Thank you for your dark business

taking karasu’s knot while he’s in rut typically doesn’t satiate the primal need (it never has been enough for either of your preferred tastes). that part is not the unusual bit for this encounter. nor is the way he keens and shouts in ecstasy when you press along his entrance with your tongue. karasu riding the waves of his own pleasure while you lick and suck along his cock while your fingers stretch him open is nothing new. the rumble of satisfaction and want that spills from deep in his throat as you add another finger to thrust in him is music to your ears; a tune you know well. 

beyond the scent change, there is a feeling. something that is warming your own chest when you look down at your alpha. karasu’s cheeks flush with the hungry stare that you give him, his body. yours. you relish the way his hips jerk forward, desperate to close the space between you. 

one of tabito’s wrists are bound to the bed frame. same with the opposite ankle. it’s years into this particular dance, the finale for his rut where you mount and claim every part of tabito, and his alpha rut still isn’t a fan of receiving, submitting like this, but you’ve come a long way from the blindfolds, muzzle, and fullly shackled restraints you had to use for his first rut with you where he begged (yes, begged) you to fuck him. 

this position isn’t foreign to either of you, and yet—

and yet, you find yourself changing things up. something compels you to kiss him first. before tabito feels the initial pressure of you filling him up. that doesn’t normally happen. the traditional routine involves you fucking him first, rough and fast, then kiss and hold him later; just how the both of you like it. your craving of control and power would be fulfilled first while karasu’s wordless desire to be treated and used and needed and praised would be achieved in this order.

but this time…there is first a kiss paired with your hand moving on its own accord to clasp his, the one chained to the bed, which sets off a trembling within karasu. a tremble that leads to dry sobs when your mouth parts from his just to settle along the skin of his free ankle that now sits in the air near your shoulder. you kiss and inhale and kiss some more with your eyes open, watching. observing him. seeing the way your mate looks at you with unshed tears and a plea for more. 

more of you, more of the slow, deep strokes of your cock that has begun to stretch him open. karasu sighs at the same moment you watch his own cock twitch and leak as your tip manages to rub against your alpha's sweet spot again and again and again. still at a steady, passionate pace that has him simpering and squeezing your hand that still has a hold of his own.

you love everything about your alpha. the seemingly larger than life, rippling and well defined muscles that could pin you down in seconds. the sharp, elongated canines you know are aching to feel something more than the saliva that drips down them right now. the ethereal glow of his irises that scream “POWER”. all of these dominating traits your alpha has, and he willingly gives it all up for you in this moment. he allows you to be the one to take and claim. yeah, you love him.

you love tabito karasu, and you love the alpha he is, and you love being the one in control of his rut, in control of this moment. 

you, the one with the heats and the smaller, softer build and the sweeter scent, are The Taker. you are the mate in this duo that gets to pin down and demand he feed your base urges and fuck karasu’s brains out till he’s floating on the wave of endorphins that assure him you are his, and he is yours.

after a good while of fucking your mate with hard, solid thrusts, admiring the view before you of such a large man coming undone twice because of you, and those sapphire eyes never once leaving your form, something in you shifts. you lean in closer, stretching tabito even more with his free leg moving with you, knee to his chest, foreheads knocking against one another while you grind into him.

and it is at this level of closeness, you note the pressure of tabito’s hand practically death-gripping yours, nails digging in, begging you to look at him and see. see what he wants, what those deep blue eyes beg from you while you share the same panted breaths and the smell of sex and warmer scents fill the air.

you give half a nod of assurance before closing the gap between your mouths with your lips, kissing him soft and deep while your hips cant to press further in. so you taste every gasp, every sigh of pleasure, every salty sweet tear that slides down your mate’s face as you relish in the feeling of all of him enveloped around you.

you must be drunk on this sensation. you have to be. how else could your mind explain the blooming heat that spreads through your chest and down to your core as you sit up to look at your beloved, and one singular thought consumes all of your senses as those eyes still silently plead with you for more—BREED. tabito’s leg moving to hook around your back and pull you impossibly closer only encourages that improbable thought to get louder. breed. breed your mate. yours. mine. more. LOVE. more. breed. breed. BREED.

the answer you are searching for in tabito’s eyes had already been waiting from the start. the different scent during this rut, the more intimate actions between the both of you, that unspoken request he’s been begging for since you pinned him down. he is an alpha, after all. of course he wants to care for and protect for his family. he wants more of you in the form of a family, and you’d like that too.

not that alphas can get pregnant, nor you be the type to actually knot or breed anyone else. but that rational thought is not present as you grip your alpha’s waist tight and groan at the sensation of filling him deep with your seed and watching how prettily tabito weeps and flutters around you, cumming at the same time, spilling all over himself. both love drunk on the pheromones and fantasy of starting something more with him in this way. pure love and desire and bliss as you breed your alpha just the way he wants it.

… … …

when the rut hormones have cleared, there is a candid conversation held about actually pursuing that next step with your mate.

talking about the different options available for an alpha and an omega with the dynamic that you have. maybe speaking with an omega or beta surrogate, maybe waiting for a lull in the upcoming soccer season to register for fostering that would lead to (hopefully) adoption, maybe stopping your birth control before your next heat, maybe.

maybe the universe has a lighthearted sense of humor with the way it decides things.

six weeks later, and there is the comical timing of professional athlete tabito karasu landing the final goal of the match, suddenly stopping in the middle of his victory lap to pass out on the field. he’s rushed to the hospital with his frantic mate (you) by his side for unexplained overheating/possible dehydration. except it isn’t that. blood tests are done to reveal something unexpected. you are actually an enigma, and tabito karasu is pregnant.

His hunters had come back with you a month ago in a cage of a few dozen others. Dwarf rabbits—nothing special. Cute though, like any other bunny breed.

You didn't need any taming nor much training. You were the first of your batch to make it out onto the floor. In fact, he’s sure you made record timing if only they kept track of such things.

But you’re not broken. No, that would suggest there was something there for them to break. No, with you there wasn’t any pride or dignity for them to strip away. You were just slaphappy from the get go, showing no resistance, going with the regime like resisting wasn’t even an option. Of course, it wasn’t an option. But most animals, even docile ones such as rabbits, will put up some type of fight, however meaningless. You, however, remind him more of moon jelly—no matter the harsh waves, it’s still going to continue to do what it always does and drift along like nothing matters.

He’s never seen anyone be so casual about being treated like dirt. Looking at you, it doesn’t make any sense to him.

He’s well-aware of how plenty among his slaves try to fake it the best way they can, eager to avoid the bitter bite of unsatisfactory customers, while some have had their bodies trained for so long they enjoy it now—but in either case, he’s still able see the defeat and animosity behind their painted expression, if not anything at all. Others who’ll play along all sweet and nice such as you do ultimately prove themselves to be dumb little things who thought that if they could just bide their time with good behaviour, they would somehow make his handlers lower their guard enough to create an opportunity of escape, only to test their luck and fail miserably or come to the conclusion that such an opportunity would never exist, then be left with nothing but that same catatonic look of utter brokenness.

But there’s none of that in your eyes. You’re not trapped in the moment like the others, nor do you hoard any such silly agenda as trying to escape it.

For you, it seems somehow like you’re simply at ease with it. It’s almost as though it falls natural to you, but he’s not sure what to call it. You’re just… happy-go-lucky about it—like a doll come to life, programmed to do what a doll does—eyes round and blank like two polished marbles, only ever looking far off into the distance as though you can’t see the things around you. 

At the same time, he gets this annoying feeling as though you’re seeing something no one else can.

In all honesty, he’s got no idea what you are. And it bothers him like you would not believe.

Which is why he’s decided he needs to keep you closer. Friends and enemies and all that. Though, he doesn’t find it prudent to give you so much credit as to call you his enemy as that would imply you pose a threat. Still, he doesn’t enjoy things he doesn’t understand, and you, well, even though you’re nothing scary, he’s taken by this desperate need to put his finger on you for some reason. And to do that, he figures he’ll just put you under his thumb and be done with it in the best way he knows how.

He’s certain he’ll feel better about it all after he’s had you beneath him. Then, all these thoughts he’s been having will be proved as nothing more than a waste of time after he’s reduced you to what he knows is true for all bunnies. Prey at his mercy, and nothing more.

The girls that get handpicked for the mezzanine are usually all on their knees trying their best to earn their keep and not get sent back down to the den where customers get to do what they please with them any way they want. Being on the risen floor is like a blessing in that way—a chosen few, honored ones, saved from the fray below given an opportunity to please just one man instead of a dozen a day. 

Typically they’ll be rare breeds, red-listed, and now, even though you don’t stand out as anything special, mundane dwarf rabbit that you are, you’re going to be one of them. You should see it as a fucking godsend.

And yet, you don’t seem to grasp the value of it in the slightest. 

