whoremembers?

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

“You and Matsuda-San are friends?”

That was how everyone, no matter their age, would react when you brought up Matsuda Kota casually in conversation. You were quite the persona since middle school. Going against the dress code to fit your gyaruo style. Kota, however, was quiet.

Some labeled him an ‘emo’ but he just had long black hair and mostly wore black clothing. At least that’s what he would say. His hair was so long that his bangs regularly covered his face.

You wore black clothing too—but they were often paired with bold pieces. You wore black eyeliner to make your eyes pop. It was only in university when you were able to go full out in being a gyaruo—a male version of a gyaru. Though you were on the more simple side of the aesthetic.

The full makeup and outfit took so much effort that you only did it on rare occasions. Or whenever you were in the mood to sit in front of a mirror for over an hour.

Your parents were lacking in the usual strictness that older Japanese people were known for. So you basically wild out—a stark contract to Kota whose parents were so overly strict it was concerning.

That’s probably why he spent most of his time over at your house. The two of you met in middle school. By pure accident.

You were sent to your homeroom teacher’s office for being caught with eyeliner. After a stern talking to and being shoved outside of the room with some wet wipes—you were too busy wiping your eyes to notice Kota standing in front of you.

It was only in middle school that you were taller than him. You bumped right into him, causing him to crash to the ground. His bento box spilling all over the floor.

“Woah! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” You kneeled down and carelessly began scooping up the food with your bare hands, dumping them into the bento box. “Five second—”

“I’m not eating that.” Kota rudely interrupted you.

You blinked, finally glancing up to look at him. He had an ugly bowl cut and thick rimmed glasses that looked too big for his face.

“Pfft—!”

Your lips clamped shut as you quickly covered your mouth. Eyes wide while Kota’s narrowed.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing. You look ridiculous too.”

Kota huffed. He roughly grabbed his bento box from your hand and walked away. You stood up and looked to your left, seeing your reflection in the window.

He was right.

The makeup was all smudge—giving you perfect raccoon eyes. A laugh left your lips. It was honestly a look. You rushed after Kota and wrapped your arm around his neck. He grunted and tried to push you off but you used your height to rest your chin on his head.

“Since we both look ridiculous, we should hang out!”

Kota groaned. “What are you—?”

“My name is Togami (Name). But you can call me (Name), no one calls me Togami.”

“We just met, why—”

“Because it’s sooo boring. My name is so much better than Togami. Don’t you agree?”

“Well—”

“Anyway, what’s your name?”

“Matsuda Kota, why—”

“Can I call you Kota?”

“Are you going to keep interrupting me??” Kota yelled out, stopping you both in your tracks. You stared down at him before grinning slyly.

“Sorry, Kota-kun~ keep talking, keep talking. I think I really like you!”

“I didn’t give you permission—”

“Lunch’s almost over! Hurry, we don’t want to be late for class!”

“I said stop interrupting me!”

The rest was history. Which led to where you are now. University. You were able to dress up more and didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble with teachers for a little bit of eyeliner.

You and Kota decided to rent an apartment together. With your parents' help mostly. They were retired and had a decent amount of savings. Kota paid for everything else that your parents didn’t cover. You were just there to decorate the apartment.

Kota really didn’t care about that type of stuff. His bedroom was bare. Really bare. It looked exactly how it looked before you both moved in. The decoration he had in there was from you. Though he rarely allowed you in his room.

The apartment was covered in a lot of furry furniture. Black, brown, and gold. Leopard print… it was a mess but also somehow worked for the chaotic vibe you were going for. Your bedroom was the only real mess.

In any case, you and Kota lived together fairly well. Despite everyone being shocked that the two of you were even friends. You were outgoing and nice–Kota was quiet and a little bit rude. Everyone called you by your first name… no one but you could call Kota by his first name.

It actually got you into hot water once with Kota.

“You can call me (Name), I don’t mind!” You proudly said, grinning at your clubmate. You and Kota joined the photography club to kill some time. The club was meeting at a restaurant as a way to get to know everyone.

Everyone said their introduction. Kota’s was as bland as ever while you were practically bursting with excitement. You were sitting beside some guy–you couldn’t remember his name–and was telling him that he didn’t have to be formal with you.

A loud clink of glass hitting the table startled everyone even with the bustling sounds of people excitedly chatting. Eyes were all on Kota. His beer glass had a small crack on the bottom, the yellow beer slowly seeping free all over the table. He calmly grabbed some napkins and dabbed at the liquid.

“Uh, waiter!” The club leader waved someone down and pointed to the pointed glass.

You only watched Kota, blinking as he seemed to not even react to anything. Not when the waiter carefully took away the glass. Not as a few other clubmates wiped away the mess. Not when a new beer glass was placed in front of Kota.

Kota only grabbed a skewer of meat from the shared plate in the center of the table. He took a small bite, his gaze not even flickering over to you. It took a minute before everyone began to talk like normally, as if nothing happened.

As soon as the club leader had mentioned that everyone should start heading home–you were roughly grabbed by the arm and tugged to stand up. Everyone watched in silence as Kota grabbed your coat and backpack without a word.

He draped your coat around your body, buttoning it without allowing you to properly put it on. Your arms were restricted but he didn’t seem to care. Kota nodded his head at everyone, wrapping an arm around your waist and guided you outside.

“Kota. Kota, I can’t move my arms,” you tried to push your arms through the sleeves but Kota kept pulling you forward. His hand tightening his grip on the curve of your hip. “Kota!”

He hummed. “Does everyone need to call you by your first name?” His words suddenly stop you in your tracks. It was only now that he actually stopped as well. You both were far from the restaurant by now.

“I let everyone do that.” You muttered, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Where… is this coming from?”

Kota looked you in the eye. There looked to be something there… the need to say something. Something that could possibly change things. But he only shook his head.

“Forget it.” He removed his hand from your waist, finally allowing you to properly wear your coat. You follow behind him as you slip the coat into place. His words swirled around in your head but you didn’t say anything.

You still allowed people to call you by your first name. At least the people you had already allowed to but for some reason, anyone new had to call you by your last name.

Nothing was said. It just happened.

But you couldn’t forget the one time Kota had overheard you introducing yourself to a new member of the photography club.

“Hi, I’m Togami (Name). You can call me Togami or Toga!” You said, smiling wide as you excitedly shook their hand. Your gaze flickered to Kota who was standing right beside you and his expression was pure smug.

A small smirk tugged on his lips. Big enough that even another member noticed and asked Kota what he was thinking about to smile like that.

Kota only hummed. “Nothing.”

That was really the only time Kota had ever been mean towards you. Or at least angry. Afterwards he didn’t use any force on you again. Which really made you wonder what upset him that badly.

But you never brought it up again.

“If you want at least a B, you’ll need to get an 80% on the final exam, Togami-San.”

You groaned, rubbing at your face. Your grades in college were decent. Could be better but decent. Your parents were just happy you weren’t flunking. The fact you even went to college surprised them and your entire family.

It wasn’t like you didn’t care but you didn’t go above and beyond like others. You studied like twice a week. Each time before an exam you studied a bit and somehow that allowed you to continuously get Bs and A minuses.

Good enough. Some would kill for that.

However your studying method was proving to be useless for one class. The one class where you had your first ever D.

Organic chemistry.

Now why are you taking organic chemistry?

Well because you’re dumb.

Dumb enough to not realize that you signed up for the wrong class until it was too late and you had to continue taking it. You were a literature major! Why would you ever need organic chemistry?

“It’s okay, (Name)-Chan~” Hinata, your classmate, gave you a wide grin. “Maybe you should do tutoring.”

“Tutoring?” Another one of your classmates chirped in, Genki. He was a fellow gyaruo who put more effort into everyday makeup in comparison to you. A true legend. “What (Name) needs is a miracle.”

Hinata rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it worse. You’ll stress him out. I know someone who took organic chemistry as a freshman and actually passed with a 99%!”

“99%? Woah,” Genki’s mouth dropped while you perked up at her claim. “How—? That professor is strict. How'd that kid pass?”

“Don’t know but he was even the teacher assistant last year. He’s good, really good. But he doesn’t just tutor anyone.” Hinata turned her gaze over to you. “You might have to really beg for it.”

You frowned, “beg…? Ah, it can’t be helped. I’m not failing that final exam!” There was no way you’d let this class ruin your semi perfect record of As and Bs. “Where can I find him?”

“He’s an engineering major! My friend said he’s currently a teacher assistant for engineering 101, class should be ending right now. Go stop him before he leaves!”

The thought of having to beg some stranger to hopefully pass your class was a little stressful. Technically your whole life was up to this one dude.

And judging by how Hinata had described him—he wasn’t exactly the helping type.

He already reminded you of Kota.

Ah, Kota.

A giddy smile pulled on your lips at the thought of him. It’s already been three years of living with him and you had begun to realize you had a crush on him. Nothing serious at the moment but it certainly was something.

You found yourself doing more things for him. Making him lunch or dinner. He wasn’t a breakfast person so you never forced that. Two days ago you even bought him a leather jacket that reminded you of him. Though you still haven’t given it to him yet.

You’ve given him things before. Especially not an expensive leather jacket. It was around ¥291,500. Nothing cheap at all. But it was real leather with fluffy fur around the collar.

Perfect for winter that was right around the corner.

Thinking about Kota, you began wondering what you should make him for dinner. You stood outside the classroom door just as students began to walk out.

“(Name).”

“Kota?” You blinked, looking over to see Kota standing right beside you. Your head tilted as you blinked. “You’re taking this class as a junior?”

Kota fixed the strap of his bag as he raised an eyebrow. “I’m the teaching assistant.”

“Ah!”

Well looks like luck was on your side after all.

You grinned and rushed to his side, grasping his arm with your hands. “Kotaaaa~”

Kota only hummed and looked down at you. The height difference wasn’t by much. Your head was the perfect height to rest on his shoulders—which you constantly took advantage of.

“Can you tutor me? In organic chemistry? I heard you passed the class and I need to get an 80% on the final exam to even pass the class. Please, please, please—”

“Sure.” He interrupted you.

You blinked.

That was really easy.

Well, getting him to tutor you was easy but he wasn’t an easy tutor at all.

“If you can’t even memorize this then don’t even bother showing up to take the exam.”

“Kotaaaa.”

“Try again.”

It had only been a week and you were pooped. Kota didn’t let up. Each day after dinner, you’d spend almost two hours sitting at the dining table as he tutored you. No breaks, no days off.

And yes you were certainly learning and retaining information… but you were also tired.

“67%,” he said, placing the mock final exam he made you take on the table after grading it. Despite his rough tone—you knew he was semi happy about your progress in just one week. “I’ll test you again next week.”

You sighed. Better than nothing. You used to get 20-30% on the exams. This was an improvement.

Kota cleaned up the dining table while you placed your head on the table. You were only going to close your eyes for a second. But soon you found yourself in bed. Hands tugging up your shirt.

“Kota?” You groggily whined, placing your hand over his. His hand was larger than yours. He stopped what he was doing and leaned away a bit.

“You’re awake?” He asked. You felt his hand slipping away but you quickly tightened your grip. With sluggish movements, you tugged his hand up, making him gently cup your face.

He didn’t stop you nor did he say anything. If you weren’t struggling to even stay awake, you would’ve noticed his thumb gently rubbing circles on your cheek.

“I got something for you.” You whispered.

“Like what? Is it a thanks for tutoring you?”

You weakly shook your head. “No. It’s…” your voice trailed off, eyes struggling to stay open. “It’s just for you. Because I like you. It’s underneath my bed.”

“Don’t fall asleep.” He gently tapped your cheek. “You still have makeup on.”

“I like you… didn’t you hear me?”

“Mhm.” Was all he said in response.

The rest of that moment was a blur. You remembered feeling makeup remover wipes on your face. Kota grabbed the box from underneath your bed but he didn’t open it in front of you. Your eyes were basically closed by then.

He whispered something and then you were fast asleep.

Another two weeks passed. It was uneventful. Kota continued tutoring you and you made significant progress. Your little puppy crush was beginning to grow by the minute. Especially now that you two were spending most nights together.

You didn’t have to ask about the jacket because not even a day later you saw him wearing it. It made you so giddy that you almost laughed right in front of Kota. Luckily you managed to hold it in.

Despite organic chemistry being the worst class you’ve ever taken—you certainly had to thank it for allowing you the opportunity to be near Kota for such long hours.

However there was something you began to notice.

Kota didn’t allow you in his bedroom.

At first you didn’t notice because well it’s not like he comes into yours. You both were close but still wanted the bedrooms to be your own personal space. But now that you two were studying together for a long period of time… you and Kota would sometimes study in your bedroom.

