Chapter 9: Breeding
A week passed.
A week passed. The understanding that had settled into Baki’s bones began to rot, fermenting into a new, desperate need that dwarfed the simple hunger. It was a singular, all-consuming fixation. He found Yujiro on the rooftop, a dark silhouette against the bruised purple twilight, steam rising from the hot springs in thick, ghostly plumes.
“It wasn’t enough,” Baki said, his voice raw from disuse. “Knowing. It just made the hole bigger.”
Yujiro didn’t turn. “Knowledge usually does.”
“I don’t just want to understand it,” Baki said, stepping closer, the heat from the water soaking into his skin. “I want to recreate it. I want you to do it to me. For real. I want you to put a baby in me, Dad. I want you to knock me up.”
Yujiro went very still. He turned slowly, his eyes reflecting the last bloody dregs of sunset. “Say that again.”
“I want your child,” Baki repeated, the words pouring out in a heated rush. “I want you, my sexy, strong, incredible father, to fucking breed me. I want you to love me in the only way you know how. The only way that matters. So do it. Please.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Yujiro’s face. He closed the distance, his hand coming up to grip Baki’s throat, not to choke, but to feel the pulse hammering there. “You want to be my wife? My daughter? My fucking incubator?”
“I want to be yours,” Baki gasped, leaning into the touch. “Completely.”
“Then we start now,” Yujiro said, and his voice was a low vow. “We don’t stop until the impossible happens.”
He pushed Baki backwards, not into the water, but onto the warm, smooth stone ledge bordering it. The night air was cool on Baki’s feverish skin as Yujiro tore his clothes away. “You want my huge cock in your ass, you filthy boy? You want it to split you open?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes, Daddy, please, I need it, I need you to wreck my hole so bad I can’t walk straight!” Baki begged, his hands already fumbling for Yujiro’s pants, freeing the thick, heavy erection that curved angrily upwards. He stroked it, mesmerized by its heat, its brutal potential. “I wanna cum all over this perfect cock, I wanna scream so loud the whole city knows my father’s fucking a baby into me!”
Yujiro knocked Baki’s hands away. “On your stomach. Arch your back. Present that pretty son-ass to your father.” He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly. The first press was a blunt, breathtaking stretch. He didn’t ease in; he conquered, sheathing himself in a single, relentless thrust that punched a ragged cry from Baki’s lungs. “God, your tight little boy-cunt is fucking divine. It’s crazy. The best fuck I’ve ever had is my own goddamn son.”
He set a brutal, possessive rhythm, each drive carving out more space, claiming deeper territory. The slapping of skin was obscenely loud in the steam-filled night. Baki pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, his own cock dripping onto the stone. “You love it, don’t you? You love your perfect, strong, sexy son’s shapely body? You love my beautiful young cock?”
“I love every sinful inch of you,” Yujiro growled, one hand wrapping around Baki’s hip, the other fisting in his hair to yank his head back. “I should’ve had you like this years ago. When you were first getting strong. When you first started looking at me like a challenge. I should’ve bent you over and fucked the defiance right out of you.”
The confession, vile and thrilling, pushed Baki over the edge. He came with a shattered groan, his release spurting over the dark stone as his body clenched violently around the invading length. Yujiro rode him through it, hips never faltering, until his own climax hit with a guttural roar, filling Baki with another scorching flood.
They didn’t leave the rooftop for days. Time dissolved into a sweaty, sticky cycle of need and fulfillment. At one point, Yujiro maneuvered Baki onto his back on a pile of towels, pushing his legs up towards his chest. “Missionary,” he stated, his cock already hard again, nudging at Baki’s slick, used entrance. “Best position for breeding. I want to watch my beautiful son’s perfect face when I knock him up. I want to see every fucking tear.”
He sank in, and the eye contact was more intimate than anything that had come before. Baki stared up into his father’s face, into the eyes of his creator and now his desperate lover, as Yujiro fucked into him with deep, rolling pumps aimed at a target that didn’t exist. “Take my seed, boy. Let it swim. Let it find a home. Grow my legacy inside your tight, male body. Do the impossible for your Daddy.”
