Chapter 11: Bj time
The vigil began in silence. Baki moved through the days with a new, unnerving awareness of his own body. Every twinge, every shift in appetite, every fleeting wave of nausea was examined with a terrifying hope. He caught himself pressing his palm flat against his lower abdomen as he trained, as if he could commune with the impossible. Yujiro watched him with the focused intensity of a scientist observing a critical experiment, his eyes tracking Baki’s movements, his moods, the slightest change in his scent.
A week after the relentless night of seeding, the tension in the apartment had crystallized into something brittle. The waiting was its own kind of violence. They had not touched each other since, the space between them charged with unspoken questions. The fantasy had been poured into Baki’s body with furious conviction, but reality remained stubbornly, quietly unchanged.
It broke during a sparring session that was too aggressive to be training and too controlled to be a real fight. They were in the center of the matted floor, the city a distant grid below the windows. A misplaced kick from Baki, born of frustrated distraction, left him overextended. Yujiro capitalized instantly, sweeping his legs and pinning him chest-down to the mat with one hand between his shoulder blades.
“Your focus is shit,” Yujiro growled, his weight overwhelming. “You’re listening to your stomach instead of your opponent. Pathetic.”
Baki struggled, his face pressed into the rubberized foam. “Get off me.”
“Or what?” Yujiro’s voice dropped, a hot whisper against his ear. “You’ll get pregnant? That’s your big threat now? Your new secret weapon?”
The mockery, so casual and cutting, snapped something in Baki. It wasn’t just an insult to him, but to the intense, shared delusion they had cultivated. To the worshipful pain he’d endured. He went limp beneath Yujiro, a surrender that was more dangerous than any resistance.
Yujiro, sensing the shift, loosened his grip slightly. “What, nothing to say? No clever—“
Baki moved. It wasn’t a fighter’s move. It was a ripple of pure, desperate need. He twisted, slithering out from under Yujiro’s weight with an eel’s grace, and before Yujiro could react, Baki had reversed their positions. Not to fight. To plead.
He knelt before Yujiro, who was now sitting back on his heels, a look of startled confusion on his face. Baki’s hands went to the waistband of Yujiro’s sweatpants. His eyes, when he looked up, were blazing with a fervent, desperate light.
“You want my focus?” Baki’s voice was rough, stripped bare. “Then give me something to focus on. Stop waiting. Stop watching. Feel it.”
He didn’t ask. He pulled Yujiro’s pants and briefs down in one harsh yank, freeing his father’s semi-erect cock. The organ lay heavy against his thigh, a testament to latent power. Baki didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took it into his mouth.
It was not tentative. It was an assault. A reclamation.
He engulfed the head, his tongue swirling around the corona with a practiced, vicious precision, then sank down, taking half the length in one smooth, wet glide. Yujiro’s breath hitched, a sharp intake through his nose. His hands, which had come up to push Baki away, froze in the air.
Baki began to work. This was beyond skill, beyond technique learned in the shadows of fighting pits. This was warfare of a different kind. He used his mouth like a weapon, applying suction that was almost painful, hollowing his cheeks as he pulled back, then plunging down again, deeper each time. His tongue lashed the throbbing vein underneath, his lips created a perfect, tight seal. One of his hands cradled Yujiro’s balls, massaging the tight sac with a gentle, knowing pressure, while the other gripped the base of his cock, stroking in counterpoint to the rhythm of his mouth.
He was claiming this. The doubt, the mockery, the agonizing wait—he would suck it all out of Yujiro and replace it with blinding, undeniable sensation.
“Fuck, Baki,” Yujiro grunted, the words forced out, strained. His hands finally descended, not to push, but to clutch. They fisted in Baki’s wild hair, gripping hard enough to scalp, trying to anchor himself against the tidal wave of pleasure.
Baki redoubled his efforts. He relaxed his throat, a conscious, willful unclenching of muscle, and took Yujiro deeper. The head bumped the back of his throat. He ignored the reflexive gag, breathed sharply through his nose, and pushed forward.
And took it all.