It was a mess, obviously, but Kota didn’t seem to mind.

But it was like his room was off limits before you could ever ask.

Nothing was wrong with that per se… at least at first. Until you finally realize it when Kota always keeps his door locked. The door was always closed and even locked sometimes.

That’s strange, right?

Was he hiding something?

What would someone like Kota have to hide? He’s such a normal guy at the end of the day. You were the one that had more to hide but your day was basically left wide open at all times. Even when you were changing.

Like right now.

You slipped on your boxers, yawning. The thought of looking for some pajamas felt like a hassle. Your body was tired and even struggling to stand up straight.

“Where did I put it…” you whispered mostly to yourself, rubbing your shirtless chest. It was certainly a sight to behold. Your makeup was only semi cleaned off, your eyeliner was being stubborn and your lips were stained from left over lipstick. It’s kind of why you never wear lipstick that often.

It always stained your lips.

Just like your clothes, your pajamas were also heavily influenced by gyaruo clothing. You even dabbled a bit in more feminine pajamas. Simply only because male pajamas were boring half the time.

You knelt down and grabbed your silk shirt. It was plain black but felt nice to sleep in. “Pants… where’s my pants?” You spun around, now facing the doorway when you finally noticed that you weren’t alone.

Kota was watching.

He looked like he had just finished taking a shower. Hair still damped while the towel laid around his neck. An old beaten up white t-shirt and black sweatpants. His bangs covered his right eye entirely.

You gulped. Your own semi nudity was the last thing on your mind. Just the fact of seeing Kota in clothes that didn’t cover his body entirely. Nothing baggy that hid his muscles. You were allowed to see everything.

Almost everything.

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You didn’t even realize just how bad you were ogling him. Though it seemed to be mutual when you glanced up at his face.

Kota was staring at you. Really staring at you. His gaze flickering from your thighs to your chest. You still hadn’t slipped the shirt on yet.

Feeling yourself heat up from his strong gaze, you slipped the silk shirt on. That finally broke the spell as Kota quickly looked away. He began quickly drying his hair.

You finally found your pants, right near your dirty hamper. They were actually shorts. A matching pair to the shirt. You stepped into them and it was basically the same length as your tight boxers. These were one of your more feminine pajamas.

“Well,” you spoke, blinking slightly as you glanced over at Kota. “Uhh,” your lips pursed together. Hands wringing together. “Can I ask you something, Kota?”

He hummed. His eyes still focusing on anything but you.

“Can we… maybe study in your room one day?”

That caught his attention. His eyes snapping over to you. “Why?”

You froze. This was probably one of the first times Kota ever pushed back against a request of yours. Usually you could just say one word and he’d do it without hesitation. Not even asking why you want to do a certain thing.

It wasn’t always like that—that behavior didn’t start until high school.

“Oh well…” your voice trailed off. There was technically no reason. Or really any good reason. “Uhm, I just… want to change the environment.”

“We can study at the library.”

“Kota.” A pout on your lips. “I don’t wanna. I like being at home.”

“Then we can study on the balcony.”

That did sound nice.

You sighed. “Then… if I pass with an 89% can I celebrate in your bedroom?”

Kota raised an eyebrow. His face was neutral but you could tell he was getting agitated. The slight twitch in his upper lip, the way his grip tightened on the towel. “89%? That’s high.”

“Yeah, so if I do that good, then you have to grant my wish.”

“Why do you want to do that? Be in my room so badly?”

You were nosy, that was certainly the main reason.

But instead of saying that…

You said, “because I want to be in your scent.”

Which, in hindsight, was one of the stupidest things you had ever said.

I want to be in your scent? What did that even mean?

It was one of the strangest things you’ve ever said. And you were known for being weird to Kota.

Oh well—you couldn’t dwell on it too much because to your shock, you did it.

“How??” Hinata and Genki stared at the final exam paper in shock. There, written in bright red ink, was the percentage 90. You had done better than you had even thought was possible.

You simply smirked. “I managed to get that tutor you told me about.” Was all you said before heading straight home.

Kota was home, luckily enough. You had bought some take out and a case of beer. A smug smile on your lips as you walked over to where he was sitting on the couch.

He closed his book as soon as he saw you. His gaze solely focused on you. Your cheeks felt a little hot from his gaze but you straightened your posture. You placed the food and drinks on the center table.

“I took the exam.” You reached into your bag, excitedly pulling the exam paper out. The paper was folded as you handed it over to him. He took it, you excitedly sat down beside him and inched close, wanting to see his exact expression once he saw your score.

Kota opened the paper and despite the fact his face didn’t move an inch, you could tell he was proud. “Amazing.” He simply said, placing the paper on the center table. “How do you want to celebrate?”

You pursed your lips, eyes looking to where Kota’s bedroom was located. There was nothing else that needed to be said. Kota got the hint immediately.

Kota’s bedroom was the exact same as you remembered. The last time you had seen it in its full glory was maybe a month after you both moved in. To say it had no personality was an understatement.

It didn’t feel lived in if it weren’t for his studying material all over his desk. You plopped down on his bed as he sat at his desk, placing the items you brought on the surface. He glanced over at you with an unamused expression.

“This is all you wanted to see?”

You eagerly nodded your head. “Well yes.”

“You’re weird.” He opened a bottle of beer with a bottle opener. “Enjoy my scent.”

Your cheeks felt hot.

Kota’s room really was uneventful. He didn’t even have a tv. You stuck to watching something on your phone. About an hour or two passed when Kota excused himself to the bathroom.

You only huffed and moved to rest more comfortably on the bed when you felt something poke your back. It felt like a notebook. Underneath his pillow was a small little notebook—a diary was your first thought.

Now, did you originally plan to snoop around Kota’s room? No, you did not.

But now that you had the opportunity to possibly read his diary were you going to miss it?

No.

While you might be able to understand Kota’s expressions after spending so many years with him—it was too tempting to be able to read about his thoughts.

𓂃 𝖨 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗎𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐’𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖨 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆

What?

𓂃 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗃𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝖾? 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻, 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻

Who was he talking about? Jealousy bubbled deep within you. Who was lucky enough to be the object of Kota’s affection? It wasn’t like he talked to many people that weren’t you.

𓂃 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖨’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾, 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗀𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀

“What are you doing?”

You gasped as the diary was roughly ripped from your hands. It was there you came face to face with an overly pissed Kota. A first. The last time you ever saw Kota this angry, his face actually showing the full emotion, was back in middle school.

Your stomach began to twist into knots. The idea of angering Kota this much hadn’t even crushed your mind. Sure you were pushy sometimes but you never wanted to ever make him feel this way.

It was silent. Your mind raced a mile a minute. But nothing left your lips.

Kota let out a humorless laugh. Another first. He stared down at you. “Are you weirded out?”

“Huh?” A soft gasp left your lips. Your eyes flickering up to stare at him. He towered over you. You sat on your knees on the bed.

He waved the diary. “You read what was in this.” His voice sharp. “You’re weirded out, right? You want me to leave don’t you?”

“Why—? Why would I want that?” You quickly moved to stand up but Kota grabbed your shoulder and shoved you back down. It should’ve upset you that he put his hands on you but you felt your cock twitch in your pants.

“Stop acting dumb.” He carelessly tossed the diary behind him. His eyes never left you. The intensity in his eyes scared you but also made you incredibly horny. Who knew he could act like this? “You read it, you saw what I wanted to do. Degrade, feminize, and dumbify—you saw it, didn’t you? Don’t spare my feelings.”

You quickly shook your head. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn't judge what you… do in your free time.”

Kota froze. He raised an eyebrow before leaning further down. You leaned back until your back bumped into the wall, effectively caging you in.

Your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. You clamped your legs together. Why was this actually doing something for you?

“How did you get that 90% on the exam?” He finally spoke.

“Huh?”

“You. I want to degrade you.” His hands pressed on either side of the wall, gaze harsh. “I want to make you pretty, only to ruin you for anyone else. Who else would I ever want to see naked beneath me?”

“…huh…? Kota…?”

Kota sighed. “I’ll move out as soon as possible.” Was all he said as he began to pull away.

“Wait—!” You grabbed his shirt and tugged him back towards you. The force causing him to accidentally bump his nose against yours. “Ow,” a whine left your lips but you quickly pushed through the pain. “Why… why are you going to leave me?”

“Did you not understand a word that I said?” Kota responded, his tone exasperated.

“I did. I did and I don’t mind. I like you! Didn’t you know that? I told you…”

Kota tilted his head. His gaze focused solely on you. “You always tell me that you like me. Was I supposed to believe that one time was different?”

You frowned. “Well I did mean it differently. I meant that I like like you.”

“You like like me?”

“Mhm.”

Kota laughed. You were seeing a whole new side to him. “Do you like me enough to let me do whatever I want to you?” He asked, his voice deep. There were simple words but somehow they felt heavy in your chest. It didn’t feel like it was a simple easy thing to agree to.

He seemed mad but not that mad that you thought he would’ve been. It felt different. A scary different. But not scary enough that you didn’t nod your head in agreement to his words.

“I need to hear a yes.” He said.

“…Yes.” You whispered. “I really like you.”

For the first time ever, Kota’s lips pulled into a wide smirk.

Your cock twitched at the sight.

You would’ve never expected that Kota would be the kinky type. Honestly you ever really expected that he’d be into sex… or anyone really. He didn’t seem like the type. It’s why you didn’t expect anything to happen from your feelings.

But here you were, hands tied together above your head with Kota’s belt. Undressed—your boxers being the only clothes you were allowed left.

Kota didn’t say anything at first. He had silently tied your wrists together, manhandling you to rest on the bed. His hands gripped your skin. It felt harsh and rough but it didn’t scare you.

“Kota…” You whispered.

He was silently taking in your body. His hand slowly tracing up and down. As his hand reached your inner thigh—you let out a gasp. Your legs clamped together as your cheeks heat up and feel hot to the touch.

“Kota… are you mad?”

“No,” he answered. His hand squeezed your thigh before he reached his other hand and grasped your other leg. He easily parted your legs open, it happened so fast you didn’t even register it until your legs touched the bed.

Kota sighed. His gaze flickered up to look you in the eye. “I’m not going to do everything I ever wanted.” He said. That somehow disappointed you. “I don’t want to rush this… not now.”

“Rush?”

“(Name),” he whispered your name as if he was worshipping you like a God. So soft and tender though his eyes held a certain hunger that made your stomach clench. “I’ve always wanted you to cry on my cock—letting your makeup mess up your face.”

“Really?” You couldn’t help but grin. “Is that why whenever you saw me with my makeup a mess, you’d get quiet?”

Kota didn’t respond. He moved to sit between your legs. “When we moved in together, I thought I’d have to deal with you bringing in random people to have sex… or maybe even get a boyfriend. How lucky am I that you aren’t able to date anyone?”

“Hey, I was single on purpose!”

“Sure.”

You frowned but before you could say anything else Kota pushed your legs forward. A strained grunt left your lips. The stretch was a little unnatural—not a position you’ve ever done before.

“Since it’s our first time, I’ll be nice. Okay?”

“You’re a virgin?” You muttered, blinking slightly.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ah,” you quickly looked away, biting your bottom lip. “Not… exactly.”

It was silent.

Too silent.

“Kota…?”

The sound of fabric tearing caused you to cry out in shock. You looked over to see Kota focused solely on your legs. Your boxers were torn open, the cool air teasing your hole. Embarrassment shot through your body when you realized Kota would have a perfect view of a certain something in your ass.

Finally, your little secret was revealed.

“(Name)…” Kota chuckled, his voice deep. His index finger circled around your sensitive rim. Your body shook from the touch. “Is this a butt plug?”

So, it wasn’t as if you expected sex today. You had just wanted to be a little… adventurous today. After your exam you had actually come home first before going back out to buy the food and beer. Just for fun.

It was a small plug. Only stretched you a little bit to where you could feel it if you shifted just right. But other than that it didn’t feel like anything was inside you.

Really the only thing you expected tonight was using your dildo late at night as you imagined Kota fucking you instead. Luck was really on your side today.

“Did you wear this all day? Even when you took your exam?” Kota grasped the edge of the plug, slowly tugging it out. You gasped—tugging at the restraints around your wrists. “Did you masturbate like a pervert, hoping no one would notice you rocking in the chair, trying to focus on the exam while making sure the plug hit your prostate?”

With a simple shift, the tip of the plug pressed directly on your prostate. A loud moan left your throat. You wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That he was making stuff up. Degrading you.

But the continuous, slow rub against your prostate took over your thoughts. All you could focus on was gasping and moaning in response. Nothing else could escape your lips. Your cock twitched. It was still covered inside your tight boxers.

“Kota,” you mewled.