Two girls a little way from you are putting on a show for him, kissing and touching each other all for his viewing pleasure. Despite their performance, from where he sits on his comfy throne of pillows and throws, his eyes look past them onto you where you’ve placed yourself before the balustrade, peacefully staring passed it into the thin air, beyond the cesspit below, ahead at something unknown like always.

Only this time, he demands to have his answers.

“What’s got you looking so pleased?”

It seems you hadn’t noticed his approach, and yet you don’t spook by it either, that way your head slowly turns, looking up at him for the first time with those very big eyes, to where he looms above, stone-faced with his hands down his pockets.

Being a polar bear, he’s used to his size and presence invoking fear in everyone around him. It’s a natural response to the largest predator. He’s always viewed it as a sign of respect. A fact that everyone knows he’s not the one you should test your luck against.

You, however, don't regard him any differently than you would a fellow bunny. Giving him no signs of being in a rush to please him. You just stare, as though waiting for him to explain himself.

“You seem like you' got something you’re looking forward to.” His voice is brisk, demanding, “I want to know what it is.”

You blink then. Slow in your answer—way too slow to understand the dire situation you’ve landed yourself in, or maybe, simply unbothered. He really can’t tell, and it’s beyond frustrating at this point—trying his very hardest to read your mind and failing so miserably in the pursuit he has no other option but to wait oh-so-patiently for you to indulge him.

“We’re getting stew for supper today,” you say at last, looking back through the guardrail at his workers, flooding through the gate on the ground floor, carrying sacks of potatoes over their backs.

His nose scrunches at the prospect. You're really looking forward to that slop? Suppose you have to be that humble when you’re at the bottom of the food chain. Even so, he hasn’t heard any single one of his bunnies, of which he’s had hundreds, ever show any type of enthusiasm regarding the food.

“You like stew?” he asks. Patience tested, but curiosity unsated.

You shake your head then, a small smile of all things gracing your face, contradicting yourself, “Not really.”

His brows furrow. Is this a game or something? If so, it’s not amusing. His teeth grind. “Not really? Why are you so cheery then?”

You look up at him once more, blinking again, both like you’ve never really thought about it as well as though you think it’s obvious—so obvious that you find it odd to even be sparing it a thought.

“Well, you see… When there’s stew, they serve carrots on the side. And I really like carrots.”

You look back to the potato sacks just in time to catch sight of the crates of carrots now being brought in, and the smile on your face as you watch them is unlike anything he’s ever seen—warm, excited, blissful even. 

Affronted by it, he leaves you abruptly, thinking an expression like that has no right in a place like this. 

Content slaves are never a good thing. Content slaves forget that which they are—slaves. They start taking what little they have for granted. They become ungrateful, and demanding, and then the uproars happen. That’s it. That’s what he dislikes about you. That’s what’s been making him so uneasy. You don’t beg or scramble. You’re nonchalant, and that type of sangfroid is nothing short of insolent. What’s worse, it could inspire others.

He won’t have that. 

You think you have something to be happy about? Perhaps it’s time he reminded you—you have nothing.

He regards you keenly from the mezzanine, watching you enter the dining hall down below. The spring in your step is pitiful to behold and so is the dead still you come to when you're wandering eyes can’t find the tub of chopped carrots usually on display right next to the potatoes.

You keep the metal dinner bowl to your chest, this tiny rumple between your brows as your eyes become more searching the farther up the line you get. And then, when it’s finally your turn, you cock your little head over the display, voice softly inquiring to the workers on the other side, “Are all the carrots finished already?”

“No carrots today. Dietary restrictions. Boss-man’s orders,” is the strict reply that returns, given like a slap to the face.

“Oh…”

You blink then, as you do—that very empty type of blink like you’re resetting yourself the way he’s seen you do with other customers.

And then, just as always, you slip right back without a hiccup. “I guess I’ll just have some potatoes then.”

It’s disappointing. He’d thought for sure you’d give him a little more grief than that. But no. You even tack on a polite little “Thank you,” after being served, before hopping out of line like there was never anything more to be wanted.

You don’t make moves to sit with any of the others, he notices. Instead, you make your way alone up the stairs to where he is like you’ve already accepted the mezzanine as your new place.

He’s not sure why, but for some reason he hides himself so as not to spook you into going somewhere else. And from behind the coverage of a pillar, he continues his stalking, observing you as you sit yourself in the same spot as before, in front of the balustrade.

You proceed like earlier to look through the bars down at the burrow below. It’s empty and quiet now with everyone busy in the dining hall, and he realizes he’s never actually spared it a glance during supper before. It’s a strange sight. Like a battlefield after the battle.

You don’t eat in a mad hurry like the others. Actually, it takes five minutes before you even touch the potatoes, and when you do, it’s one piece at a time, calmly, taking your sweet time, like you’re trying to enjoy yourself. 

He finds himself wondering if you’d eat carrots the same way. And before he even knows it, he’s standing right behind you once more with the same question as earlier.

“What’ you looking at now?”

And just as before, you don’t spook by his presence. This time, you don't even bother turning to acknowledge him as though you might have known he was there all along.

“The burrow,” you answer. “How different it looks when it’s empty.” His thoughts exactly. “It’s sort of peaceful like this, don't you think?”

No. Peaceful is not the word that came to mind. “I think you’d have to be mad to find peace in a place like this when in your position,” he states plainly, as if in an attempt to shake you out of whatever sordid outlook you were trying to impose on him.

“That might be,” you agree, a soft smile gracing your face. “But I think… you have to find beauty in the dark when you can, or else dark will be all there is.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end listening to you. “It’s like, sometimes good madness will save you from bad madness. You know?”

“No.” And that’s the problem. He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. And he’s starting to realize it’s not because you’re withholding the answers.

“Why aren’t you upset?” he asks then. A fair question, he thinks. But you only look at him oddly, making him explain once again just like you did earlier. The gumption of you is unbelievable, he thinks as he supplies the requested context on your behest, “I took away the thing you were looking forward to. Typically, that would make someone upset.”

You look as though you still don’t quite understand, but then a light breaks across your face. “Oh, you mean the carrots?” You don’t seem any more upset by understanding he’d removed them on purpose. Instead, you just give your head a tiny shake. “It was only a small thing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His fists ball at his sides.

“But I didn’t.” Your head tilts, gesturing down at your tray. “I should have told you I liked potatoes. Then you’d have taken those away instead.” You then snort with a giggle, but he doesn’t get why or how you would find it funny. 

And again, he’s left with the same question. “Then why aren’t you more upset?”

You think about it for a moment—a moment like another eternity to him. 

“Well, I… I am upset…” you admit—the smile on your face positively unnerving. Perhaps you really have gone crazy. But then that would mean you were crazy from the start, from before ever even coming here. “But… I can’t exactly let my life fall apart over carrots. That would just be silly. Wouldn't you say?”

He swallows thickly, trying to stifle the many foreign things he’s feeling inside, finding that he can’t exactly argue with your answer, even though it makes little sense. People get upset over smaller things all the time. 

Just look at him and how upset one bunny is making him.

He turns away and starts walking then, muttering under his breath, “Silly, indeed.”

He goes to his bedroom alone that night. Some of the chosen had tried cheering him up, but they all failed miserably. You were not one of them. No, you made zero effort trying to earn your keep.

He knows you’d come if he called for you. You’d have to, and you’ve never been one to refuse a direct order. Still, somehow, even though he’s the one with all the power, having to call on you makes him feel like you’re stripping him of it.

The next couple of days pass all the same, with you continuing to drive him nuts.

At this point, he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why. Lounging on his throne, his chin resting on his palm as he appraises you with jaded eyes. Having come up with a new strategy—if robbing you of your small delights doesn’t enact a response, maybe he’ll have better luck in spoiling you…

“Eat,” he says, but like always you don’t seem to take it like an order, standing there, in front of the big platter of carrots he’d had his workers bring up. 

It’s not the same kind they serve with the stew—flecked and spotted with mold, boiled to get rid of the bugs. No, these are quality. Crisp, bright, freshly plucked and washed just this morning.

And still, instead of throwing yourself at them, you have the nerve to act calm, asking, “Where’ the other girls?” while looking around like you’d feel ashamed starting without them.

“They’re for you,” he clarifies, sanctioning your approach.

Still, you stay put. Chewing your lip with your buck teeth. “Is that really okay?” 

He can’t believe it. Are you really feeling guilty—in a place like this that only ever takes and gives nothing back?

No one in their right mind would be asking about others when standing in your shoes. He knows for a fact that all the other girls you seem so concerned with would have been halfway finished gorging that platter without sparing you a single thought.

Suppose he’ll make it easier for you. “Eat it all, or I throw it out.” 

With that, a new smile takes your lips—one of which he’d not seen before or expected—small, bashful, coy, like you’re having a different conversation than the one you’re having. Bowing your head with a soft-spoken, “Thank you.”

