you said yes.

so when you lean in close to his face, brush in hand, dabbing a precise line of highlighter along the sharp bridge of his nose, you don't think anything of it. you're way too focused on the task; the photoshoot for today is for a high-end fragrance campaign — something moody and black-and-white, all shadow and suggestion, which means satoru's makeup needs to be flawless, poreless, and almost inhumanly perfect.

you hum a little under your breath, a random tune you heard on the radio this morning, and you don't notice the way satoru’s breath catches. you don't notice how his long, pale fingers curl around the armrests of the chair, knuckles going white. you don't notice the way his ice-blue eyes, usually so aloof and unreadable in front of the camera, have softened into something dangerously close to adoration, tracking every micro-movement of your face.

you're beautiful. you have no idea you're beautiful. that's the second thing about you that drives him absolutely insane.

you're not model-pretty. god, no. model-pretty is sharp and angular and intimidating. you're something else entirely; you're warm, your skin has a healthy glow that doesn't come from highlighter, your hands are veined and strong but impossibly gentle, and when you're concentrating, you bite the inside of your cheek. it makes you look a little younger, softer, and satoru wants to kiss that little spot on your cheek so badly it's a physical ache in his chest.

"hold still," you murmur, not looking at him. "you're twitching."

your breath fans across satoru’s cheek, smelling faintly of coffee and mint.

"i'm not twitching," he lies, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. he's got a good voice for voiceovers, deep and honeyed, and he knows it. he uses it like a weapon. "you're just being fussy."

"i'm being thorough," you correct, dabbing a tiny bit of concealer under his eye.

the dark circles are almost nonexistent — the man sleeps like the dead when he's not working — but the photographer wanted a specific kind of hollowed-out, tortured-artist look. you think it's silly, but you're not paid to think; you're paid to make satoru look good.

you're also, secretly, paid to be close to him.

not in a weird way, not in the way a fan would be, but satoru has had four other makeup artists in the past two years, each hired by agencies or magazines when you weren't available. all of them were pretty good; technically proficient, efficient, professional, and all of them lasted exactly one day before satoru threw a tantrum that would make a toddler really proud, insisting that only you could do his makeup, that only you understood his face.

his manager, ijichi, had called you, sounding frazzled;

"he says your 'energy is non-negotiable'," ijichi had relayed, looking pained. "whatever that means."

you'd laughed it off, of course.

satoru is dramatic. satoru is a diva. but you'd shown up, packed your kit, and gotten back to work. because honestly… you missed him too. the other models are fine, but they're not satoru; they don't make you laugh between touch-ups, they don't bring you hot chocolate from the coffee cart without you asking, they don't look at you like you're the only person in the room, in the universe, who matters.

( well, you don't notice that last part. )

today's shoot is in a huge warehouse studio in shibuya, all exposed brick and polished concrete floors.

satoru's private dressing room is a small annex off the main floor, with a large mirror, a comfortable leather chair, and terrible overhead lighting that you've learned to work around. you've got your rolling cart of products next to you — brushes of every shape and size, powders, foundations — and you're so focused on perfecting the contour on satoru’s jawline that you don't hear the soft knock on the door.

satoru does, though. his eyes flick towards the door, and something in his expression hardens for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into pleasant neutrality.

the door opens, and a head pokes in; it's fushiguro toji.

toji is another model, a competitor in the same tier as satoru, though with a rougher, more masculine edge. where satoru is ethereal and untouchable, toji is all muscle and swagger, a little scar at the corner of his mouth that makes him look more dangerous. toji is also, unfortunately for satoru's blood pressure, an unrepentant flirt.

"hey," toji says, his voice a low drawl. he's not looking at satoru, he's looking at you. "didn't know you were working today."

you glance up, brush pausing, and you offer toji a small, friendly smile.

"oh, toji. hey. yeah, it’s just a quick gig. satoru's got the fragrance campaign."

"right, right."

toji steps further into the room, invading the space with his presence. he's wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his usual off-duty attire, and his hair is a little messy, like he just rolled out of bed. it looks good on him.

"you free after this? i'm doing a test shoot down the hall, and the makeup artist they booked is a nightmare. i could use someone who actually knows what they're doing."

your cheeks flush a little at the compliment.

"oh, i don't know. i'd have to check my schedule—"

"he's not free," satoru cuts in, his voice light, almost airy, but there's a thread of steel underneath.

satoru hasn't moved from his chair, he hasn't even opened his eyes fully, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago.

"he's with me all day. exclusivity clause."

you frown, turning to look at satoru.

"i don't have an exclusivity clause with you, satoru."

"you should," he says, finally opening his eyes. that brilliant, piercing blue fixes on toji, and for a moment, the room feels a little colder. "i pay better."

toji snorts, unimpressed.

"i'm sure you do."

toji looks back at you, and his gaze is appreciative, lingering on the curve of your neck, the line of your jaw. you're wearing a simple cream-colored sweater, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, and you're completely unaware of how the soft fabric drapes over your frame.

"think about it, yeah? i'll make it worth your while."

toji winks at you, and then he's gone, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

you simply shake your head, a little bewildered by what just happened, and turn back to satoru.

"weird guy," you comment, picking up your foundation brush again. "he's not usually that friendly."

satoru doesn't answer.

he's staring at the closed door, his jaw tight, his hands now gripping the armrests so hard the leather creaks. you notice the tension, finally, because it's impossible to miss; his whole body is rigid, coiled, like a spring about to snap.

"hey," you say, frowning. "you okay? you're all tense. i need you to relax your jaw or the contour will look weird."

satoru's gaze snaps to you, and for a second, just a second, you see something raw and hungry in the man’s expression, something that makes your stomach flip, a strange, unfamiliar heat pooling low in your belly. but then it's gone, smoothed over by that familiar, dazzling smile.

"sorry," satoru says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all; he sounds off. "just thinking."

"about what?" you ask, leaning in to blend the contour along his cheekbone.

you're close again, close enough to see the individual lashes framing satoru’s beautiful eyes, close enough to smell his cologne — something sweet and expensive, mixed with the clean scent of his shampoo.

"about how long i've been wanting to do something," satoru murmurs, so quietly you almost don't hear it.

your brush pauses. "what?"

satoru slowly reaches up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. it's not a harsh grip, it's almost tender, but it still stops you completely and holds you in place. satoru’s thumb brushes over the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse jump.

"do you have any idea," he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "how hard it is to sit here, day after day, while you touch my face like it's nothing? while you smile at other men like fushiguro toji and offer them your time?"

your heart is doing something weird in your chest, a staccato rhythm that has nothing to do with caffeine.

"satoru, what are you talking about? i'm your makeup artist."

"exactly," he breathes, and the word is almost a sigh. his thumb is still stroking your wrist, slow and hypnotic. "you're my makeup artist. not his. not anyone else's. only mine."

satoru pulls you gently, guiding you to stand between his widely spread legs. you go, because you're too stunned to resist, your mind a blank slate of confusion and something else, something you don't want to name.

you're now face-to-face with him, close enough that your knees are brushing his thighs.

"i've been patient," satoru continues, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip, a warm and solid weight. "so fucking patient, you have no idea. i've dropped hints. i've flirted. i've literally sent you memes with the caption 'us' and you just sent back a thumbs-up emoji. a thumbs up, baby. do you know what that did to me?"

"i thought you were joking," you whisper, your voice coming out embarrassingly small. "you're always joking."

"i'm not joking now."

satoru’s blue eyes are so dark, no longer the bright, icy hue you're used to. they're the color of a deep winter sky, heavy with unshed snow.

"look at me. really look at me. and tell me you don't feel this."

he presses your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart; it's pounding a hard, frantic rhythm that matches your own. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, the firm muscle beneath. he's not just a pretty face. he's solid, real, and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"i—" you start, but your voice cracks.

you don't know what to say. you've never thought of him this way. you've never allowed yourself to think of him this way. he's satoru. your client. your friend. the boy who fell asleep in your chair all those years ago.

"you're beautiful," he says, and the word is reverent. "you don't even know. you walk around with your pretty face and your kind hands, and you have no idea what you do to me. every time you lean in, every time you bite your lip, every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes—i fall a little more. and i am so. fucking. tired. of falling alone."

satoru’s hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you're standing flush between his thighs. you can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell his cologne more strongly now, can see the slight flush high on his cheekbones that you didn't put there with your brushes.

"satoru, you're a model," you manage, your voice a shaky whisper. "you could have anyone. why would you want—"

"don't," he interrupts, sharp and sudden. his fingers tighten on your wrist, just a fraction. "don't do that. don't pretend you're not exactly what i want. don't make this about anyone else."

satoru leans in, his forehead resting against yours. his breath fans across your parted lips, warm and sweet, and your eyes flutter closed instinctively.

"i've been good," he murmurs, the words a soft, desperate confession. "i've been so good. i've watched you. i've waited. i've let you be professional and friendly and completely oblivious. but then he came in here and looked at you like that, and i realized—i'm done waiting."

satoru’s lips brush the corner of your mouth, barely a touch, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

"i need you to understand," satoru slowly whispers against your skin, "that you belong to me. you have for years. you just didn't know it yet."

you open your mouth to reply — and to say what? you have no idea — but he doesn't give you the chance.

satoru kisses you.

satoru kisses you, and it's the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been given permission to eat. his mouth is so hot and so demanding, slanting over yours, and his warm tongue sweeps along the seam of your lips, asking, begging, taking.

you gasp, and he swallows the sound, pulling you closer, one hand fisting in the soft fabric of your sweater at your back.

oh, you should push him away. you should remind him of professional boundaries, of the shoot in an hour, of the fact that you're employees, not lovers. but your body isn't listening to your brain. your hands, traitors that they are, come up to grip satoru’s shoulders, and you kiss him back.

it's clumsy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues sliding. he tastes like mint gum and something uniquely him, something so addictive. satoru groans into your mouth when your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and the sound vibrates through you, settling low in your groin.

satoru pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours, his lips swollen and wet. his eyes are blown wide, pupils completely dilated, the blue almost completely swallowed by pure black.

"fuck," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer. "fuck, i've wanted to do that for so long."

you're trembling, and it’s an actual, full-body trembling; your knees feel embarrassingly weak, and if satoru weren't holding you, you might just slide to the floor.

"satoru, we can't—"

"we can," he insists, and there's no room for argument in his voice. it's a command, a decree. "we can, and we're going to. i'm going to take care of you. i'm going to show you exactly what you mean to me. and then, when i'm done, you're going to look in the mirror and see the marks i left on you, and you're never going to forget who you belong to."

satoru stands up, and because you're still pressed against him, you stumble back a step. he steadies you with hands on your hips, then guides you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the makeup table. the metal legs scrape against the concrete floor, and a few brushes clatter to the ground, but neither of you pays them any attention.

"lie back," satoru says, and it's not a request.

you hesitate for half a second, your mind screaming at you to stop, to think rationally, to remember the shoot. but then he looks at you — with that raw, desperate hunger — and all your resistance crumbles.

you lie back on the table.

it's cold and hard against your spine, but you barely notice; your entire awareness is focused on satoru, on the way he looms over you, all six-foot-something of lean muscle and sharp angles. he's beautiful. achingly, impossibly beautiful. and he's looking at you like he wants to devour all of you.

satoru brackets your body with his strong arms, leaning down to kiss you again.

this time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate; satoru takes his time, learning the shape of your mouth, the give of your lower lip between his teeth. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp, your back arching off the table.

"so responsive," satoru murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "i wondered if you'd be like this. i've imagined it so many times. you, underneath me, falling apart because of me."

satoru’s huge hands are everywhere; one slides under your sweater, palm flat against your stomach, and his long fingers are cold, making your muscles jump. the other works at the button of your jeans, deft and impatient.

"is this okay?" satoru asks, pausing with his fingers hooked in your waistband.

his voice is still low, still so hungry to devour you completely, but there's a thread of genuine concern there, a check-in that makes your chest ache.

"yes," you breathe, because it's the truth.

it's terrifying and overwhelming and probably a terrible idea, but god, you want it. you want him.

satoru's whole body goes rigid above you — not with tension this time, but with something that feels like relief. his eyes, those ethereal deep blue eyes that have stared down cameras and conquered runways, are wide and almost vulnerable for a split second. then satoru’s mouth is on yours once again, and vulnerability burns away into something ravenous.

he kisses you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your lips by touch alone, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. satoru’s tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you taste the faint bitterness of the coffee he drank this morning mixed with the sweetness of the lip balm you applied an hour ago.

it's dizzying; it's too much and not enough all at once.

your hands, still gripping his shoulders, feel the coiled strength in his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. he's not just lean and pretty — there's power there, the kind that comes from hours in the gym because his agency demands it, and you feel that power now in the way he cages you against the cold makeup table, in the way his thighs press against the outside of your legs, trapping you in place.

satoru pulls back just far enough to break the kiss, and a thin string of saliva connects both of your lips for a little moment before it slowly breaks. satoru stares down at you, chest heaving, and you watch his gaze travel across your face like he's seeing you for the first time.

"look at you," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped an octave, rougher now, almost gravelly. "already a mess and i've barely touched you."

you want to say something clever, something that proves you're not completely undone, but then satoru’s hand — the one that was resting on your stomach under your sweater — slides upward, dragging the fabric with it.

his fingers are cold against your heated skin, and you gasp as they brush over your nipple, not quite touching, just passing close enough to make you shiver.