His nose buried itself in the coarse hair at Yujiro’s base. He’d deep-throated him completely. He held there, his throat muscles fluttering uncontrollably around the invading girth, a tight, wet, pulsating heat. He looked up, his eyes watering, and met Yujiro’s stunned gaze.
A raw, guttural moan was torn from Yujiro’s chest. It was a sound of utter shock, of supreme vulnerability. The Ogre, the unconquered, was being conquered by his son’s mouth. His hips gave an involuntary, shallow thrust, fucking deeper into that incredible heat. His fingers tightened in Baki’s hair, not steering him, but clinging to him, a man drowning in a sea of pleasure.
Baki pulled back slowly, the drag exquisite, until just the tip remained on his tongue. Then he surged forward again, sheathing Yujiro to the root in one fluid, relentless motion. Again. And again. A punishing, worshipful rhythm. The obscene, wet sounds filled the training room, syncopated by Yujiro’s ragged, failing breaths.
“Oh god… oh fuck, son… right there, just like that…” Yujiro was babbling, his head thrown back, his monumental body trembling. His composure was in tatters. Every moan, every gasped profanity, was a victory Baki drank down along with his pre-cum. This was proof. This was real. His father’s pleasure, his complete loss of control, was more tangible than any phantom pregnancy.
Baki’s jaw ached. His throat was raw. He didn’t care. He was a conduit for pure sensation, and he was winning. He sucked harder, pressed his tongue harder, took him deeper. He wanted to drink Yujiro’s soul down his throat.
Yujiro’s warnings became broken chants. “I’m gonna… Baki, if you don’t… I’ll fill your fucking stomach…” His thrusts became more urgent, less controlled, his grip on Baki’s hair becoming frantic. He was fighting it, fighting the climax this was forcing upon him, and losing spectacularly.
With a final, shattered roar that seemed to shake the windows, Yujiro surrendered. He slammed his hips up, holding Baki’s head down, and erupted. Baki took it. He swallowed convulsively, again and again, drinking every hot, salty spurt, milking Yujiro’s cock with his throat until the pulses slowed to weak twitches.
Only then did he allow Yujiro to slip from his lips, a strand of spit and cum connecting them for a moment before it broke. Baki sat back on his heels, breathing heavily, his lips swollen, his chin slick. He looked up, defiant, triumphant.
Yujiro was staring down at him, his chest heaving, his face a mask of stunned, post-orgasmic awe. The haughty certainty, the mocking scrutiny, was gone. In its place was something naked and shaken.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped Baki’s cheek, his thumb wiping at the mess there. He didn’t speak. He just looked, as if seeing him for the first time.
The balance of power, for that fragile moment, had not just shifted. It had been inverted, not by fist, but by devotion. The silence now wasn’t brittle. It was thick, reverent, and humming with a new kind of truth.
It was thick, reverent, and humming with a new kind of truth. Yujiro’s hand remained on Baki’s face, the touch unnervingly gentle. He leaned down, his forehead resting against Baki’s, their breath mingling—one set ragged, the other labored from the throat’s effort.
“You,” Yujiro whispered, the word fractured. “You incredible little animal.” The awe in his voice was a prize greater than any victory in the arena. He pulled Baki up from his knees, his arms wrapping around him, not in conquest but in something resembling awe. They stood locked together in the center of the training mat, the city’s indifferent lights framing them.
The peace was a fever dream. It lasted three days.
A restless energy reclaimed Yujiro, sharper now, directed. The watching intensified. He’d corner Baki in the kitchen, a massive hand splayed over his lower stomach, feeling for a swell that wasn’t there. His nostrils would flare, searching for a change in scent. “Nothing,” he’d finally grunt, shoving Baki away in frustration. “Your body is being stubborn. It needs a clearer directive.”
“It’s only been a week,” Baki argued, but his own certainty was fraying. The phantom sensations had begun to feel like hallucinations. The doubt was a poison.
“A week for a normal man,” Yujiro snapped, pacing like a caged tiger. “For me, it should be instantaneous. The will was present. The deposit was more than sufficient.” He stopped, his eyes gleaming with a new, chilling logic. “The environment is wrong. These sterile walls. This soft city air. It’s resisting the process.”