Later, Yujiro pushed Baki onto his knees before sinking to his own behind him. “69,” he commanded, his voice thick. “I want that pretty ass in my face while you suck me.”
Baki groaned, lowering his mouth onto Yujiro’s thick crown as he felt his father’s hands spread his cheeks. The first broad, wet swipe of Yujiro’s tongue over his sensitive hole made him jolt, his mouth sliding down the shaft reflexively. “Fuck, Dad, your tongue… oh god…”
Yujiro ate him with a starved, grunting intensity, his tongue spearing inside, lapping at the traces of his own spend from earlier. Baki nearly choked, his focus shattered by the dual sensations. He tried to concentrate on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head, using his tongue along the prominent vein, but Yujiro’s assault on his ass was relentless, overwhelming. He was being devoured from both ends, reduced to a moaning, shuddering vessel of pleasure.
“That’s it, suck your father’s cock, you perfect little cocksucker,” Yujiro muttered, his words vibrating against Baki’s flesh. Baki redoubled his efforts, taking him deeper, his throat relaxing, until his nose was buried in coarse hair. He hummed, swallowing around the head, and Yujiro cried out, a raw, broken sound.
His hips jerked upwards, and Baki felt the first bitter jet hit the back of his throat. He swallowed desperately, milking the shaft with his lips and hand as Yujiro came in hot, pulsing streaks across his tongue and down his gullet. As he did, Yujiro’s mouth pressed harder against him, his groan of completion a shudder that went straight through Baki’s core.
When Yujiro finally pulled back, his face was gleaming in the moonlight, wet from his own efforts. He looked dazed, powerful, utterly conquered. “You… you give a goddamn incredible blowjob. My perfect boy.” He rolled Baki over, looming above him, his expression one of furious, bewildered possession. “I just want to bury myself in your ass and live there forever. I just want to keep cumming inside my perfect little boy’s hole over and over until you’re bloated with me.”
He entered him again, slowly, their bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. This time, the fucking was slower, deeper, a grinding, persistent rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a profound, physical prayer. A prayer to an empty altar, begging for a miracle. Baki wrapped his legs around Yujiro’s waist, pulling him closer, accepting every inch, every shudder, every hot, hopeless deposit.
“Should’ve fucked you like this years ago,” Yujiro whispered, his forehead resting against Baki’s, their breath mingling. “Should’ve claimed you the first time you stood up to me.”
Baki had no answer. He just held on, as the blood-red moon climbed higher, a silent witness to the days-long act of their monstrous, beautiful devotion.
He just held on, as the blood-red moon climbed higher, a silent witness to the days-long act of their monstrous, beautiful devotion. That devotion hardened, within hours, into something less poetic and more absolute. A new regime. The fantasy of creation twisted into a relentless, physical campaign.
Yujiro’s promise—we don’t stop—wasn’t hyperbole. It was a schedule. Baki woke the next morning, his body a symphony of deep, specific aches, to Yujiro’s hand already between his legs, fingers probing the tender flesh. “Time,” was all Yujiro said, his voice thick with sleep and immediate intent.
It wasn’t a request. It was repositioning. Baki was face-down before his brain could formulate a thought, the sheets rough against his cheek. There was no spit, no lubricant beyond what leaked from him still. Yujiro’s cock, already fully hard, pressed against him. It was dry. The initial push was a white-hot stripe of pure violation.
Baki gasped, his hands fisting the mattress. “Dad, wait, it’s—“
“It’s what,” Yujiro grunted, not stopping, a brutal, slow invasion that burned. “Sore? You think that matters? You wanted this. You begged for it. Now you take it. Every time I’m hard, which is always now, thanks to you, you take it.”
He bottomed out, a full, oppressive weight. Baki felt torn, scraped raw. Yujiro began to move, a harsh, efficient piston motion that prioritized friction over pleasure. The sound was different now—a dry, sickening drag. “See?” Yujiro breathed, leaning over him, his sweat dripping onto Baki’s back. “You can take it. Your body’s learning. It’s mine. It’ll open for me whether it wants to or not. Tell me it’s mine.”
“It’s yours,” Baki choked out, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The pain was acute, a bright, sharp counterpoint to the dull throb of his own unwanted erection.