“Such a slut. Is that why you’re so flashy?” He asked, pressing down on your prostate. “You want everyone’s attention on you. Not just your looks but also from your sex appeal? So perverted, Togami (Name).”

You sniffled. Your wrists tried to break free from the belt but somehow it was wrapped tightly. You could only bring your hands down to try and cover your face from Kota’s intense stare.

“Am I not enough?” Kota moved up, his body now towering over you. His free hand grasped your wrists and tugged your arms to rest above your head once more. “Do you need everyone else’s attention? I’m not enough for you?”

You quickly shook your head. The words escaped you—only broken wet moans leaving your parted lips.

“Fine.” An almost pained laugh left Kota. “They can look…” he leaned down, his breath teasing your face. “But you’ll always be mine. Only I can see you, touch you, and ruin you, do you understand?”

Kota pulled back when you didn’t respond. His glare sharp as he roughly pulled the butt plug out. He tossed it behind himself. “Answer me with words.”

“Mhm, ngh,” you nodded your head. It was hard to speak, your throat was already dry. You haven’t even been fucked yet and you already felt tired. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

You let out a shuddered moan. Your legs wrapping around Kota’s waist. It felt so sinful for you to be practically nude while Kota was still dressed. He was wearing a black sweater and black pants—his usual winter clothing.

“You’re perfect for me, (Name)… I don’t even need to prepare you.” Kota unbuttoned his pants. His gaze focused solely on you. “I won’t be nice. I’m going to fuck you and if you manage to cum, good. If not…” his voice trailed off.

The thought that he wasn’t even going to try and make sure you would come too. To just use you for his own pleasure… made your whole body shiver.

Shit, you were really learning new things about yourself.

Kota was never known for being particularly nice. Sure he did nice things for you but that never meant he wasn’t a little rude to you still. Even if you were his favorite person. He had no issue degrading you. And it was shocking to yourself that you didn’t mind it at all.

He didn’t fuck you nice and slow. He didn’t slowly ease inside you or anything like that. Your hole was still dripping from the lube and allowed for a semi easy entrance. Though his cock was bigger than your small butt plug.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. The stretch felt otherworldly. Kota grasped your face, pushing your head down into the pillow as he began thrusting in an easy rhythm.

The slap of skin filled the room. Your gasps and moans came out in rough staccato. Toes curling as you bite your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

“K-Kota…” you cried out.

Kota pushed your head further into the pillow as his thrusts began to pick up speed. He was unforgiving—obviously chasing his own orgasm. True to his words he didn’t aim for your prostate nor did he touch your cock.

He was fucking you got his own pleasure.

“Mhm?” He grunted out. His thumb brushing against your lips, pushing them apart. “Does it feel good? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Each thrust sent a shock throughout your body. The sound of skin slapping, bed creaking from each thrust into your tight heat. It was sending you into a frenzy. You could’ve sworn that he was purposely avoiding your prostate. Just barely teasing it to cause a shiver in your body before ignoring it once more.

It was degrading. He was treating you like a toy.

You smiled slightly, eyes glancing up at Kota. He was a sight to behold. His eyes almost fully covered from his long bangs. He was sweating but still hadn’t made the effort to take off his sweater.

The jeans rubbed against your ass, chafing the skin. You’d certainly cry about it later but now it only served to make you moan. Every little thing he did that only served to please himself and not you… made your toes curl.

“Hey,” Kota cut in. “I asked if you’re enjoying it?” His voice deep and held an air of dominance.

A strained laugh left you, punched out in tandem with a particularly harsh thrust that almost sent you hitting the headboard. Your bottom lip was cut. A little bit of blood coated both lips and some on your teeth.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. Your eyes struggled to stay open, fingers curling to grip the pillow beneath you for a sense of purchase. “Love it so much.” An almost exasperated laugh left you.

Kota’s thrusts slowed down. His grip on your face almost loosened. He certainly didn’t expect such an answer from you. The willingness to accept his behavior as if it was a normal thing. A thing that you readily craved and enjoyed.

A perverted smirk pulled on his lips.

It was one of the widest smirks you’ve ever seen from him. With his eyes practically hidden behind his bangs—his smirk was the only thing you could use as a way to see what he was thinking. With that smile alone you knew he was happy.

Proud even.

This… was exactly what he wanted.

And how lucky was he that you wanted it just like him.

The last of his thrusts were almost cruel. He positioned his hips so his cock would tease your prostate. Barely a touch that was enough to even count as anything. You almost cried at the teasing—it was too much.

Your cock was weeping in your boxers. But you didn’t beg for Kota to start pleasuring you as well. No you enjoyed how he was fucking you. This was too fun. Better than anything you could’ve originally imagined.

Kota released his grip on your face, both hands reaching to grab your waist. He held your body still against the bed. Keeping you still as he delivered his last, harsh, heavy hitting thrusts into your ass. Each thrust earning a loud accompanying cry from you.

Hot wet cum released inside you. The fact that he didn’t even ask if he could only made you shivered in delight. A weak gasp left you. Kota spanked your ass as he pulled out. The cum slowly seeping out of your hole.

“You look beautiful like this.” Kota hummed, “next time I want to see you in full makeup when I fuck you.” He said. He grabbed your boxers, tugging them off when he stopped.

A soft humorless laugh left him.

“You actually came?”

Two fingers touched the lower half of your stomach. White cum leaking from your cock. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment. You didn’t expect that this would lead you to cumming in your boxers.

But here you were.

“Of course a slut like you would come untouched.” Kota leaned over you, gently freeing your wrists from the belt. He captured your lips into a hungry kiss—not allowing you to take any sense of control.

You didn’t fight it.

You enjoyed it all.

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

it’s quite normal for a firelord and his consort to be as debauchery as their hearts desired, what’s not heard of is a consort carrying an heir.

the throne room was empty, nothing but your moans and the sound of wet skin smacking against each other crowds every corner. one perk of being zuko’s only consort is how excusable your behavior is, after all, who dares to come between the firelord and his pleasure? unless they either want to peep like a pervert, an action punishable by burning alive. zuko doesn’t like to share his beloveds, especially when you’re taking his girth so obediently.

“good boy..” he groans, gold eyes glued onto your fucked out face. “you’re doing so beautifully..fuck..” he’s lost count how many times you came, gushing around his length for god knows how long. yet, you kept slamming your cunt down onto his leaking cock. “mmm..my lord..!” you whined. “it’s too much—ah!” you’re words were punched out when zuko pistons himself deeper, his tip kissing your cervix oh so gently even when his grip told a different story. it was never too much for the great firelord, not until he was fully done with you.

something snapped inside him, enough to where his palms burned their prints onto the plush of your hips as he yanked you up and down his dick that was now twitching and spurting gobs of his hot seed in your womb. shock, confusion and arousal ran through your nerves and brain, taken off gaurd by zuko’s sudden carelessness. “my lord..?! w-what are you..?!”

“forgive me, my love..” he muttered into your ear, his huge body now pressed against yours in an intimate lotus position. “but allow me to be selfish with you..”

you could barley get a word out, let alone a protest, before he slams himself as deep as he possibly could with his intentions written in the way he fucks. “you’re so perfect—ah—for me..” his voice was shook with excitement, something perverted you haven’t seen from him since the first night he had you in his chamber. “i beg of you..carry my child, my love.” words he blurted out with a flushed face and a soft smile like he’s staring at his husband. you couldn’t say no to him, not when the thought of being filled to the brim with his cum was an honor some would kill for.

“ngh, yes my lord! y-yes!” you wailed. your judgement has certainly flown out the window, every competent thought you had before have melted into a sex infested pile of mush. it felt too good, way too good to say no to carrying an heir for zuko. consort status be damned, the firelord has chosen whom will bear his kin. “my lord—“

“zuko.” he interrupts not with authority, but a buried vulnerability. “please, call me by my name..” he almost pleads, his face belonging to a man in love then another ruler fucking his frustration out on another no name lover. you’ve never seen this side of zuko before, and it shattered your view of him in a heartbeat. “of course..zuko.” your breath was shakey, both from the shock of the moment and the sudden, warm wave of his cum filling your ruined cunt. did he just orgasm from that alone..? you weren’t given a chance to process it before he continued to push and pull you down by his hips, your over sensitive pussy already spasming another orgasm out. “ack! z-zuko..! ‘m gonna cum againnn!”

“haah..let go, beloved. you deserve it for being so good f’me..”

waves of pleasure crashed over your trembling body, tears blinding your vision as you shook another orgasm out of your full and aching body. you swore you could see stars as zuko finally pulled out of your puffy cunt, gobs of cum immediate spilling out yet it didn’t perturbed him. he knew it was enough to leave a growing child in you for the next nine months, a gentle smile spread onto his lips before he planted them on yours.

suddenly, the title of consort no longer fit you.

“There you go. Just like that, my love. You’re doing so well.” Zuko purrs as he gently guides your head up and down his cock. “Use your tongue more, dear.” He gasps as you immediately do as told. Tongue flattening and applying pressure to the glands of his dick. “Mmph!” A muffled gasp at the salty taste of Zuko’s precum filling your mouth reverberates through his body. The firelord shuddering under the new sensation.

“Wait!” Zuko pulls you off his cock with a wet pop. A glistening thread of saliva still connects you to the soft pink head of your husband’s dick. “Did I do something wrong, my lord?” You ask, bottom lip trembling and eyes already brimming with tears. “No, absolutely not, dear. I just didn’t want to cum so quickly.” Zuko gently strokes your cheek. Hand trailing down to intertwine his fingers with yours.

Zuko guides you towards the edge of your shared bed. “Lie down here, my love. Keep your head hanging off the edge.” You do as told. “Keep your mouth as wide as possible.” With that, Zuko slowly thrusts his cock down your throat. The firelord watching as his cock disappears inch by inch down his husband’s greedy little throat. “Relax more. Yeah, that’s it, good boy.” He groans. He should probably be more careful with you. This is your first time trying this after all, but he can’t help himself. Not when you were so desperate to learn when he asked if you could suck him off.

“Baby… i’m about-!” His cock pulses inside your throat. “I’m about to cum. You think you could swallow it all for me?” Zuko sweetly asks. You nod the best you can. “Here it comes. Make sure to breathe through your nose.” How you were supposed to do so when said nose was currently stuffed into his balls was beyond you, but you whined in confirmation anyways. Wave after wave of cum spilled out and you made sure to swallow as much as you could.

“Hey, hey! Slow down. Remember I told you to breathe through your nose?” Zuko said when you began to choke. Relaxing once you regained your breath and resumed swallowing down all his thick cum. Your husband pulled you up right and held you against his chest. “Did you swallow it all?” He sweetly asks as he thumbs at your bottom lip. You obediently open your mouth and stick out your tongue. “Attaboy.” Zuko says and kisses you softly. “You’ve had a long day? How about we get some sleep?” You nod into his chest. Not even bothering to hesitate as he tucks both of you under the covers. Instinctively melting against him as sleep over takes you.

Old memories now, truly. You presented earlier than your brothers, and it had been seen as a good thing then, they proclaimed the Alpha in you was so strong it refused to be kept inside any longer, you’d beamed with pride, all of twelve years old, despite how miserably sick you felt.

You’d presented wrong, of course. There isn’t much you remember of that time, hours and days seemed to blend together after the Royal Physician had confirmed it. You were an omega. Your mother had sobbed next you you for hours, as you laid curled in a stiff bed in the medical wing, only unfurling to reach a hand towards her after who knows how long, she flinched back, like she’d been hurt, like the very touch of you could corrupt her, like she wasn’t an omega too. Her face curled in a mix of emotions, something unfamiliar in the eyes of the mother you’d known your whole life. She nearly looked like a stranger, with her face scrunched in distaste and shock and…something else, she looked at you as if you were one. A lowly fiend daring to touch the Queen, even as an act of comfort.

You don’t remember her words, all these years later, but you remember the way your heart sank and shattered at them.

Life as you knew it had been flipped upside down. You were separated from your brothers in an instant. Separate training, separate studies, separate lives. You weren’t allowed to come to dinner with the rest of your family for weeks, it’d been the only meal you’d all ate together, with such hectic schedules all around, a few hours near night was the perfect time for everyone to regroup and rejoice. Your dinner had been brought to your bedroom, and a maid, a younger woman with a round face and trim hair, informed you that you were to eat there for the time being.

Weeks pass and you grow used to it, the separation still tore your little heart in two, but the act of eating at your bedroom's study desk had become familiar.

Eventually, you are allowed back. Once. Only once. Your brothers look at you like you’re an oddity, your mother refuses to look, and your father seemingly can not look away.

It’s quiet for so long, the clinking of silverware to porcelain, the quiet steps of the maids and servants echoed along the walls as you stared into your bowl.