"sensitive," satoru observes, and there's a smile in his voice now, something dark and pleased. "god, you're sensitive everywhere, aren't you? i've watched you for years, you know. i watched the way you shiver when someone touches your neck, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. i've imagined what sounds you'd make."

satoru’s hand keeps moving, pushing your sweater up until it bunches under your armpits, exposing your chest to the cool air of the dressing room. you're not built like him — you're softer, less sculpted — but the way satoru looks at you makes you feel like you're the one on the cover of a magazine.

"beautiful," he breathes, and the word is so sincere it makes your chest ache. "so fucking beautiful."

then satoru ducks his head and takes your nipple into his mouth, and coherent thought evaporates.

his tongue is hot and wet, circling the sensitive peak with a precision that speaks to experience, and his teeth graze the flesh just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain straight to your groin. you cry out — yeah, you actually cry out, a sound too loud for a semi-public space — and your back arches off the table, pressing yourself further into his mouth.

satoru hums against your skin, the vibration making you whimper, and his free hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

"shh," satoru murmurs against your chest, switching to the other nipple with the same devastating attention. "you have to be quiet, sweetheart. unless you want the whole studio to hear what i'm doing to you."

you bite your lip, hard enough to taste copper, and satoru looks up at you through his lashes.

his lips are wet, swollen from kissing and sucking, and his eyes are almost completely black now, the blue reduced to a thin ring around blown pupils.

"there you go," satoru says softly, and his long fingers start working at the button of your jeans. "such a good boy for me. always have been."

the button easily comes undone with a soft pop, and then the zipper, and satoru doesn't hesitate — he shoves his hand past the denim, past the elastic of your boxers, and wraps his fingers around your cock.

you gasp sharply, hips jerking upward into his grip, and satoru groans like he's the one being touched.

"fuck," satoru hisses, his forehead dropping pathetically to your shoulder. "you're so hard. you're—god, you're dripping, baby. is this all for me?"

you can't answer.

your brain has short-circuited, overwhelmed by the sensation of satoru’s hand — those long, elegant fingers that you've watched hold champagne glasses and sign autographs — wrapped around your most intimate part. his palm is warm and slightly rough, calloused in a way you didn't expect, and when he strokes slowly from base to tip, spreading the wetness that's already gathered there, you see constellations.

"answer me," satoru says, and his voice is soft but there's an edge to it, a command wrapped in honey.

he squeezes gently, just this side of too tight, and you moan.

"y-yes," you gasp, the word cracking in the middle. "yes, yes, it's—it's always been—"

you don't finish the sentence because you're not sure what you were going to say.

it's always been him? it's always been like this? both are true and neither captures the enormity of what you're feeling.

satoru lifts his head and kisses you once again, swallowing whatever sounds you were about to make. his warm tongue slides into your mouth at the same time his hand starts moving in earnest, stroking you with a steady, unforgiving rhythm that has you clawing at his shoulders, leaving red marks on his skin through his shirt.

he's everywhere — his mouth on yours, his hand on your cock, his body pressed against you from chest to hip, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against your bare thighs. you're pinned to the makeup table, completely at his mercy, and the helplessness of it makes you even harder.

"that's it," satoru whispers against your lips, his strokes never once faltering. "let me hear you. i want to hear every single sound you make."

you're already embarrassingly close, the pleasure building low in your belly like a coiled spring.

it's been sooo long since anyone touched you like this, and never — never like this, never with someone who looks at you like you're the center of their universe.

"satoru," you whimper, and his name has never sounded like this before; raw and desperate. "satoru, i'm going to—"

but satoru stops.

his hand goes still, still wrapped around you but no longer moving, and the sudden absence of friction is almost painful. you whine, high and needy, and your hips try to chase his hand, but he pulls back just enough to deny you.

"not yet," satoru says, and his voice is strained, like denying you is costing him something aswell. "not yet, sweetheart. i'm not done with you."

you want to cry. you want to beg.

but satoru is already shifting, sliding off the table and lowering himself to his knees between your spread legs, and the sight of him there — gojo satoru, the highest-paid model in asia, kneeling on a dirty concrete floor in his designer clothes — steals the breath from your lungs.

he looks up at you with those dark, hungry eyes, and then he pulls your jeans and boxers down your hips in one rough movement, freeing you completely. the cool air hits your flushed, leaking cock and you shudder.

"so pretty," satoru murmurs, and his voice is reverent now, almost worshipful.

he wraps his hand around you again, but satoru doesn't stroke; he simply holds you, watching the way your cock twitches desperately in his grip.

"i knew you'd be pretty. i knew it."

then he leans forward and licks a broad stripe from the base of your cock to the tip, and you lose the ability to form words.

satoru’s tongue is so hot and wet and impossibly soft, and when he reaches the head, he swirls around it, collecting the bead of precum that's gathered there. he hums, low in his throat, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble.

"you taste good," satoru says, like he's commenting on the weather, like this is completely normal. "sweet. i could get addicted to this."

then he takes you into his mouth, and the world narrows to nothing but heat and pressure and the obscene, wet sounds of satoru sucking your cock.

oh, and he's not gentle with it — he's eager, desperate, like he's been starving for this for years. satoru’s cheeks hollow as he sucks, and his tongue presses against the underside of your cock, and his hand cups your balls, rolling them gently in his palm. you're making sounds you've never heard yourself make before, high and broken, and your fingers tangle in his white hair, pulling without meaning to.

satoru moans around you, and the vibration shoots straight up your spine.

he pulls off with a wet pop, and a string of saliva connects his lips to the tip of your cock. satoru’s face is completely flushed, his lips swollen and slick, and there's a smear of your balm on his chin from earlier.

"look at me," satoru commands, and when you force your eyes open, he's staring at you with an intensity that pins you in place. "i want you to watch. i want you to see exactly who's making you fall apart."

then satoru takes you back into his mouth, deeper this time, until the tip of your cock hits the back of his throat. he doesn't gag — he just swallows around you, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually sob, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

satoru's hands grip your hips, holding you down against the table when your body tries to buck upward.

he sets a rhythm — deep, slow strokes of his mouth, his tongue curling around you on every retreat — and you can't look away. you watch satoru’s lips stretch around you, you watch his eyes flutter half-closed in pleasure, you watch the way his throat works when he swallows.

you're not going to last.

"s-satoru," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "satoru, p-please, i can't—i'm going to—"

he pulls off just enough to speak, his lips brushing the head of your cock with every word.

"do it," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "cum for me, baby. i want to taste you."

then satoru takes you deep again, and that's it.

your orgasm crashes over you, violent and all-consuming. your back bows off the table, your mouth opens in a silent scream, and you spill down satoru's throat in hot, pulsing bursts. he doesn't pull away — he swallows everything, moaning around you, his throat working to take every drop, and his hands grip your hips so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow.

the pleasure goes on and on, drawn out by the way satoru keeps sucking your cock gently, coaxing every last bit from you until you're twitching and oversensitive, whining and pushing weakly at his head.

finally, finally, satoru pulls off.

his face is flushed, his lips are swollen, and there's a smear of your release on the corner of his mouth. he wipes it with his thumb and sucks it clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

"fuck," satoru breathes, and then he laughs — a breathless, disbelieving sound. "fuck, you're perfect."

you can't move, and you can barely breathe; your entire body is trembling, and the makeup table is cold against your sweaty back, and you're pretty sure you just came harder than you have in your entire life.

satoru rises to his feet, his joints popping from kneeling too long, and he leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. his weight settles over you, so warm and so solid, and the supermodel boy kisses you deeply, lazily, like you have all the time in the world.

you taste yourself on his tongue — salty and sharp — and the intimacy of it makes your head spin.

"we're not done," satoru murmurs against your lips, and your heart stutters. "i told you. i've been waiting years. one time isn't going to be enough."

his hips roll against yours, and you feel him — hard and thick through his jeans, pressing against your thigh — and a fresh wave of want curls through your exhausted body.

"i'm going to fuck you," satoru says, and the words are soft, almost gentle, which honestly makes them infinitely more dangerous. "i'm going to fuck you on this table, and then i'm going to carry you to that chair and fuck you there, and then maybe — if you're good — i'll let you rest before i take you home and fuck you in a real bed."

satoru’s hungry mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, biting and sucking marks into your sensitive skin that you'll have to cover with concealer later.

"but first," he says, pulling back to look at you with those dark, possessive eyes, "i need to hear you say it."

"say what?" you manage, your voice hoarse.

"that you're mine."

your heart pounds, your body aches, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that this is the point of no return; that once you say these words, you'll never be able to pretend this was just a mistake, just a moment of weakness.

but looking up at satoru — at his completely ruined makeup and his oh so desperate blue eyes and the way his huge hands shake slightly even as he tries to seem in control — you realize you simply don't want to pretend.

"i'm yours," you whisper.

satoru's smile is blinding.

"such a good boy," he says, and kisses you again.

you're still trembling when satoru's mouth claims yours once more, and this time the kiss is different — slower, deeper, less like a starving man finally being fed and more like someone savoring a meal they've waited years to taste. his lips are soft and insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your head swim, and his tongue slides along your lower lip before dipping inside, tasting every corner of your mouth like he's memorizing the shape of you from the inside out.

your hands, shaky and uncertain at first, slowly find their way to satoru’s chest.

the fabric of his designer tshirt is really soft under your palms — some expensive blend you couldn't name if you tried — and you can feel the warmth of his skin through it, the firmness of the muscle beneath. satoru has always looked lean in photographs, all sharp angles and graceful lines, but up close like this, with him pressed against you from hip to chest, you realize how solid he actually is. his shoulders are broad under your hands, his pectorals defined in a way that isn't showy but definitely exists, and when your fingers curl into the fabric, bunching it around his collarbones, he makes a sound.

it's a small sound at first, a quiet exhale that ghosts across your cheek, but then you pull the shirt upward, exposing the smooth skin of satoru’s stomach, and the exhale becomes something else entirely.

satoru moans, low and almost embarrassing, and the sound vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver straight down your spine, because gojo satoru, the man who has millions of people screaming his name, is pathetically whimpering into your mouth simply because you're taking off his shirt.

"please," satoru breathes, and the word is so unexpected, so naked in its desperation, that your hands actually pause.

satoru never says please; satoru demands, satoru teases, satoru acts like the whole world exists to serve him. but here, with his designer shirt bunched around his neck and your palms flat against his bare ribs, the man is begging.

"please, baby, keep going. i need—i need you to touch me. i've wanted you to touch me for so long."

oh, well, you don't make him wait.

you push the shirt up over his chest, over his shoulders, and satoru has to break the kiss to pull it over his head, which means you get to watch him — the way his arms flex, the way his hair falls messily back into place, the way his chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths.

satoru is beautiful, of course he's beautiful, but it's a different kind of beautiful now, stripped of the carefully curated styling and the professional lighting.

there's a faint line across his stomach where the waistband of his jeans sits, and a small mole just below his left collarbone that you've never noticed before despite spending hours in his face every day. his skin is pale and smooth, dotted with barely-there freckles that you want to trace with your tongue.

so you do.

you lean forward, still on the cold makeup table, and press your mouth to that little mole. satoru shudders above you, his hands flying to your shoulders to steady himself, and when you drag your lips across his collarbone to the base of his throat, his fingers tighten almost painfully.

"fuck," he whispers, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word. "fuck, that's—your mouth, god—"

you don't really know what you're doing. you've never been with someone like satoru, someone who looks at you like you're the one doing him a favor by letting him touch you. but satoru’s reactions are so honest, so unfiltered, that you feel bolder than you have any right to feel.

your hands slide down his sides, feeling the dip of his waist, the flare of his hips, and every inch of skin you touch makes him shiver. when your thumbs brush against satoru’s nipples — soft, unpierced, surprisingly sensitive from the way he gasps — he makes a sound that's almost a whine.

"sensitive?" you ask, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended, hoarse from the way he kissed you.

satoru laughs, breathless and a little unsteady.

"shut up."

but satoru doesn't pull away when you do it again, dragging your thumbs in slow circles around the peaked buds, and his hips jerk forward instinctively, pressing his hardness against your thigh. even through the thick denim of his jeans, you can feel how much he wants this — the heat of him, the length of him, and your stomach does a slow, anxious flip because you're going to have to take that inside you.

well, not yet, though.

satoru pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are almost completely black now, reduced to a ring around pupils that have swallowed everything else. his chest is heaving, his lips are swollen and slick, and there's a flush creeping down his neck that you've never seen on him before.

he looks wrecked, and you've barely done anything.

"you're so fucking beautiful," satoru says, and the words are rough, scraped raw. "lying there on the makeup table, looking at me like that. you have no idea what you do to me."

before you can respond — not that you have any words left — satoru hooks his hands behind your knees and pulls.

you slide across the table with a startled gasp, the cold surface shocking against your bare thighs, and then he's spreading your legs wide, stepping between them so there's nowhere for you to go. satoru’s hips press against the backs of your thighs, and even through both layers of clothing, you can feel how hard he is, and how desperate he is.

"i want to prep you properly," satoru says, and his voice is lower now, almost clinical despite the hunger in his eyes. "i'm not going to hurt you. i need you to tell me if anything feels wrong, okay? promise me."

you nod, because your throat feels too tight for words, but satoru shakes his head and cups your face with one warm palm, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"words, sweetheart. i need words."

"yes," you manage, and it comes out as barely a whisper. "yes, i promise. i'll tell you."

satoru's expression softens for just a moment, something tender flickering across his ethereal features before it's swallowed by want again.

he leans down and kisses you once more — quick, reassuring, a promise rather than a demand — and then he pulls back and looks down at where your bodies are pressed together.