“Every hole,” Yujiro said, punctuating each word with a thrust. He pulled out suddenly, leaving Baki empty and throbbing. “Roll over. Open your mouth.”
Confused, Baki complied. Yujiro straddled his chest, his cock, slick with Baki’s own straining blood, hovering over his lips. “You said you wanted my seed. You get it. Every drop. You swallow it. You don’t waste a single fucking drop of my potential heir.” He shoved the head past Baki’s lips, hitting the back of his throat without ceremony.
Baki gagged, his eyes watering. Yujiro fisted his hair, holding him still. “Suck. Clean it. Get it nice and wet for your other hole.” It was a sick, circular economy. Baki worked his mouth, his tongue laving the shaft, tasting copper and salt and himself. He felt Yujiro’s balls tighten, a warning. “Take it. Swallow.”
The first spurt hit his palate, bitter and thick. Baki convulsed but managed to swallow. The second filled his mouth, the third he gulped down as it came. Yujiro watched, his expression one of cold scrutiny, as Baki cleaned him off with his tongue, gasping for air.
“Good,” Yujiro said, as if evaluating a piece of equipment. He slid down Baki’s body. The spit and cum provided just enough slick. He pushed back into Baki’s ass in the same motion, one continuous violation. This time, it slid in easier.“See? Resourceful.”
The days blurred into a cycle of relentless use. He took Baki in the shower, water sluicing over them as Yujiro fucked him against the cold tile, the steam doing nothing to soothe the rawness. He took him in the dojo, bending him over the same wooden dummy Baki had used for kata since childhood, the echoes of their grunts mixing with the ghost of his own training yells.
He woke Baki in the dead of night, his hand clamped over his mouth, entering him before he was fully conscious. Baki’s body would jerk awake to the sensation of being filled, a primal alert system wired now only to his father’s presence. “Shhh,” Yujiro would whisper, biting his shoulder. “Just take it. Dream about it.”
One afternoon, Baki was trying to train. His muscles felt weak, disconnected. He threw a lazy punch at the heavy bag. Yujiro watched from the corner, sipping water. He set the glass down. “You’re distracted.” He walked over. “Your form is shit.” He spun Baki around, pushed his shorts down. “This is all you can think about now. Admit it.”
He entered him standing up, Baki’s front pressed against the swaying bag. It was a swift, brutal fuck, Yujiro’s hips slamming against his bruised flesh. “Isn’t this better than punching leather?” Yujiro grunted. Baki couldn’t answer, his face mashed against the bag, the smell of it filling his nostrils. Yujiro came inside him with a shudder, then turned him around and made him kneel.
“Open,” Yujiro said, his cock already re-hardening, glistening with a mixture of their fluids. Baki took it into his mouth, mechanically. He was so tired. His jaw ached. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Work it,” Yujiro commanded, tapping his cheek. “You wanted this. Every moment of every day. You got it.”
It became biological, automatic. Baki’s body learned to lubricate faster, to accept the invasion with less traumatic resistance, a horrifying adaptation. His throat learned to relax without triggering his gag reflex. He moved through the estate like a shell, a vessel operating on a terrible, simplified program: receive, swallow, endure. The romantic madness of the rooftop had calcified into this—a brutal, utilitarian project.
Yujiro wasn’t tender. He wasn’t whispering profane praise anymore. He was a machine executing a function. He’d pin Baki down, fuck him with a detached, powerful rhythm, finish with a grunt, and often roll away. Sometimes, he’d order Baki to suck him off while he read reports, his hand resting casually on the back of Baki’s head, ignoring his tears.
The fantasy of a child, of a “legacy,” was never mentioned again. It had been the spark. Now it was just the fuel. The act itself was the entire point—the total, comprehensive ownership expressed through constant penetration. Baki had asked to be remade. He was being unmade instead, piece by piece, his will replaced by a deep, cellular obedience.
One evening, as Yujiro pushed his spent cock back into Baki’s mouth for the third time that day, Baki’s body finally rebelled. His stomach, full of cum and little else, clenched. He choked, pulled back, and vomited violently onto the floor beside the bed, a pale, wasted expulsion of everything his father had put inside him.
He lay there, shaking, strings of saliva and bile connecting his lips to the mess. He waited for the blow, for the roar of fury.