Your father is the first to speak after nearly an hour of prolonged silence.

He announces change. You can’t be sure if he’s upset. You know your mother is. Scandalized as your father explains your new life. Your mother had pushed for a swap, it wasn’t nearly as uncommon as it should be for unwanted omega or beta children of notable families to be replaced with an alpha from a poor family. It was beneficial, if cruel, for both families. Notable families could keep their image of strength and poor families received something to sell. Your father had refused. You were an omega and you were his son. Both irrefutable facts as difficult to bear as they might be.

You’d be separated from your brothers permanently, moved to a new room away from the rest of the family, you’re studies would be changed- an omega had no use for swordplay or combat skills, he insisted, you’d focus on literature and the arts, like you’d suddenly become delicate and frail over night. You’d have a hand maid and a guard monitoring you constantly, you weren’t to leave the castle without both of them by your side, and only with express permission from the king himself. The list goes on, your life has been completely uprooted over the course of the last few days. You’d felt so numb then, so cold and alone despite being surrounded by family.

Dinner ends soon and your new life begins immediately, as your parents and brothers crowd together in a warm, alleviated bunch, striding towards the wide double doors to the left of the family dining room, you are taken to the right by a maid, he gives you a pity filled look, it only makes you feel worse.

The room wasn’t very different, smaller, sure, but mostly the same, you had your desk, your bed, your wardrobe, and a few other things from your room- notably, your sword rack is missing, as are all of the swords inside it. You try not to be hurt by its loss. It doesn’t work very well. Additionally, a solid, dark wood dressing screen was set next to your wardrobe.

You remember that first night above all else, it’s when things had truly begun to come together in your mind. You sat on your windowsill until dawn broke, crying, thinking, and crying some more. You had been so young then, and you’d missed your mother. The next morning you were introduced to your handmaid and your guard.

Years pass, you’ve grown used to this life. You’re a man now, your family has grown, with three younger brothers beneath you, and your kingdom is…well.

It’s in an interesting state to say the least. The future is unpredictable, it changes and adapts constantly, nobody can be certain of anything. How the King and Queen had bet so much on it you’ll never know. They’d bet two things, that all of their children would be alphas, and that all of their children would like women. They were wrong on both accounts. You remained the only omega, outside of the Queen, but thus far you’ve had two brothers, one older and one younger, express their preference for men. Then, of course, there was yourself.

You had been promised to marry some princess before either of you could even walk, let alone agree. In the end, your parents and hers decided not to go through with it, forcing one omega to marry another would result in…nothing. Male or not, omegas can’t exactly get other omegas pregnant. You couldn’t help the sigh of relief that left you, you see the princess do the same.

Your brothers got lucky, your younger hadn’t been promised to anyone, it seems they’d learned their lesson after you, and your older had been promised to a neighboring kingdom before either of them were born, when both were born male, the deal had been deemed null. But, through a rather silly series of events, the two met, fell in love, and were now married. A true story book romance for your older brother. You hadn’t been allowed to go to the wedding, but you had been personally invited by your brother, which was enough for you. You weren’t allowed to go to many things. You were, after all, your family's greatest shame. Still, you appreciated the thought, even if your brother had to sneak to your side of the castle in the dead of night just to deliver the invitation.

It’s been years now and you still kept the paper pressed between the pages of a book- for safety of course. Neither you nor your brother would hear the end of it if your parents had found out that he’d spoken to you.

Your failed arranged marriage had brought problems, for one, trade with the other kingdom had been cut completely. You weren’t exactly sure what had been traded between the kingdoms, but its loss had clearly become a big problem. Your now nonexistent engagement had been what kept that trade route open, with it decidedly gone, the trade routes had been closed.

Your guard, Sir Pierce- which was a rather fitting name for a knight-, relays information to you, he’s not supposed to, of course he isn’t, he’d be fired on the spot if he was discovered, so you appreciate it even more. Just small tidbits from the royal courts meetings- he is still subscribed to the idea that an omega shouldn’t be worried about such things, but he indulges you as long as you promise to behave. You promise to try and that seems to be good enough for him.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

To be summoned before your parents was beyond rare, it’s happened only twice since you presented, neither time had been particularly joyous events for you. Quite the opposite, actually, still, you go when you are summoned. Your guard follows closely behind you as you're escorted to the opposite side of the castle. The sound of his footsteps drowning out yours as they echo throughout the empty halls. The staff had been dismissed, you did your best not to sigh. It’s because of you, you’re aware. It still stings- you weren’t a secret, a thing to be ashamed of and a causer of problems, sure. But you’d never been a secret.

You arrive before the doors and Pierce takes a few long strides ahead of you to open them. You give him a quiet thanks as you pass and he nods in return.

Before your parents, you feel small. As is their design. Their thrones sat on a platform elevated nearly two feet above all else, your family crest in a shining, brilliant gold hung behind them on the wall. You bow deeply before asking, in so many polite words, why you were there.

“My son-“ ah, so it’s bad. It’s rare for them to acknowledge you as such, it’s even rarer that they do so directly. “-trouble has come.”

You blink, “What kind of trouble, father?”

The word feels strange in your mouth, you’ve only called him such a few times since childhood, the number dwindles even further as the years go by.

“War, my son, war. With the Uxas Kingdom in the west. You know of them?”

Do you? You were nearly married into that family. You knew things had been strained since the closure of the trade routes, they were going to be. But war seemed overly arduous for both kingdoms. An over reaction, truly. Your hand in marriage could not have been worth so much, even with all the material things that came with it. You are the fourth son. While your older brothers' spouses may be showered with gifts from the kingdom, from palaces, to statues, to endless gold, you would have been lucky to be able to gift land and other such practical gifts. Royalty did not marry for practicality, however. They married for elevation. Riches were just the beginning for some, truly.

“I do.”

He gives a relieved sigh, yet his posture remains strained and stiff.

“Princess Lorraine has passed, an illness has plagued her for some time, yet King Uxas blames us.” His highness continues.

Ah.

Fuck.

Wars over land, over prospects, over marriage and materials were simple. They had reason. Wars of emotion had no reason. No logic, nothing can be bargained or promised that will quell a pain that deep. If King Uxas is lashing out in rage, with no demands and nothing to lose, this war will certainly be a blood bath. The streets of your kingdom will run red. Your kingdom is larger, yes, but the military of Uxas was one of devastatingly overwhelming power.

Your heart sinks, how many would die for this? For a war that you hadn’t even meant to cause. It’s your fault, of course. Maybe if you’d been able to marry Princess Lorraine like you were supposed to this could have been prevented, maybe not her death, her fathers madness may not have been so great, and maybe he would not have lashed out in such a way.

Why did things have to be this way?

“I have something to ask of you.”

You raise your head, staring up at him.

“Yes, father?”

He looks uncertain, his eyes never meet yours. He looks to the Queen, and she nods at him, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Another Kingdom has offered aid in our time of need. They will help defend us, they have no need for our gold, our land, or our trade, we have nothing to offer in return...”

Ah, you have a feeling you know where this is going.

“…except…you.”

You blink, again and again. You. You were being traded as a material prize. You let out a small huff of air.

“Father, I-“

“The king has a son- an unmarried, alpha son—“ he corrects, “-he is troubled and seems to have no interest in marriage, but he has agreed to this union.”

This is…fine. Very fine. Your throat feels dry and tight as his words reach your ears. You take a deep breath.

“I will do what I must you protect this Kingdom”

This pleases him as a wide grin spreads across his face.

Soon, you are dismissed, and as you exit you see Pierce’s gobsmacked face staring back at you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Once back in your room, Sir Pierce immediately crosses a line. With your curtains drawn and your door locked, Pierce pulls you into his arms. You’re thankful for his light armor, though his chest plate is far too solid against your chest and his bracers dug into your back a bit, you don’t care. You needed this. He is your friend after all, your only friend. You sink into the hug, you can feel how warm he is beneath it all. You rest your head on his shoulder as he gently sways with you.

“I’m..” he starts, so quiet you nearly miss it, “..I’m so sorry, your highness.”

You sigh, “nothing to be done now..”

He squeezes a bit harder but doesn’t speak for a long time, you revel in his warmth.

“I- you could leave, your highness. I’d go with you, if you’d like. To take care of you-“

“Piece,” you stop the man in his tracks, pulling back just enough for him to loosen his grip, you look up at him, “I have to fulfill my duty to this kingdom.”

He nods, face sunken in sadness.

“I understand, your highness”

“Thank you.” You detach yourself from him completely, even though you could feel that he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“There’s no need to worry, I’ll have my dear knight by my side to protect me,” you say with a bit of humor in your voice.

“Of course.” He says, dead serious.

You can’t help but laugh, “Good night, Sir Pierce.”

He hesitates, then nods, “Good night, your highness.”

You hear the door close behind you as you begin to change into your sleep clothes.

Sir Pierce has always been a good friend to you, but you know sometimes he lets his instincts carry him too much. He is an alpha explicitly ordered to care for an omega, but sometimes he takes his job a bit too seriously. The idea of running away with Pierce, being on the run for who knows how long to escape this marriage- it was an interesting one to say the least. You never thought he’d take his job so seriously to the point of betrayal. He has however been taking care of you for a long time, having been assigned to you just as he exited his first round of knight training when he was still just a boy. You could admit you’d grown quite attached to him, a friend like him is hard to come by, even if his ideas about omegas were inconvenient for you at times. But he is your friend, a good friend- and a good knight- you wonder, despite your words, if you’ll even be allowed to take him with you when you marry…whomever you are due to marry.

As you climb into bed you can’t help but wonder what kind of man your future husband was. Would he be a kind man? The king said he was troubled, but that could mean a plethora of things. You yourself had been described as troubled- troublesome, more often- but still.

You settle with another sigh. God, what are you going to do? Marry, obviously. But then what? What is expected of you? You knew, technically, but if he has previously had no interest in marriage maybe he wouldn’t expect certain things from you. Maybe the two of you could just co-exist. Married on paper and in others eyes. That’d be ideal, if unlikely.

Whatever comes, you just hope he isn’t cruel.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The banging on Jason’s door came far earlier than he’d expected. Propriety seemed to have gone out the window, but then again Dick has never been too proper away from the public eye anyways. It’s still dark out.

Jason doesn’t want to get up.

He knows what’s coming, honestly he thought it’d come a lot sooner. All things considered, Dick is Jason’s oldest brother. The only sibling he has above him, the only one who knew him before and occasionally has trouble seeing him as he is now and not as a small, malnourished street urchin. Hence the banging on his door. A minute or so passes and it doesn’t stop nor slow down, he hears Dick outside, muttering angrily to himself. Of course he’s upset, Jason’s sure if it had been any of his siblings beneath him he’d be pissed too.

He huffs and pushes himself upright. He doesn’t want to open the door. It’s too late and too early all at once and he was so tired of the lectures. From the one he’d gotten from Bruce the second the king and queen of whatever kingdom had left, to the all alphas are the same speech he’d gotten from Tim- desperate, he’d called him, desperate-, and the deep scolding he’d gotten Barbara, admittedly, she’d been one of the few people to actually hear his reasoning, only a few people who’d stopped by to yell at him had done as much.

He’s still banging on the door.

Jason rises with a groan, huffing out a sigh as he drags himself to the door. It’s barely unlocked before Dick comes barreling in. Slamming the door behind him, his face twisted in exasperation. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, instead he stares, confused, nearly offended even. It’s too early for this.

“If you’re just going to stare-“

“How could you?” Dick interrupts.

Right- straight to it then

“It’s not what you think. I swear it isn’t. It’s-“

Difficult to explain to anyone who wasn’t there. The king and queen were…god they were the worst. Horribly boisterous and terribly boring all at once- of course when they’d offered aid after Uxas very public declaration of war, they weren’t doing it for the pompous royal family. They wanted to help the people. They were near enough that sending aid, in whatever form it may take, wasn’t difficult. When they arrived, half of the family hadn’t been home. Jason wasn’t supposed to be home either, having planned on hiding out in the town until it was time to see the foreign royalty off. He’d been just a few moments too late, however, and was promptly dragged to dinner with them. Damien had been pinned there as well, Duke and Cassandra too, the rest of his siblings had missed the annoyance that dinner had been.

They were proud, overly so. Primarily of their wealth, but a close second was their children. Jason had learned very quickly when he was thrust into the height of society that alpha children were even more revered than they were in regular life. Royalty among royalty, an irrefutable truth that biology determined everything here. Jason could hardly listen to them rant about their sons, their pride and joy, their light in the dark. Despite their bragging, they seemed to know nothing about their children other than the fact that they were all healthy, handsome, alphas. Almost all. Bruce had mentioned there being seven children- one being completely absent from this praise- when Bruce asked about him, the room quickly turned rather gloomy.

