Chapter 5: Wound
The stitches were a black line of discipline, a constant, tight reminder. They itched as they healed, a maddening sensation Baki fought daily not to tear at. Yujiro’s surveillance was absolute. He monitored every meal, every sip of water, the duration of Baki’s sleep with the cold precision of a lab technician. The possessive fury from the dojo had crystallized into a rigid, silent protocol. Baki was an asset in rehabilitation. Nothing more.
It made Baki restless, stupid.
The directive was simple: light mobility only. Walking. Gentle stretches. Yujiro was away for a single afternoon, a meeting with some government dignitaries he couldn’t postpone. “Don’t be an idiot,” had been his parting growl, the door shutting with finality.
The estate felt cavernous, silent. The weight of the stitches pulled at Baki’s side. He paced his room, the walls closing in. The enforced inertia was worse than any pain. He was a creature of motion, of strain and release. This passive healing was a cage.
He found himself in the lower gym, not the dojo. The memory of the beam, of Yujiro’s tongue, was too vivid there. Here were weights. Simple, honest iron. A heavy bag. He told himself he’d just move. Flow through some katas, no contact. But his eyes landed on the climbing rope, thick as a wrist, anchored to a rafter forty feet above. It was a test of pure, vertical pull. Grip strength. Core stability. The kind of exercise that left you trembling and empty.
His side throbbed in warning.
He ignored it. He needed to feel his body work, to prove the weakness was temporary. He needed to push back against the smothering caretaking.
He grabbed the rope. The coarse fibers bit into his palms. He began to climb, using his legs, keeping his torso straight to minimize the pull on the healing laceration. The first twenty feet were fine. A burn in his shoulders, a pleasant strain. Then his leg grip slipped. Instinctively, his core clenched, his right side twisting to compensate.
A white-hot wire of agony seared through him. The stitches held, but the newly-knitted muscle beneath, still fragile and inflamed, screamed in protest. He gasped, his grip faltering. He hung there, twenty-five feet in the air, sweat blooming cold on his skin.
Idiot. Yujiro’s voice in his head.
Anger flared. No. He wouldn’t be weak. He would finish the climb. It was just pain. He’d endured worse.
He continued. Each pull became a study in agony. He was no longer climbing with his body, but against it. At thirty-five feet, his vision spotted. The rope seemed to vibrate in his hands. He reached for the next hold, his right arm extending fully.
It was the wrong angle. A catastrophic, simple miscalculation.
He felt it go. Not a tear. A release. Deep inside, where the bolt had gouged, something vital let go with a soft, internal pop. It wasn’t loud, but it echoed through his entire nervous system like a cathedral bell.
The pain transformed. It was no longer a localized fire. It was a flood, a black tide rising from his core, swallowing his legs, his chest, his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His hands opened, nerveless.
The fall wasn’t clean. He clipped the edge of a stacked weight platform on the way down, a spinning impact that crunched into his ribs with a sound like stepping on hard-packed snow. Then the floor met him.
Darkness didn’t come immediately. First came the silence, a high-pitched vacuum in his ears. Then the cold, seeping up from the concrete into his bones. He tried to move, to breathe. A gurgling, wet rasp was all he could manage. He was on his back, staring at the distant rafters. The rope swayed gently, mocking him. Warmth spread rapidly across his abdomen, soaking through his clothes. Not the sharp, clean blood of the cut. This was deeper, hotter, an internal welling.
He thought, dimly, Oh. This is different.
Then the world folded inwards.
Consciousness was a flickering bulb in a vast dark room. It would sputter on for a few seconds, revealing surreal, pain-soaked snapshots, then plunge him back into the void.
The first flash: lights moving overhead. The ceiling of his room? No, moving. A car roof. The agony was a living thing wrapped around his spine, squeezing his lungs into flat, useless rags. A jarring bump sent a volcanic eruption through his torso and he was gone.
The second flash: blinding white. The chemical smell of antiseptic so strong it burned his nostrils. Muffled voices, sharp with alarm. “--massive internal hemorrhage--” “--spleen, likely liver--” “--prepare O.R. three--”
Then a voice, like stone grinding against stone, cutting through the medical chatter. “No.”
A shape loomed over him, blotting out the light. Yujiro. His face was not angry. It was blank. Absolute zero. “You don’t touch him.”
“Mr. Hanma, he will die without immediate surgery! We have to--”
A sound of impact. A crash of metal. A scream, abruptly silenced. Then quiet. The sterile light was still there, but the voices were gone. Only harsh, rhythmic breathing that wasn’t his own.