"you already came once," he murmurs, almost to himself. "but i think you've got more for me, don't you, sweetheart? you've been so good, letting me touch you, letting me taste you. i want to use what you gave me to open you up. do you understand what i'm saying?"

your breath catches.

you understand, all right — the idea of your own release, still cooling on your stomach and smeared across satoru's chin, being used to prepare you for him — and it's so dirty, so intimate, that you feel heat rushing to your face.

"yeah," you say, and the word comes out strangled. "okay."

satoru smiles, slow and satisfied, and then he reaches down between your bodies.

his fingers find the mess you made earlier — the sticky, cooling evidence of your orgasm that's pooled in the hollow of your stomach and dripped down your hip — and he scoops it up with two long fingers, holding them up so you can both see the way it glistens in the dim dressing room light.

"look at that," satoru murmurs, almost reverent. "look what you gave me."

then… he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, slowly and deliberately, his hungry eyes never leaving yours. the sight makes something hot curl low in your belly, a fresh pulse of want that you didn't think you were capable of after coming as hard as you did.

"still tastes like you," satoru says, pulling his fingers out with a soft pop. "but i need more. i need your mouth to help me."

he doesn't wait for you to ask what the hell he means.

satoru brings his hand to your lips, pressing those two long fingers against your mouth, and you understand directly; you open obediently for him, letting him push his fingers past your lips, and you taste yourself again — salty and a little bitter, mixed with the lingering mint of satoru's gum and the faint metallic taste of your own skin.

you suck, because it seems like what satoru wants, and the moan he lets out is downright filthy.

"that's it," satoru breathes, watching your lips close around his fingers. "get them nice and wet for me, sweetheart. i'm going to use them to open you up, and i need you to be ready. i need you to be so ready for me."

so you suck harder, swirling your tongue around his knuckles, trying to coat every single inch of satoru’s hot skin with as much saliva as you can.

satoru watches with heavy-lidded eyes, his hips pressing against your thighs in involuntary thrusts, and you can feel the way his whole body trembles with the effort of holding back.

"enough," he finally says, pulling his fingers from your mouth.

they're slick and shining, coated in a mixture of your saliva and the remnants of your release, and satoru brings them down between your legs without hesitation.

you flinch when you feel satoru’s long fingers brush against your needy entrance — not from pain, just from the strangeness of it, the vulnerability of being touched there by someone else for the first time.

satoru notices immediately, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip, thumb stroking small circles against the bone.

"hey," he says softly, and his voice has lost some of its urgency, replaced by something gentler. "hey, look at me. we don't have to do anything you don't want to. we can stop right now, and i'll still be happy just because i got to kiss you. okay? you're in control here. not me."

the words settle something in your chest, some anxiety you didn't even know you were holding. satoru — commanding, possessive, i-belong-to-you satoru — is giving you an out, and the fact that he's offering makes you want this even more.

"i want to," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected. "i want you to. just... go slow?"

satoru's answering smile is soft, almost boyish, so different from the sharp, smoldering looks he gives the camera.

"always slow. i've got you, baby. i'm not going to hurt you."

his finger — just one, just the tip — presses against your entrance, circling gently, spreading the slickness around the tight ring of muscle. the sensation is strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant; it's just wet and warm and present, a new kind of touch that makes your thighs tense involuntarily.

"relax for me," satoru murmurs, his thumb still stroking your hip. "breathe, baby. you're doing so good. just breathe."

you try. you take a shaky breath and force your muscles to unclench, and satoru rewards you by pressing a little deeper, the first knuckle of his finger slipping inside.

the feeling is — woah, it's a lot. it's pressure and fullness and something almost invasive, but satoru's hand on your hip is grounding, and his voice is a steady murmur of praise that keeps you from panicking.

"that's it," satoru says, his finger still, giving you the time to adjust. "see? you can take it. you're doing so good for me, sweetheart. so fucking good."

satoru waits until your breathing evens out, until your hips stop trying to squirm away, and then he pushes deeper. his finger slides all the way in, slow and careful, and you feel yourself clench around him involuntarily, your body unsure whether to push him out or pull him in.

"feel that?" satoru asks, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't believe he's actually inside you. "feel how tight you are? god, baby, you're gonna feel so good around my cock."

the dirty words should make you uncomfortable, but instead they send a bolt of heat through you, and you feel yourself relax further, your body accepting the intrusion. satoru notices immediately — he notices everything, the little bastard — and he starts to move, pulling his finger almost all the way out before pushing it back in, slow and deep.

"t-toru," you gasp, and his name comes out broken, fractured.

"i know," he says, and there's something almost smug in his voice now, hidden under the tenderness. "i know, baby. just wait. wait until i add another one."

satoru does, eventually, once your body has stopped fighting the first finger.

he pulls out completely, coats his fingers again — this time with a fresh layer of saliva, leaning down to spit on them because the slickness from before has started to dry — and then he presses two fingers against your entrance.

this time, the stretch is real.

even with the preparation, even with the saliva and the remnants of your release, two fingers feel like so much more than one. you hiss through your teeth, your hands gripping the edges of the makeup table, and satoru pauses immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"breathe," satoru reminds you, his voice muffled against your skin. "breathe through it, sweetheart. i've got you. i'm not going anywhere."

you breathe. you breathe and you focus on the weight of satoru's body above you, the warmth of his breath on your neck, the way his thumb is still stroking your hip in that steady, grounding rhythm.

slowly, the too-full feeling starts to fade, replaced by something that might be pleasure, if you let it.

"okay," you whisper. "okay, you can move."

satoru lifts his head and looks at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so full of want and relief and something that looks terrifyingly like devoted love, that you have to look away. but satoru doesn't let you — he catches your chin with his free hand and turns your face back toward him, holding your gaze as he starts to move his fingers.

he goes slow at first, just shallow thrusts that barely push past the tight ring of muscle, but each time he goes a little deeper, a little faster, until he's fucking you open on his fingers with a steady, relentless rhythm.

the sound is truly obscene — wet and squelching, mingling with your breathless gasps and satoru's quiet groans — and the feeling is like nothing you've ever experienced in your whole life. it's pressure and fullness and heat, and somewhere deep inside, satoru's fingers brush against something that makes your whole body jolt.

"there," satoru says, and his voice is triumphant. "found it."

he presses against that spot again, deliberately this time, and you cry out — loud, too loud, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls of the dressing room. satoru shushes you with a kiss, swallowing your moans, but he doesn't stop pressing against that spot, he doesn't stop curling his fingers just right until you're seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.

"that's it," he murmurs against your lips. "that's it, sweetheart. let go for me. let me take care of you."

you're hard again — you don't even remember getting hard, but you're achingly erect, leaking against your stomach, and every thrust of satoru's fingers sends sparks of pleasure straight to your cock. you're babbling, saying things you don't remember thinking, begging for more, begging for him, and satoru just shushes you and keeps fingering you open with that steady, devastating rhythm.

"please," you hear yourself say, and you don't even know what you're begging for. "please, satoru, please, i need—"

"i know what you need," satoru says, and his voice is dark now, possessive. "you need me inside you. you need my cock stretching you open, filling you up. don't you, baby?"

"yes," you sob, because it's true, and you're too far gone to be embarrassed about it. "yes, please, i want—i want you to fuck me, satoru, please—"

satoru pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness makes you whimper. but he's already moving, fumbling with the button of his jeans, and the sound of his zipper lowering is the loudest thing you've ever heard.

"you're sure?" he asks, pausing with his jeans open, his cock straining against his boxers. "last chance to say no, baby. after this, i don't think i'm going to be able to stop."

you look at him — at his flushed face and his swollen lips and the desperate, hungry way he's looking at you — and you know, with absolute certainty, that you want this.

"i'm sure," you say. "fuck me, satoru. please."

the words barely leave your mouth before satoru is moving, and there's something almost frantic in the way he shoves his jeans down his hips. the denim catches on his thighs for a moment, and he makes a frustrated sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, before he kicks them off the rest of the way. satoru’s boxers go with them, a tangle of black fabric pooling around his ankles, and then the man is standing between your spread legs, completely bare from the waist down, and you forget how to breathe.

because gojo satoru is beautiful everywhere, apparently. of course he is. why wouldn't he be?

his cock is — god, it's a lot.

it's long and thick, curving slightly upward, flushed a deep pink at the tip where a bead of precum has already gathered, glistening in the dim light of the dressing room.

you'd been so focused on the impossibility of this whole situation, on the weight of his fingers inside you and the heat of his mouth on your skin, that you hadn't really let yourself think about this moment. but now it's here, and satoru is stroking himself slowly, almost absently, spreading the slickness along his length, and you can't look away.

"see what you do to me?" satoru asks, and his voice is rough, scraped raw at the edges.

his eyes are fixed on your face, watching your reaction, and there's something vulnerable beneath the hunger, something that looks almost like fear.

"i've never—i don't—this is just you, baby. only you."

you want to say something reassuring, something that tells him you're not scared, that you want this just as much as he does, but your throat feels tight, and all that comes out is a shaky exhale, your hips shifting on the cold makeup table, an unconscious invitation.

satoru steps closer, his thighs pressing against the edge of the table, and the heat of him radiates against your bare skin.

he's so close now that you can easily feel satoru’s cock brushing against your inner thigh, so hot and so velvety soft despite how insanely hard he is, and the contrast makes your head spin. satoru’s hands find your hips again, those long fingers curling around the bone with a grip that's firm but not painful, and he pulls you toward him until the curve of your ass is flush against the edge of the table.

"i'm going to go slow," satoru says, and it sounds like he's reminding himself as much as he's telling you. his forehead drops to yours, and his breath is warm and uneven against your lips. "so slow, baby. i need you to tell me if it's too much. i need you to be honest with me, okay?"

you nod, because words still feel impossible, but satoru shakes his head slightly, his nose brushing against yours.

"words, sweetheart."

"okay," you manage, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears; breathless and high, stripped of any pretense. "okay, i'll tell you. i promise."

satoru kisses you then, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his hips are pressing forward, lining himself up against your entrance. you feel the head of his cock — huge, impossibly huge — nudging against that tight ring of muscle, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.

"shh," satoru murmurs against your lips, and one of his huge hands leaves your hip to softly cup your face, his thumb stroking along your cheekbone. "just breathe, baby. i've got you. i'm not going to hurt you."

he doesn't push inside yet.

instead, satoru rocks his hips gently, sliding his cock along your crack, letting the head catch against your entrance before slipping past, over and over, coating himself in the slickness that's still there from his fingers.

the sensation is maddening — the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he's so close but not quite there — and you find yourself pushing back against him, trying to take him inside.

"awh, so eager," satoru says, and there's a smile in his voice now, something fond and almost teasing. "you want it that bad, sweetheart?"

"yes," you gasp, because there's no point in lying, not when you're spread out on a makeup table with his cock sliding against your hole. "yes, please, satoru, i want—i need—"

"mhh. i already told you; i know what you need."

and then satoru pushes.

just the tip at first — just the very head of his cock, breaching that tight ring of muscle with a pressure that instantly makes your eyes water. it's been years since you've done this, and even then, you'd never taken anything this big. the stretch is immediate and overwhelming, a burning fullness that steals the breath from your lungs.

satoru stops forthwith, his whole body going rigid above you.

"breathe," satoru says, and his voice is so strained, like holding himself back is taking him every single ounce of his self-control. "breathe, baby. just breathe through it. you're doing so good. you're taking me so well."

you try to focus on satoru’s soft voice, on the warmth of his hand still gently cupping your face, on the way his thumb is stroking your cheek in slow, steady rhythms. you breathe — in through your nose, out through your mouth — and slowly, gradually, the burning starts to fade, replaced by something that feels almost like pleasure.

"okay," you whisper. "okay, you can—you can move."

satoru pushes deeper, another inch disappearing inside you, and this time the stretch is more manageable, still intense but no longer unbearable.

he's watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel seen in a way you've never felt before, his blue eyes searching for any sign of discomfort, any reason to stop.

"that's it," satoru murmurs, his hips pressing forward again, another inch. "that's it, sweetheart. you're taking me so well. you feel so good—god, you feel incredible—so tight and so warm, i could stay inside you forever."

you want to tell satoru that he feels incredible too, that the weight of him inside you is like nothing you've ever experienced, but the words simply won't come. instead, you just lie there, gasping, as satoru continues his slow, inexorable push, filling you inch by inch.

satoru pauses halfway, his forehead pressed to yours, both of them breathing hard.

you can feel him trembling, his muscles shaking with the effort of holding back, and something about that, about the fact that gojo satoru is barely keeping himself together, makes you feel powerful in a way you didn't expect.

"satoru—more," you say, and your voice is steadier now. "i can take more."

satoru groans, a low, desperate sound, and then he's pushing again, the last few inches of his huge cock sliding home until he's buried completely inside you, his hips flush against the backs of your thighs.

the feeling is… well, there aren't words for it.

it's fullness and heat and pressure, and you're so achingly full, stretched around satoru in a way that feels almost too much but also exactly right. you can feel every inch of him, you can feel the way his cock pulses inside you, you can feel the slight curve of it pressing against your walls.

satoru isn't moving yet; he's just lying there, his body covering yours, his face buried in the curve of your neck. his breath is hot against your skin, each exhale a shaky, uneven thing, and his hands are gripping your hips so hard you know there will be bruises there tomorrow.

"look at me," satoru says, and his voice is muffled against your neck. "please, baby. look at me."

you tilt your head back, and satoru lifts his face, and the expression you see there immediately makes your heart stutter in your chest.

satoru is looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the entire world; like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked, the solution to every problem he's ever had. there's no trace of the cocky, untouchable supermodel in his gaze — just a man, just satoru, looking at you with an adoration so raw and so real that it makes your chest ache.