You’re quiet as you eat. Slow with it like you’d been with the potatoes. Taking your time, enjoying yourself, savoring it, eating like he’s not right there observing you. It’s like you’re back in the wild. You, an oblivious little thing in a carrot field, and him, stalking you through the long grass.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he questions after a while.

“Ask about what?” you wonder, peering up at him from where you sit.

“Why I’m being nice.”

You seem to find that funny. “I don’t ask you why you’re cruel.” 

That’s fair, he thinks. Though he’s never really thought about it like that. 

And then you say, “I’m sure I’d have little luck understanding the mind of a man like you anyway.”

“A man like me?” he repeats, finding it interesting—wanting to arrest you on it. “And what kind of man do you think I am?”

It’s a dangerous question—you seem to understand that—taking your time to answer it just like you were with the carrots. “I suppose… a confusing one.”

You’re not wrong, though it’s a cleverly safe answer. He’s sure you’d have liked to have said something different if only it weren't for the likely threat it would pose to your life.

“Do you want me to ask?” you say then. And this time, he’s the one waiting for you to explain, looking at you with a halfway raised brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He scoffs. You’re proving to be a little more cheeky than what he was expecting. “I’m fattening you up to eat you.”

You laugh again. This time from your chest, bursting with it. He’s not sure a genuine laugh like it has ever rung out through the chamber. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever even heard one like it whatsoever.

“Well, it’s a pretty good final meal.”

He dismisses you after you finish. 

Days pass without the two of you speaking. And he, stewing in it, is more confused than ever.

He used to lord over his palace like a king, fuck all day and watch his subjects with gold coins and power in his eyes. Now, he can’t remember the last time he spared even a single glance over the mezzanine without it being to look for you. He still hears the squeals and sighs of pleasure. But he can’t even picture the scene. No, his mind is otherwise busy.

Busy doesn’t even cut it. Plagued might. Yes, he’s plagued by you.

Plagued by you and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. It’s a joke. He’s never been one to edge himself. But now he hasn’t fucked in ages. And you’re to blame.

What’s the matter with him? All his life, he’s known what’s been what. People like to complicate things, make it sound like more, make it sound different from what it actually is. They romanticize and they fetishize, but at its core, it’s always been basic. Bunnies are weak and easily broken, and deserve to be treated accordingly. There’s nothing more to it than that.

He’s going to find you, and when he does he’s going to do to you what he should have done from the very start—break you like the weak and breakable thing you are.

“Know your place, slut,” a catty voice bites out. “You might have been popular down on the ground, but up here, I'm the fucking favorite.” 

From behind the pillar he witnesses the scene, forgetting his objective. Five chosen ones all stand in a ring around you, who’s pinned to the ground by three others, two holding your arms down and the last of them on top of you with a fist wrapped tightly around the root of your ear. She’s got something in her hand—a shiv, fashioned from some scrap-piece of metal with unknown origins—pointed with a poke up under your chin, looking just shy of drawing blood.

“If any of us see you trying to take my spot again, I’m gonna fucking gut you from cunt to belly button—understand?”

You don’t say anything—unable to with the make-shift blade threatening to slice your throat open. But your silence is an answer in and of itself, if it weren’t interrupted by him clearing his throat and stepping into view.

“Master–” all eight of them gasp, those standing shuffling away with a bow whilst the three others remain deadly still, waiting for his verdict with eyes wide.

“Get up. All of you,” he says, passing his judgement swiftly, not giving any one of them room to plead innocence or condone their crimes with silly reasonings, “There’s customers downstairs in need of attending. Go make yourselves useful.” 

A wave of displeased moaning followed, nearly amounting to a protest. Even so, their disgruntled pouting was premature. He wasn't finished. 

“And once you’re done, you can all stay down there.”

Pouting turned to pleading fast, all of them shaking their head with hands clasped together in prayer, “But, master, please—she had it coming, she never does anything, she—”

“One more word,” he stops the tangent, closing the gap with a slow saunter, standing multiple heads taller than all of them, even the one who thought herself so high and mighty just a moment ago. He makes sure to return her look of entreaty without mercy, saying, “And I’ll be the one gutting you.”

They all scurry shortly after that, tears in their throat as they hurry down the stairs.

You get up to join them—never one to make the wrong assumption, probably thinking he’s one to tar everyone with the same brush. And normally, he’d do just that, because in his eyes, there’s no telling people apart in any other way aside from separating product from customer, with himself being the only outsider. But then came you.

“Not you, Carrots,” he says, stopping you. “You stay right there.”

You remain still as he approaches. You don’t flinch, your eyes don’t flitter—it’s utterly uncanny, he’d believe it if you told him you were without senses, like a ghost.

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

It’s the question that’s been on his mind since you first showed up here—not a lick of resistance in you.

“I’m not fond of pain,” you answer. “So, I try my best to avoid it.”

His teeth grit, very nearly growling. “You have a bad habit of not answering the question being asked.”

You chew your lip, looking as though you’re not quite sure how to explain yourself. “Well… fighting it would only make it worse, wouldn’t you say? And besides… I don’t want to do to others what I don’t want being done to me.”

So, you believe in karma. That’s an interesting mental state—not one he’s ever understood too well. It’s always seemed like a comfort to those who don’t have the strength to take their own revenge, hoping that some higher power will do it for them. 

“Also, we bunnies have a saying,” you continue, now with that unseemly smile of yours. “If you’re at first getting fucked, you might as well try to enjoy it.”

Something violates him at that—a chill of all things. Thinking, that’s not karma. No, not at all. 

That’s resignation. An even odder mental state.

“Though… I don't think most of us take it to heart,” you add with a small laugh.

It makes no sense to him. In fact, it shocks him like you’ve just pulled out a knife and stabbed him with it. And yet, he thinks he might finally get you now. Any moment might be your last and you’ve accepted that as a fact of life. The same way he accepts and expects his stomach to growl, you accept and expect yourself to be the one to sate it. 

You’re the only one so far. The only one to successfully internalize that truth without breaking under the pressure.

“Will you bring the girls back?” you ask then, seemingly taking his silence as an invitation, and using it as an opportunity to think about others as if you can afford it.

He doesn’t know why it angers him the way it does. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Like always, you don’t quiver under his growl like others would have. No, instead you keep insisting, “It’s cruel to send them back down after—”

“I thought you said you didn’t question cruelty.” he cuts you off.

And still, it’s like you don’t even care. “Well, I'm only asking because… it sort of feels like my fault, is all. I don’t want to be the reason they’re punished—”

“I’m not punishing them for you,” he interrupts, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I'm punishing them because they were cocky enough to think they could create a hierarchy not governed by me.”

He picks the shiv up from the floor, holding it up and inspecting it with a grimace like its very existence is an insult. 

“Tch—I should have killed them, and you’re asking me to save them.” He shakes his head, then finds your face again.

“You wanna know what bores me more than anything? When beggars start thinking they can be choosers.”

Gracing your jaw with the blade, he sneers. “Do you think you can be a chooser?”

And just like expected, you reset yourself with a blink, then utter a passive, “No.”

“And that’s why you’re up here, and they’re down there.” 

In all your time up here, he hasn’t once touched you, but within the next passing second he’s got your small body caged in his, trapped between himself and the balustrade where he always finds you, sitting, staring, thinking about things hidden from him.

“You’re the only one who gets it.” Knife cast aside, he uses his paw instead, dwarfing your chin and cheeks as he aims your head out to look across the den below. Fangs by the lop of your ear, blowing on the soft fur with his whispers, “You’re the only one who understands the laws of true wilderness. The rightful order of things. You know what you are and have accepted your place—made nature your common sense.”

Your feet dangle below, toes gracing the floor just barely, slipping in their stance where he has you hoisted against the guardrail, clutching onto it with your hands—knowing if he’d let go, you’d go toppling over it. And yet you don’t fight back. Knowing it’s all out of your hands, you remain just like putty in his.

“Look at them,” he continues, a disgust in his voice and in his narrowed eyes, spitting, “They all think they can be something different. Prey thinking they can hunt the hunter. Hunters thinking they can be loved by that which they hunt. It’s all false.”

He slips his hand from your chin to your neck, keeping a firm hold, though not squeezing, just enough to feel your pulse on his finger.

“You and me, we’re the only ones who see it for what it truly is,” he murmurs. “And why… I’ve decided I’m not gonna fuck you…”

His other paw, which up until this point had been holding the guardrail just shy of yours, now lifts and places itself over your heart, feeling it beat in his palm as he continues, “No, you deserve more respect than that… Which is why… I'm gonna give you the honor of being my first live kill.”

Betraying yourself, your heart does, nearly to his surprise, skip a beat upon him confessing his intention. But of course, despite your seemingly perfect composure, it would be utterly unnatural were it to remain steady.

