Chapter 6: Beg
The rooftop was a world of steam and silhouettes. The hot spring water, fed from some deep volcanic source, smelled of minerals and stone. Baki sat on the submerged ledge, the heat seeping into muscles still tender from the recent catastrophe. The scar on his side, a pink, ridged map of his stupidity, was fully closed now. It ached in the wet heat, a persistent ghost.
Yujiro stood on the opposite side, a monolith backlit by the blood-red moon hanging low over Tokyo’s skyline. Water streamed down the impossible topography of his back. He was watching the city, or perhaps nothing at all. The silence between them was no longer just an absence of sound; it was a charged field, shaped by everything that had happened in the sickroom—the holding, the feeding, the brutal, tender claim of his mouth.
Baki’s skin felt too tight. The memory of swallowing Yujiro’s come was more vivid than any punch he’d ever taken. It wasn’t just shame that burned in him now. It was a desperate, clawing hunger for that total possession to happen again, while he was awake, while he was strong enough to feel all of it. The need was a live wire in his gut, crackling alongside the ache of his healing wound.
“The water’s good for the tissue,” Yujiro said without turning. His voice was a low rumble that competed with the soft gurgle of the spring.
“It itches,” Baki said, his own voice rough from disuse.
“That’s it healing. Shut up and let it.”
Baki sank a little deeper, the water lapping at his chin. He watched his father. The primal fear was still there, a bedrock layer. But layered over it now was something else, something terrifying in its simplicity: want. He wanted to be beneath that strength again. Not as a broken thing, but as a willing one. To prove that his submission wasn’t just a byproduct of injury, but a choice he could make standing up.
“You’re staring,” Yujiro stated, finally turning his head. His eyes glinted in the fragmented moonlight.
“I’m thinking,” Baki said.
“About what.”
“About not being weak.”
Yujiro turned fully now, the water swirling around his waist. He moved through the pool with a predator’s effortless grace, stopping a foot away. The sheer scale of him, this close, was still devastating. “You are weak. You tore yourself apart on a piece of rope. A child’s mistake.”
Baki didn’t flinch. He looked up, meeting that gaze. “I’m not weak now.”
A slow, dangerous smile touched Yujiro’s lips. “Prove it.”
The challenge hung in the steam. This wasn’t an invitation to spar. The entendre was as thick as the humid air. Baki’s heart slammed against his ribs. He felt his cock, heavy and half-hard, stir in the buoyant water. This was the precipice.
He didn’t hesitate. He let the want speak.
“Fuck me.”
The words dropped into the quiet like stones. Yujiro’s eyebrow twitched, a minute sign of surprise that was more telling than a shout. “What did you say?”
Baki’s hands clenched underwater. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a raw, urgent whisper. “You heard me. Stop fucking my mouth and fuck me. For real. Put your goddamn cock in me and do it. I’m not broken anymore.”
Yujiro’s gaze burned into him, assessing, probing for the lie, the hesitation. He found only a desperate, defiant hunger that mirrored his own. A low growl escaped his chest. He closed the last gap, his hands coming up to grip the edge of the spring on either side of Baki, caging him. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I’m asking for you,” Baki shot back, his bravado fraying into pure need. “I want it. I want to feel it. All of it. Don’t hold back.”
Yujiro’s control, that forever-present, icy restraint, developed a hairline fracture. Baki could see it—a flicker in the dark eyes, a tension in the jaw. It was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever witnessed.
“Please,” Baki breathed, the word foreign on his tongue. He never begged. Not for mercy, not for anything. But this wasn’t mercy. It was a demand in the form of supplication. “Dad. Please. Fuck me. I need it. I need your cock in me, hard, I need you to—“
He stumbled, the filthiest, most impossible want rising up, spurred by the memory of being filled, owned, claimed at his most vulnerable.
“I want you to get me pregnant.”
The air left the space between them. It was a biological impossibility, a madness. But the symbolism was a grenade. It wasn’t about reproduction. It was about being so thoroughly taken, so irrevocably claimed and changed from the inside, that he would swell with the evidence of it. It was the ultimate submission.
Yujiro’s restraint shattered.
The sound that came from him was not human. It was the grate of tectonic plates. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in Baki’s hair and yanking his head back, not in punishment, but to bare his throat. He crashed his mouth down on Baki’s in a kiss that was pure devastation. Teeth, tongue, possession. It was a claiming more profound than any bite.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “You stupid, fucking boy. You just signed a contract you can’t tear up.”
In one brutal, fluid motion, Yujiro hauled him out of the water and onto the cool, smooth stone of the deck. The night air hit Baki’s wet skin, raising goosebumps. Yujiro pushed him down onto his back, the stone abrasive against his shoulder blades. He didn’t bother with preparation, with finesse. He spat onto his own palm, then onto his fingers, and without ceremony, pushed two inside Baki.
The burn was immediate, searing. Baki cried out, back arching. “Yes—!”
“Tight,” Yujiro grunted, working his fingers roughly, scissoring them. It was less about preparation and more about asserting entry. He added a third, the stretch becoming a burning, thrilling agony. “You wanted this. You take it.”
He withdrew his fingers. Baki heard the slick sound of Yujiro spitting into his hand again, then the wet, heavy strokes as he lubed his own cock. In the moonlight, it looked monstrous, jutting and gleaming.
