, his breathing gradually slowing. He didn’t pull out. Eventually, he shifted them onto their sides, pulling Baki tightly against his chest, still inside him. He nuzzled the nape of Baki’s neck, his arms a vise of ownership and, somehow, protection.
“Sleep,” Yujiro commanded, his voice thick with sated exhaustion.
And Baki, wrecked and confused, did.
Dawn came as a grey intruder, seeping through a grimy high window and falling in a weak shaft onto the stained wrestling mat.
Baki awoke to heat. To the solid, heavy weight of an arm draped possessively over his waist. To the feel of a broad, naked chest against his back. To a deep, rhythmic breathing against the back of his neck.
Memory returned not as a flood, but as a cold, slow seep of poison.He was naked. Sticky with dried sweat and other fluids. A deep, tender ache throbbed between his legs. Behind him, pressed snug against him, was Yujiro Hanma.His father. Sleeping.
The horror did not slam into him. It uncoiled, a serpent in his gut, and rose with a sickening certainty. The gentle touches. The slow, patient fucking. The whispered words.
I love you.
He had said it back.
The physical sensation of his father still inside him, though soft now, was a brand. The smell of sex and liniment and Yujiro’s skin was a perfume of damnation. He had clung to him. He had begged for more. He had found pleasure in the deepest violation imaginable.
Baki lay perfectly still, staring at the dust motes dancing in the grey light. His stomach churned. His mind, usually so sharp, so focused on the next fight, the next challenge, was a shattered pane of glass. Every shard reflected a piece of the night: the careful fingers, the passionate thrusts, the roar of love, his own answering cry.
This was not a victory. It was not a lesson. It was an ending. The path to surpass his father was now irredeemably corrupted. How could you surpass someone who had been inside you? How could you defeat someone whose seed you had taken, whose affection you had craved in your most vulnerable moment?
A soft groan rumbled behind him. The arm around his waist tightened, pulling him closer. Yujiro nuzzled the juncture of his shoulder, his breath hot.
“Morning,” Yujiro murmured, his voice sleep-roughened, content.
Baki closed his eyes.The monster was awake. And he was in bed with it.
The word, so casual, hung in the milky dawn light. Baki’s every muscle was a coiled spring. The arm around his waist was a steel cable. He could feel the slack, sleeping heat of Yujiro’s body molded against his back, a paradox of comfort and terror.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Yujiro muttered, his lips moving against Baki’s shoulder blade. His hand slid from Baki’s waist, down over the plane of his abdomen, rough fingers skating through the dried mess on his skin. The touch was proprietary, familiar. “This is what you wanted.”
Baki didn’t answer. His voice was ash.
Yujiro’s hand traveled lower, his broad palm cupping Baki, feeling the tender, used flesh there. A thick finger, shameless, pressed against his entrance, probing at the soreness. Baki flinched, a full-body shudder.
“Still open,” Yujiro noted, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. The finger pushed in, just past the first knuckle. It was a violation as pointed as a knife. Baki hissed, burying his face in the mat. “Good. Saves time.”
In one brutal motion, Yujiro rolled him onto his stomach. The weight of him settled across Baki’s back, immense and crushing. There was no preamble of oil, no gentle preparation. He felt the blunt, insistent prod of Yujiro’s cock, already hardening again, at his bruised entrance.
“Wait—” Baki choked out, the word muffled by the mat.
“No.” The reply was final. Yujiro’s hand fisted in Baki’s hair, yanking his head back, arching his spine. “You don’t get to wait. You took this last night. You begged for it.”
With a grunt of pure effort, Yujiro drove forward. The breach was a ragged, tearing sensation, a white-hot lance of pain that burned away the last fog of sleep and confusion. Baki screamed, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the concrete walls. Yujiro didn’t stop. He shoved himself in to the root in one relentless push, sheathing himself fully in the tight, protesting clench of Baki’s body.
“Fuck,” Yujiro snarled, his breath hot in Baki’s ear.“Still so fucking tight. Even after I filled you up.”
He began to move, and the tenderness of the night was a burnt-off memory. This was a punishment, a reassertion. His hips pistoned in a short, savage rhythm, each thrust a hammer blow that drove the air from Baki’s lungs. The pain was a living thing, sharp and deep, but under its fire, a treacherous, shameful heat began to spark. His body, trained to adapt, was already betraying him, softening, accepting the brutal invasion.
Yujiro’s pace was merciless. He fucked him like he was trying to break through the mat, through the floor, into the earth itself. The sound was obscene—wet, slapping flesh, Yujiro’s guttural curses, Baki’s ragged sobs for air. One of Yujiro’s hands stayed twisted in his hair, holding his head up, forcing him to feel every jarring impact. The other braced on the mat beside his head, the knuckles white.