“I’m gonna give you more carrots than you can eat,” he resumes, now forgoing your ear, nuzzling your cheek instead. “Then, when I've finally fattened you up enough, I'm gonna eat you whole—live and kicking.”

Swallowing thickly, he chuckles under his breath, setting you down on your own two feet again. Leaving your body cold as he begins walking away, with his final sentiments being, “And then we’ll both at last be done with this farce and become what nature intended.”

Weeks pass, and you remain alone on the mezzanine. He doesn't bring the old girls back, nor does he enroll any new girls either. It’s just you and him, in a silence so loud it’s gutting. And still, you’re fed a platter of carrots every day, and you never fail to finish every last one.

He doesn’t touch you again. No, instead, he maintains a distance. You catch his gaze linger though, just like it had since the beginning—on you while you eat, while you mind your business, even while you sleep, you’ll hear the low rumble of his breath, stalking you. It’s as he’d said, like hunter and prey.

Also now, on his throne, watching you where you sit, by the balustrade, looking outward at the burrow. No one wants to be there—not the girls, and not the men who come to see them either—they might think they do, but the truth remains. What they want can’t be found here. 

And yet, you suppose it comes close enough.

“You’ve been fattening me up for a while now…” you announce, cutting the silence. And then you turn your head back, flashing him your signature smile from over your shoulder. “Is this the part where you finally eat me?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at you like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Do you want me to run?” you propose then—not sure if you’re trying to make it easier for him or perhaps harder. 

“Do you really think you’ll be able to stand still?” he mutters back. No mockery in his words. No humor in it at all.

You shuffle around to face him better, still smiling even though you know it probably doesn’t look too convincing anymore. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be much quicker. I wouldn’t get far.”

His voice seems tight, suggesting, “I’m sure you could if you tried.”

You sigh then, “We both know that’s a lie.” 

And then you get up, chest getting tougher the tighter your throat snares, making it hard to breathe, and so you take a big one and release it just as sharply, scoffing, “Besides, I don't think my heart would be able to take it. I’d die from the ache before you could make the kill—and I wouldn't want to spoil the fun.” 

You place yourself about halfway toward him, before his throne. Submissiveness being your only weapon, you present yourself just so, linking your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll just stand right here and close my eyes if that’s okay.”

You hear him get up. You’ve always been so good at turning everything off, but right now you’re just not able—feeling the burn of salt swell up beneath your eyelids, pressing for release. You don’t want to let them, but they escape despite that, trickling down your cheeks.

You’re not afraid of dying. You’re not really afraid at all. That’s not it. It’s not fear. It’s something far less reasonable than that. Something audacious that couldn’t care less about the circumstances, even when it makes no sense. No sense at all. 

His finger brushes your cheek, catching the wetness and wiping it away. You don’t open your eyes, but you feel the air from his breathing reach you, getting warmer with his approach, soon on your lips.

“Don’t,” you object before it can happen. “You said so yourself…” Voice a soft croak, sniffling, “It isn’t natural for prey and hunter to mate.”

You hear him swallow thickly, abiding by your words as he mulls them over again the same way the two of you had done now for the last month since your first meeting.

“I know…” he says at last. Voice no louder than just for you to hear, very nearly desperate, “So let’s forget about it. We can pretend, can’t we?”

It’s tempting, but too fickle. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“So, what can I do? Tell me.” His paws brush your arms, carefully, without claws. “What do I have to do to make you mine?”

“Well… that’s a question you have to ask yourself, isn’t it?” Your eyes peel open, meeting his. “It all depends on one thing.”

You appraise each other like that. Him, waiting for your conditions, and you, feeling your heart rift for reasons beyond being prey before a predator, as you state the ultimatum, “Do you want me to be afraid of you? Or do you want me to be in love with you?”

You bite your lip and look down, as though planting your foot. Even though you know what you’re asking is an affront to nature, it remains true nonetheless, “You can’t have both.”

There’s a pause. Your heart beats out of your chest, fearing what to expect—a bite or something entirely different you don’t have the nerve to name.

“You’re right…” he says at last. “Hunters don’t mate with prey.”

The beating in your chest ceases—gets cut loose and drops. You knew it all along and yet that does nothing to ease the desolation it leaves behind. 

A hooked finger slips under your chin, lifting your head.

“It’s a good thing we’re both hunters.”

The bite finally comes then.

Hungry, yet toothless.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji

he's not supposed to, but he likes to take you outside when he has you. bruce sees it as a flight risk, but he sees it as an opportunity to make his baby sister happy and to hold your hand without you crying. he dresses you up in the little black dress that bruce puts you in when he brings you galas, the one that shows off your curves and drives him nuts, and takes you to dinner somewhere nice. he'll be the perfect gentleman the whole time, opening the door for you, pulling out your chair, holding your hand under the table and looking at you all starry-eyed. You don't eat much, it's hard not to feel sick to your stomach when he pushes your hair behind your ear and says "aren't I lucky that my baby sister is the prettiest girl in gotham?"

On your way out, he'll steal a kiss from you when you're caught off guard. The host asks how long you've been together and dick smiles all too wide when he replies, "Oh, she's my sister."

When you get home he'll insist on "helping you get ready for bed." which really just means he wants to undress you. When you whine about how you can undress yourself, he'll just chuckle and tell you to let your big brother take care of you. he unzips your dress gently, then unclips your bra. You can feel his bulge pressing into your ass as he palms your bare tits, mumbling something about how perfect you are. He lets you take off your own panties after you almost start crying, but he pockets them as soon as they're off and doesn't bother giving you any new ones to replace them. He doesn't give you any new clothes, in fact. Instead, he starts taking off his own and dropping them into the pile with your own. When he notices the fear spread across your face all he has to offer you is an easy grin and an affirmation that it's fine to be naked together. You're siblings.

He drags you off to watch a movie, even lets you choose which one you watch. It doesn't matter too much, though, because it's hard to focus on anything when his hard cock is pressing against your leg. About halfway through the movie Dick moves between your legs, shushing you as you cry and squirm. "M' sorry honey, I just can't help myself." he'll groan, stroking himself as he pushes your thighs apart, hypnotized by the way you flutter when he spreads your lips, "Just trust your big brother, yeah? I know whats good for you. Promise I'll make you feel nice."

The shower doesn't help clear Hitoshi's mind.

If anything, the steady onslaught of water pattering against his back serves only to monotonise the entire experience until he's been standing long enough for his fingers to have pruned, absently staring at the tiles and reliving the past hour of his life in painful clarity. Mind rewinding and replaying the events—the flutter of your pussy cumming around Aizawa's thick cock, the easy dominance which laced his voice, how his Sensei had eyed the cumstain on Hitoshi's pants in shameless amusement—over and over and over.

A film reel of every moment Hitoshi succumbed to his arousal, every fortified defence that fell under his watch.

Hitoshi rubs the wrinkly pads of his fingers together and shuts his eyes for a deep, measured breath before turning off the shower and stepping out. He avoids looking in the mirror, no matter how fogged up it may be. The last thing he needs to see is a post-orgasm flush to his face when he already feels as though he's being held together by nothing more than sheer willpower alone. Drying himself off with brutal efficiency, he leans into the darkness that the towel provides while he tries to gather himself into a human being again. He scoops the leaking desire up. Brushes away the mist insistently clinging to the corners of his mind. Steadies the gentle tremor of his hands—present since Aizawa guided him towards the corner-chair where two large hands eclipsed his shoulders, pushing him down, down, down—and pretends it all works.

In the end, he figures the best way to dispel the uneasiness swirling in his gut will be to seeyou. To make sure you're okay and settle whatever dom-part of his brain has been knocked loose during the scene. He wraps the towel around his waist and pads back into the bedroom, content with his newfound plan and the sense of control it provides his skittish mind.

However, that loose part of his brain? Yeah, it must be hanging on by a scant thread, because he didn't account for Aizawa's presence. And thus, Hitoshi's steps falter right at the threshold to his bedroom like he's seeing his Sensei for the very first time.

For a second, he can't breathe.

Some vital part of him feels left behind in the humid air of Aizawa's bathroom. Another is still sitting in the chair. He thinks he might be losing the final part right now as crimson eyes flicker up, assessing. Aizawa remains silent, sitting by your side, yet Hitoshi is rooted to the spot. Toes curl into the carpet, fingers clutch the edge of his damp towel with knuckles bled of colour. He isn't sure what his expression is at this moment, but it can't be anything good. Not with the way his heart is thundering so fiercely in his chest, he half expects it to break free from its bony cage and hit the ground between them.

"Shinsou," Aizawa finally murmurs in greeting, and his name slices clean through the tethers binding Hitoshi in place.