Baki felt a cold dread in his gut. “What are you talking about?”
“Where did you first understand what we are?” Yujiro’s voice dropped to a predatory rumble. “Where did your body finally learn to accept mine?”
The mountain. The memory of the snow, the howling wind, and the desperate, life-saving heat of their joining crashed over Baki. It was a sacred, terrible place. “No. That’s insane. We can’t go back there.”
“We must.” Yujiro’s tone brooked no argument. “Conception requires primal conditions. It demands the edge of life and death. We’re going back. We’ll finish it at the source.”
They took a helicopter to the base, then climbed on foot as the weather turned. It was not the blizzard of before, but a bitter, clear cold that seared the lungs. The jagged rock, that black sentinel, awaited them. The sky was a hard, pitiless blue.
Yujiro turned to him there, on the exact spot. The wind whipped his hair. “This is the altar,” he said. “Now, we make the offering.”
It was not love. It was not even the fervent worship of the other night. It was a brutal, ceremonial re-enactment. He pushed Baki face-first against the cold, unforgiving stone. He didn’t bother removing all their gear, just yanked Baki’s pants down to his thighs and unfastened his own. The cold air bit at Baki’s exposed skin.
“You will take him here,” Yujiro commanded, his voice swallowed by the vast silence of the peaks. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, the gesture crude and ancient. He pushed into Baki with one relentless, dry shove.
Baki cried out, the sound ripped away by the wind. The stretch was agonizing without proper preparation, the cold making everything tighter, rawer. Yujiro’s body was a furnace against his back, but the rock leached all warmth from his front.
“This rock is your bed now,” Yujiro grunted, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust smashed Baki’s hips against the stone. “It witnessed your death. Now it’ll witness your creation. Give me my son, Baki. Here. Now.”
He fucked with a single-minded, violent purpose. His hands gripped Baki’s shoulders, fingers digging into the old scar tissue, pinning him. The dirty talk was gone, replaced by a growled, repetitive mantra. “Take it. Breed. Conceive. Now.”
Baki’s mind fragmented. The pain was immense, a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep, splitting fullness. His cheek was ground against the frozen granite. He could see the sheer drop just yards away. This was madness. This was holy. Yujiro’s climax, when it came, was a silent, full-body shudder against him, a hot flood in the icy void.
Yujiro withdrew. He turned Baki around, his eyes wild, desperate. Baki’s legs were shaking, barely holding him. “Again,” Yujiro rasped, his own breath pluming in the air. “The position was wrong. Missionary. For gravity. For the seed to pool.”
“Yujiro, I can’t—” Baki stammered, his teeth chattering.
“You will.” Yujiro forced him down onto his back in the snow. The cold was a shock, instantly soaking through his clothes. Yujiro shoved his legs up and apart, mounting him again. The second penetration was a white-hot agony of overuse and cold. Baki screamed, the sound echoing off the peaks.
Yujiro’s movements were frantic, jerky. He was no longer the controlled Ogre, but a creature possessed by a failing dream. He stared down at Baki’s face, looking for a sign, some acknowledgment of success. Baki saw only his own pained reflection in his father’s manic eyes.
“Why isn’t it working?” Yujiro roared to the sky, driving deeper, as if he could physically implant the idea through force alone. “My will is absolute! Your body is mine! Obey!”
In his furious, driving thrust, he lost his footing on the ice-slick stone. His immense weight shifted awkwardly. Baki, trying to buck him off, moved at the same instant. The combined momentum was a fraction of an inch. A catastrophic miscalibration.
Yujiro slammed forward.
Not into the welcoming heat of Baki’s body, but against him, crushing him down onto the jagged, unseen spur of rock that had once claimed him.
There was a wet, sickening sound, utterly foreign to the crisp mountain air. A sound of invasion. Yujiro froze. The frantic heat vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness.
Baki made a small, guttural gasp. His eyes went very wide, looking past Yujiro’s shoulder at the hard blue sky. A profound cold, different from the snow, bloomed in his core. He looked down.