He felt large hands on him, not the clinical touch of nurses, but the same hands that had sutured him. They were removing the useless medical leads, the blood pressure cuff. They slid under his back and legs.
“Fucking child,” the voice muttered, the words devoid of heat, just a statement of profound fact. The arms lifted him. The movement sent him spiraling back into the black.
The dark was his world. Time dissolved. There was only the Pain, and the Things That Interrupted It.
The Pain was a country. It had geography: a shattered, grinding plain in his ribs, a molten lake in his gut, jagged mountains along his spine. It had weather: storms of throbbing agony, icy sweats that left him shaking, hot floods of fever that cooked him from the inside.
The Interruptions were brief, sensory breaches in the border of that country.
Pressure on his lips. The cool rim of a cup. A bitter, thick liquid trickling into his mouth. He choked, sputtered. A hand held his jaw, tilted his head. “Swallow.” He did. It tasted of earth and iron. Some part of him knew: Yujiro was making him drink something. Not medicine. Something worse, and better.
The feel of cool cloth wiping his face, his neck, the sweat from his chest. The motions were methodical, thorough. No part of him was ignored. The cloth went lower, over his stomach, his hips, between his legs, cleaning him with a stark, impersonal efficiency. He was too far gone for shame.
Cold touch on his abdomen. A probing, precise pressure. Fingers searching, assessing the damage from the outside. He moaned, a dry, cracked sound. The fingers paused. “Quiet.” They resumed, gentler.
Warmth. A solid, immense heat along his back. He was being moved, arranged. Then the heat enveloped him from behind. An arm slid under his neck, another over his waist, careful, so careful, to avoid the epicenter of ruin in his core. He was held. Not restrained. Sheltered. The heat seeped into his frozen muscles, a bastion against the pain’s cold. Lips pressed against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. A static point of contact in the swirling void. He sank into the heat and the dark swallowed him again.
There was a rhythm to the interruptions, tied to the hazy cycles of whatever passed for day and night.
A persistent, low throb pulled him toward the surface. It was distinct from the encompassing pain. It was familiar, biological, stubborn. An erection. His body, broken and failing, was still performing its autonomic, humiliating routine. It ached, a dull pressure against the overwhelming sharp agony of his injuries. He whimpered, a faint sound of distress.
The warmth behind him shifted. The arm around his waist moved. A hand, calloused and vast, slid down, over his hip.
He felt his briefs being pulled down, the cool air hitting his feverish skin. Then that hand closed around his hard, leaking cock.
Baki’s breath hitched. The touch was firm, knowing. It wasn't a caress. It was a procedure. A slow, steady pump from root to tip, the rough palm providing devastating friction. In his delirium, it was just another sensation, but this one cut through the pain with a sharp, bright thread of pleasure. His hips tried to twitch, but a shock of agony from his core locked them still. A sob caught in his throat.
"Easy," a voice rumbled against the back of his neck. The stroking continued, relentless, efficient. Precise. He was trapped between the furnace of Yujiro’s body at his back and the building fire in his groin. It was too much. The pleasure was an assault on his shattered nervous system. He cried out as he came, his orgasm wrenched from him, a weak, pulse-racking release that left him emptier than before. The hand milked him through it, then wiped him clean with a cloth. The briefs were pulled back up. The arm returned to his waist, pulling him closer. He was unconscious before the last tremor had faded.
It happened again. And again. A greedy, morning-hard pulse against Yujiro’s thigh, a pathetic signal of life amidst the ruin.
This time, the handling was different. He was rolled onto his back, pillows arranged with startling care to support his broken parts. He swam in the pain, barely aware. Then a weight dipped the mattress beside his hip.
A shadow over him. Warm breath on his belly. Then lower.
He felt the hot, wet seal of a mouth engulf the head of his cock.
Baki’s back arched off the bed, a silent scream tearing through him. The flash of white-hot sensation was a supernova in the dark universe of his hurt. It was obscene. It was a fucking miracle.
Yujiro’s mouth was brutal in its expertise. There was no tenderness, only devastating skill. The suction was intense, the tongue working the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein. A hand cradled his balls, a rough, grounding pressure. It was clinical in its purpose—to provide relief, to drain this distracting tension—but the means were utterly profane.