An omega in a family of alphas, the queen said it like it was a great travesty, he’s kind and handsome- troublesome- but a good boy, he was just…wrong. Maybe that resonates with Jason in a way- he’d always been an alpha, even before he’d been taken in by Bruce. But life had not always been kind to him, even now it still wasn’t. He tries not to think about it. Still he can’t help but listen more keenly for mentions of the sullen omega prince.

Luckily, the social part of the meal ends soon enough, and business talks begin. Jason doesn’t miss the bored looks on his siblings' faces. Business is inherently uninteresting. It drags and Jason considers dismissing himself, there is no reason to make himself suffer, he could be doing hundreds of more interesting things with his time. Instead he sits, hoping lightning might hit the building and in a stroke of luck kill everyone here. He eats silently.

Soon, a problem becomes apparent. These two refuse to take their aid for free. They were understandable cautious at first, but now they were boarding on paranoid. ‘Nobody wants to just give’ they insisted, ‘you must want something in return.’. Bruce didn’t, he’s kind like that, he wants nothing from them and they can’t believe it, they simply refuse to. Their offers are endless and needless. Gold, land, trade- all things Bruce had more than enough of and couldn’t bear to take from a kingdom smaller than his.

They beg, in their own royal way. Take something or they will not accept their aid. He understands, even if he’s annoyed. Hand outs often weren’t as they seem, taking them so willingly could lead to a whole world of problems on their own. They need to have stakes in this, something that won’t leave them so exposed, a trade, something valuable in exchange for aid. Jason wishes they’d just accept, that they’d save whatever supposed consequences they’d conceived in their minds for the future- but they wouldn’t be good rulers if they’d done that. A kingdom does not become as prosperous as theirs when you intentionally leave problems from an inevitable future.

People are going to die in this war regardless, many people, but many, many more are going to be brutalized if they cannot see reason- as they stand it didn’t seem likely they would. They argue, debate, Bruce insists on his honesty, the king threatens to shut down the roads between their kingdoms. It’s their last ditch attempt, Jason knows, when they offer their son. It’s done in a quiet, shaky offer from the king, full of hesitation, the words leave him. It renders the dining room speechless. His only omega son’s hand in marriage in return for their aid. A plea. The Queen quickly follows, suddenly having much to say about the child she so desperately tried to avoid mentioning before. He’s smart, kind, handsome. Well trained in a manner of arts, unmated, unmarried, and untouched. An omega of pristine quality and condition.

Bruce refutes and the pair get up to leave.

All that Jason can think about is death, the pain that will come from them being so stupid and so smart at the same time. ‘Just accept,’ he thinks as they stand, ‘accept the help given to you or you’ll all die!’.

Bruce tries to make them see reason.

They’re going to die. King Uxas blames them directly for the death of his daughter, he won’t stop until every member of the royal family is gone, until every citizen knows the pains and horrors of war, until their kingdom is nothing but a pile of smoking ash and long forgotten history.

It’s unfair, it’s not right. It’s selfish.

He can’t let this happen.

With an indelible hesitancy in his voice, Jason speaks for the first time, “Your highness, I-“

Dick drapes himself across Jason’s bed as he listens to him recount the story of his engagement, staring at the ceiling, his face blank.

As Jason finishes, sitting in a chair he’d pulled from his desk, opposite to Dick, he lets out a huff, then sags.

“I hope you know that this is incredibly stupid, Jason.”

“I’m aware.”

Dick sits up, “Are you sure? Do you? Jason, do you have any idea what you’ve agreed to?”

Jason huffs again, he knows this was stupid, but as stupid as it’d been, it had worked. In the days since that dinner the first battalion had already been moved to their newly allied kingdom.

“I do, I’ve thought this through, Dick, I swear.”

Dick groans out in frustration. Jason’s sure he’d be tearing his hair out in clumps if he’d said. It’s bullshit, honestly it’s more than bullshit. He’s actually been trying his damnedest to not think about it.

“Jason, what are you going to do if he expects an actual marriage? With feelings and whatnot.”

He has been trying not to think about it.

“I will…try my best-“

Dick flops back down onto his bed with another deeply frustrated noise.

“I wouldn’t have done this if I had a choice, people were going to die. It’s not like I was getting married anytime soon anyways.”

Dick sighs, then laughs, “God, Jason…”

Silence passes and after a long moment Dick asks, “Can I be your best man?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The kingdom was buzzing with excitement, everyone seemed to have a bit more energy as the news of Jason’s upcoming wedding spread throughout the kingdom. Jason couldn’t go more than a few minutes without being congratulated or praised on finding such a kind and open omega. Jason is aware of what he is. His family tries not to mention it, and when it is mentioned they refute it. But refusal does not change what is a fact. Jason, on a fundamental level, was broken. He knows this, physically and mentally, he isn’t what he should be. He’s broad, strong, smart. But he’s disgusting. An ugly thing. A monster just barely wearing human skin.

And now he’s forcing some poor man to marry that. Regret consumes him more and more as the days pass.

The wedding, his wedding, is in a week. He hasn’t let himself think about it for more than a minute a day. He trains, he studies, he reads, he goes for walks, he cooks, he goes about life as normal. He does not think about it. Yet everyone around him seemed to be unable to stop reminding him of it.

He continues not to think about it when the family and his soon-to-be husband arrives. He was supposed to be there, in front of the castle's main entrance, to greet them as they arrived. He was supposed to bow and smile and greet his new in-laws. Look his future husband in the face and feel something other than regret and fear blooming in his chest. Instead, fear seizes him, and he finds himself in the back garden most of the day.

It’s quiet, nearly dead in some places, hidden through a series of elaborate paths and locked doors. Jason considers it his own. It’s unkempt and in desperate need of repair, Jason tries, on his better days, he tries to water it, nurture it, bring it back to life- hence it only being nearly dead. But Jason hasn’t had a good day in a long while and the garden has suffered for it. He arrives sometime early in the day, when the sun still burns and gleams high in the sky. He paces, and breaks when his knee can’t take it anymore, he stares at the sky and wishes he’d brought some entertainment along with him, he doesn’t dare go back inside, he waters what he can before pain catches up to him again, and still he rests on the edge of the ledge of the large stone fountain in between sections. He wishes he’d brought his cane. He’d thought about it, made a mental note- he’s already in pain as it is and it’ll only worsen throughout the day- Still, Jason forgets it and is already halfway to the garden when he remembers. He doesn’t go back for it.

nanami remembered everything about you; your coffee order, the name of your childhood pet, the way you liked your eggs in the morning (over easy, with toast, never bacon because you were picky about meat textures). he'd text you good morning every day without fail, and good night every evening, and if you ever mentioned being stressed or tired or overwhelmed, he'd show up at your door with takeout from your favorite restaurant and a quiet offer to run you a bath.

oh, and the sex was just as good as everything else.

nanami fucked like he lived — deliberate, controlled, and devastatingly effective. he took his time with you, learned every sound you made, every spot that made you gasp, every angle that made you see stars. he was bigger than average in every sense, thick and heavy and curved just slightly to the left, and when he pushed inside you it felt like being filled with warm honey; slow and sweet and so, so much.

he never rushed, never demanded, never made you feel like anything less than the center of his universe.

and the way nanami looked at you after sex, with those tired brown eyes gone soft and fond, running his fingers through your hair while you caught your breath... god, it made you want to keep him forever.

but then there was higuruma hiromi.

you met higuruma three months into your arrangement with nanami, purely by accident. you'd been at a gallery opening — one of those pretentious art things where the wine is free and the conversations are even emptier — when a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit bumped into you near the bar.

"sorry," he'd said, and his voice was rough, used, like he'd spent too many hours in courtrooms arguing with people who should have known better. "didn't see you there."

you'd looked up and nearly choked on your champagne.

higuruma hiromi was striking; not handsome in the same way nanami was handsome, but striking in a way that made your stomach completely flip — sharp jaw, darker skin, dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, falling into his face in a way that looked effortless but probably wasn't. and his eyes were intelligent and tired and so hungry all at once, and when they landed on you, they stayed.

"it's fine," you'd managed, and then, because you'd had three glasses of champagne and your filter was nonexistent; "you look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

higuruma had blinked at that, then laughed — a real laugh, low and a little surprised, like he really hadn't expected to find anything funny tonight.

"that obvious?"

"only to someone else who'd rather be anywhere else."

he'd bought you another glass of champagne after that, and then another, and then the man had walked you to your car and asked for your number in a way that made it clear he wasn't used to asking for anything.

the very first time you went to higuruma’s apartment — a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that made your chest ache — you'd told yourself it was just à simple dinner, just getting to know each other, just two adults enjoying each other's company.

the second time you went to higuruma’s apartment, you'd ended up on your knees on his ridiculously expensive rug while he stood over you with his shirt unbuttoned and his belt undone, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

higuruma was different from nanami.

where nanami was controlled, higuruma was intense. where nanami took his time, higuruma wanted you now, wanted you desperate, wanted to watch you fall apart for him over and over until you couldn't remember your own name. he was a prosecutor, which meant he spent his days arguing and his nights exhausted, and somehow, with you, he'd found a way to pour all that intensity into something that wasn't rage.

and higuruma was rougher than nanami.

not in a way that hurt — never in a way that hurt, because higuruma might have been intense but he was also careful, always checking in, always making sure you were okay — but in a way that left you breathless. he liked to hold you down, he liked to pull your hair, he liked to fuck you from behind while he whispered filthy things in your ear about how good you felt, how tight you were, how you were his, weren't you?

and you were. god, you were.

higuruma was also bigger than nanami.

longer, maybe not quite as thick, but long enough that when he pushed inside you it felt like he was reaching somewhere no one else had ever touched. the first time he'd fucked you, you'd come so hard you'd blacked out for a second, and when you came back to yourself he was hovering over you with genuine panic in his eyes.

"hey. hey, baby, stay with me. are you okay? shit, i'm sorry, i should have—"

you'd kissed him quiet and told him you'd never been better.

and it was true.

so, just like that, you'd ended up with two sugar daddies; two older men, both successful, both ridiculously wealthy, both completely and utterly obsessed with you, and neither of them knew about the other.

at first, it was really easy.

nanami had you every tuesdays and fridays, and higuruma had you every mondays and thursdays. you had wednesdays and weekends to yourself, to recover, to sleep, to answer texts from both of them that grew increasingly desperate the longer you went without seeing them.

thinking about you, nanami would randomly text, and somehow those three words in his steady, understated way made your heart race just as much as the things higuruma sent; come over. i need you. now.

you told yourself it was fine; you weren't lying to either of them, exactly — you just weren't telling them the whole truth. and it wasn't like you'd agreed to be exclusive or anything. the arrangements were clearly open-ended, casual in theory if not in practice, and neither of them had ever asked if you were seeing anyone else or not.

maybe they'd assumed, maybe they'd hoped, but neither of them had asked.

so you let yourself have both of them, you let yourself sink into nanami's steady warmth on tuesdays and fridays, let yourself burn in higuruma's intensity on mondays and thursdays, you let yourself be taken care of, financially and emotionally and sexually, in ways you'd never imagined possible.

you didn't work — really, didn't have to. nanami had set up an account for you within the first month, transferring a generous allowance every week without you ever having to ask about or, and higuruma had done the same, though he'd handed you a black card during your third week together and said,

"spend whatever you want. i mean it."

you'd bought a lot of books, and some very nice loungewear, and a new mattress because your old one had been giving you back pain, and when both of them had asked about the charge on their respective statements, you'd told them the truth and they'd both offered to buy you a better one.