Yujiro looked down at the vomit, then at Baki’s shivering form. He nodded, once, as if confirming a hypothesis. “Clean it up,” he said, his voice flat. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Then get back here. You’ll try again. You’ll keep it down. You’ll learn.”
Baki dragged himself up, his muscles screaming with a fatigue deeper than any he’d known from fighting. As he fetched a towel, the quiet, terrible truth settled over him. He wasn’t being bred. He was being broken. And the most frightening part was the hollow certainty, echoing where his resistance used to be, that he would let the breaking be completed.
The hollow certainty didn’t just echo; it became the foundation of every moment. Baki’s world condensed to the rhythm of his own breath, the perpetual low-grade ache in his muscles, and the waiting. He waited for the next time. His body, trained for combat, now calibrated itself for a different kind of impact, pre-emptively softening, opening, a silent invitation to the violation it had learned was inevitable.
Yujiro’s obsession didn’t wane; it tunneled. It focused with terrifying specificity. They were in the main training hall, the morning sun cutting sharp lines through the dusty air. Baki was stretching, trying to coax some flexibility back into his ravaged hips. Yujiro watched from his chair, a king observing his most prized territory. His gaze was a physical weight.
“Turn around,” Yujiro said, his voice casual, devoid of its usual mocking edge. It was worse.
Baki turned, facing the wall.
“No. All the way. Ass towards me.”
A cold, peculiar dread trickled down Baki’s spine. He complied, bending slightly at the waist, presenting himself. He heard Yujiro stand, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He felt the heat of him approach, but not the touch. Just the intense, scrutinizing stare.
“It’s the right one,” Yujiro murmured, more to himself than to Baki. “Look at it. The right cheek sits just a fraction higher. The hole is… symmetrically perfect. The left is fine. It’s serviceable. But the right…” He finally touched, a single, calloused finger tracing the crease. Baki flinched. “The right is exquisite. It’s the one. My favorite.”
A bizarre, giddy warmth bloomed in Baki’s chest at the words ‘my favorite’. It was approval, warped and vile, but it was oxygen to his suffocating devotion. “You like that one, Dad?” he asked, his voice small, pushing back slightly against the finger.
“It’s not a matter of liking,” Yujiro corrected, his finger circling the pucker now, making it twitch. “It’s a matter of correctness. The right is the true conduit. It’s the one I’ll use.”
The declaration was absolute. From that moment, Yujiro’s campaign refined its target. He would still use Baki entirely, but his climax, his deepest, most snarling releases, were reserved exclusively for that one passage. It became a ritual. He would take Baki’s mouth first, or fuck the other hole to warm up, but it was a prelude. A tease.
“Save the right,” he’d growl, pulling out of Baki’s mouth, his cock glistening with spit. “Save my favorite hole for the main event. Gotta be ready. Gotta be perfect for Daddy’s big cock, right?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Baki would pant, scrambling onto his hands and knees, arching his back to highlight the chosen cheek. “It’s ready, it’s always ready for you, please, use your favorite hole, breed your favorite boy right there.”
One afternoon, Yujiro laid him out on the low dining table, pushing a cushion under his hips to elevate them. He spent what felt like an hour just looking, spreading Baki open with his thumbs, staring into the flushed, twitching entrance with the concentration of a sculptor. “You see how it winks?” he said, his breath hot. “It’s asking for it. It knows its purpose.”
He entered the left hole first, a brutal, efficient stretch that had Baki gasping into the wood grain. He fucked him like that, hard and fast, his balls slapping against Baki’s thigh. Baki was moaning, his own cock trapped beneath him, leaking onto the table. Just as he felt the coil in his gut tighten, Yujiro pulled out completely.
A shocked, bereft whine escaped Baki. “Dad, no, I was so close…”
“Not there,” Yujiro said, his voice taut with a frightening control. He shifted Baki’s hips, the head of his cock nudging now at the right, the favored entrance. It was slick from sweat and pre-cum. “Here. You come when I fill my favorite. Nowhere else.” He pushed in, a slow, devastating penetration that felt different, deeper, because of the intention behind it. “This is where I put my son in you. Right here. This perfect, tight, beautiful fucking hole.”