“You’re mine,” Yujiro growled, each word punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust. “My blood.My flesh. My fucking hole to use. Say it.”
Baki’s mind was breaking on the rhythm. The pain and the shocking, unwanted pleasure were merging into a single blinding current. “Yours,” he gasped, the admission torn from him.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!” Baki shouted, his voice breaking. The words unleashed something in Yujiro. His control snapped. He released Baki’s hair, grabbing both his hips instead, his fingers digging into bone. He pulled Baki back onto his cock with brutal force, slamming into him with a frenzied, chaotic intensity. He was no longer fucking; he was ravaging, claiming, destroying.
Baki’s own cock, trapped beneath him, was hard and leaking onto the mat, a traitorous echo of the pleasure wiring itself into his pain. The coil in his gut wound tighter, a sickening anticipation building with each brutal stroke. He was going to come. From this. He was going to come while his father used him like a ragdoll.
Yujiro’s rhythm stuttered, his thrusts becoming wild, erratic.He was close. With a final, roared curse, he buried himself as deep as he could and came, a scalding flood that punched a broken cry from Baki’s throat. The feeling, the utter fullness of that hot release, was the trigger.
Baki’s orgasm ripped through him, a violent, convulsive seizure that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with surrender. He spilled onto the mat beneath him, his body clenching rhythmically around the pulsing heat inside him, milking it in a pathetic, automatic response.
Yujiro collapsed on top of him, a sweaty, heaving weight. He was still inside, still hard. He nuzzled Baki’s neck, his breath ragged. “Good boy,” he murmured, the praise a poison dart.
Then, he shifted his weight. He pulled out slowly, making Baki feel every inch of the withdrawal. The loss was immediate, a cold, empty ache. He rolled off Baki, lying on his back beside him on the stained mat, one arm thrown over his eyes.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their breathing. The grey light grew stronger. Baki lay where he was, emptied in every sense, his face pressed into the sweat and cum-dampened vinyl. The throbbing between his legs was a constant, shameful pulse.
Yujiro sat up. He looked down at Baki’s prone form, his expression unreadable. He reached out and casually smacked Baki’s ass, the sharp crack loud in the quiet room. Baki jerked.
“Up,” Yujiro said, his voice back to its normal, dispassionate timbre. All traces of the passionate monster, the tender lover, the roaring father, were gone. He stood, stretching his massive frame, as if he’d just finished a light workout.“Clean yourself. We’re leaving.”
Baki pushed himself up on trembling arms. His body felt ruined, a vessel for pain and confusion. He looked at the fluid dripping down his thigh, the physical proof of everything. He looked at his father, who was now pulling on his pants with a detached efficiency.
YUJIRO ATTACKS.
It happened without warning. One second Yujiro was fastening his belt, his back partially turned. The next, the air in the room cracked.
It wasn’t a punch. It was a backhand swipe, so fast it was a blur of motion and a sound like a whip. It caught Baki across the side of the head as he was trying to rise. The impact wasn't meant to knock him out. It was meant to hurt. It was meant to educate.
Baki’s world detonated into white stars. He crashed sideways off the mat, his skull ringing, his vision swimming. He hit the concrete floor shoulder-first, a new, brilliant pain erupting across his temple and jaw.
Before he could even process the blow, Yujiro was on him. A foot, not a kick but a stomp, came down on the center of his chest. The pressure was catastrophic, driving the last gasp of air from Baki’s lungs with a sickening whuff. He couldn’t breathe. He clawed at the boot, but it was immovable, a hydraulic press.
Yujiro leaned down, his face a mask of chilling disinterest. “The night was a lesson,” he said, his voice conversational despite the violence. “This is a reminder.You are weak. You are a hole I fucked. Your sentiment is vomit.”
He increased the pressure. Baki’s ribs groaned in protest. Spots danced at the edges of his vision.
“The next time you look at me with those soft, loving eyes,” Yujiro continued, his tone flat, “I will pluck them from your skull and make you eat them. You exist to be strong. Nothing else. This,” he ground his heel down, and Baki felt a rib creak, “is the only language you seem to understand lately.”
He lifted his foot as suddenly as he had placed it. Baki rolled onto his side, coughing, dragging air into his burning chest in ragged, wet heaves. He stared up at the towering figure of his father, who looked down at him with the same indifference he’d show a stain on the floor.
Yujiro turned and walked towards the door. He paused at the threshold, not looking back.
“Get up. Follow me. Or stay here and die in your own filth. It means nothing to me.”