( nanami had actually gone with you to test mattresses, lying down next to you on display models in the middle of a showroom while you tried not to laugh at how serious he looked. higuruma had just sent you a link to a five-thousand-dollar mattress and said; "get this one, it's the best."

you'd gotten the one nanami helped you pick, and then you'd used higuruma's card to buy the sheets. )

it was the perfect setup imaginable.

you had everything you wanted — money, attention, the kind of sex that left you walking funny for days — and you didn't have to choose, didn't have to give up one for the other.

except…

except nanami was observant; it was one of the things you loved about him, the way he noticed everything, the way he remembered details that other people would have forgotten. and over time, he'd started to notice things.

the way you'd sometimes wince when you sat down on friday nights, even though you hadn't seen him since tuesday. the way you'd have fresh bruises on your hips that he hadn't put there, smaller finger-shaped marks than his that spoke of someone who held you way harder than nanami ever did. the way you'd sometimes smell faintly of a cologne that wasn't his at all— something woody and expensive, with notes of cedar and something darker, something almost smoky.

nanami hadn't said anything. well, not at first; he'd just filed the information away, let it sit in the back of his mind, turned it over like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

and then, one tuesday night, you'd fallen asleep on his couch after an especially thorough fucking, and your phone had buzzed on the coffee table.

nanami hadn't meant to look at your phone. he really hadn't. but the screen had lit up with a text message, and he'd glanced over automatically, the way literally anyone would, and he'd seen the name at the top of the notification, and the message underneath;

higuruma hiromi ♥︎ you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?

nanami had felt something cold settle in his chest. it was not anger, exactly — he wasn't really sure what it was. something heavier, something that tasted like betrayal and mine and how dare you all at once.

he'd known the name; everyone in the legal world in tokyo knew higuruma hiromi — the defense attorney turned prosecutor with the perfect conviction rate and the reputation for being impossible to read. nanami had never met the man personally, but he'd seen his picture in legal journals, heard colleagues talk about him in hushed, respectful tones.

and now, apparently, higuruma hiromi was texting you.

nanami hadn't confronted you that night, he hadn't mentioned the text when you woke up and stretched and smiled at him like he was the only person in the world; he'd just kissed your forehead and made you breakfast and watched you leave with the same careful, measuring gaze he used in boardrooms when he knew someone was lying.

but he'd started paying closer attention after that.

meanwhile, higuruma had his own suspicions.

he wasn't a detective, but he'd spent enough time in courtrooms to know when someone was hiding something, and you, for all your sweetness, for all your desperate little sounds and the way you curled into him after sex like you never wanted to leave, were definitely hiding something.

it was the little things; the way you'd sometimes check your phone when you thought he wasn't looking, a guilty flush spreading across your cheeks. the way you'd never let him stay over on tuesdays or fridays, always making some excuse about needing to wake up early or having plans with friends. the way you'd sometimes say things that didn't quite add up, details shifting just slightly from one conversation to the next.

and then there were the marks, too.

higuruma always marked you.

not in a possessive way — well, maybe a little in a possessive way — but in a way that felt natural, instinctive. he liked to bite your neck, your shoulders, the inside of your thighs. he liked to leave bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in while he fucked you. he liked to watch you look at them in the mirror the next morning, he liked knowing that you'd carry pieces of him with you throughout your day.

but sometimes, when he saw you closely, there were marks he didn't recognize.

not bruises, exactly. more like... tenderness. a slight redness around your wrists that suggested someone had held them down, but way softer than the way higuruma held you. a faint little mark on your collarbone that looked like it had been made by lips, not by teeth.

and the way you moved sometimes — carefully, like you were sore in places that he hadn't touched recently — made something dark curl in his stomach.

higuruma really wasn't the jealous type. or at least, he hadn't thought he was, but the idea of someone else touching you, someone else making you gasp and moan and fall apart, someone else seeing you the way he saw you...

it made him want to do unreasonable things.

so when he'd sent that text on tuesday night — "you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?" — and you'd only replied the next morning with a string of apologies and excuses that didn't quite hold together, he'd started doing his own little investigating.

and it hadn't taken long.

nanami kento was not a subtle man; he was quiet, yes, and really reserved, but he wasn't subtle at all. his name appeared on your credit card statements when you bought groceries at the store near his apartment. your location — which you'd foolishly left shared with higuruma — showed you spending tuesday and friday nights at an address in a very wealthy neighborhood that wasn't yours.

and when higuruma had driven past that address one friday evening, just to see, he'd recognized the car in the driveway.

it was a very nice, understated and expensive car. the kind of car that belonged to someone who didn't need to show off because they already knew what they were worth.

and it was nanami kento's car.

higuruma had silently sat in his own car for a very, very long time that night, gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide how he felt. angry? yes, a little. hurt? more than a little. but mostly — mostly, he was determined.

because you were his, and he was going to prove it.

the confrontation happened on a saturday.

you'd been careless; you'd spent friday night with nanami, as usual, and then you'd agreed to see higuruma on saturday afternoon, even though you'd told both of them you needed the weekend to yourself.

but higuruma had sounded so needy on the phone, his voice rough in that way it got when he'd been thinking about you too much, and you'd caved.

"come over," he'd said. "please. i need to see you."

and you'd gone, because you could never say no to higuruma when he said please.

you'd been at his apartment for about an hour, curled up on his couch in one of his t-shirts, when the doorbell rang.

higuruma had frowned. the man wasn't expecting anyone, and he'd told his doorman not to let anyone up, which meant whoever was at the door had either been cleared by security or had found another way in.

"stay here," he'd said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before standing up.

you'd nodded, pulling a blanket over your lap, and watched him walk to the door. he'd looked through the peephole first, and you'd seen his entire body go still.

"who is it?" you'd asked, suddenly nervous.

higuruma hadn't answered, he'd just unlocked the door and pulled it open, and there, standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his face that you'd never seen before, was nanami kento.

"we need to talk," nanami had said, his voice flat, not looking at higuruma, but looking at you.

your heart had completely stopped.

"kento—" you'd started, but your voice came out as a squeak, and you'd had to stop and clear your throat before speaking again. "kento, i can explain—"

"can you?" he'd stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. his eyes hadn't left yours. "because i've been waiting for an explanation for quite some time now."

higuruma had moved to stand between you and nanami, his posture defensive. "how did you get up here?"

"your doorman is very professional," nanami had said, still looking at you. "but he's also very easy to persuade when you tell him you're here to see your boyfriend."

"you're not his—"

"neither are you," nanami had cut him off, finally turning to face him. "not exclusively, anyway. which i think is the point we're both here to discuss."

the air in the room had been thick enough to cut with a knife. you'd pulled your knees up to your chest, making yourself as small as possible, trying to disappear into the couch cushions.

"i'm not going to yell," nanami had said, and his voice was still calm, still steady, but there was something underneath it that made you shiver. "i'm not going to make a scene. but we are going to talk about this. all three of us."

higuruma had looked at you then, and his expression had softened slightly, just enough to make your chest ache.

"is this true?" he'd asked. "have you been seeing both of us?"

you'd swallowed hard, and you nodded.

"for how long?"

"...six months."

higuruma had closed his eyes, and nanami had exhaled slowly through his nose.

and then, instead of yelling, instead of leaving, instead of any of the things you'd imagined happening in your worst-case scenarios, they'd both sat down.

nanami on the armchair across from the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. higuruma next to you on the couch, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"here's what's going to happen," nanami had said, and his voice was calm in a way that made your stomach flip. "we're going to talk. you're going to tell us the truth. and then we're going to figure out what comes next."

"but—"

"no buts," higuruma had interrupted, and his voice was rougher than usual, strained. "you owe us that much."

so you'd talked.

you'd told them everything — how you'd met nanami first, how you'd fallen into the arrangement with him, how you'd met higuruma by accident and hadn't been able to say no. you'd told them about the lies you'd told, the schedules you'd juggled, the guilt you'd felt (sometimes) and the way you'd convinced yourself it was totally fine because neither of them had asked for exclusivity.

you'd cried a little, towards the end.

not because you were scared — though you were, a little — but because saying it all out loud made it real in a way it hadn't been before, made you see yourself through their eyes; selfish, greedy, taking everything both of them had to offer without giving either of them the full truth.

when you'd finished, the silence had stretched out for a long time, and nanami had been the first to speak.

"i'm not going to pretend i'm not hurt," he'd said quietly. "because i am. i thought... i thought what we had was special. i thought you felt the same way i did."

"i do—"

"but i'm also not going to pretend i don't understand," he'd continued, cutting you off gently. "you're young. you wanted to be taken care of. and neither of us ever asked if you were seeing anyone else. that's on us as much as it's on you."

higuruma had made a little sound, something between a laugh and a scoff.

"you're being very reasonable about this."

"would you prefer i wasn't?"

"no," higuruma had admitted. "i'd just... you know, i'd expected more of a fight."

nanami had looked at higuruma then, and something had passed between them, something you couldn't quite read.

"i'm not going to fight you," nanami had said. "that's not productive. but i'm also not going to walk away."

"neither am i," higuruma had said, and his voice had hardened a little. "so what does that leave?"

another silence, this one was longer this time.

and then nanami had said, very quietly;

"it leaves us with a choice. we can both walk away, and let him find someone else. or we can..."

"can what?"

nanami had looked at you; his eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them that made your breath catch.

"or we can share."

the conversation that followed had been... intense.

not angry, exactly. neither nanami nor higuruma seemed interested in yelling, which honestly surprised you; you'd expected more fireworks, accusations, maybe some thrown furniture. instead, they'd talked to each other, and to you, with the kind of measured calm that felt almost more unnerving than anger would have been.

nanami had asked practical questions — how often do you see him? what does your schedule look like? has he been tested recently? — he'd approached it like a business negotiation, which made sense given nanami’s background, but there was something underneath the practicality that you recognized: the man was hurting, trying to maintain control because he didn't know what else to do.

higuruma had been less composed; he'd paced the length of the living room while they talked, running his hands through his hair, stopping every few minutes to look at you like he was trying to memorize your face. he'd asked different questions, too — why didn't you tell me? did you think i wouldn't understand? do you have any idea how i felt when i figured it out? — and his voice had cracked on the last one, just slightly, in a way that made your heart clench.

you'd answered everything honestly. no more lies. no more half-truths. you owed them that much.

and somehow, impossibly, they'd come to an agreement.

"we're not going to make you choose," nanami had said finally, after nearly two hours of talking. "that wouldn't be fair to anyone. but things are going to change."

"what kind of changes?" you'd asked, your voice small.

higuruma had stopped pacing, and he looked at nanami, and then he nodded once, sharply.

"from now on," nanami had said, "you don't lie to us. about anything. if you're seeing one of us, the other knows. if you need something, you simply ask. and if you want to be with both of us at the same time..."

he'd trailed off, and the look he'd exchanged with higuruma had been loaded with something you couldn't quite name.

"we'll figure that out as we go," higuruma had finished. "but right now—"

"right now," nanami had said, standing up from the armchair, "i think we need to establish some things."

he'd walked over to the couch, stood in front of you, looked down at you with those tired brown eyes that had gone dark with something that looked a lot like hunger.

"stand up," he'd said quietly.

you'd stood.

"take off his shirt."

you'd blinked, and looked at higuruma, who was watching you both with an expression that made your stomach flip.

"kento—"

"you heard me," nanami’s voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. "you've been lying to us for six months. keeping secrets. letting us think we were the only ones. don't you think you owe us something?"

your mouth had gone dry.

slowly, keeping your eyes on nanami's, you'd pulled the shirt over your head, then dropped it on the floor, and stood there in nothing but your underwear, shivering slightly even though the apartment was warm.

nanami had looked at you for a very long moment.

then he'd slowly reached out and traced a finger down your chest, over your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your underwear.

"you're beautiful," he'd said, and the words had sounded almost reluctant, like he didn't want to admit it. "you know that, don't you? you know why we both put up with this?"

you'd shaken your head, not trusting your voice.

"because you're ours," higuruma had said from behind you, and his voice was rough, ragged. "or you were supposed to be. and we're going to remind you of that."

you'd felt higuruma move closer, felt his chest press against your back, felt his breath hot on your neck. nanami was still in front of you, still tracing patterns on your skin, and you were trapped between them, surrounded by them, drowning in the smell of both their colognes and the heat of their bodies.

"what—" you'd started, but you couldn't finish, because nanami had leaned in and kissed you.

it wasn't like his usual kisses; those were slow, gentle, almost reverent. this one was hungry. his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place, and his tongue pushed into your mouth like he was claiming you, marking you, reminding you who you belonged to.

you'd moaned into his mouth, and behind you, higuruma had made a sound — low and dark and possessive — and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back against him, and you could feel him hard through his pants.

"kento," you'd gasped when he finally pulled back. "h-hiromi, please—"

"please what?" nanami had asked, and his voice was rough now, not calm at all. "please fuck you? please remind you that you're ours? please make you forget every lie you've ever told?"

"yes," you'd breathed. "yes."

higuruma had turned your head to the side, captured your mouth in a kiss that was nothing like nanami's; this one was all teeth and tongue and need, and when he pulled back you were dizzy, barely able to stand.

"bedroom," higuruma had said, and it wasn't a question.

higuruma’s bedroom was as impressive as the rest of his luxurious apartment — floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, a king-sized bed with sheets that probably cost more than your first car, soft lighting that made everything feel hazy and unreal.

you barely had time to take it in before you were being pushed onto the bed, falling back against the pillows, looking up at two very hot men who were both staring at you like you were the last meal they'd ever have.

nanami was unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate, careful movements, the way he did everything. his chest was broad, muscular without being bulky, with a smattering of blond hair that you'd spent hours tracing with your fingers. he caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, and something about the expression on his face made your cock twitch.

higuruma was less patient; the man had already pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his skin stretched over lean muscle, a body that looked like it had been carved out of something harder than flesh. his pants came next, then his boxers, and when he was fully naked you had to remind yourself how to breathe.

you'd seen both of them naked before, of course, many times, but seeing them together, standing side by side, both of them hard and watching you with the same dark intensity...

it was a lot.