Hitoshi inhales before forcing a languid smile. Like someone who's just cum and is happy about it. Not whatever pointless conflict is currently waging in his brain. Not the way in which his disquiet only seems to worsen as he observes Aizawa—shirtless, midnight hair cascading over his broad shoulders like the boughs of a willow tree, grey sweats hung sinfully low on his hips. His phone rests in one limp hand, open on a social media app that Hitoshi doesn't currently have the mental capacity to place, and his other hand strokes along your spine. Though it slowly draws to a stop when Hitoshi utters a small, "Sensei," in reply.

Crossing the space with a measured steadiness, Hitoshi pauses by your side, knees knocking into the mattress's edge, and casts his eyes over your blanket-covered body. Aizawa's hand is splayed wide in the dip of your back, right above the swell of your ass. For some reason, Hitoshi lingers on the sight. There's a strangely possessive air to the action. A hand in Hitoshi's home; the spot he brushes when he passes you in the kitchen; or presses to coax you through a crowd, into his body after a long day, along the muscles of his thigh when you're too desperate to do anything but rut against him like an animal in heat.

Hitoshi nibbles at his bottom lip. Aizawa's eyes are on him, burning like a brand and impossibly tangible in every sense of the word. Yet he feels removed from it. As though the knowledge of his weirdness—because he knows he's not acting normal; after all, who lingers on their scene partner caring for another like this?—is secondary to the tacky, syrupy slowness of his thoughts. As though he no longer cares if Aizawa believes him to be wrong. Or bad. Or silly. As though the only thing that matters to him now is seeing to it that you're alright—you are—and the unfailing presence of Aizawa's hand on your body, like he's trying to keep you tethered to him and the world, even in your sleep. Meanwhile, Hitoshi feels a heartbeat away from floating up into the aether.

Distantly, he realises something isn't quite right about the feeling. That it's eerily similar to how you've described your existence during scenes with him, after them sometimes, too. The recognition crawls through his honeyed mind, sinking deeper with each step until it submerges entirely, disappearing from Hitoshi's consciousness. Because Hitoshi is a dom, through and through. So realistically, he knows his brain must be protesting his lack of control, his lack of aftercare, his lack of a hand in the divot of your spine. All normal, dom-concerns and nothing that won't wear off once his hindbrain chills the fuck out.

This panic is merely transitory. As all things are.

"Shinsou," Aizawa repeats, drawing up from his relaxed slouch.

Hitoshi lifts his head in muted acknowledgement but doesn't turn to his Sensei.

You're clean. Aizawa's doing. You're warm and buried under a soft, thick blanket. Aizawa's doing. You're safe, watched over like a baby. Aizawa's doing.

Fingers itching to also do something, anything—to be a useful dom, to fulfil his obligations and wrap up the scene properly, to move through the motions until his brain finally realises that it's over—he gently combs through your hair. Then, Hitoshi's hand drifts down your spine, feeling each bump through the blanket. Venturing as close as he dares to where Aizawa's long fingers stake their claim, and ignoring whatever voice tells him to touch.

"Sensei," Hitoshi echoes. The word, intended to be a comfort, a one-word I'm fine, leaves his mouth in a whisper.

Aizawa's still staring at him, but he can't bring himself to bristle—to feel anything but wrong and weird and off-balance. Like he's drifting out to sea with each passing breath.

His fingers trace back up your spine, across your shoulder, up the one arm you've splayed out on the bed in your sleep. He notes the softness of your skin under the pads of his fingers. The smattering of fine hair. The bones of your wrist, your knuckles. He quietly eases his fingers beneath yours and holds your hand, loose and barely-there—he doesn't want to wake you, but he needs to hold you so bad the desire feels like it may split him clean in half, cracking his ribcage like a geode. There will be no shimmering crystals inside him. In fact, he fears there may be nothing at all. His thoughts feel so far from his brain it's a wonder he's still… him.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Aizawa asks lowly, voice sliding over Hitoshi's skin like a satin-soft ribbon. Like the smooth, unforgiving grip of his capture weapon. He has a sudden urge to laugh at the question, but can't quite remember what's so funny about it. All he manages is a shaky exhale. "You're not usually this quiet with me."

"I…" Hitoshi's tongue is heavy and uncooperative in his mouth. In the end, all he manages is a subdued, "It's not you.

Aizawa doesn't reply, and when Hitoshi finally glances away from you, his Sensei's penetrating gaze is enough to make him cower.

"I'll be okay in a minute," he adds after clearing his throat, trying to dispel the airy quality it's taken on without his permission as he glances away again.

So much for impressing his Sensei. Showing him how well he handles his scenes and how carefully he looks after you. All he's doing instead is demonstrating his idiocy, clutching onto your hand like a lifeline and skating around whatever prying Aizawa is attempting, despite the endless well of good faith Hitoshi knows it's coming from.

"Alright," Aizawa acquiesces easily, letting the topic drop.

What could be seconds or hours later, Hitoshi's stare, anchored on your peaceful expression, is disrupted by a fond exhale. What there is to be amused about right now, though, Hitoshi has no idea. A phone drops with a soft thud onto the mattress behind Aizawa, and he leans back onto his hands casually, a big palm withdrawing from your body.

"Come here."

Hitoshi's body jerks, familiar with acting upon his Sensei's words before he even registers doing so—the heat of a battle is no place he questions Aizawa's command—before he remembers he's still holding your hand. For a split second, he's torn between the pain of letting you go and the wrongness of disobeying a direct order. A request? A question? Thinking back, Hitoshi can't actually recall what tone his Sensei used, though it doesn't seem to matter to his body, every muscle drawn tight in anticipation of following through.

"She's fine, Shinsou."

Hitoshi glances down to confirm his words.

You are fine.

Clean. Warm. Safe.

Hitoshi loops the words like a mantra, clinging to the little comfort they provide.

Aizawa pitches his voice down like he's soothing a spooked animal. "I'll look after her."

Is that meant for him?

Turbulent waters peter out into calm.

When has his Sensei ever lied to him?

(Never, the traitorous voice in his head whispers.)

Hitoshi brushes a thumb over your knuckles before drawing back his hand. There's a hesitation as he turns to Aizawa. But then the corner of his Sensei's mouth is twitching up, and Hitoshi is moving, taking a step, two, halting awkwardly in the space between Aizawa's feet. There's no hand in his own to ground him anymore, nor the mattress bumping his knees. He feels himself float higher, all the while Aizawa doesn't move an inch.

"You feelin' okay?"

Hitoshi nods, tightens his fingers in his towel, tries to quell the urge to curve his shoulders inwards and cover his bare chest. His bare-everything, really. The towel feels like a meagre cover, and even though Aizawa is only wearing sweats himself, the air of confidence his Sensei exudes is making Hitoshi feel small in a way he never does. Hitoshi's damp skin breaks out into gooseflesh.

Aizawa's gaze flickers down to his towel, back up to his face. "You enjoyed the scene?"

Another nod.

Because he did. He came in his pants like a goddamn teenager; of course, he enjoyed the scene. Got off on seeing his girlfriend fucked by another man, doubly so because it was Aizawa. Which he didn't particularly want to unpack right now, but now the aforementioned man is tilting his head slightly and staring up at Hitoshi, dark hair slipping off his shoulders and into the air behind him, and he can't help but notice just how much he did love it. His dick twitches at the memory of Aizawa's crimson eyes flashing to his as he came, how he reduced you to a crying, sobbing mess with a speed frankly terrifying to Hitoshi.

"Are we…" Aizawa visibly cycles through different dialogue options before settling on, "…okay?"

Hitoshi startles at the notion that Aizawa would even ask that. Unfortunately, this only deepens the frown forming on his Sensei's face.

"Are we okay, Shinsou?"

"Yes!" Hitoshi blurts, a hand reaching out to… he doesn't even know what, really. The smidgen of panic creeping into the edges of his brain helps clear the fog a little. Hand lingering in the air between them, faint tremors wrack his fingers before dropping uselessly to his side. "Yes, we're— we're okay, Sensei. More than okay." He swallows back another admission. "I promise."

Aizawa nods to himself now, and Hitoshi notices the relieved way he relaxes his shoulders, face smoothing out into his familiarly neutral expression. There's a tiny smirk on his lips, though, like his Sensei's thoughts are meandering from worry into something Hitoshi can't quite place.

Hitoshi shivers. Flicks his eyes between Aizawa's. Tries to match his shallow breaths to his Sensei's slow, even ones.

"Do you want to kneel for me, Shinsou?"

Instead, Aizawa decides to derail it all.

Hitoshi's mouth opens and closes around words he can't find. The tremors in his hands worsen, and he takes a halted step backwards. Just one. Like he can't decide if running would even be worth it. Who then has to ignore the traitorous arousal pooling in his gut at the thought of being caught by his Sensei—at the capture weapon wound tight around his torso, arms pinned to his side, at hearing the exerted puffs of Aizawa's breath as his Sensei leers over him in victory.

"No, I…"

Leaning forward, Aizawa braces his elbows on his thighs, staring up at Hitoshi in a way that shouldn't be intimidating, yet it is.