Baki babbled, nonsense sounds, fragments of pleas and curses. His hands, frail and twitching, found purchase in Yujiro’s hair, not to push or guide, but to anchor himself against the tidal pull of sensation. He was being consumed, emptied. The pleasure built, a terrifying wave threatening to drown the pain forever.
Yujiro deep-throated him, taking him to the root in one smooth, impossible glide, his nose pressing into Baki’s pelvis. Baki shattered.
His climax was a silent, full-body convulsion, a seizure of release that ripped a raw sound from his ruined lungs. Yujiro swallowed it all, the motions of his throat working, drinking him down. When he finally pulled off, it was with a soft, wet pop.
A thumb wiped a stray drop from Baki’s tip. Lips pressed against his inner thigh, a hard, almost punitive kiss. Then the covers were drawn back over him. The solid warmth returned, molding itself to his back once more. A hand settled over his heart, feeling its frantic, slowing beat.
“Sleep,” the command was a vibration against his skin.
Baki slept. In the fleeting second before oblivion, a single, coherent thought formed in the wreckage of his mind, clear as a shard of glass.
He is keeping me alive.
He is keeping me alive.
The thought was a still, cold pebble in the swirling dark. It sat there, undeniable. The pain had receded from a roaring continent to a managed, federated state of aches. The worst was a deep, bruised throb in his gut where things had torn and bled. But he could breathe without the wet gurgle. He could think.
His awareness returned not with a jolt, but a slow seep.
First came the heat. A solid, pervasive warmth along the entire length of his back. Then the weight. An arm, heavy as a sandbag, was draped over his waist, the hand splayed possessively across his lower belly. The pressure was careful, avoiding the core of his injuries, but it was absolute. He was pinned in the most fundamental way.
He felt breath, warm and even, stirring the hair at the nape of his neck. The rise and fall of a massive chest pressed against his spine.
He was in his bed. He was naked. And Yujiro Hanma was holding him in his sleep.
Baki did not move. He barely breathed. This was unknown territory. The violence he understood. The clinical suturing, the brutal mouth on his cock to drain a mechanical need—those were transactions in their distorted economy. This was different.
Yujiro’s lips moved against the skin of his shoulder blade. Not a kiss, at first. Just a soft, absent brush. Then it came again, firmer. A slow, closed-mouth press of lips. Then another, trailing up to the junction of his neck.
Baki’s heart began to hammer, a frantic bird against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut.
A low, sleep-rough murmur vibrated against his vertebrae. “Easy.” The arm around his waist tightened, just a fraction, pulling him infinitesimally closer. The hand on his belly spread wider, the thumb making a slow, clockwise circle over his navel. “You’re whole. You’re here.”
The words weren’t sweet. They were gruff, factual. A commander assessing a salvaged piece of essential gear. But the tone… the tone was something Baki had never heard. It lacked the cutting edge of contempt or the flat drone of instruction. It was just… there. A rumble of pure, unadorned reassurance.
Yujiro’s lips found the sensitive spot behind his ear. This kiss lingered. It was dry, gentle. “Stop thinking so loud,” he grumbled, the order softened by the intimacy of the position. His other hand came up, not to grip or punish, but to smooth the sweat-damp hair from Baki’s forehead. The calloused fingers were surprisingly deft. “The worst is past. Your body is mending. It’s strong. I made it strong.”
Baki let out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he was holding. A tremor ran through him. It wasn’t fear. It was the seismic shift of a world reordering itself. The Ogre, holding him. Speaking to him like this. It was more violating than any fuck, more conquering than any punch. This tender claiming dismantled him completely.
He turned his head, just an inch, his cheek scraping against the pillow. In the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds, he could see the powerful line of the arm that held him, the dusting of dark hair, the scars that mapped a lifetime of invincibility.
Yujiro’s eyes were open. Watching him. There was no smile. No softness in the hard, unyielding planes of his face. But the predatory gleam was banked, replaced by a focus so intense it felt like a physical touch. He leaned in and caught Baki’s mouth with his own.
It wasn’t the devouring, blood-tasting kiss of the dojo. It was slow. Deliberate. Yujiro’s lips moved against his with a patience that was somehow more terrifying. He licked into Baki’s mouth, not to dominate, but to taste. To explore. A low, approving sound hummed in his chest.
When he pulled back, a string of saliva connected them for a second before breaking. “See?” Yujiro muttered, his forehead resting against Baki’s. “You’re still here.”
Baki’s hand, weak and trembling, came up. It hovered in the space between them, then settled, fingers splaying, against the colossal pectoral muscle of Yujiro’s chest. He felt the steady, powerful drum of his father’s heartbeat. It was the most calming thing he’d ever known.