"like what you see, baby?" higuruma asked, and there was something almost challenging in his voice. "because we've been looking at you for six months. wondering. imagining what it would be like to have you like this."

"i—"

"take off your underwear," nanami interrupted, and his voice was calm again, a little more controlled, but his eyes were anything but. "slowly."

you did as he said, hooking your thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down your legs; your cock sprang free, already hard, leaking precum onto your stomach, and both of them watched with matching expressions of hunger.

"fuck," higuruma breathed. "look at you, baby. so desperate for it already."

"he's always desperate," nanami said, and there was something almost fond in his voice. "that's one of the things i like about him. he never pretends he doesn't want it."

"i don't," you admitted, your voice shaking. "i want it. i want you. both of you—please."

nanami climbed onto the bed first, settling on his knees just beside you. he reached out and ran his hand down your chest, over your stomach, wrapping his fingers around your cock in a grip that made you gasp.

"you're going to take both of us tonight," he said, stroking you slowly, watching your face. "do you understand what that means, sweetheart?"

you nodded frantically.

"i want to hear you say it."

"i'm going to take both of you," you repeated, and your voice cracked on the last word. "i want to. i want—"

"what do you want?" higuruma asked, climbing onto the bed on your other side.

his huge hand joined nanami's on your cock, and the insane sensation of both of them touching you at once made your hips buck off the bed.

"tell us exactly what you want, baby. use your words."

"i… i want you to fuck me," you gasped. "both of you. at the same time. i want—i want you to ruin me, i want to be so full i can't think, i want you to use me until i can't remember my own name—please."

"that's enough," nanami said, and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "we'll give you what you want. but we're going to take our time."

higuruma leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, while nanami's hand kept moving on your cock. you were already close, embarrassingly close, but they didn't seem to care; they just kept touching you, kissing you, surrounding you until you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began.

"turn over," nanami said eventually, and his voice was soft but firm. "on your hands and knees."

you moved without thinking, rolling onto your stomach and pushing up onto your hands and knees.

you could easily feel both of them behind you now, you could feel the heat of their bodies, you could hear the sounds of them moving — the rustle of sheets, the soft exhale of breath, the wet click of a lube bottle opening — and you had to close your eyes because it was too much.

"so pretty like this," higuruma murmured, and then you felt his hands on your ass, spreading you open.

his thumbs pulled your cheeks apart, and you knew he could see everything — your hole, still slightly pink from earlier in the week, the way it was already clenching around nothing.

"look at this perfect little hole. do you know how many times i've thought about this? about having you like this while someone else watches?"

"or helps," nanami added, and then you felt his finger — wet with lube, cool against your heated skin — press against your entrance, with higuruma still spreading you open

you moaned, pushing back against him, and he slid inside you easily. one finger, then two, stretching you open, and behind you higuruma was watching, breathing hard, his hands still on your ass, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.

"he's so tight," nanami said, and his voice was strained now, all the calm control slipping away. "even after everything we've done to him, he's still so fucking tight."

"add another," higuruma said, and it wasn't a request.

nanami did, and you cried out at the stretch, at the fullness, at the way both of them were looking at you like you were something precious and filthy all at once.

nanami's fingers curled inside you, searching, and when he found that sweet little spot — the one that made your vision go completely white — you collapsed forward onto your elbows, your whole body shaking.

"there," higuruma said, and his voice was low, almost reverent. "that's it, isn't it? that's the spot that makes him fall apart."

"it is," nanami agreed, and he pressed against it again, harder this time, watching your reaction. "he's so responsive. look at him. he's already crying."

he was right; there were tears on your cheeks, sliding down to drip onto the sheets below. you hadn't even noticed.

"ready?" nanami asked.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

but it wasn't nanami who pushed into you first.

it was higuruma.

he lined himself up behind you, and you felt the head of his cock — long and thick and so much, too much, exactly enough — press against your stretched hole. he pushed in slowly, so slowly, giving you time to adjust, and you buried your face in the pillows and screamed.

not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming size of him, the way he seemed to go on forever, filling you inch by inch until you were sure he was going to split you open.

"shh," higuruma said, but his voice was shaking. "shh, baby, i've got you. just breathe."

you tried to breathe, but it was really hard when higuruma was inside you, filling you up, reaching deeper than anyone had ever reached before. when he was finally fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, you were trembling, tears already leaking from your eyes in earnest.

"good boy," nanami said softly, and then you felt him move.

he'd positioned himself in front of you, kneeling between your hands and your head, and you looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes; nanami’s huge cock was right there, hard and heavy and already leaking, the head flushed dark, and you understood what he wanted.

"open," he said, and you opened your mouth.

he pushed inside slowly, not as deep as he could have, giving you time to adjust. you had higuruma in your ass and nanami in your mouth, and you were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel yourself shaking apart at the seams.

"there you go," nanami murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. "just like that. take it."

higuruma started moving first — slow, deep thrusts that pushed you forward onto nanami's cock. nanami groaned, his hips twitching, and then he started moving too, thrusting into your mouth in rhythm with higuruma's thrusts.

in. out. in. out.

you were nothing but a body between them, a place for them to fuck, and somehow it was exactly what you needed. you wanted to be used. wanted to be filled. wanted to forget everything except the feeling of them inside you.

"he's taking us so well," higuruma said, and his voice was completely wrecked, desperate. "look at him. look at how well he's taking us."

nanami looked down at you, and his eyes were dark, almost black, his pupils blown wide.

"he's perfect," he said, and the words were simple but they hit you like a physical blow. "our perfect boy."

you moaned around nanami's cock, and the vibration made him swear, his hips stuttering.

"f-fuck—do that again," he said, and you did, moaning as higuruma hit that sweet spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes.

"found it," higuruma said, and there was satisfaction in his voice, a dark kind of pleasure. "found that spot, didn't i, baby? that spot that makes you see god?"

you tried to answer, but all that came out was another moan, and nanami's grip on your head tightened.

"keep going," nanami said, and you couldn't tell if he was talking to you or to higuruma. "don't stop."

they didn't stop.

they fucked you like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment, like they were trying to make up for six months of not knowing, like they wanted to leave marks on you that would never fade. higuruma's thrusts got harder, faster, and each one pushed you further onto nanami's cock, and you were drooling, crying, making sounds you'd never made before — high-pitched, desperate, almost animal.

"close," you heard yourself say, or maybe you just thought it, because you literally couldn't feel your mouth anymore. "i'm close, i'm gonna—"

"not yet," nanami said, and he pulled out of your mouth, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. "you don't come until we tell you to."

you sobbed at the loss, at the denial, at the way your body was screaming for release; but you didn't cum. you held on, because nanami had told you to, because higuruma was still fucking you, because you would do anything they asked.

"turn him over," nanami said, and higuruma simply pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, at the sudden absence of being filled.

they flipped you onto your back with gentle but firm hands, and then nanami was above you, pushing your legs up, spreading you open. he lined himself up — you saw him do it, saw the head of his cock press against your slick, stretched hole — and pushed inside in one smooth movement.

you screamed again because nanami was different from higuruma — he was thicker, not as long, but the stretch was almost too much, a different kind of fullness that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.

"fuck," nanami breathed, and his composure was gone now, completely gone. his forehead was beaded with sweat, his jaw tight, and his eyes half-closed. "fuck, you're tight. you're so fucking tight, sweetheart."

"please," you begged. "please, kento, please—"

"higuruma," nanami said, and his voice was commanding despite the way it shook. "get behind him."

you felt the bed shift, you felt higuruma move behind you, you felt him lift your head and shoulders onto his lap, and you were angled now; your hips raised, your hole completely exposed, and nanami was still inside you, still filling you, still stretching you in the most delicious way.

"ready?" higuruma asked, and you felt his cock — slick with lube, thank god, thank every deity that had ever existed — press against your hole alongside nanami's.

"wait—" you started, but it was too late.

they pushed in together.

you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do a damn thing except feel — feel the impossible stretch, the burning fullness, the way they both fit inside you like they'd been made to be there. you were so full you thought you might break, might shatter into a million pieces and never come back together.

"breathe," nanami said, and his voice was strained, shaking, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "breathe, sweetheart. you can take it."

"he's taking it," higuruma said from behind you, and his voice was wonderstruck, almost reverent. "he's actually taking both of us. look at him."

you couldn't look at yourself. actually, you could barely keep your eyes open at all.

but you could feel the way your body was stretched around them, feel the way they were both so deep inside you that you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began. you could feel your own heartbeat pulsing around them, feel every inch of them both.

"move," you gasped. "please, please move, i need—"

nanami moved first, pulling out halfway and pushing back in. higuruma followed, and suddenly they were fucking you in tandem, one pulling out while the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you gasping and crying and begging for more.

"so good," nanami groaned, and his forehead was pressed against yours, his eyes locked on your face. "so good for us, sweetheart. our perfect boy."

"ours," higuruma echoed, and his hand came around to grip your hip, holding you in place while he thrust up into you. "you're ours now. no more lies. no more secrets. just us."

"just us," you repeated, and you didn't know if you meant it or if you were just saying words, but it didn't matter.

nothing mattered except the way they were moving inside you, the way they were completely filling you, the way they were taking you apart piece by piece.

you came first — without permission, without warning, your cock spurting onto your stomach as your body clenched around them both. you heard yourself scream, felt them both groan, felt them both thrust deeper as your orgasm ripped through you like a freight train.

"fuck," nanami said, and his voice was wrecked. "fuck, he's clenching around us."

"can't—can't hold on—" higuruma started, but then he was coming too, you could feel it, feel him spilling inside you, hot and thick and so much, filling you even more.

nanami followed a moment later, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you, adding to the mess inside you, making you feel impossibly, obscenely full.

and then there was silence.

just the sound of three people breathing, trying to remember how to exist outside of this moment.

you thought it was over.

oh, you were so so so wrong.

nanami pulled out first, and you whimpered at the loss, at the feeling of his cum and higuruma's leaking out of you, dripping down onto the sheets. higuruma pulled out a moment later, and you felt emptier than you'd ever felt in your entire life.

"don't," you started, but you didn't know what you were asking for. don't stop? don't leave? don't make me feel this alone?

"we're not done with you," nanami said, and his voice was soft but certain. "not even close."

he rolled you onto your side, and you felt fingers — whose, you couldn't tell anymore — push back into you, pushing their cum deeper, making you moan and arch your back.

"he's still hard," higuruma said, and there was disbelief in his voice. "look. he's still hard."

you looked down and saw that he was right; your cock was already pathetically filling again, twitching against your stomach, desperate for more despite everything you'd already just been through.

"he's young," nanami said, like that explained everything. "and he wants this. don't you, sweetheart? you want more?"

"y-yes, please," you said, and your voice was hoarse from screaming. "please. more. i can take more."

and oh, they did gave you more.

this time, they properly took turn, thoroughly, like they were trying to see who could make you fall apart faster.

higuruma went first.

he pulled you onto your hands and knees again, and nanami positioned himself in front of you, sitting against the headboard with his legs spread, his cock hard and waiting.

"come here, sweetheart," nanami said, and you crawled toward him on shaky limbs, your body trembling with exhaustion and want. "suck me while he fucks you."

you opened your mouth and took nanami's cock as deep as you could, moaning around him as you felt higuruma line up behind you. this time there was no hesitation — he pushed in in one smooth movement, and you were full again, so full, and you could feel every inch of him as he started to move.

"that's it," higuruma said, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts deep and slow and deliberate. "take it. take all of it."

nanami's hand was in your hair, not forcing you, just resting there, guiding you gently.

"you're doing so well," he murmured. "so good for us. look at you, taking both of us like you were made for it."

you wanted to say something, to tell them how good it felt, how much you really needed this, but your mouth was so full and your brain was completely melting and all that came out was a desperate, muffled sound.

higuruma fucked you like that for what felt like hours — deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot every single time, that made you see stars behind your closed eyelids. nanami's cock was heavy on your tongue, and you could taste yourself on him, could taste the salt of his skin, could feel the way his thighs tensed every time you swallowed around him.

"fuck—i'm close," higuruma said, his voice tight. "where do you want it, baby?"

"inside," you gasped, pulling off nanami's cock just long enough to say it. "please, inside, want to feel it—"

higuruma came with a groan that sounded like your name, spilling inside you for the second time that night, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you pushed you over the edge again; you came with a cry, your cock twitching against your stomach, and nanami watched it all with dark, hungry eyes.