"Doesn't have to mean anything." Aizawa shrugs carefully, as though toeing a thin line Hitoshi can't see. His head dips meaningfully as he studies Hitoshi's petrified expression. "And it doesn't make you less of a dom."

"I don't need to kneel," Hitoshi stresses, taking another step back.

"I know that," Aizawa replies easily. "I know that, Shinsou. You don't need anything. Anyone. You don't need me, and I've had to force myself into your life and fight to keep my place." A humourless laugh that only serves to confuse Hitoshi more. Hitoshi's eyes flicker to you. "I see you because I'm the same… That doesn't mean you can't want, though."

The ground feels liquid beneath his feet, and Hitoshi's stomach swoops—insides lurching up into his throat in place of all the words he wants to yell, all the denials fighting their way out.

Hitoshi flashes Aizawa a warning glance. Takes another step back. "I don't want to kneel, either."

Clearly contemplating his words, Aizawa stares up at him. Hitoshi shifts, uncomfortable as some of the fog bleeds away to awkwardness, to memories of exactly how he reacted to his Sensei fucking his girlfriend in a way he'll never be able to take back. Never be able to hide or deny. It's all out there—every mistake he's made this evening. And you're fast asleep, satiated, exhausted, drifting through dreamland and unable to help.

Hitoshi has ruined everything.

Both his relationships. The respect he's spent a decade cultivating with his Sensei, with the only man who's seen through to his core and decided to stay, who's raised him, cared for him, loved him. You—who's been by his side through his highest of highs and his lowest of lows, who's endlessly forgiving, patient, and all manner of beautiful qualities Hitoshi could never hope to deserve, even given a millennium to try.

Fog creeps back into his brain, pervasive, leaving no crack, corner, or crevice untouched by its wispy fingers.

Breaths come quicker, come shallow. Barely reaching his lungs before another takes its place.

Prickling numbness coats his fingers and creeps up his arms.

Then, voice cracking over the words, "Why do I want to kneel, Sensei?"

Aizawa's expression turns kind.

"Shinsou…"

"I don't…" His mouth flaps like a fish out of water. A hand squeezes his towel until it hurts. "I don't understand… What is wrong with me? Why did I have to… to," purple hair twisted between fingers, "to be like this."

At once, the air is suffocating his lungs.

"I'm sorry," Hitoshi gasps helplessly, the stirrings of a sob marring his words. Panic sweeps him under, and his eyes dance everywhere but Aizawa. "God, I'm so sorry, Sensei."

Say something, Hitoshi thinks. Say something, say something, say something!

Yell at me. Snap out of it.

Leave.

Don't go.

Aizawa rises from the bed.

Flinching like he's been struck, Hitoshi feels the big hands on his shoulders long before they make contact; as though the few deafening heartbeats it takes for Aizawa to cross the space contain a thousand lifetimes. Aizawa cradles his trembling form like he's trying to hold him together. Better Aizawa attempt such a feat than Hitoshi, who couldn't hold anyone together right now, last of all his splintering mind. A mind that prides itself on breaking you down and putting you back together; a mind recognising it is falling apart, yet able to do nothing but helplessly watch.

Steering him like a tugboat, Aizawa drags Hitoshi backwards step by step. Hitoshi follows dazedly, putting up no fight against his Sensei.

"Back to her."

The first words to leave Aizawa's mouth. His familiar smooth drawl is an immediate balm on Hitoshi's panic. The side of his knee bumps the mattress's edge as he obeys, turning his back to you. A brief jolt of uncertainty strikes through him. But it has no time to settle.

Pressure on his shoulders.

Deeper this time, as though Aizawa is trying to burn the shape of his fingers into the muscle Hitoshi has built there. Hitoshi stares at his Sensei uncomprehendingly.

What does his Sensei want?

There's a suspended moment of silence—anticipation hanging heavy in the air. Aizawa fits his palms to Hitoshi's shoulders and depresses them with force anew. Hitoshi feels their comforting weight and considers asking if he can stay beneath it forever.

"Shinsou," Aizawa repeats pointedly, drawing him back to the present.

"Sensei," he replies, voice small against his will. A call to a summons. An echo to a shout.

Exhaling a short breath, the corner of Aizawa's lip twitches up. Before Hitoshi can process what's happening, a foot catches the back of his knee, and he meets the ground with a harsh thump, knees knocking into carpet with surprising force. The impact reverberates up his thighs and straight through his core.

Against his will, Hitoshi moans.

Aizawa's eyebrows rise into his hairline. Hitoshi hears the incriminating noise bounce off every wall in the room and slap him across the face some long, viscid seconds later. Wincing, he quickly ducks his head in shame. Blood burns in his cheeks. What the hell is wrong with him? First, he's arguing his insistence against kneeling and the next moment he's moaning when his Sensei forces the choice upon him. Some fucking hero he is…

Some fucking Sensei Aizawa is, too.

"Oh?"

Let the ground swallow me, Hitoshi begs. Let it swallow me and be done with it.

"Shut up," he grits out, forcing the lingering remnants of the moan from his voice until it hardens like cooling sugar, one wrong move away from its brittle exterior shattering into innumerable pieces.

Aizawa hums. "I don't think you should be telling me to shut up right now."

Hitoshi hates how his skin breaks out into gooseflesh at his Sensei's degrading croon. Hates even more how he can feel arousal stirring in his gut at the sight of Aizawa's bare feet in his vision, the soft sweat sitting on the bone of his ankle, the knowledge that if he looks up now, he'd have to drag his eyes up every godforsaken inch of the man before he could meet his eyes. How he's kneeling at his feet—like a defeated villain, like a sweet pet… like a fucking sub.

Embarrassment swirls around him.

"Fuck off," he bites cruelly, trying to regain some of the ground he's lost.

Hitoshi should turn tail and run, but he can't seem to get his body to cooperate. Legs leaden and heavy, glued to the ground by no more than Aizawa's presence. A hand lands on the crown of his head, and the immediate relief the touch brings, paired with his brain's comparison to an owner petting their dog, brings nothing but misery and strife.

"All bark and no bite."

Aizawa punctuates his words with a gentle ruffle of Hitoshi's damp hair.

Hitoshi wants to bristle. Truly, he does. Instead, he leans into the touch with about as much shame as you had on his Sensei's cock earlier—drinking in the feeling of big fingers engulfing his skull, the pads of fingers brushing his scalp with a gentleness belying the strength of the man above him. Each reply that Hitoshi tries to summon peers out of his mouth before deciding to hide in his throat. Hitoshi wishes he could hide, too. But that would mean leaving Aizawa, separating himself from the soft touch of his mentor and crawling back to the thrum of panic he can feel lying in wait for his walls to fall again—for Aizawa to slip up in his careful defence of Hitoshi's mind.

A decision has never been made so simple.

"You look good like this," Aizawa says colloquially, as though commenting on a particularly sunny day when the forecast had predicted rain. A dash of surprise. An overwhelming sweep of pleasure. The confirmed knowledge that every day can bring the unexpected.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Hitoshi bows his head deeper, refusing to acknowledge his words.

"Always knew you would."

At that, Hitoshi freezes—his muscles drawing taut and still, the breath he was inhaling lodging in the base of his trachea. Yet he doesn't look up. Can't, really. Because seeing whatever expression Aizawa is wearing would surely be his undoing, the gust of wind to topple his wobbling house of cards. Hitoshi immediately braces, prepared for his mind to be unsettled by the statement, for his dominance to feel challenged.

"Sensei," he ends up gasping, voice strangled like someone has a fist around his larynx.

Why does he only feel relief?

Fingers slide from his crown to his nape and settle there like ownership. Hitoshi shivers under them, his body visibly riding the wave of arousal that washes over him. He can feel his cock stirring under his towel, and he clutches it tighter, both fists tight around the waist. It's humiliating, really, the way he's reacting to such a simple touch. But there's a weight behind it that his body and mind aren't used to, a possessiveness potent enough to give him vertigo.

"What is it?"

"I don't…"

Hitoshi swallows.

Then, words tumble from his lips like a malfunctioning speaker, so rapid that each merges into the last until it's one messy string of distress.

"Sensei, Idon'tknowhowtodothis," a shuddering inhale, "I don't know how to—"

Submit.

I don't know how to submit. I'm afraid I'm going to embarrass myself. I'm afraid I'll be bad. I'm afraid I'm going to make you hate me. I'm afraid I'm going to mess everything up.

Most of all, I'm afraid I'll like it.

"You don't have to know, Shinsou," Aizawa sighs, like he always does when he thinks Hitoshi is caught up in the whirlwind raging inside his head. "Just listen to Sensei, hm?"

Hitoshi finds himself agreeing before he can think better of it, head bobbing along obediently. A hot flash emanates from the hand on his nape when Aizawa's thumb brushes behind his ear comfortingly in response, and all it ends up doing is making Hitoshi shudder. Aizawa laughs lowly, the sound curling around Hitoshi's brain and quieting it that much more.