The jagged rock, the mountain’s black tooth, protruded from his lower abdomen, just left of center. It was a brutal, obscene replay. It had punched through his gear, through skin and muscle, and now sat lodged inside him. Dark, almost black blood welled around its base, instantly soaking the fabric, spreading across his stomach in a warm, shocking flood.
“Oh,” Baki whispered, his breath fogging weakly.
Yujiro recoiled, pulling off him, staring in utter disbelief. He saw the rock. He saw the blood, so much of it, pouring out onto the pure white snow, a vibrant, terrible stain. The fantasy of creation evaporated, replaced by the immediate, metallic stench of death.
BAKI BLEEDS OUT.
The blood didn’t just flow. It pulsed. Each weakening beat of Baki’s heart sent another rich, dark wave over the ice, melting a crimson pit beneath him. He didn’t scream. He just trembled, a violent, shallow shivering that made the wound grate against the stone. His face was parchment white.
“No,” Yujiro said. It was not a roar. It was a low, choked denial. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over the horrific injury, unsure where to touch. “No, no, no.”
Baki’s lips were turning blue. “C-cold,” he stammered. His gaze was losing focus, sliding away from Yujiro’s horrified face.
“Look at me!” Yujiro commanded, but the authority was gone, stripped raw. He ripped fabric, trying to staunch the flow, but the blood soaked through instantly, hot and relentless against his frozen fingers. The rock was a plug; removing it would empty Baki in seconds. Leaving it in was a slow, certain drain.
This was not a battle wound. This was not a challenge. It was a stupid, accidental, meaningless violation. The mountain was taking back what it had been denied before.
“You don’t get to die here,” Yujiro growled, but it sounded like a plea. He gathered Baki into his arms, ignoring the groan of pain, the fresh gout of blood. He cradled him, rocking slightly, a parody of the paternal posture he’d imagined. The blood soaked into Yujiro’s own clothes, warm then instantly cold.
Baki’s head lolled against his chest. His breathing hitched, became wet and shallow. The pool around them grew. The vibrant red was darkening, a permanent stain on the altar of his obsession.
Yujiro Hanma, the strongest creature on Earth, knelt in the snow with his son bleeding to death in his arms. He had no enemy to fight. No will to impose. Only the slow, quiet seep of life into white, and the howling wind that carried no answer at all.
Only the slow, quiet seep of life into white, and the howling wind that carried no answer at all.
Then movement. A sound tore from Yujiro’s throat, a raw, animal noise of negation. Thinking was gone. Instinct, a deeper programming than even his will, took over. His hands, slick with his son’s blood, moved with a speed that blurred the air. He shredded his own reinforced coat, wrapping the tough fabric around Baki’s torso, creating a vicious, compressive tourniquet over the protruding stone. He did not try to remove it. He locked it in place.
“You will not die.” The words were not a command to Baki, but a vow to the universe itself. He surged to his feet, Baki a limp, blood-soaked bundle in his arms, and moved.
He did not navigate the mountain. He violated it. Every leap down the sheer face was a controlled fall, a crashing descent through ice and scree that would have shattered any other being. He cradled Baki’s head against his chest, absorbing the impacts with his own legs, his own spine. The wind roared in his ears, but beneath it, he listened for the faint, wet rasp of Baki’s breath. It was there. A thread.
At the base, the helicopter sat waiting, pilot stiff and alert. Yujiro blew past him, tearing the door open. “The clinic. Now.” His voice allowed for no possibility of refusal. The pilot, a man who had seen combat, paled at the sight of the blood-drenched Ogre and his cargo, and scrambled to the controls.
Inside the vibrating cabin, Yujiro laid Baki across the seats. The wrapped coat was already saturated, a deep maroon blooming through the grey fabric. Baki’s skin was the color of old paper. Yujiro ripped open a survival kit, found a thermal blanket, and covered him. He placed two fingers against Baki’s cold throat. The pulse was a frantic, birdlike fluttering against the tide of blood loss.
“Fight it,” Yujiro muttered, his face inches from Baki’s. He wiped blood from Baki’s lips with his thumb. “You are a Hanma. You do not die on rocks.” Baki’s eyelids fluttered. No recognition. Only shock. Yujiro leaned closer, his voice dropping to a guttural, private register. “You carry my son. You feel that? You have to protect him. Hold on.”