Baki sobbed, the pleasure magnified by the singular focus. Every nerve ending in that specific ring of muscle was alive, singing a chorus of total ownership. “Fuck, yes, breed me right there, Daddy, knock me up in your favorite hole, fill my boy-cunt with your baby!”
Their filthy dialogue became a liturgy. Yujiro would whisper into his skin, “My perfect right-hole son,” as he pumped into him. Baki would beg, “Give it to me, give me your legacy, make me a mommy in this one spot, please!” The fantasy was their shared religion, and the right side of Baki’s body was its holy ground.
It was there, on the ripped leather couch in the estate’s sunroom, that the world finally broke in. Baki was on his back, legs hooked over Yujiro’s shoulders, his father’s immense weight driving into that cherished, claimed place with a rhythm that was both punishing and reverent. The room smelled of sex, leather, and their sweat.
“This is it,” Yujiro grunted, his pace becoming erratic, his control fraying. His face was a mask of brutal ecstasy. “This is the one. I can feel it. My seed’s gonna take root right fucking here. You feel that, boy? You feel your daddy’s thick cock planting his heir?”
“I feel it! I feel it, Daddy, I’m gonna come, please let me come with you!” Baki screamed, his head thrown back, his fingers clawing at Yujiro’s back, drawing blood.
“Come with me! Come on my cock while I impregnate my beautiful son!” Yujiro roared, his thrusts becoming savage, final. Baki’s vision whited out as his orgasm ripped through him, a silent, breathless convulsion.
Yujiro buried himself to the hilt, his whole body locking into a rigid arc. A raw, animal scream tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated conquest. “TAKE IT! TAKE MY SON!”
The heavy oak door to the sunroom, usually silent, blew inward with a splintering crack. It wasn’t from the force of Yujiro’s climax. It was from a kick.
Framed in the shattered doorway, backlit by the hall light, stood a monstrous silhouette. He was taller than Baki, his shoulders absurdly wide, his physique a brutalist sculpture of amplified muscle and rage. A blonde buzz-cut gleamed like a helmet of wheat under the light. His eyes, a paler, colder blue than Yujiro’s burning amber, swept the scene: the torn clothing, the sheen of sweat on tangled limbs, the unmistakable, violating connection, and the expression of transcendent completion on his father’s face.
It was Jack Hanma.
His eyes, those cold, dead things, processed the image in a single, frozen instant. The screamed words, “TAKE MY SON!” still hung in the air, twisting into a new, horrific meaning. He saw Yujiro, the Ogre, his own creator and the source of his endless hatred, shuddering in release inside the younger brother he barely acknowledged.
Jack’s mind didn’t break slowly. It detonated.
A low, vibrating noise started in his chest, not a growl but the sound of structural integrity failing. It built into a raw, scraping howl of pure, uncomprehending fury. His massive hands, each the size of a dinner plate, clenched. The veins in his neck and temples bulged, threatening to burst through the skin.
“YOU…” The word wasn’t spoken. It was vomited, a guttural expulsion of hate so profound it contaminated the air. “YOU FUCKING… ANIMALS!”
Yujiro, still buried inside Baki, turned his head. The post-orgasm haze evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a flicker of mild, annoyed interest. He didn’t pull out. He remained seated deep within his son, as if Jack were an inconvenient servant. “Jack,” he said, his voice a rough gravel. “You’re interrupting.”
The casual tone was the final spark. Jack’s howl cut off. The silence that followed was more terrifying. His cold eyes snapped from Yujiro’s face to Baki’s—Baki, who was only now registering the intrusion, his pleasure-drugged gaze focusing on the nightmare in the doorway.
Baki saw the recognition in Jack’s eyes, the understanding of exactly what he was witnessing, and in it, he saw his own reflection from weeks ago: shattered, defiled. But in Jack, it didn’t forge devotion. It forged annihilation.
Jack moved.
He didn’t charge. He simply disappeared from the doorway and reappeared in the middle of the room, having covered the distance in a blur of malice. His fist, already swinging, wasn’t aimed at Yujiro. It was aimed at Baki’s face, a piston of bone and fury meant to erase the polluted image from his sight.