Listen to Sensei.

Hitoshi can do that. Has been doing that since he was fifteen—looking up to Aizawa and hanging onto his every word, working day and night to become an underground hero worthy of the title of Eraser Head's protégé. The request is as familiar as breathing, as easy as Aizawa broke you down less than an hour ago. A day ago? Hitoshi feels like he may have been kneeling at Aizawa's feet forever. Does time always pass so strangely? Like it's stretching and compressing at will, leaving him no more certain of this moment than the last, no more cowed by the next moment than the one he's currently in.

A shuffle of fabric and the hand on his nape rotates, the feet in his vision moving as Aizawa takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Hitoshi sits perpendicular. There's an urge to lean forward, to knock his forehead onto the thigh before him and let his thoughts turn warm and soupy. He sways slightly, as though the indecision is a physical thing. Aizawa widens his fingers—sliding the heat of his palm down to the middle of Hitoshi's bared back, back up the notches of his spine and into his damp hair. Aizawa's fingertips splay across his scalp, and the sensation makes him shiver.

None of this helps the urge.

Hitoshi exhales under its insistence; face screwing up against it and jaw gritting against a low whine.

He can't remember how long he's been like this, how long it's been since he looked at Aizawa. All he can focus on is the thick thigh in front of him, calling his name like a siren's song, and the pleasant static between his ears; as though Aizawa is smoothing his thoughts out into quiet with only the big, warm breadth of his palm gliding from his hair down his spine, and back up again until Hitoshi isn't sure precisely what it was he panicked about earlier.

This is nice, he thinks quietly, right as he gives in—forehead dropping onto the side of Aizawa's thigh. Aizawa tenses under him, just once, and then Hitoshi is drifting. Nasty worries about the scene, about his standing as a dom, about his relationships fading to the recesses of his mind, like they're being leeched out from him by the steadiness of Aizawa, by the strong muscles under his face.

This is nice...

───

Eventually, the fog subsides.

"—sou."

A hand stills on his nape. Warm. Always so warm.

"—insou."

Hitoshi could melt, could sink back into the balmy waters like a stone.

"Shinsou…"

Sensei.

Hitoshi blinks tired eyes open to the sight of the carpet and almost closes them right away, the sweet call of darkness all too tempting.

Where is he again?

"You with me?"

Sensei's house. At his feet.

You're asleep on the bed.

Yes.

Some half-hearted, throaty hum makes itself known in place of his intended reply.

"Not quite then," Sensei chuckles, fingers tightening briefly, digging into Hitoshi's skin—who inhales, as sharply as he can manage, an undercurrent of pleasure snaking back into his veins.

Fingers, limp on his towel, wake up one by one.

"Y'feelin' better?"

Yes.

Another hum, steadier this time.

Another chuckle, louder this time.

Then, fingers smoothing through his hair, behind his ear, along the curve of his jaw. Knuckles settling under his chin, which press upwards lightly. There's little command behind the action, and even through Hitoshi's unweighted, untethered existence right now, he can hear the silent question lingering under Sensei's fingers.

A deep inhale, lungs expanding wide to accommodate. A rush of clarity. Not enough to startle, but enough for Hitoshi to obey, slowly tipping his head back while Sensei's fingers follow, settled in the dip of his submentum as though they belong there.

Maybe they do. Who is Hitoshi to say?

The first thing he notices is light—still low in Sensei's room, the golden spill of a lamp over the bed, a slice of dusk peering through the curtains he didn't close properly, the flash of Sensei's phone still lost in the covers. Then, the curve of warmth on Sensei's stubbled jaw, the molten magma swimming in his eyes and reflecting the lamp's glow, and their meeting with Hitoshi's.

"There you are."

Hitoshi almost buckles at the fondness in his Sensei's tone—at all that love being directed at him with no excuse otherwise to be found. No deflection, no joke afterwards to lessen the heat.

"Sensei," Hitoshi breathes, the sheer intimacy bowling him over. Too much for someone still grasping at the pieces of themselves. Except he finds nothing to grasp—they're already slotted where they belong. All the cracks meticulously filled, and with such care, Hitoshi feels distantly ill.

Fingers pet under his chin gently, and Hitoshi swallows to feel them shift with the movement. Sensei smiles. Hitoshi swallows again, for a different reason this time.

The air feels suspended in softness.

Hitoshi lets his eyes drift again, down the slope of Sensei's nose, across his broad shoulders, his bare stomach—soft and relaxed—the V of his hips, the cock tenting his sweats, the thickness of his thi—

Wait. The cock tenting his sweats?

Why is Sensei hard?

Hitoshi sits up straighter, gaze locked onto the sight in mild shock.

Arousal lances through his gut without remorse. Guilt follows closely behind.

"Shinsou, listen—"

Sensei's dick twitches under the weight of his stare. A weird urge makes itself known, Hitoshi's mouth filling with saliva as he imagines the weight of his Sensei's thick cock in his mouth. The way it might still be covered in you—your slick, Sensei's arousal, Sensei's spit. Hitoshi feels his own cock, softened in the haze of calm he's existed within under the supervision of his Sensei, start to stir in response. Distantly, he thinks about how he's never sucked a dick before. Knows nothing beyond what he's seen in porn back in U.A., and what he likes when it's you on your knees, you swallowing him, your wet warmth hugging his cock like a sin.

Would it be different with Aizawa?

"I…"

Hitoshi flicks his gaze up to see Aizawa wince around a word he never voices. Then, he glances back down. Is he even harder?

"It's… not you. It's just…" A lie kissing Aizawa's teeth, so obvious that Hitoshi would smile if he could find himself enough to do so. "Fuck… Fuck, Shinsou. I'm sorry."

"'s okay," Hitoshi mumbles lowly, distracted and still warming his voice, still remembering who he is and what happened earlier this evening. "I don't mind."

Then, spoken like an afterthought, "You didn't get off earlier."

Aizawa makes a startled sound, half-laugh, half-disbelief. "That wasn't what the scene was about."

Hitoshi lets out an unconvinced hum, eyes still glued to the clear outline of Aizawa's cock through the soft material of his sweats. "Do you want to?"

"Do I want to what?" Aizawa asks carefully.

There are fingers under his chin. Eyes intent on peeling back the layers to his misty expression. Yet all Hitoshi can focus on is the way Aizawa's cock twitches again.

"Do you want to get off?"

An amused smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "No."

"What if I want you to get off?"

"What are you saying, Shinsou?"

I don't know.

"What if I want to watch you?"

"Watch me?"

Hitoshi doesn't say anything.

Aizawa considers him for a moment. Hitoshi can see the cogs turning, whirring their metal paths in his head as he works out every option, every right and wrong path.

Then, with a deceivingly harmless head tilt, "Can you ask nicely for me?"

Hitoshi flushes immediately, right as his arousal begins a slow roil in his gut. Some part of his brain laughs—clearly more lucid than the rest—hysterical and depreciative, at the way it's Sensei's request to fluster him and not the shameless way he was asking to see Aizawa's cock just moments prior.

"Sensei…" he trails off uncertainly, voice wavering.

Raising an eyebrow, Aizawa lets his fingers drop from Hitoshi's chin and he places his palms on the bed behind him, leisurely leaning back and creating a beautiful curve to his body—muscles stretching with the movement, shoulders appearing dizzingly wider.

"C'mon, Shinsou," Aizawa laughs lightly, the sound just this side of demeaning. "I'm only asking you to be polite. I never said you had to behave."

With an embarrassingly telling jolt, Hitoshi turns his head to the side quickly, staring off at the dark dresser tucked in the corner of Aizawa's room and swathed in shadows.

"Unless you want to behave for me?" Aizawa croons lowly, tipping his head to the side again to follow the direction of Hitoshi's gaze. With the older man's movements only visible in Hitoshi's periphery, the sound of his velvety voice, like tumbled gravel, feels much more overwhelming. As though he's pouring his sin right into Hitoshi's ear. "Unless you want to sit still and watch while I touch myself. To be told that you can't touch."

An inferno sweeps over Hitoshi's body, gnawing at his sanity, and he bites his lip hard enough to hurt.

"My capture device is in the dresser," Aizawa tacks on casually.

Hitoshi shudders like the bow of a ship caught in a storm.

"Maybe I'll let you have a taste if you're good."

"Sensei," he gasps, unbidden, turning back to the man.

Feeling no different than a broken record, repeating Sensei over and over and over—in plea, in apology, in call for mercy and damnation both at once—Hitoshi can't help the way his own cock starts filling out. The way he's drawn closer to Aizawa, as though his Sensei has his own gravitational pull and Hitoshi is no more than passing space debris.

Aizawa laughs, the sound decidedly not uncruel. "What is it?"