"my turn," nanami said, and there was something almost competitive in his voice.

nanami pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest, your legs spread wide over his thighs. he was inside you before you could even catch your breath, his thick cock filling you in a way that made your eyes roll back.

"hold him," nanami said to higuruma, and higuruma moved to kneel in front of you, his hands coming up to cup your face, to tilt your head down so you could see.

"watch," higuruma said softly. "watch him fuck you."

you obediently looked down and saw it — saw nanami's cock disappearing into your ruined hole, saw the way your body stretched around him, saw the mess of cum and lube that coated your thighs. it was obscene. it was perfect.

nanami's hands were on your hips, lifting you up and down on his cock, using you like a toy.

"you feel that, sweetheart?" nanamo asked, his mouth against your ear, his breath hot. "you feel how deep i am, hm? you're never going to forget this. never going to forget what it feels like to have both of us."

"n-never," you agreed, because it was true.

you could feel him in your throat, in your fingertips, in the way your heart was pounding.

higuruma leaned forward and kissed you while nanami fucked you, slow and deep and filthy. his tongue slid against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, too — or maybe that was just the air, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and three bodies tangled together.

nanami's thrusts got faster, harder, and you broke the kiss to bury your face in higuruma's shoulder, to sob against his skin as nanami hit your sweet spot over and over and over again.

"come for him," higuruma murmured against your hair. "come for him, baby. you can do it."

you came again — a dry, shaking orgasm that left you gasping, your body convulsing in nanami's arms. nanami followed right after, his hips stuttering as he filled you for the third time, adding to the mess inside you.

"good boy," nanami said, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear. "such a good boy."

you thought maybe that was it.

yeah, maybe they'd finally had enough of you.

but holy shit, when nanami pulled out and softly laid you down on the bed, higuruma was already moving between your legs, his cock hard again, his eyes dark.

"again," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"again," nanami agreed, and damn, he was hard too, already reaching for the lube.

you should have been scared, you should have been exhausted, and you were exhausted — but your body was still on fire, still hungry, still desperate for more.

"please," you heard yourself say. "please, i need—"

"we know what you need," nanami said, and then they were both inside you again, and you couldn't think, couldn't even breathe, couldn't do anything except feel, once again.

they fucked you together for a third time — and then a fourth.

each time was always different; sometimes they moved in tandem, one pulling out as the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you completely gasping. sometimes they moved together, both thrusting at the same time, stretching you so wide you were sure you'd never be the same. sometimes they stopped moving entirely, just stayed buried deep inside you, letting you feel how full you were, how completely owned.

"look at you," higuruma said during one of those pauses, his hand tracing down your chest, your stomach, stopping just above where they were both buried inside you. "look at how well you're taking us, baby."

you couldn't look, after all, you could barely keep your eyes open, but you could feel — feel the way your body had adjusted to them, the way your hole was stretched and slick and completely ruined.

"he's crying again," nanami observed, and his voice was soft, almost gentle. "are you okay, sweetheart?"

you nodded, even though you weren't sure if it was true. you were more than okay. you were something else entirely — something that didn't have words.

"he's so pretty when he cries," higuruma said, and he leaned down to sweetly kiss the tears off your cheeks. "so so pretty. our pretty boy."

"yours," you dumbly agreed, because you really couldn't say anything else. "yours, yours, yours."

they took turns again after that.

higuruma fucked you while nanami watched, his hand on your cock, stroking you in time with higuruma's thrusts. you came again — you'd lost count by now — and higuruma followed right after, spilling inside you for god knows how much time.

then nanami fucked you while higuruma held you, your back against his chest, his hands pinching your nipples, his mouth whispering filthy things in your ear. you came again, a weak, shaking orgasm that left you sobbing, and nanami came inside you with a groan that sounded like your name.

then they both fucked you again, together, and you lost count of how many times you came. lost track of time. lost track of everything except the feeling of being filled, used, loved.

at some point, the tears stopped being just from pleasure.

they started being from something else entirely — something that felt more like release, like forgiveness, like being seen for the first time in your life.

you'd spent six months lying to these men. six months sneaking around, splitting your time, convincing yourself that you weren't doing anything wrong because they were both giving you what you needed. but they'd been giving you more than that; they'd been giving you pieces of themselves — their time, their attention, their bodies, their hearts.

and you'd been too scared to give them the same.

"i'm sorry," you sobbed, and you didn't even know which one of them you were talking to. "i'm so so so sorry, i should have told you, i should have —"

"shh," nanami said, and he was inside you again — or maybe he'd never left, you couldn't tell anymore — and his voice was so gentle, softer than you'd ever heard it. "shh, baby. it's okay. we're not angry."

"we're not," higuruma agreed, and his hand was on your cheek, wiping away tears. "we were, at first. but not anymore."

"why not?" you asked, because you didn't understand.

you'd lied to them, betrayed their trust, done exactly what they'd been afraid of.

"because you're here, sweetheart," nanami said simply. "because you let us do this. because you could have run, but you didn't. you stayed."

"and because we love you," higuruma added, and the words hung in the air, heavy and real. "both of us. we love you, even though you're an idiot."

you laughed at that — a wet, broken sound that turned into another sob.

"i love you too," you said. "both of you. i didn't—i didn't know how to choose."

"you don't have to choose," nanami said. "that's what we're trying to tell you."

they fucked you one more time after that — slow this time, gentle, like they were trying to prove something to you.

nanami was deep inside you while higuruma was deep in your mouth, and you could feel both of them getting close, could feel your own orgasm building again even though you didn't think you had anything left.

"together," nanami said, and his voice was strained.

you came together, the three of you, and it felt like something breaking and something healing all at once.

to be honest, you don't remember much after that.

there are flashes — nanami carrying you to the bathroom, the warm water of the shower, gentle hands washing you clean. higuruma's voice, low and soothing, telling you that you did so well, that you're so good, that they're so proud of you.

you remember being laid down on fresh sheets — when did they even change the sheets? — and covered with a blanket that smells like both of them. you remember nanami pressing a glass of water to your lips, making you drink, making you eat small bites of something sweet. you remember higuruma brushing your hair back from your forehead, his touch so gentle it made you want to cry all over again.

and then you remember waking up.

you're in the middle of higuruma’s bed, sandwiched between two warm bodies.

nanami is the one on your left; his arm draped across your chest, his face pressed into your shoulder. his breathing is slow and even, and even in sleep he looks like he's thinking about something — his brow is slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together. higuruma is the one on your right; his hand on your hip, his forehead against your temple. he's snoring, just a little, a soft sound that you've never heard before because you've never stayed the night.

they're both asleep.

you lie there for a long time, just breathing, just feeling; your body aches in ways you didn't know it could ache — your hole is sore, your thighs are bruised, your throat is raw, and there's a dull throb in your lower back that you're pretty sure is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

but underneath the pain, there's something else; something that feels like peace.

nanami stirs first, his eyes fluttering open. he looks at you for a moment, and then he smiles — a real smile, small and soft and so full of love that it makes your chest hurt.

"how are you feeling?" he asks, his voice rough with sleep.

"sore," you admit. "but good. really, really good."

"good," he says, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "you were amazing last night. i've never seen anything like that."

"neither have i," higuruma mumbles from your other side, and you realize he's awake too. his hand squeezes your hip, and he shifts closer, pressing his chest against your back. "you're fucking incredible, you know that?"

you blush, hiding your face in the pillow.

"you guys are just saying that because you came inside me like… five times."

"six," nanami corrects, and there's something like amusement in his voice. "i counted."

"i counted seven," higuruma says. "but i lost track at the end."

you groan, and they both laugh — real laughs, warm and genuine, and the sound of them laughing together makes something loosen in your chest.

"we need to talk," nanami says eventually, and his voice is softly serious again. "about what happens now."

your body slowly tense, but higuruma's hand rubs circles on your hip, soothing you.

"not like that," higuruma says. "we're not going anywhere. we just need to figure out... logistics."

"logistics," you repeat, and you can't help but laugh. "you want to talk about logistics? right now? when i can barely walk?"

"i'll carry you," nanami says simply. "if you need me to. but yes, we need to talk about logistics. because i'm not sharing you if it means i only get to see you twice a week."

"neither am i," higuruma agrees. "so we need to figure out a schedule. or..."

"or?" you ask.

nanami and higuruma look at each other, and something passes between them, some silent communication you're not privy to — a raised eyebrow, a slight nod, an understanding that seems to happen without words.

"or," nanami says slowly. "we could stop pretending this is casual. stop pretending we're just sugar daddies and you're just a sugar baby. and try... something else."

"what kind of something else?"

higuruma takes a deep breath.

"the kind where you move in with us. where we take care of you together. where you don't have to choose because you don't have to choose. you can have both of us, if you want. if we can figure out how to make it work."

you stare at him, then at nanami, then back at higuruma.

"you're serious?" you say.

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life," nanami says, and his voice is quiet but fierce. "i've spent six months falling in love with you. and last night, watching you with him... i realized that loving you doesn't mean i have to keep you to myself. it means i want you to be happy. and if being with both of us makes you happy..."

"it does," you say quickly. "god, it really does. but are you sure? like, both of you? because this is—this is insane. you barely know each other."

"we know each other well enough," higuruma says, and there's something almost sheepish in his voice. "we talked. while you were asleep. for like, three hours."

"you talked about me for three hours?"

"we talked about us," nanami corrects. "about what we want. about what we're willing to try. and we both agree that you're worth it. that this is worth it."

you don't know what to say. your eyes are stinging again, but this time it's not from pleasure or pain or overwhelm; it's from something else, something that feels like relief.

"okay," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "okay. let's try."

nanami kisses you first — soft, sweet, and full of promise. then higuruma kisses you too, deeper, slower, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. and then they both kiss you, and it's clumsy and awkward and perfect, and you laugh against their mouths because you can't help it.

"one more thing," higuruma says when you break apart. "no more secrets. no more lies. if something's wrong, you tell us. if you need something, you ask. and if you want something—"

"i'll tell you," you finish. "i promise. no more secrets."

"good," nanami says, and he pulls you closer to him, tucking you against his chest. "because i don't think my heart can take any more surprises."

"my heart either," higuruma agrees, pressing against your back. "you're going to be the death of us, you know that?"

"but what a way to go," nanami murmurs, and you can hear the soft smile in his voice.

you close your eyes, surrounded by warmth, by love, by two men who are completely and utterly obsessed with you.

and for the very first time in six months, you don't feel guilty about it at all; you feel home.

bonus — three months later.

the apartment is ridiculous.

it's a penthouse — bigger than both of their previous places combined — with three bedrooms (one for each of you, though you've never slept in yours), a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and a view of the city that still makes you catch your breath every time you look out the window.

nanami is in the kitchen, making breakfast; he's wearing an apron over his dress shirt — he has a meeting later, something about investments and portfolios and words that go in one ear and out the other — and he's humming something under his breath, his movements precise and efficient.

higuruma is on the couch, reading a case file, his reading glasses perched on his nose; he looks exhausted — he was in court until late last night — but there's a small smile on his face when he looks up and catches you watching him.

"stop staring," he says, but his voice is fond.

"can't help it," you say, stretching out on the couch with your head in his lap. "you're pretty."

higuruma snorts. "i'm pretty?"

"very pretty. the prettiest."

"what am i?" nanami calls from the kitchen, and there's amusement in his voice. "chopped liver?"

"you're handsome," you correct. "there's a difference."

"is there?"

"definitely. higuruma is pretty, you're handsome, and i'm adorable. we all have our roles."

higuruma laughs, and the sound makes your chest warm.

"adorable," he repeats. "that's one word for it."

"what other words would you use?"

"insatiable," higuruma says. "exhausting. the reason i can't walk straight half the time."

"you love it."

"i do," he admits, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. "i really, really do."

nanami comes over with three plates — eggs and toast and fruit, arranged perfectly, because he's nanami kento and he literally can't help himself.

he hands one to higuruma, one to you, and keeps one for himself, settling into the armchair across from the couch.

"what are your plans today?" he asks, and the question is casual but you know what he's really asking; are you free? can we spend time together? will you be here when i get home?

"nothing," you say. "i thought i'd stay here. maybe do some laundry. maybe take a nap. maybe wait for both of you to come home so we can—"

"don't," higuruma says, but he's smiling. "don't start. i have to go back to court in an hour."

"so?"

"so, i can't show up with a boner."

nanami chokes on his toast, and you and higuruma both laugh, and the sound fills the apartment like sunlight.

this is your life now.

two men, one immense apartment, no secrets, no lies; just love, in all its messy, complicated, beautiful glory.

and honestly, you wouldn't have it any other way.