"i've got you," satoru says softly, and his voice cracks in the middle of the words. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're mine. you're finally mine."

then he starts to move.

slow at first, just a gentle rocking of his hips, barely pulling out before pushing back in. the sensation is overwhelming, your body still adjusting to the size of him, and every small movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.

satoru watches your face like he's cataloging every expression, every twitch, every bitten-off moan, and he adjusts his angle based on what he sees, tilting his hips just slightly until—

"there," you gasp, your back arching off the table. "right there, satoru, please—"

"yeah?" he asks, and there's a note of triumph in his voice, buried under the tenderness. "that the spot, sweetheart? that where you need me?"

he thrusts again, hitting that same spot, and you cry out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. he's still going slow, still careful, but each thrust is a little deeper, a little harder, and you can feel yourself opening up for him, your body finally accepting what it had been resisting.

"you're doing so good," satoru murmurs, punctuating each word with a thrust. "taking me so well, sweetheart. feels like you were made for this. made for me."

satoru leans down and kisses you, and it's so messy and so desperate and so perfect. his tongue slides against yours as his hips pick up speed, the thrusts becoming longer, smoother, the initial resistance gone. the makeup table creaks beneath you, the metal legs scraping against the concrete floor, but neither of you cares.

all that matters is the heat of his body and the weight of his cock and the way he's looking at you like you're everything.

"faster," you beg, because you're past caring about pride or dignity or any of it. "p-please, satoru, i need—i need you to —"

"faster?" he asks, and there's a smirk in his voice now, even as his eyes remain soft. "you want me to fuck you faster, baby? you think you can take it?"

"yes," you gasp. "yes, please, i can take it, i want it, i want—"

satoru doesn't make you wait.

he pulls back until just the tip is inside you, and then he slams forward, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, brutal thrust. the sound you make is something between a scream and a sob, and your whole body convulses around him, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.

"there you go," satoru groans, and his composure is cracking, his voice rough and dark. "there you go, sweetheart. that's what you wanted, isn't it? you wanted me to fuck you properly. to stop being so careful and just take what's mine."

he sets a rhythm then; deep, hard, punishing thrusts that drive the breath from your lungs.

the makeup table is sliding across the floor with every impact, and you can hear things falling off it — brushes, palettes, a glass bottle of setting spray that shatters somewhere behind you — but you can't bring yourself to care. all you can do is hold on, your legs wrapped around satoru's waist, your hands fisted in his hair, as he pounds into you like he's trying to carve out a space inside you that belongs only to him.

"look at you," satoru says, and his voice is wrecked, broken into pieces. "look at you, taking all of me. you're so beautiful like this. so fucking beautiful. i've dreamed about this—about you—every single night for years."

satoru is not exaggerating.

you can see it in his eyes, you can feel it in the way his hands are shaking even as they grip your hips, you can hear it in the desperate edge of his voice. this isn't just sex for him — it never was. this is something deeper, something that's been building since the very beginning, and now that it's finally happening, he's barely holding himself together.

you lean up and kiss him, and it's clumsy and off-rhythm because he's still thrusting into you, but neither of you cares. you kiss satoru and you taste salt — tears, maybe yours, maybe his — and you hold him as close as you can, your arms wrapped around his neck.

"i'm yours," you whisper against his lips. "i'm yours, satoru. i'm not going anywhere."

satoru makes a sound — a broken, desperate sound that's almost a sob — and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, and his hips are slamming into yours with a ferocity that borders on desperate.

the pleasure is building now, coiling low in your belly, and you know you're not going to last much longer.

"m’close," you gasp, pulling your mouth from his. "satoru, i'm close—"

"not yet," he says, and the words are a command, even as his voice shakes. "not yet, baby. hold on for me. i want you to cum when i tell you to."

you whimper, because it feels impossible, the pressure building inside you with every thrust, but you try; you try to hold back, to focus on anything other than the way his cock is hitting that spot inside you with every stroke.

satoru's hand wraps around your cock — you didn't even notice him reaching down — and he starts stroking you in time with his desperate thrusts, and that's it.; that's the very end of your resistance.

"please," you beg, your voice cracking. "p-please, satoru, i can't—i can't hold it—"

"look at me," he says, and his voice is soft now, gentle, even as his hips keep moving. "look at me, sweetheart. i want to see your face when you cum."

you force your eyes open, and satoru is staring down at you with that expression again; that terrifying adoring, reverent, i-would-burn-down-the-world-for-you expression, and it's too much. it's all way too much.

"now," satoru says, and his voice is barely a whisper. "cum for me, sweetheart."

oh, you certainly do.

your orgasm overtakes you completely, violent and all-consuming, and you don't even have the breath to scream. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, just a silent, gasping sob as you spill over satoru's hand, your release painting both of your stomachs in hot, pulsing stripes.

your body clenches around satoru's cock — once, twice, three times — and that's what pushes him over the edge.

he groans, low and guttural, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of his release filling you up, deep and hot and seemingly endless. his hips stutter against yours, grinding in small circles as he rides out his orgasm, and he's saying something — your name, over and over, mixed with words that might be i love you or might be just sounds, you can't tell.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

satoru is still buried inside you, his body completely covering yours, his pretty face pressed into the curve of your neck. his breath is warm and uneven against your skin, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that slowly, slowly begins to steady.

the makeup table is cold beneath you, the shattered glass from the setting spray digging into your back, and you're going to be sore tomorrow in ways you can't even imagine. but right now, with satoru's weight on top of you and his warmth seeping into your bones, you can't bring yourself to care.

satoru lifts his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his lashes wet. his makeup is completely ruined by now — highlighter wiped away, lipstick kissed off entirely. he looks wrecked, and beautiful, and so unbearably drunk that your heart aches.

"holy fucking shit," satoru says, and his voice is hoarse and rough and perfect.

you laugh.

it's a small, breathless thing at first, more exhale than sound, but then it grows, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, because yeah — holy fucking shit.

what else is there to say? your body is still trembling, still pulsing around him in tiny aftershocks, and satoru’s cock is still buried inside you, softening slowly but not gone yet. the cold of the makeup table is seeping through your back, and there's shattered glass somewhere behind your shoulder, and gojo satoru — the gojo satoru, the one whose face launches a thousand magazine covers — is looking at you like you've hung the moon with your own two bare hands.

so you laugh, and it's shaky and disbelieving and maybe a little hysterical, but it's real.

satoru's eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his own mouth curves into something soft and wondering, like he's never heard you laugh before even though he's heard it a thousand times over the past years. but this is different, and you both know it; this is after.

"there you are," satoru whispers, and his thumb traces along your cheekbone, softly wiping away a tear you didn't know you'd shed. "there's my boy."

satoru leans in and kisses you again, and this kiss is nothing like the desperate, hungry ones from before; this one is slow and savoring, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again.

his tongue slips past your teeth lazily, like he has all the time in the world, like there isn't a photoshoot waiting and a shattered bottle of setting spray drying sticky on the floor. you melt into him, your fingers curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

"i'm not done with you," satoru murmurs, and the words vibrate against your lips. "i told you. i'm going to fuck you on that chair, remember?"

you do remember.

you remember him saying it, his voice soft and dangerous, and you'd thought it was just talk, just the heat of the moment. but satoru is already pulling back, already wrapping your legs around his hips, and the movement shifts his cock inside you, still half-hard, and you gasp at the sensation.

"hold on," satoru says, and then he's standing.

he lifts you like you weigh nothing — and you're not small, you're not light, but satoru is all lean muscle and core strength from years of posing and gym routines, and he handles you like you're made of feathers. your legs lock around his waist automatically, your arms tightening around his neck, and his cock slips out of you as he stands, leaving you suddenly completely empty and aching.

you whine at the loss, high and needy, and satoru shushes you with a kiss to your temple.

"patience, sweetheart. i've got you."

the walk to the makeup chair is only a few steps, but it feels like an eternity. satoru's hands are splayed across your bare ass, fingers dimpling the flesh, and every step jostles you against him, his half-hard cock pressing against your thigh.

you can feel satoru’s release — yours too, probably — sliding down the inside of your leg, warm and sticky, and the sheer filth of it makes your face burn.

satoru lowers himself into the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and you settle onto his lap without needing to be told. your knees bracket satoru’s hips, your hands rest on his shoulders, and you're face to face again, close enough to count the individual lashes framing those ethereal blue eyes.

the chair is much more comfortable than the table, but that's not why you sigh. you sigh because satoru's hands are running up and down your sides, warm and grounding, and because satoru is once again looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that exists.

"there," he says softly. "that's better, isn't it?"

you nod, because words still feel heavy and clumsy. but satoru wants words — he's made that clear many times — so you clear your throat and try.

"yeah," you manage. "yeah, it's—it's better."

satoru's smile is slow and satisfied, and his hips shift beneath you, his cock twitching against your stomach.

he's getting hard again, you realize, or maybe he never really went soft. maybe he's just been waiting, patient and wanting, for you to catch your breath.

"remember what i said?" satoru asks, and his voice has dropped back into that low, honeyed register, the one he uses when he's about to get exactly what he wants. "i said i was going to fuck you on this chair. but i think—" he pauses, his hands sliding from your sides to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. "i think i want you to do all the work this time, sweetheart."

your heart stutters.

"what do you mean?"

satoru's grin is sharp and bright and just a little bit wicked.

"i mean you're going to ride me, sweetheart. you're going to sink down on my cock and fuck yourself on it until you can't move anymore. and then—" satoru leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp. "and then i'm going to take over and finish us both."

a shiver runs down your spine, settling low in your belly, and your cock, which had only just started to soften a little , gives an interested twitch.

"i—i don't know if i can," you admit, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "you're so—satoru, you're so big, and i'm already—"

"you can," satoru interrupts, and his voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "you already took all of me once, sweetheart. you can do it again. and i'll help you. i'm not going to let you fall."

satoru’s hands guide your hips, shifting you forward until his cock — fully hard now, thick and flushed and curving up toward his stomach — presses against your entrance. the head nudges teasingly against you, still slick from before, and you softly gasp at the contact.

"there you go," satoru murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your bodies are about to meet once again. "just like that. take your time. i've waited years for this, remember? i can wait a few more minutes."

you want to tell him that you're not sure you can wait, that the ache inside you is already building again, that the pressure of him against your hole is driving you slowly insane, but instead of speaking, you just bite your lip and sink down.

just the tip at first, because even after everything, even after satoru’s fingers and satoru’s cock stretching you open on the makeup table, the initial breach still steals your breath. his hands are steady on your hips, not pushing, just holding, and his eyes are soft with encouragement.

"that's it," he breathes. "that's it, sweetheart. you're doing so good. just a little more."

you take another inch, then another, the stretch burning in a way that's already starting to blur into pleasure. your thighs are shaking with the effort of lowering yourself slowly, and your hands grip satoru's shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

"fuck," you whisper, and the word comes out strangled. "fuck, satoru, you're so—you're so deep—"

"not yet," he says, and there's a smile in his voice. "not all the way. but you're getting there, baby. you're taking me so well."

you sink down another inch, and another, until finally your ass meets satoru’s thighs and you're seated fully on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

the sensation is overwhelming, just like before, but different too. on the table, you'd been lying down, passive, letting him take control. here, straddling him, you feel every inch of him in a new way, the angle different, the weight of your own body pressing down and driving him even deeper.

satoru's head falls back against the chair, his eyes fluttering closed, and a pathetic sound escapes his lips — low and guttural, almost pained.

"oh my god," he says, and his voice cracks. "oh my god, you feel—you're so tight, baby, i can't—"

satoru can't finish the sentence, and somehow that's the hottest thing you've ever heard. gojo satoru, pathetically reduced to fragments, because of you.

you start to move.

it's tentative at first, just a small rise and fall of your hips, an experimental lift that pulls satoru almost all the way out before you sink back down. the drag of him against your sensitive walls makes you moan, loud and obscene, and satoru's hands fly to your waist, gripping tight.

"yes," satoru hisses. "yes, just like that. fuck yourself on me, sweetheart. show me how much you want it."

so you do.

you find a rhythm, slow and deep, rising until just the head of satoru’s cock remains inside before dropping back down, taking all of him in one smooth movement. it's not graceful; your thighs are already burning, and your movements are a little unsteady, but satoru doesn't seem to care.

his eyes are open now, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle, and his mouth is parted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"look at you," satoru murmurs, and his voice is thick with wonder. "look at you riding me like you were made for it. you're so beautiful, baby. so fucking beautiful."

his praise wraps around you like a second skin, warm and encouraging, and you find yourself moving faster, chasing the pleasure that's building low in your belly.

each time you sink down, satoru’s cock hits that spot inside you — that perfect, devastating spot — and you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"there," satoru says, and his voice is darker now, edged with something far more hungry. "there it is. keep going, sweetheart. don't fucking stop."

you don't stop. you can't stop. your body is moving on its own now, rising and falling, rising and falling, again and again, and the sound of it — the wet, slick sound of you taking him over and over — fills the small dressing room.

satoru's hands are all over you, sliding up your chest, pinching your nipples, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. his mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, biting and sucking marks into your skin that you'll have to hide later.