The helicopter touched down on the small, isolated landing pad behind the nondescript clinic forty-three minutes later. Yujiro was out before the skids settled, Baki in his arms. He kicked the reinforced door in, frame splintering, and strode into the sterile white hallway. “KUREHA!”
Doors flew open. A nurse gasped. The old surgeon, Kureha, emerged from a room, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She took in the blood, the impromptu dressing, Yujiro’s wild gaze. “Operating room. Now.” She pointed, her voice a whip-crack of authority. There was no time for questions.
Yujiro laid Baki on the table under the harsh lights. The clinical brightness made the blood look impossibly garish. Kureha barked orders to her staff, already cutting away the soaked coat with shears. The rock was exposed, a grotesque, organic sculpture. “You idiot,” she hissed, whether to Yujiro or Baki wasn’t clear. “Anaesthesia now. I need pressure here. Get him typed and cross-matched, we’ll need everything.”
Yujiro did not leave. He stood rooted at the head of the table, a statue of gore, watching as they worked to save what he had broken. He saw the profound pallor of Baki’s face, the blue tinge to his lips. A monitor screamed a flatline alarm for one heart-stopping second before a nurse adjusted a lead and the weak, erratic rhythm returned.
Kureha worked with terrifying efficiency. Her hands were steady as she assessed the damage, packing around the stone, establishing suction. “The penetration is deep. Lower left quadrant. It’s missed the major arteries by a miracle, but it’s a fucking mess. Spleen, intestine, possibly the uterine artery if he had one. I won’t know until I get in there.” She glanced up at Yujiro, her gaze piercing. “What happened?”
“It was an accident,” Yujiro said, the words ash in his mouth.
“Bullshit,” Kureha spat, turning back to her work. “Nothing with you is an accident. Hold this.” She positioned his unsterile hand on a compress. “Press. Hard.”
He did. He felt the warm seep of his son’s life against his palm. Time dissolved into the beep of monitors, the hushed, urgent medical vernacular, the smell of antiseptic and copper. After an eternity that was only minutes, Kureha nodded. “He’s stable enough. I have to remove it and repair the damage. Get out.”
Yujiro’s hand tightened on the compress. “I stay.”
“You are not sterile. You are a contaminant. Get. Out.” She did not look at him. “Or he dies right here.”
Yujiro’s fingers uncurled, leaving a bloody print on the white sheet. He stepped back, a slow, defeated retreat, and allowed himself to be herded from the room. The door swung shut. A red light illuminated above it.
He stood in the hallway, motionless. Baki’s blood had dried on his hands and arms in flaking, rust-brown patterns. He stared at it. This was the only creation he had managed. Not a child. Just this stain.
Hours passed. The red light burned.
Finally, the light went off. The door opened. Kureha emerged, still in her surgical gown, spattered with blood. Her face was etched with deep fatigue and something else—a profound, unsettled confusion. She pulled her surgical mask down.
“He’s alive,” she said, her voice hollow. “Barely. It was… archaeic. The rock missed the vital vessels by millimeters. I repaired the perforated bowel, resected a portion. The spleen was salvageable.” She paused, ran a hand over her face. “There was significant trauma to the vascular network in the pelvic region. Extraordinary bleeding.”
Yujiro waited. The but hung in the air, almost visible.
Kureha looked at him, her eyes searching his with a scientific intensity that seemed to border on fear. “While controlling that bleeding, I encountered an anomaly. An anatomical structure I have never seen in a male body. Dense, highly vascular, developing within the pelvic basin. It was the site of significant implantation bleeding.” She took a sharp breath. “I ran a rapid hormonal panel. I did an ultrasound directly on the tissue.”
She stopped. The silence in the hallway was absolute.
“Yujiro,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, stripped of all its usual certainty. “The elevated beta-hCG levels are off the charts. The ultrasound imaging… it’s primitive, but visible. A gestational sac. Fetal pole. Faint cardiac activity.”
She stared at him, a pioneer staring at a map of a impossible land. “Somehow… he is indeed pregnant.”