Yujiro grabbed Baki’s hips, hauling him roughly onto his lap, aligning them. The blunt, huge head pressed against him.
“Look at me,” Yujiro commanded, his voice strained with a lust so profound it vibrated.
Baki forced his eyes open. He saw his father’s face, beastial, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes black with an appetite that went beyond violence. He saw the Ogre completely unmasked.
“Now,” Yujiro said. And he pushed.
The invasion was catastrophic. Baki screamed. It was a white-hot spear of pure sensation, tearing him open, rearranging him. It was pain so intense it blurred into a kind of transcendent pleasure. He was being split apart on the living embodiment of his father’s will.
Yujiro didn’t stop. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one relentless, brutal thrust, his pelvis grinding against Baki’s ass. He held there, buried, letting Baki feel the full, impossible depth of it.
“Fuck,” Baki sobbed, his nails scraping on stone. “Oh god, fuck—“
“God’s not here,” Yujiro snarled. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again.
And again.
He set a punishing, deep rhythm from the start. Each thrust was a full-body impact, driving the air from Baki’s lungs, jolting his healed wound, making him see sparks behind his eyelids. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filled the rooftop, a vulgar counterpoint to the distant city hum.
“You feel that?” Yujiro grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “You feel what you begged for? This what you wanted? My cock carving you out?”
“Yes!” Baki shrieked, the pain melting, transforming into a searing fullness that scratched an itch he never knew he had. “Harder! Fuck me harder, please, dad, please—!”
The plea unleashed something feral. Yujiro’s movements lost all semblance of rhythm. It was a savage, frantic pounding. He wrapped a hand around Baki’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, a visceral anchor point as he fucked into him with jackhammer force. His other hand braced against the deck, stone cracking under his fingertips.
Baki was mindless. He was a vessel being brutally filled, each thrust hammering the crazy plea deeper into his soul—get me pregnant, fill me up, leave your mark so deep I never forget—. He came untouched, his cock jerking and spilling onto his own stomach as Yujiro’s prostate-punishing angle tipped him over the edge. The orgasm was a shockwave, wrenching a broken wail from his throat.
Yujiro felt him clench and shudder. It pushed him over. With a roar that echoed off the surrounding buildings, he drove in one final, devastating time and came. Baki felt the hot, pulsing flood deep inside, an impossible claim. Yujiro rode out his climax with shallow, grinding thrusts, milking every drop into him.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his arms, still buried to the hilt, panting raggedly against Baki’s neck. The heat of his release inside Baki was a tangible, shocking reality.
It wasn’t over. It was a prelude.
After minutes, maybe an hour, Yujiro pulled out. Baki whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the sore, well-used ache. Yujiro flipped him onto his stomach with no gentleness. “We’re not done.” His voice was sandpaper.
He entered him again from behind, this time with Baki on his knees, chest pressed to the cold stone. This round was longer, slower, more torturous. Deep, grinding strokes that focused on the raw, overstimulated spot inside until Baki was sobbing, half-hard again, begging incoherently.
They moved to the weight bench in the corner of the rooftop gym, Baki bent over the cold steel. They used the steaming water of the spring to clean off and then again for leverage, Yujiro pinning him against the rough rock edge. They fucked on the floor, on a bench, against the wall.
Hours dissolved. The moon traveled across the sky. Baki lost count of how many times he came, dry, painful spurts that were barely anything. Yujiro came twice more, each time with that same possessive roar, flooding him, marking him.
Dawn was a grey smear on the horizon when Yujiro finally stilled. They were in a heap on a pile of discarded towels, Baki on his back, Yujiro a heavy, sweaty weight half on top of him, still softly sheathed inside. Baki was a ruin of sensation—every muscle trembled, he was sore in places he didn’t know could be sore, filled with a deep, throbbing ache that was both punishment and trophy.
Yujiro nuzzled into the crook of his neck, a strangely gentle gesture from the beast. He licked a stripe over the pounding pulse in Baki’s throat.
“You got what you asked for,” Yujiro murmured, his voice shot.
Baki could only make a weak, affirmative sound. He had. He was wrecked, owned, and impossibly, he wanted it again. The craving hadn’t been sated; it had been christened.
Yujiro pulled out slowly. He looked down at the mess between Baki’s thighs, his own spend mixed with traces of blood from the ruthless taking. He swiped two fingers through it and brought them to Baki’s lips.
“Clean it.”
Baki did, without hesitation, sucking his father’s fingers clean, tasting salt, iron, and them.
Yujiro gathered him up, carried him down to the shower, washed him with a peculiar, focused care. He dressed Baki’s new, internal soreness with the same clinical attention he’d given the stitch wound. He put him to bed.
As the first true light of day filtered in, Yujiro lay beside him, a solid wall of heat. He didn’t speak. His hand rested on Baki’s stomach, over the place where he’d emptied himself again and again.
Baki understood. The contract was sealed. The training, the fighting, the pain—it had all been leading to this different kind of conquest. He had begged for the Ogre’s cock, and in losing control, Yujiro had finally claimed him completely.
He fell asleep with that hand on him, a brand of ownership, and the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that this was only the first night of a new, endless fight.