"you're mine," satoru says against your throat, the words vibrating through you. "everyone's going to see these marks and know you're mine."

you want to tell him that you don't care who sees, that you'd walk out of this room right now with his bruises painted across your skin and dare anyone to say a word. but you can't form sentences anymore, can't do anything but feel the heat of him inside you, the drag of his cock, the press of his mouth, the way his hands are shaking even as they hold you steady.

but then your thighs start to burn in earnest, the muscles screaming with fatigue, and your rhythm falters.

you try to keep going, you try to push through, but your body simply won't cooperate; your movements become more jerky, uneven, and you whine in frustration, your forehead dropping to satoru's shoulder.

"c-can't," you gasp. "satoru, i can't—i can't move anymore, it's too much—"

satoru's hands tighten on your hips, stilling you.

"shh," he says softly, and his lips press against your temple. "i've got you, baby. i told you, didn't i? i said i'd let you ride me until you couldn't move anymore, and then i'd take over."

you nod against satoru’s shoulder, way too tired to speak, way too overwhelmed to do anything but cling to him.

"look at me," satoru says, and you lift your head, meeting satoru’s blue eyes.

they're dark again, the blue almost swallowed by black, and there's something in them that makes your stomach flip — not hunger, exactly, or not just hunger. but something deeper, something that looks like reverence.

"hold on," he says, and then he moves.

satoru plants his feet on the floor, braces his hands on the armrests of the chair, and thrusts up into you.

the force of it punches the air from your lungs, your body bouncing on his lap, and you would have fallen backwards if satoru’s hands weren't already there, one on your lower back, one cupping the back of your head. satoru holds you close, your chest pressed against his, as he fucks up into you with deep, punishing strokes.

"yes," you hear yourself sob, the word torn from somewhere raw and primal. "yes, yes, yes—"

satoru doesn't answer with words. he answers with his body, with the relentless rhythm of his hips, with the way he drives into you again and again and again. the chair creaks beneath them, the leather squeaking in protest, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're vaguely aware that someone might hear, that someone might come knocking, but right now, you can't bring yourself to give a fuck.

all that matters is him. all that matters is the way he fills you, the way his cock stretches you open, the way his breath is hot and uneven against your cheek.

"you feel so good," satoru grunts, and his voice is wrecked, shattered. "so fucking good, baby. i'm never going to get enough of you. never."

you're crying, you realize distantly. tears are streaming down your cheeks, not from sadness but from sheer overwhelming sensation — the pleasure so intense it's crossed over into something almost painful, something that makes your whole body shake and your vision blur.

satoru notices immediately.

"hey," he says softly, and his thrusts slow, but don't stop. "hey, sweetheart, look at me. are you okay?"

you nod, because you are, you're more than okay, you're flying apart and he's the only thing holding you together.

"it's just—" you try to explain, but the words won't come. "it's so much, satoru. it's so good, i can't—"

"awh, i know," satoru says, and he kisses the tears from your cheeks, his lips warm and gentle despite the way his hips are still moving, still driving into you. "i know, sweetheart. you're doing so well. you're taking me so well. just a little more, okay? can you give me a little more?"

you nod again, because you'd give him anything. you'd give him anything at all.

satoru's hand slides between your bodies, wrapping around your cock, and you sob at the contact. you're already so close, the pressure building and building, and his hand on you is going to push you over the edge.

"cum with me," satoru says, and his voice is desperate now, pleading. "please, baby, cum with me. i want to feel you—i want to feel you around me when i—"

he doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

you can feel satoru getting close, his thrusts becoming erratic, his cock swelling deep inside you. your own orgasm is right there, hovering just out of reach, and satoru's hand strokes you once, twice, three times—

and then you're falling.

your orgasm crashes over you, violent and consuming, and you cry out again — a broken, ragged sound that echoes off the concrete walls. you spill over satoru's hand, over his stomach, over your own chest, and your body clenches around him, gripping him tight.

that's all it takes.

satoru groans, low and guttural, and you feel him pulse inside you, you feel the hot rush of his seed filling you up. his hips stutter against yours, grinding deep, and he holds you there, buried to the hilt, as he empties himself into you.

it seems to go on forever, wave after wave, and by the time he finally stills, you're both trembling, both gasping for air, both completely undone.

satoru's forehead is pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. his hands are still on you — one on your hip, one cupping the back of your neck — and his thumbs are stroking small, absent circles against your skin. you can feel satoru’s heart pounding against yours, a frantic rhythm that matches your own, and you can feel the evidence of what you've just done leaking out of you, so warm and wet, dripping down onto his thighs.

"woah," satoru whispers, and his voice is soft, almost shy.

satoru smiles — not the sharp, camera-ready smile, but something smaller and way more vulnerable, something that crinkles the corners of his beautiful eyes and makes him look so freaking prepossessing.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

satoru is still inside you, softening now but not gone, and the weight of him is warm and grounding in a way you didn't expect. his forehead is pressed against yours, and every time he exhales, his breath fans across your lips, smelling faintly of mint and something sweeter underneath.

your legs are still shakily wrapped around satoru’s waist, your arms still looped around his neck, and you're acutely aware of every single place where your bodies touch — his chest against yours, his hands splayed across your lower back, his thighs warm beneath your own.

the dressing room is quiet now, save for the sound of both of you breathing, slowly returning to something that resembles normal. somewhere behind you, the shattered glass from the setting spray bottle crunches softly as satoru shifts in the chair, and you make a mental note to apologize to whoever has to clean that up later.

but later feels impossibly far away right now.

right now, there's only this; satoru's heartbeat against your chest, the stickiness cooling on your stomach, the way his thumb is tracing small, absent patterns on your hip.

"hey," satoru says after a while, and his voice is still soft, still a little wonderstruck. "you're crying."

you slowly blink, and sure enough, your cheeks are damp. you hadn't even noticed.

"i'm not crying," you say, but it comes out thick, and satoru's smile widens, fond and a little teasing.

"okay," satoru says, easily, like the man is humoring you right now. "you're not crying. you're just... leaking from your eyes. very different thing."

you laugh despite yourself, a wet, shaky sound, and satoru's hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer even though there's no space left to close.

satoru’s swollen lips find the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the spot just below your eye where a tear has escaped. he kisses it away, soft and deliberate, and the tenderness of the gesture makes your chest ache in a completely different way than before.

"you're so stupid," you whisper, but there's no heat in it; just exhaustion and something that feels terrifyingly close to love.

"mmh," satoru agrees, kissing your other cheek, then the tip of your nose, then your forehead. "your stupid, though. that's the very important part."

he keeps kissing you — little pecks, soft and unhurried, scattered across your face like he's trying to memorize the topography of you; the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. none of these kisses are demanding or hungry. they're just so... gentle. reverent, almost. like satoru is trying to tell you something he doesn't have the words for yet.

you let him.

you sit there in his lap, still connected in the most intimate way possible, and you let satoru cover your face with soft, sweet kisses until your tears have dried and your breathing has evened out and the trembling in your limbs has finally completely stopped.

"we're a complete mess," you observe eventually, looking down at both of you.

and it's true — satoru's chest is streaked with your release, and there's a smudge of ruined highlighter on his collarbone, and his white hair looks like someone stuck a finger in an electrical socket. you're not much better; your sweater is bunched around your armpits, your jeans are somewhere on the floor, and you can feel satoru's release leaking out of you, warm and slick against your thighs.

satoru follows your gaze and snorts.

"yeah. a hot mess, though. important distinction."

he shifts beneath you, and you both wince slightly as his softening cock slips out of you. the sudden emptiness makes you feel strangely hollow, and you can't quite suppress the small, unhappy sound that escapes your throat.

satoru notices, and his hands immediately start rubbing slow circles on your lower back.

"i know," he murmurs. "i know, baby. hold on. let me take care of you, okay? just stay there. don't move."

as if you could move.

your legs feel like jelly, and your entire body is humming with a bone-deep exhaustion that makes the idea of standing up feel genuinely impossible. so you stay put, draped across satoru's lap like a very content, very ruined cat, while he looks around the dressing room with an expression of mild consternation.

"okay," satoru says slowly, cataloging his surroundings. "okay. towels. there should be towels somewhere. or wipes. or—no, wait, i have a thing."

he shifts you carefully, one arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you from toppling off his lap, and leans over to rummage through the drawer of the makeup table. you cling to satoru instinctively, your face buried in the crook of his neck, and you feel him press a quick kiss to your hair before returning his attention to the drawer.

"haha!" satoru says triumphantly, and pulls out a package of makeup remover wipes.

they're not exactly designed for... this. but they're wet and they're clean, and right now, that's all that matters.

satoru pulls one out and immediately starts cleaning his own chest, wiping away the streaks of your release with efficient, practiced movements. but after a few seconds, he pauses, looks down at you, and seems to reconsider his priorities.

"actually," he says, balling up the used wipe and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the trash can (he misses). "you first. you're more important."

satoru pulls out a fresh wipe and gently, so gently, starts cleaning your stomach.

the wipe is cold against your overheated skin, and you flinch slightly at the contact. satoru notices immediately, his hand stilling, his eyes flicking up to your face.

"cold?" he asks.

"a little," you admit.

satoru makes a sympathetic noise and presses a kiss to your shoulder before continuing, but this time he's more careful, dabbing rather than wiping, letting the fabric warm against your skin before he moves it. he cleans the mess from your stomach first — your own release, tacky and cooling — and then works his way down, shifting you slightly so he can reach the mess between your thighs.

this part is more intimate than the sex was, somehow.

satoru is so careful, so focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleans the evidence of their joining from your skin. his touch is gentle and clinical, but also tender, and every few seconds he pauses to press a kiss to your knee or your hip or the inside of your thigh.

"you're being so good," satoru murmurs, more to himself than to you. "so still. so patient."

you want to tell him that you're not being patient, you're just too tired to move, but the words won't come.

instead, you just watch him — you watch the way satoru’s long fingers move, you watch the way his lips twitch into a small smile every time you shiver, you watch the way his eyes soften every time they meet yours.

when he's finished cleaning you, satoru carefully sets the wipe aside and reaches for another one.

this time, satoru cleans himself — his thighs, his stomach, the softening curve of his cock — with quick efficient movements. but even then, satoru keeps one hand on you, a steady warmth against your hip, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go completely.

"okay," satoru says when he's done, surveying his work. "not my best cleanup, but it'll do until we can get you home and into an actual shower."

home. satoru said home. like it's a given that you're going home together. like there's no question of you leaving, of this being a one-time thing.

your heart does something complicated in your chest.

satoru must see something shift in your expression, because his teasing smile fades into something softer, more uncertain. his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, and he tilts your head up so he can look you directly in the eyes.

"hey," satoru says quietly. "talk to me. what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

you swallow hard.

"you said home."

satoru blinks. "yeah. my place. i mean, unless you want to go to yours? but my bed is bigger, and i have that fancy shower with the multiple heads, and—"

"no, i mean—" you pause, trying to find the words. "you said home like it was obvious. like i'm coming with you."

satoru stares at you for a long moment, and then, slowly, incredulously, he laughs.

"baby," he says, and the word is so fond it almost hurts. "baby, i just spent the better part of an hour making love to you on my makeup table and then on my chair. i've been in love with you for years. where else would you be going?"

you open your mouth, close it, and open it again.

"wait," you say. "in love with me? for years?"

satoru's expression shifts into something almost shy, which is a look you've never seen on him since he was a teenagers. his ears go pink, and he ducks his head slightly, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks.

"yeah," he admits, his voice smaller than you've ever heard it. "i know. it's pathetic. i'm pathetic. i've had photo shoots in paris and milan and new york, and all i could think about was coming back to tokyo so i could sit in your chair and have you touch my face. i've turned down other makeup artists — good ones — because no one else's hands feel like yours. no one else looks at me like i'm just a person instead of... instead of whatever the world thinks i am."

your throat feels tight. "satoru—"

"please, let me finish," he says softly, and there's something vulnerable in his voice, something raw and unguarded. "i'm in love with you. i have been for so long i don't remember what it felt like before. and i know this is fast, and i know we just—i mean, we literally just—but i couldn't let you leave this room without knowing. i couldn't go back to pretending that you're just my makeup artist, that i don't spend every second you're near me trying not to stare at your mouth."

you're crying again. you didn't realize it, but you're crying, and satoru is wiping your tears away with his thumbs, his expression a mix of concern and tenderness.

"hey," he says, his voice gentle. "hey, it's okay. you don't have to say it back. i just needed you to know."

"you're an idiot," you manage, your voice cracking. "you're such an idiot, satoru."

his smile wavers slightly.

"that's... not the reaction i was hoping for, but okay."

"no, i mean—" you grab his wrists, holding his hands against your face. "i thought you were straight. i thought you were straight this whole time. i've been doing your makeup for years and i never—i didn't let myself think about you that way because i assumed you weren't—"

satoru's expression shifts from vulnerable to bewildered to absolutely incredulous in the span of about two seconds.

"you thought i was straight?" he repeats, his voice climbing an octave. "you thought i was straight?"

"you've never said otherwise!" you protest. "you've had girlfriends before! there were magazine covers with models hanging off you!"

"those were for publicity!" satoru's hands drop from your face to gesture wildly, narrowly missing your head. "those were contracts! do you know how many times i've tried to ask you out? how many hints i've dropped? i sent you a meme of two guys holding hands with the caption 'us' and you sent back a thumbs up! a thumbs up!"

"i thought you were joking!"

"i literally bought you flowers once! roses! red roses!"

"you said they were from a brand deal!"

"they were not from a brand deal!" satoru looks genuinely aggrieved now, his mouth hanging open. "i went to a florist and everything. i stood there for twenty minutes trying to pick out the perfect bouquet. the florist asked if they were for my girlfriend and i said no, for a boy i've been in love with for years, and she literally gave me a discount because she felt bad for me!"

you stare at him. satoru stares back, chest heaving slightly, his hair a complete disaster and his face still flushed from everything that just happened.