“Why?” Baki whispered, the word raw.
Yujiro didn’t answer with words. His hand on Baki’s belly slid lower, fingertips tracing the line of his hip bone. He shifted his own hips, and Baki felt the thick, hard length of Yujiro’s erection press against the cleft of his ass. It wasn’t a thrust. It was an announcement. A statement of uninterrupted reality.
“Because I decide,” Yujiro said, his voice dropping to a gritty whisper against Baki’s lips. “I decide if you live. I decide if you hurt. I decide when you get fucked.” He rocked forward, just once, the blunt head of his cock dragging against Baki’s perineum. “Your body answers to me. Even like this. Especially like this.”
His hand left Baki’s hair and traveled down his flank, over the ridge of the freshly-healed scar tissue on his ribs, a possessive caress of the ruin he’d both caused and repaired. He palmed Baki’s ass cheek, squeezing hard enough to make Baki gasp.
“You’re too broken for me to fuck your ass,” Yujiro said, matter-of-fact. His fingers slid down the crease, probing. “But this mouth is working just fine.” He rubbed his thumb over Baki’s hole, a dry, rough promise. “And your throat is just fine.”
Baki’s own cock, trapped between his belly and the mattress, stirred painfully. Shame flooded him, hot and immediate. His body was betraying him, responding to the care and the threat intertwined.
“Turn over,” Yujiro said, the gentleness evaporating, replaced by quiet command. He helped him, his hands surprisingly careful as they maneuvered Baki’s battered frame onto his back. The movement made Baki dizzy, pain sparking in his core, but it was manageable. The world had narrowed to this bed, to this man looming over him.
Yujiro knelt between his legs, his gaze hungry. “Open your mouth.”
Baki obeyed. His heart was a frantic drum solo. Yujiro spat into his own palm, a crude, wet sound in the quiet room. He fisted his cock, giving himself two slow, slick strokes. He was enormous, veins corded along the shaft, the head a dark, flushed purple. He leaned forward, bracing one hand by Baki’s head.
He guided himself to Baki’s lips. “Suck.”
The first touch was obscenely soft. The salty, musky taste of skin. Baki opened wider, his tongue coming out to meet it. Yujiro pushed forward, not slamming, but with relentless, steady pressure until the head breached past his lips and tapped the back of his throat. Baki gagged, his eyes watering.
“Breathe through your nose,” Yujiro instructed, his voice a tight coil of control. He pulled back slightly, then pushed again, gaining another inch. “Take it. It’s yours.”
Baki tried to relax his jaw, his throat. It was an act of submission more profound than any fight he’d ever lost. He let Yujiro fill his mouth, the weight and heat of him a tangible domination. Yujiro began to fuck his face with a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each inward stroke pressed Baki’s head deeper into the pillow, his nose buried in the thatch of coarse pubic hair.
“That’s it,” Yujiro grunted, his hips picking up pace. His hand tangled in Baki’s hair, not yanking, but steering. “Swallow. Yeah. Fuck, just like that.” His movements lost their careful cadence, becoming harder, faster. The head of his cock punched into Baki’s throat with wet, rhythmic clicks. Spit dripped from the stretched corners of Baki’s mouth.
Baki’s own neglected dick twitched, leaking a pathetic dribble of pre-come onto his stomach. He was humiliated, owned, and painfully aroused. His hands came up to clutch at Yujiro’s powerful thighs, needing an anchor.
Yujiro’s breathing grew ragged. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a guttural snarl. He thrust in deep, hilted himself, and held. Baki felt the hot, urgent pulse against the roof of his mouth before the first burst hit the back of his throat. It was thick, bitter, endless. Yujiro groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound of release as he emptied himself down Baki’s gullet.
Baki swallowed convulsively, tears streaking from the corners of his eyes. Yujiro slowly pulled out, his softened cock sliding free with a filthy, wet sound. He looked down at Baki’s wrecked, come-stained face, his expression one of dark, profound satisfaction.
He leaned down and licked a streak of spit from Baki’s chin. Then he kissed him again, deep and claiming, making Baki taste himself on his father’s tongue.
Yujiro settled beside him once more, pulling the covers over them. He gathered Baki against his chest, his heartbeat now a slow, satisfied thunder under Baki’s ear.
“Sleep now,” Yujiro murmured, his breath warming Baki’s hair. “The next part starts tomorrow.”