fuck this and that

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s fucked.

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

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart could almost burst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep. He’s fucked.

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

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

“I think you got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

There’s always something in your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta is avoiding you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only it were his cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were holding hands.

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

And that isn’t even it.

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

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

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

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

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else would I say?”

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

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

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

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

“Show me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

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

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

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

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

But it does.

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

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

Delayed gratification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

“Sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

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

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

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

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

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.