"you're serious," you say slowly.

"i have never been more serious about anything in my entire life," satoru says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "i am so serious it's embarrassing. i am so serious that ijichi knows. my manager knows i'm in love with you, and he's never even met you properly. he just knows because i won't shut up about you. because i literally cannot shut up about you."

you don't know what to say.

your brain feels like it's short-circuited, trying to reconcile the satoru in front of you — rumpled and wrecked and so painfully earnest — with the satoru you've known for long years, the one who always seemed untouchable, unattainable, fundamentally out of your league.

"i thought you were just being nice," you finally say, and your voice is small. "i thought you were just... friendly. models are friendly. it's part of the job."

satoru makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and he pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck.

"i am not that good of an actor," satoru says, muffled against your skin. "i am literally the worst actor. have you seen my commercials? i'm terrible. the only reason i book jobs is because of my face. my face and my absolute inability to pretend i don't want to climb you like a tree every time you walk into the room."

you laugh despite yourself, your hands coming up to card through his messy white hair.

"you're so dramatic."

"i'm in love," he corrects, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are so blue, even now. "there's a difference."

something warm blooms in your chest, something that feels like hope and terror and joy all tangled together.

"i'm in love with you too," you admit, and the words come out shaky but true. "i didn't know i was. or maybe i did and i just wouldn't let myself think about it. but i am. i'm in love with you, you ridiculous, beautiful, emotionally constipated man."

satoru's smile is blinding. he kisses you again, soft and sweet, and when he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

"say it again," he whispers.

"i'm in love with you."

"again."

"you're going to get insufferable, aren't you?"

"absolutely," satoru says, grinning. "i'm going to be the most insufferable person you've ever met. i'm going to tell everyone. i'm going to post about it on instagram. i'm going to—"

whatever else satoru was going to say is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

both of you freeze.

"gojo-san?" ijichi's voice comes through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "you need to be on set in five minutes. the photographer is asking for you."

your eyes meet satoru's. his eyes meet yours.

and then, simultaneously, the both of you look down at yourselves — at satoru's ruined makeup and disastrous hair and the love bites blooming on his neck, at your own disheveled state and the fact that you're still half-naked in his lap, at the shattered glass on the floor and the makeup wipes scattered across the table.

"oh no," you whisper.

"oh no," satoru agrees, and then, because he's gojo satoru, he starts laughing.

and it's not a quiet laugh — it's loud and slightly hysterical, the kind of laugh that comes from sheer overwhelming absurdity, and despite the panic rapidly rising in your chest, you find yourself laughing too.

"five minutes?" you hiss, scrambling off his lap.

your legs nearly give out, and satoru has to catch you, one arm around your waist, still laughing.

"five minutes," he confirms, and there's absolutely no urgency in his voice whatsoever. "ijichi, tell them ten!"

"gojo-san, i really don't think—"

"fifteen!" satoru calls, already reaching for your jeans and tossing them at you. "you can simply tell them there was a wardrobe malfunction!"

"there was no wardrobe—" ijichi starts, but satoru has already turned back to you, his expression torn between pure panic and giddy joy.

"okay," satoru says, grabbing a makeup wipe and scrubbing at his own face with absolutely no technique. "okay, okay, okay. we can fix this. we can totally fix this. i've looked worse. probably. maybe."

you pull your jeans on with shaking hands, wincing at the tenderness between your legs.

"your hair looks like you've been electrocuted."

"charming," satoru shoots back, trying to flatten it with his palms. it immediately springs back up. "your neck looks like i tried to eat you."

your hand flies to your throat, and sure enough, you can feel the raised marks of satoru's hungry mouth, the slight tackiness of dried saliva.

"oh my god."

"here." satoru tosses you a bottle of concealer — the expensive kind, the one that's supposed to cover anything. "do your magic. you're the professional."

you catch it easily, and for a little second, you just stand there, looking at him.

satoru in all his disaster glory; makeup smeared, hair wild, lipstick trace around his mouth, shirt still missing, chest still slightly damp from the wipes. he looks like he just got hit by a truck made of sex, and you're supposed to make him camera-ready in less than fifteen minutes.

"i hate you," you say, but you're smiling.

satoru grins back, bright and beautiful and so full of love it makes your chest ache.

"no you don't."

and he's right, you don't.

you cross the room to him, pull his head down, and kiss him one more time — quick, fierce, a promise — before you grab your brushes and get to work.

outside the door, ijichi sighs heavily and starts making calls to stall the photographer.

somewhere in the distance, a production assistant is probably having a panic attack.

but in the private dressing room, with satoru's hands on your hips and his eyes on your face and the remnants of your love still cooling on your skin, none of that matters.

you have fifteen minutes.

and then, after that, you have forever.

Holding back was a lot harder than he thought though. The vibrations felt extremely intense with the way you had it pressed right up against his frenulum. He was a mess, teary eyes rolling to the back of his head—jaw slack, drool stuck to the corner of his mouth. Mind dizzy with nothing but need.

“God, you’re so cute baby, look at you. Does it feel good?” You coo sweetly, while wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. He jumps in your hand, gasping loud and pathetic as you lean forward, catching the build of precum at the tip. laving your tongue over the head as he jerks and sputters like you’ve pained him.

“Y—you’re torturing me—f-fuck, I wanna cum p-please—agh!”

A keened mewl slips from his lips, abs tightening, fingers twisting into the couch when your plump lips wrap around the head of his cock, sucking cruelly. With every soft kitten lick you make his brain spaz. In an instant you’ve made him mush.

“That’s not what I asked you.” You pop your lips off, probing the tip with the tip of your tongue.

“It feels g-good—“ he slurs with a desperate whimper, mind reeling. He’s too sensitive to think straight, your mouth is too warm—and your tongue is doing things he’d never thought possible. “You feel s-so good baby—“ he sobs pitifully, tears streaking down his rosy cheeks.

A jolt of heat shoots right towards your cunt, you’re soaked. Lacy panties sticking to your slit, you’re not too bothered by it, because the sight of him is enough to make you lose your mind.

The vibrations of the cock ring make things a hundred times worse, he’s surprised he’s lasted this long, he doesn’t think he can take it anymore. It feels so good it hurts, it hurts so good he wants more. He’s been begging for a while now he’s sure, every time he approaches an orgasm you remove your mouth. Turn off the cock ring and just stare at him while he silently cries.

“Good boy, I love it when you listen to me,” you purr, warm breath brushing the front of his cock as your tongue darts out against one of the pulsing veins. “You wanna cum for me?”

“Mmn—ff-fuck I do—I do, I wanna cum—I’ll do anything—please I can’t hold it-“

You can’t hide the enjoyment you get from seeing him like this, a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Glancing up at him as he glances down at you with nothing but desperation.

“Fine, I’ll let you cum—“

He’s immediately shooting his load, hot ropes of cum splurt out against your face. Landing across your cheek, partially over your eyelid. He lets out a sound that’s pathetic, and wet—the cutest little sob you’ve ever heard him make. You watch his chest heave, leaning away from him with a blank expression, because the wheels in your heard are turning like never before.

You use your thumb to wipe some of the cum off your eyebrow, bringing it to your tongue.

“You were so desperate that you couldn’t even wait for me to finish. I didn’t know my favorite boy could be such a slut,” while shaking your head in disappointment you reach to the side of the couch, “I’m a little sad.”

A lie.

You pause briefly.

“You’re my sweet boy, aren’t you?”

“Mhm.” He replies mindlessly, voice small.

He hears you unpacking something, but he can hardly lift his head off the back of the couch. Throughly ruined, but you’re not satisfied. It takes him an odd, embarrassingly long second to understand your words. You’re already turning off the cock ring, slowly taking it off.

Noting the way his sensitive cock twitches from even the smallest brush of your fingertips.

So cute and sensitive.

“I was gonna say—that I’ll let you cum, but only if you could hold out for another two minutes like the good boy I was positive you could be.” The moment you wrap your hand around his cock, he hardens. Embarrassing he knows, he can’t exactly help himself.

Especially when he has to abruptly lift his head, “Wa—wait a second—ah—I’m still s-sensitive-“ to whine about the fact that he just came. He meets your eyes, his own widening—you’re staring up at him, eyes heavy, glazed over with that feral type of lust that makes his brain tingle with thrill.

“I’m not done with you ya’ know, and as much as I wanna,” you breathe heavy, using the flat of your tongue to lick away the creamy mess of cum along the front of his cock, “make this pretty cock cum, I really want to break you even more.”

He swallows, tries to stop his hips from jerking forward. Instead he grits his teeth and focuses on keeping his hands to himself as you hold his gaze. Something glints in your other hand when you lift it up, a long thin piece of metal with a slight bigger tip that you press against the pad of your thumb to hold steady. You bring it towards the tip of his cock and he immediately knows what it is.

One second he’s in too much shock to say anything, the next he’s letting out the most wreaked sound when you slide the entirety of the rod into his urethra. Despite the initial surprise he doesn’t regret not listening.

Especially when you finally stand, fingers slipping into the waist band of your panties, and he can’t take his eyes off you when you start to step out of them. The honeyed sound of voice hits him like a drug and he’s in a trance he doesn’t want to think about escaping.

“Now, you’re gonna fuck me until I’m satisfied.”

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ Featuring your favorites: Waterboy/Herman┆ Choso Kamo┆Satoru Gojo┆ Ino Takuma┆ Naoya Zenin┆ Giyuu Tomioka┆Denki Kaminari┆ Shoto Todoroki┆ Tamaki amajiki┆…and many more ⟢

Rain hits like needles—soaking through everything until it feels like it’s inside him, under his skin, threading through muscle that doesn’t quite feel like his own. Jason stands there anyway, unmoving in the alley’s mouth, chest rising too fast, too uneven, like he forgot how breathing is supposed to work and his body’s just guessing.

He’s bigger.

That’s the first thing that won’t leave him alone. It presses in on him, constant and suffocating. His shoulders feel too wide, his hands too large when he flexes them, fingers twitching like they belong to someone else.

It’s wrong.

Everything is wrong.

His head throbs—no, pulses, like there’s something alive inside it, something clawing at the walls of his skull. Memories shatter in broken pieces, sharp and jagged.

His own laughter—younger. Your voice. Then pain. It cuts off there every time. Like something slams a door shut before he can see the rest.

Jason sucks in a breath, and it stutters halfway through.

His throat burns.

He doesn’t remember when he started shaking, but it’s bad now—violent, almost. Not from the cold.

He drags a hand through his hair, and even that feels off. His nails scrape his scalp a little too hard, grounding him just enough to keep from slipping again.

“Get it together—” he mutters, voice rough, lower than he remembers.

It startles him.

He freezes for a second, like someone else spoke. Silence answers back. Just rain hammering pavement, dripping off fire escapes, pooling at his boots.

Boots.

He looks down like he’s expecting them to vanish. They don’t. Mud-splashed and planted firm against the ground like he belongs here. But he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be anywhere.

Jason exhales sharply, dragging both hands down his face. His skin is cold. Everything is cold except for the heat crawling under it, restless and wrong.

Dead.

The word flickers through his head, quiet but undeniable. His stomach twists. He doubles over just a little, breath punching out of him as something in his chest locks up. Not a full memory. Just that crushing certainty, that hollow drop in his gut like missing a step in the dark.

He was dead. So why—

Jason straightens too fast, dizziness hitting him hard enough that he stumbles a step back, shoulder knocking against damp brick. The impact helps. Pain is simple, it makes sense. Alive doesn’t.

He presses the back of his head against the wall, staring out into the rain-blurred street. Lights smear and stretch, everything warped and distant, like he’s looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Jason clenches his jaw, hard enough it aches.

“No,” he says under his breath, more force than certainty. “No, no, that’s—”

The sentence falls apart before it can finish. Because he doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know what he is.

You flicker in his mind again.

Familiar in a way nothing else is. Safe in a way nothing else feels anymore. “I know you,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, almost disbelieving. Like saying it too loud might make it disappear.

He doesn’t move. Because now there’s something else in his mind. An address. Etched deep, deeper than the confusion, deeper than the panic. He knows where you are.

His fingers uncurl from the brick. He pushes off the wall, standing fully upright, shoulders squaring like his body finally has a direction to follow.

Everything still feels wrong. His head still throbs. His body still doesn’t feel like his. But that doesn’t matter. Because through all of it—through the noise and the static and the broken pieces of himself, one thing stays clear.

You.

Jason swallows hard, rain running down his face, mixing with something warmer he doesn’t acknowledge.

“…yeah,” he mutters, voice low. “Yeah, I—” He cuts himself off. No more half-thoughts.

He steps out into the rain. And he doesn’t hesitate.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The rain soaks through everything—his clothing clinging tight to his skin, water dripping off his hair in steady streams that blur his vision every few seconds.

His boots splash through puddles he doesn’t bother avoiding, each step unsteady at first, then faster—like if he slows down, even a little, he might lose it. Lose the address. Lose you.

Jason doesn’t think. He can’t afford to. His head is already too loud—too crowded with half-memories and sharp edges that scrape every time he moves wrong. But that one thing—that one steady pull in his chest—it keeps him going. Like a string tied somewhere deep inside him, tugging him forward no matter how disoriented he feels.

Left.

Right.

Down the block.

By the time he reaches your place, he’s absolutely drenched down to the bone. Water drips from his sleeves, his fingertips, the edge of his jaw. His hair is plastered to his forehead, darkened, sticking in uneven strands that shadow his eyes.

He stands there at the edge of the walkway for a second too long. Just staring. The place is the same. Same porch. Same light glowing warm through the window. Same stupid little detail on the railing that you used to complain about but never fixed.

It’s all exactly how he remembers it—and for a second, it makes something in his chest ache so bad he almost doubles over again. Because he’s not the same. Not even close.

Jason flexes his fingers, staring at his hand like he doesn’t trust it. Larger. Rougher. Like it belongs to someone older, someone who’s lived more years than he remembers having.

“…shit,” he breathes, voice barely audible under the rain.

What if you don’t recognize him?

What if you look at him and just.. see a stranger?

His chest tightens painfully, something sharp lodging itself right behind his ribs. His pulse picks up again, loud and uneven, drowning out everything else for a second.

He almost turns around.

His foot even shifts back half an inch, hesitation creeping in, thick and suffocating. And then another memory. You, weeks before it—

Standing too close. Laughing at something he said. Your shoulder against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your voice softer after, quieter, like there was something you wanted to say but didn’t. And him not saying it either. Not saying anything.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching hard. His voice cracks, low and strained. “I didn’t get to—“

The words die in his throat, but the feeling doesn’t. It swells instead, heavy and desperate. Because he remembers that now too. How he felt about you. Loved you.

Not some silly crush. Not something simple or easy to ignore. It was everything. And he never said it.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

And somehow, that’s enough to push him forward.

Jason takes a step closer to the door. Then another. His boots thud heavy against the wood of the porch. His hand lifts and hesitates midair, fingers curling slightly like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to do with them.

Knock.

Right.

Jason stares at the door like it might open on its own if he waits long enough. Like maybe he can delay this just a few more seconds, keep everything exactly how it is right now—where you’re still just inside, still safe, still his in the only way that matters. Because once that door opens everything changes.

You’ll see him. You’ll see what he is now. And he doesn’t know if that ends with you pulling him in or shutting him out.

Before he can stop himself, before he can overthink it again—he knocks. His hand drops back to his side immediately after, fingers curling into his palm as he waits.

And God, the waiting is worse than anything.

Every second stretches too long.

His chest feels too tight, like there’s not enough room for his lungs to work properly. His eyes flicker to the window, catching a glimpse of movement inside and then the door opens.

Jason forgets how to breathe.

You’re right there.

Closer than any memory got it. And different.

Not in a bad way.

Not even close.

His brain struggles to keep up, words failing him completely as he takes you in. You look older, yeah—but not just that. There’s something like you grew into yourself in a way he never got the chance to see. And you’re gorgeous. The thought is immediate.

“Holy sh—” he breathes, barely a whisper, eyes wide like he’s trying to memorize every detail at once and knows he’s already failing. And the words he never said. They sit right there, heavy on his tongue, pressing up against his teeth, desperate to get out. His throat works around them.

His eyes—God, his eyes—soften in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him at all. Wide, glossy, miserable in a way that’s almost painfully obvious, like he doesn’t even know how to hide it anymore. Like a bruised puppy that somehow found its way home.

“I—” he starts, voice rough, catching immediately. He swallows, tries again, a little more desperate this time. “I didn’t get to say it before—”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from you for even a second.

“I should’ve said it then, I just.. I thought I had time, I—” His words tangle over each other, messy and unpolished, nothing like the Jason you remember. But the feeling behind them? It’s painfully clear.

“You got—” he shakes his head slightly, a breathless, almost broken sound leaving him. “You’re—” He stops himself, like he can’t find a word that does your appearance any justice.

Then he just exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “…I missed you,” he admits instead, quieter now.

A pause.

You’re still just.. staring at him.

“You’re the first thing I remembered,” he continues, low and sure, like it’s the only truth he has left to hold onto. Then, softer, “…and I’ve been in love with you.”

Jason just stands there after, shaking, heart practically in his hands, watching you like whatever happens next is going to decide everything.

“Jason..” You finally mutter.

Almost small, in a way that doesn’t match his size at all, he nods, “Yeah, it’s—” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he forces the word out. “…it’s me.”

Jason sees it. The way your eyes move over him, taking in every difference—lingering on his height, his shoulders, the way he fills the doorway now in a way he never used to. He knows what you’re seeing. He sees it every time he looks down. He’s not the same.

His shoulders tense, just slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller out of habit—out of something old and ingrained—but it doesn’t work.

There’s too much of him now. Too much space taken up by a body he still doesn’t know how to exist in.

“I know,” he says quickly, a little too quickly, like he can’t stand the silence stretching between you. “I know I look—”

He doesn’t say it. But it’s obviously there.

His hand lifts halfway, like he’s going to gesture to himself, then hesitates and drops again, fingers curling into his palm. His movements are awkward in a way they never used to be—like he’s second-guessing everything, unsure of where he fits even in his own skin.

“I didn’t mean to just show up like this..” His voice cracks again. God, he hates that.

Jason drags a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back, but it falls right back into place, dripping. He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked.

He needs an answer. Because he needs something—anything—to tell him he didn’t make a mistake coming here. That you don’t regret opening that door.

“I— Jason is that really..? But.. y- you’re supposed to be..”

He takes a small step forward without thinking. Then stops himself just as quickly. Like he crossed a line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross anymore.

“I know. I just.. needed to see you. Just once,” he adds, quieter. “To make sure you were okay.” His gaze drops for a second, just a second, to the space between you—then lifts again, hesitant now. “You’re not…scared of me, are you?”

“No… no, no—” You shake your head so fast it almost looks frantic, like you’re trying to physically push the idea away before it can even exist. “You’re not— I’m not scared of you. I just don’t know what.. this is.”

“Yeah, join the club.”

“Are you.. come get inside before you freeze or something.”

Jason blinks. Like the invitation didn’t fully register at first. You move aside, holding the door open, and he steps in carefully.

It’s warm. Warm, dry air wrapping around him instantly, chasing away the biting cold that’s been clinging to him since he woke up—since everything.

The difference is so sudden it almost makes him dizzy.

Water drips from him onto the floor in a small puddle, his boots leaving faint marks behind. He looks… out of place. Too big for the space in a way he never used to be. Like he’s taking up more room than he’s allowed to.

You close the door behind him, the sound soft but final. For a second, neither of you speak. Then—

“Okay,” you say under your breath, dragging a hand over your face like you’re trying to wake yourself up. “Okay, um—”

You look at him again. Right at him.

“Start talking. Please.”

Jason exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction. “…I don’t know where to start.”

“Try,” you reply, stepping a little closer.

“I woke up. That’s— that’s it. I woke up and everything was wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Everything,” he says quickly, gesturing to himself. “My mind, my body— this isn’t—” He stops, jaw tightening. “It’s mine, but it’s not the one I remember.”

You glance over him again, slower this time. Taking in the details without the initial shock clouding it. “…you’re taller,” you admit quietly.

Jason huffs. “Yeah. Noticed.”

“And—” you hesitate, then push through it, “bigger.”

“…yeah.”

A beat passes.

“Stronger?”

Jason pauses, then nods once. “Feels like it.”

Silence settles again.

You shift your weight slightly. “Do you remember… anything?”

His expression tightens. “Pieces,” he says after a second. “Not all of it. Just—bits.”

“Like what?”

Jason’s gaze flickers to you, then away, like he’s not sure how much to say. “…you,” he answers finally.

“Me?”

He nods, slower this time. “Yeah. Not— not everything. But enough. You were…always there.”

You swallow, eyes dropping for just a second. “…you died, Jason.”

“…I know,” he says, voice low.

You take a small step closer. This time, you don’t stop halfway. “I went to your funeral,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Your brows knit together slightly. “You know?”

He nods once, swallowing hard. “It’s one of the things I remember. Not clearly, but—” he exhales, shaky, “I remember you being there.”

Your lips part slightly, but no words come out right away. Instead, your gaze softens. Really softens. “…you idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no bite to it. Just something fragile underneath.

Jason lets out a weak, almost breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds right.”

“Uh, you look really different,” you bring up his appearance again, more carefully this time.

Jason tenses, just slightly.

“Not bad,” you add quickly. “Just, um— different.”

“Different how?”

You huff a small breath, like you’re embarrassed by your own words already. “You’re really hot.”

Jason short-circuits. “What?”

Your face warms a little, but you don’t take it back. “I mean it,” you say, quieter now. “You just.. look older. It’s gonna take a second to get used to, that’s all.”

“Well, you look—” he starts, then stops, exhaling a quiet laugh. “I already said it.”

“You did.” You roll your eyes faintly, but there’s no real annoyance there.

Silence settles once again.

Jason shifts his weight slightly, like he’s not sure what to do next. His hands twitch at his sides again. Then, “Can I..” he starts. He stops himself like he’s about to back out. But he doesn’t. “Can I kiss you?”

The room goes very, very quiet.

You don’t answer right away. Jason’s chest tightens again, that familiar fear creeping back in. Then you step forward, closing the distance completely.

Your hand comes up, hesitant at first, then steadier as it rests against his chest—right over where his heart is pounding way too fast.

“Yeah..,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers brush your cheek, barely there, warm despite everything. Then he leans in. The kiss is soft. Tentative at first—like neither of you are sure how to do this version of each other yet. Like you’re both adjusting in real time, trying to fit into something that almost existed before but never got the chance to.

It’s warm. A little shaky.

Jason exhales against you, something in him finally loosening, finally settling just a little as he leans into it—into you. Like this is the first thing that’s felt right since he came back.

When he pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant.

His forehead rests against yours for a second, breath uneven but softer now. “I missed you,” he murmurs again, quieter this time.

And even now—even after everything— It still feels like not enough. But it’s a start.

Curiosity, always Sokka’s greatest ally and his most dangerous enemy, pulled him toward the gap in the doors. He pressed his back against the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and peeked through the sliver of space. His breath hitched, his entire body locking up at the sight before him. Zuko—the same man who sat on the dragon throne with cold, calculating precision—was on his hands and knees in the center of the plush red rugs. His back was arched so sharply his spine looked like a bow ready to snap, his head hanging low as his dark hair shielded his face. His ass was thrust high into the air, a pale, muscular invitation that you were currently accepting with a slow, devastating intensity.

Sokka watched, mesmerized and horrified, as you loomed over Zuko’s frame. Your hands were splayed wide, one palm buried in the soft, yielding fat of Zuko’s right ass cheek, your fingers digging in with a possessive strength that left white marks against his flushed skin. Your other hand was pressed flat against the center of his arched spine, feeling the frantic heat of his body as you drove into him. The sound was hypnotic—a heavy, rhythmic squelch-thuck of your cock sliding into Zuko’s soaking, velvet-lined pussy. Every time you bottomed out, the impact made Zuko’s entire body shudder, a low, vibrating moan breaking from his lips.

"Spirits... oh, spirits," Zuko babbled, his voice a ruined, gravelly wreck that Sokka could barely believe belonged to his friend. "It’s too big... it’s so fucking good. I can feel every inch... I can feel you hitting my heart." Zuko’s head thrashed, his forehead pressing into the rugs as he lost himself in the sensation. "Y/N... please, don't stop. I want your cock to break me. I want you to fill me up until I can’t breathe. It’s so thick... so hot... I’m going to cum just from the way you’re stretching me out."

Sokka’s face was a mask of shock, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a gasp. He should have looked away, should have run for the safety of his own room, but he was rooted to the spot. He could see the way Zuko’s waxed skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and the honeyed nectar of his own arousal, the clear fluid dripping from his center and staining the expensive rugs. The sounds were becoming more frantic—the wet suction of the penetration, the heavy huff of your breathing, and the constant, needy stream of Zuko’s incoherent praise for your size and the way you were ruining him.

Then, the world tilted. As you pulled back for a particularly deep thrust your head tilted up. Your gaze moved past the curve of Zuko’s spine and locked directly onto the sliver of space in the doorway. You saw him. You saw the wide, blue eyes of the Southern Water Tribe warrior, the way his jaw had dropped, and the absolute stillness of his posture.

A smirk, slow and predatory, spread across your face. Instead of stopping, instead of pulling away in shame, you did the opposite. You tightened your grip on Zuko’s ass, your fingers squeezing the plush meat of his cheek as you drove your hips forward with a sudden, violent increase in speed. You kept your eyes locked on Sokka’s, a silent, dominant challenge vibrating in the air. You wanted him to watch. You wanted him to see exactly how you owned the Fire Lord.

Zuko felt the change in your rhythm and let out a deafening, high-pitched cry that echoed through the room. "Yes! Just like that! Fuck me! Fuck me just like that!" He had no idea they had an audience; he was drowning in the heat you were providing, his internal walls clamping down on your shaft in a series of frantic spasms. The wet smack of your pelvic bone hitting his rear became a deafening sound in Sokka’s ears.

Sokka felt his own knees go weak, the raw, uninhibited power of the scene before him bypassing his brain and going straight to his cock. He watched as you continued to fuck Zuko senseless, your eyes never leaving his, forcing him to be a witness to the total surrender of the most powerful man in the world. The air in the hallway felt like it was vibrating, the scent of their shared hunger reaching out to claim him, leaving him trembling in the dark as you finished what you started with a brutal, beautiful finality.

As you step out from Zuko’s private chambers, the cool draft of the hallway feels like a physical relief against your sweat-slicked skin. You take a moment to adjust the collar of your silk robes, the phantom sensation of Zuko’s muscles still humming in your fingertips. You knew the Southern Water Tribe warrior wouldn't have made it far. Sokka has many talents—tactics, boomerang precision, and an appetite that could rival Appa's—but stealth in the face of absolute shock has never been one of them.

You find him just around the corner, leaning heavily against a red lacquered pillar. He looks like he’s trying to remember how to breathe, his face a vivid shade of crimson that rivals the Fire Nation banners hanging from the ceiling. His blue eyes are wide, unfocused, and darting frantically toward the shadows. He jumps nearly a foot in the air when you lean casually against the opposite wall, a predatory, knowing smirk playing on your lips.

"So," you drawl, the low vibration of your voice cutting through the silence of the corridor like a blade. "Did you enjoy the show, Sokka? Or was the lighting in there a bit too dim for your tactical analysis?"

Sokka’s head snaps toward you, his hands flying up in a series of frantic, defensive gestures. "I—you—it’s not—!" He sputters, his voice cracking in a way that would be hilarious if the tension between you wasn't so thick you could carve it with a kukri. "I wasn't spying! I was going to the kitchens! For sea-prunes! Or... or fire-flakes! I just took a wrong turn, okay? The palace is a maze! A giant, red, confusing maze of people doing... things! Very loud things!"

You push off the wall, closing the distance between you with a slow, deliberate stride that makes his rambling die in his throat. Sokka’s back hits the pillar, his breath hitching as you crowd into his personal space. You can smell the salt and sea-breeze scent that always clings to him, now mixed with the sharp, electric tang of a man who has been thoroughly overstimulated.

"It’s not like that, I swear," he continues, though his voice has dropped to a desperate whisper. "I didn't mean to find the two of you in such a... a compromising... I mean, Zuko is the Fire Lord!—"

You silence him by reaching out, your hand sliding down the front of his Water Tribe trousers. Sokka’s entire body goes rigid, his eyes nearly popping out of his head as your fingers cup the undeniable, heavy bulge straining against the blue fabric. He lets out a sharp, choked noise—half-gasp, half-whimper—as your thumb traces the throbbing length of him. He’s rock hard, his body betraying every frantic denial that just poured out of his mouth.

"You're rambling, Sokka," you murmur, leaning in until your lips are brushing the shell of his ear. You can feel the frantic thud of his heart through his chest, a wild, syncopated rhythm that matches the pulse beneath your palm. "And your body is telling a much more honest story than your mouth is."

Sokka’s hands come up to rest on your shoulders, but he doesn't push you away. Instead, his fingers dig into the silk of your robes, his knuckles turning white as he fights the urge to lean into the friction. He looks down at you, his pupils blown out until his blue irises are just thin rings of color. The cocky, joke-cracking strategist is gone, replaced by a man who has been watching from the shadows for far too long.

"I... I shouldn't," he breaths, his voice a ruined wreck of its usual confidence. "Aang is in the next wing, and Katara would... she'd kill us both. This is crazy."

You squeeze him, your grip possessive and unyielding, making him arch his back against the pillar with a low moan that he can't quite stifle. The sound echoes through the hallway, raw and needy. You look him dead in the eye, the same way you did through the crack in the door, making sure he knows exactly who is in control of this particular battlefield.

"Diplomacy is about finding common ground, isn't it?" you ask, your smirk softening into something darker, something more inviting. "Zuko is still in there. He’s unraveled, he’s wet, and he’s probably waiting for more. And I think you’ve seen enough to know exactly what you’ve been missing out on."

You move your hand, a slow, dragging slide that makes Sokka’s knees buckle. He lets out a shattered, high-pitched sob of a moan, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he finally stops fighting the gravity of the situation. The air in the hallway feels like it’s vibrating, the weight of years of friendship and shared battles finally collapsing under the heat of a single, carnal question.

"You wanna join?"

Sokka doesn't answer with words. He grabs the front of your robes and pulls you into a desperate, messy kiss that tastes like salt and hunger. He’s shaking, his body finally surrendering to the fire you’ve ignited, and as you lead him back toward the slightly ajar shoji doors, you know the Fire Nation palace is about to witness a very different kind of conquest.

The incense in the Fire Lord’s chamber has long since been overwhelmed by the heavy, humid scent of copper, musk, and the salt-spray tang of the South Pole. The room is a haze of crimson and gold, illuminated by the low, flickering heartbeat of the hearth, but the real heat is centered on the massive silk-laden bed where the world’s most powerful leaders have been reduced to creatures of pure, uninhibited instinct. Zuko is splayed back, his dark hair a tangled mess across the embroidery, his golden eyes blown out until they are nothing but dark voids of need. He is pinned beneath Sokka, whose broad, tanned shoulders are slick with sweat, his muscles corded like the ropes of a warship as he tries to navigate the overwhelming reality of his first time inside the Fire Lord.

You stand directly behind Sokka, a steadying anchor in the storm of their shared lust. Your hands roam upward, your palms dragging across the heated skin of Sokka’s ribs before your fingers find his nipples. You pinch them sharply, drawing a jagged hiss from Sokka’s throat that vibrates through his entire frame. He’s trembling, his massive cock buried deep within Zuko’s velvet-lined heat, the sheer girth of him stretching Zuko’s internal walls to a point that makes the Fire Lord let out a continuous, high-pitched whimpering sound.

"Easy, Sokka," you murmur, your voice a low, grounding rumble against the back of his neck. "Don't just rush it. Feel how he’s clamping down on you."

You slide your hands down, your palms flat against the front of Sokka’s navel, your fingers spreading wide as you take control of his momentum. You guide his hips, pulling him back until he’s almost withdrawn and then driving him forward with a slow, devastatingly deep surge. The sound is visceral—a wet, heavy squelch as Zuko’s pussy, already drenched in his own honeyed nectar and your lingering heat, takes Sokka’s full length. The air in the room is filled with the rhythmic, messy sound of their coupling; the fleshy smack of Sokka’s thighs hitting Zuko’s rear and the liquid slop of the friction churned into a frothy lather between them.

"Spirits... oh, Agni..." Zuko babbles, his head thrashing against the pillows. His voice is a ruined wreck, a series of breathless, incoherent stammers. "Sokka... you're so big... you're splitting me in half. Please... keep doing that- ahn! Yes, right there!"

Sokka lets out a shattered, breathy laugh that’s more of a moan, his forehead dropping onto Zuko’s shoulder as he gives in to your guidance. "I didn't... I didn't know he could sound like that," Sokka gasps, his hips bucking under your hands. "He's so tight... it's like he’s trying to swallow me whole."

"He is," you say, your smirk hidden against Sokka’s shoulder. "Now, give him what he’s begging for."

As Sokka finds a more confident, mean rhythm, his pace becoming a blur of tan skin, you reach around his side. Your fingers find their way to the center of Zuko’s surrender, sliding through the slick, hot overflow to find his engorged clit. It’s hard and pulsing, a tiny, hyper-sensitive knot of fire that makes Zuko’s entire body go rigid the moment you come into contact with it. You begin to circle it with a rhythmic, mechanical precision, your thumb pressing down with just enough force to make Zuko’s vision flash.

The reaction is instantaneous. Zuko’s back arches off the bed, his toes curling into the silk as a deafening, echoing cry breaks from his lips. “Nnn-ghh! Haa... fuck! Yes, right there!” The combination of Sokka’s internal pounding and your external torment is too much for him to handle. He is a mess of pure sensation, his walls pulsing around Sokka’s cock in a series of frantic spasms that make Sokka moan in triumph.

The sounds in the room become filthy and uninhibited. You can hear the wet schlick of your fingers against Zuko’s clit, and the constant, ruined stream of Zuko’s babbling. He’s telling Sokka how good it feels, how thick he is, how he wants the Water Tribe warrior to claim every inch of him. Sokka is answering with guttural, animalistic noises, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged stabs as he nears the threshold of his control.

"That's it, Sokka. Look at him," you command, your hands tightening on his waist as you force him to maintain the depth of his thrusts. "See what you're doing to him. He’s yours. Every moan, every drop of sweat—it’s all for you."

Sokka looks down, his blue eyes blown out and dark with a fierce, starving adoration as he watches Zuko unravel beneath him. The Fire Lord’s face is flushed, his lips swollen from your previous kisses, his gaze unfocused as he drowns in the dual-assault of his lovers. The friction reaches a fever pitch, the thick, dragging heat of their connection winding the tension in the room into a tight, screaming wire.

With one final, devastatingly deep thrust that bottoms out against Zuko’s cervix and a frantic, high-speed rhythm from your thumb, they both snap. Zuko lets out a soul-shattering cry of surrender, his entire body seizing as a massive, earth-shattering orgasm rips through his core. He spills himself over the furs in a violent, liquid rush just as Sokka delivers a massive creampie deep into his womb. Sokka collapses onto Zuko’s chest, his heart thudding in a frantic, wild rhythm that matches the Fire Lord’s, while you stay behind them, your hands still resting on Sokka’s hips, the three of you finally finding a different kind of balance in the ruins of the night.

“There’s gotta be a reason, it ain’t good for ya.” He prods. “We could—“

“No.”

“Didn’t even finish what I was gonna say!”

“I know you man, we aren’t watching porn.”

A lot of begging later (okay fine, maybe you were curious how he’s really packing), you finally agree to watch porn with him. There’s a dumb grin on his face as he boots up his laptop, conveniently already on a porn site. Whatever, you don’t question it. He puts on a video of someone you don’t care to look at, loud moans escaping the speakers.

A boring ten minutes pass and you could feel how Johnny kept looking over like he was waiting for you to pop one out (he was). You could almost make out a pout on his lips.

“We done now?”

“You’re still not hard?” He questions, motioning to his hardness. “Sure you don’t got ED?” He doesn’t wait for a response as a hand reaches out to grab hold of your sweat’s waist band. You don’t move to stop him, challenging his action.

“I’m startin’ to think you just wanna see my dick.” You joke, but the blush on his face proves your words true. “No fuckin’ way…”

His heads thrown back, sweat dripping down his neck as he swallows hard. Your cock against his, thighs pressed on top of yours and he knows he’ll have wet dreams of this for months.

“Still here?” A guttural groan answers your question. You tut, a faux frown he doesn’t see. “Gonna need words, numpty.”

Johnny’s whole body twitches at that, face flushing red. “H-how do you—“

Your thumb presses onto his tip, pre pooling out that you scoop up and spread into his happy trail. His stomach tenses but fuck was that hot, just how much of a pervert was he?

“C’mon, tell me how you feel.” A glob of saliva drips from your tongue onto both dicks, helping the glide and leading a shudder out of him.

“I—fuck, I uh,” his eyes squeeze shut, brain trying to form a response that satisfies you but you’re rubbing his tip so well nothings forming.

“You got a brain in there, use it.” A hand fondles his balls, groping and compressing as if you’re trying to jumble his words.

“It’s good—fuck, s’good.” Johnny whines, accent steadily increasing with your hands’ intensity.

“There ya go,” he can hear the condescension in your tone, “wasn’t so hard, was it.”

Even with his head thrown back he still nods, disagreeing with your words but not willing to explain why (as if you can’t form a reason). There’s a forearm preventing you from seeing his watery eyes, but you don’t mind. He’s so responsive, after all; a twist of your wrist has him biting his lip, a brush against his crown makes his sturdy stomach contract, and the way his adam apples bobs when you trace his perineum…

Perfect material for months.

There’s a sudden hand at your nape and he pulls you in, a free hand catching the weight to not topple him before lips meet and he finally catches you by surprise. Johnny swallows your groans while rutting against you and your hand, pace stuttering when the pleasure gets a little too much or your hand wonders low.

There’s sweat forming on your brow and a heat sneaking on your face, breaking the unaffected façade you’re pulling. Grabbing a hand of his, you guide it to clamp around both cocks and he inhales at how thick yours fill his palm.

“Squeeze harder,” you murmur, “fuckin’ mean it.” The hand on your nape pulls you in closer which prompts the slick hand to press onto his jaw and force it wider. He can taste the mix of pre that only serves to make him harder. The flavor combines with your saliva, aiding him on devouring your lips. Alas, your ego’s too big to comply with his sudden dominance, so you force his head to tilt back further, baring his tanned neck and letting his mohawk brush against your sheets.

He’s close, you can tell with the way the fingers’ pressure on your nape differs as if he’s debating and the words he struggles to get out between saliva swapping. Your attention turns to his neck while he gasps for air, head fuzzy before his focus is brought down to the way you bite and suck into his neck. Johnny’s mouth opens, presumably to speak or moan, yet the words die with bated breaths while your tongue soothes the marks and lap up the sweat of his neck then back up to consume his lips.

And because he’s greedy, the hand around both dicks abandons yours and slip onto his, pace and hips stuttering as groans are muffled by your lips. The hand on your nape squeezes, thumb pressing against his meatus and his stomach tenses before thick off white ropes spill out, covering your own and abdomen due to how close you are. He jerks himself through it, chest heaving as you finally part. The string of saliva breaks when you lean back, mouth wet before licking your lips with a satisfied exhale.

His motion stops when your hand brushes his away and replaces it, breath heavy and lips bruised red. “Least,” a pant, “I don’t have ED—“ a broken moan cuts off his taunt, your hand slowly jerking him and squeezing out every last drop. He bites back a tear, “fuck…” the word is so weak, barely audible as your free hand dips into his cum on your stomach, smearing it off before sliding the coated fingers into his mouth. Johnny willingly swallows them, tasting himself while his thighs and stomach tremble at every pull and stroke.

“Guess we’re gonna have to keep goin’, then.” You’re leaning over him once more, a hand pulling away the sweats’ band from under your balls, leaving a heavy leaking cock in perfect view. There’s a hungry heat in your eyes, head tilted like you know he’s going to comply with whatever you say next and a dangerous grin on your lips.

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.