"I want…"

He forces the words back down. Shoves them so deep they can't possibly surface. Then, Aizawa is moving his leg slightly, until his ankle touches Hitoshi's knee—and this singular point of contact, casual and so utterly innocent, completely undoes him.

"IwantatasteSenseiplease," he blurts in one heaving breath.

"'Please,' huh?" A particular emphasis on the incriminating word.

Hitoshi's mouth opens and closes around a shapeless excuse.

"Thought it would take you a bit more to start begging." One hand coming to play with the low waistband of his sweats, Aizawa's voice is particularly dry when he continues, "You ever sound like this for her?"

Aizawa nods his chin in your direction, and Hitoshi follows the subtle direction—he observes how sleep has smoothed its fingers over your face, has caressed your body until it's all but melted into the mattress.

Hitoshi has, occasionally.

When you feel like being a bit meaner, the bite of your words and the roll of your hips can be enough to make Hitoshi's head feel fuzzy. Once, you edged him. Restraint is unfamiliar to you, but you learned, and quickly. By the time the moon was arching above you both, Hitoshi was a mess. Worse than he's ever been with you. Tears beading his lashline. Sweat sheening across his body. Nothing like the dom you were both used to, yet nothing like a sub either.

Hitoshi shrugs, words evading him. Even if he could find them, he isn't quite sure how he'd explain the intricacies of your relationship to the older man. The gentle push and pull within your roles. How Hitoshi has never been anything but a dom with you, despite what may happen in the bedroom.

Seeing this, Aizawa steels his shoulders.

"Go on, then," Aizawa utters, leaning back on his hands. "Have your taste."

Hitoshi glances between the growing curve of Aizawa's sweats and the knowing glint in his eyes. Shifting awkwardly on his knees, he debates if he should be moving—debates it doubly so when Aizawa's thighs spread wider, as though inviting him to the space between them. Aizawa flicks his eyes down pointedly, and then Hitoshi is shuffling between his thighs before he can process the action. Once he's there, a new heat dances over his body. Anticipatory. Scared. The lump in his throat wars with the blood rushing to his cock. With trembling hands, Hitoshi moves to tug down the waistband of Aizawa's sweats. He's a hair's breadth from the soft fabric before Aizawa is there—one wide hand wrapped around both of Hitoshi's wrists.

"No hands."

Hitoshi makes a weird, embarrassing, strangled noise, his face colouring a beat later. "Sensei, what—"

Aizawa squeezes his hand once, fingers tight on Hitoshi's thundering pulse. "You heard me."

No hands?

The trembling wracking his hands worsens, and there's no way Aizawa doesn't notice a dying animal caught in a trap. Stomach swooping like he just missed a step on a staircase, Hitoshi forces shallow, stuttered breaths, half-convinced they may be his last. Aizawa stares at him with all the calculating air of a predator. Unable to hold his gaze, Hitoshi tears his eyes away with a sharp exhale. This isn't what he wants. To degrade himself in front of his Sensei. To undercut all the work he's put into being a dom. A good dom.

But then Aizawa's cock twitches once more, and Hitoshi is leaning forward anyway. Closer, closer, closer. Until he can feel his warm breath bouncing back off the jersey fabric. Until all that's holding the fragile seams of their relationship together is the scant coin's width of air between Hitoshi's lips and Aizawa's cock. So he stops there. Unable to quite breach that distance, not with all it might spell; a relationship changed forever. A boundary never to be uncrossed. One more reason he won't be able to act normally around his Sensei ever again.

Yet still, the urge breathes.

Simmering beneath his skin like a pot about to boil over. A lid begging to be cracked. Steam desperate to escape.

Hitoshi feels it all, and still, he cannot move.

There's a brief moment of insecurity—how must he look, frozen before his Sensei's crotch—but it is largely outweighed by the trepidation lining every terrified heartbeat. By the familiar voice, loud in his head, calling for his Sensei to help him.

"We don't have to do this, Shinsou."

A measured pause suspends Hitoshi above a pitch-black chasm.

"You have nothing to prove." A warm voice melting down into reverence. "Not to me."

The words sink into Hitoshi's core like the first rain after a dry season, penetrating the parched soil. And he falls.

Hitoshi's lips meet his crotch. A smooth kiss of cotton, followed by a staticky brush of tongue. Barely any pressure behind it, yet Aizawa moans like he's been slapped. His hips are remarkably still, like he's making a conscious effort not to move and scare Hitoshi away. Hitoshi brushes the tip of his nose up Aizawa's length, before tilting his head and opening his mouth wider, caution flying out the window. He licks once, harder, before closing his lips around the middle of Aizawa's cock and wetting the fabric there. Sucking it into his mouth. Absorbing the hitch in his Sensei's breath like that alone could sustain him for weeks.

Quietness seeps back into his brain—arousal right behind it, though the pang of heat is strangely distant as his awareness narrows down to Aizawa. To the hand still clutching Hitoshi's wrists, trapped between the mattress edge and Hitoshi's chest, and the way it flexes rhythmically. Head canted sideways, he shoots a glance up at his Sensei, only to find him already watching. The barest glimpse of his gentle Sensei is visible under his dark expression.

Aizawa grits his jaw. "Just like that."

Licking his way up Aizawa's cock, Hitoshi's hands twitch with the need to touch as they twitch from the strength of his Sensei's grasp. He laps, sucks, kisses along his cock until the fabric is dark with spit. Suckles at the tip, pressing his tongue into where he thinks the slit would be and watches victoriously as Aizawa exhales a sharp breath. Hitoshi can feel his mouth, covered in saliva, and can feel the drool leaking from the corners.

Beneath it, a weirdness settles in his gut. Like he hasn't quite recognised yet how he's slobbering all over his Sensei—on the man who practically raised him—like a dog who hasn't learnt control. He can feel it brewing like a hangover. A tomorrow he knows he might regret—a today he can't bear to let end.

Hitoshi lets his eyes flutter closed instead, sucking at Aizawa's tip through the fabric like he can taste the bitter tang of precum if he tries hard enough. Aizawa's hand tightens around his wrists before dropping away entirely.

"Hands behind your back," Aizawa rasps, a hint of panic in his voice.

Without hesitating, Hitoshi obeys. One hand coming to clutch the wrist of his other at the small of his back.

"Good."

A pleasant shiver rushes down Hitoshi's spine at the roughness of his voice.

"Keep them there."

Hitoshi mouths back down his cock, drawing wet patterns with his tongue, dampening the grey fabric. Aizawa pants above him. There's something oddly soothing about having his mouth occupied—about not being expected to speak because he's busy pleasing his Sensei. About being able to switch his brain off until all that's bouncing around the quiet is Aizawa, Aizawa, Aizawa.

Inhaling deeply, Hitoshi can smell the heady musk of Aizawa's crotch and the cologne clinging to Aizawa's wrist, clutching the comforter near his hips. He inhales again. And again. Committing the scent to memory, engraving the satisfaction of knowing Aizawa intimately on this new level onto his heart. Hitoshi shuffles on his knees again. Stiffness brightens his awareness a touch.

Making sure his head is ducked down, Hitoshi fixes his eyes on Aizawa's crotch and whispers a small "Sensei…" that goes unheard, lips brushing against him over the word.

Under him, Aizawa's hips strain for stillness. Hitoshi's fingers twitch behind his back in response, and he squeezes them into fists so tightly it hurts, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. Breathing through the dull bite of pain, he reminds himself that it's only Aizawa.

Unsurprisingly, this isn't helpful.

Only Aizawa?

As though this isn't the only person next to you who knows Hitoshi inside and out. Someone shy of a father but much more than a mentor. A relationship like muddy water—like fog concealing a winter morning. There isn't one word, nor one label for them. No box he can shove himself and Aizawa into will be a perfect fit.

And maybe that's why he's here on his knees—mouthing at Aizawa's clothed cock like a dog.

Because life isn't simple. Hitoshi and Aizawa aren't simple—never have been. And while Hitoshi's stomach is flipping every two seconds, brain melting under the pressure of his humiliation, there's no denying this is right. Beyond all the wrongness. Beyond the weirdness, the awkwardness, the tense line of Aizawa's body and the halted way Hitoshi touches…

This is right.

If only his body would get the memo, though, faintly tremoring as though caught in an earthquake. Jaw sore already, and expression drawn tight.

"Fuck," Aizawa groans finally, the sound like a bird's first flight. "That feels good."

Hitoshi exhales something shaky as he kisses back up his shaft.

"Where'd ya learn how to do this, hm?"

Hitoshi tenses for a brief moment, trying to parse whether Aizawa is being flattering or sarcastic. Does Aizawa know? No… Why would his Sensei have any reason to know such intimate details about his sex life? Before today, it was a topic he'd rather die than bring up around Aizawa. A beat later, he realises that he's still frozen, but it's too late. He relaxes his body and licks over his tip again, but Aizawa taps a knee into his shoulder gently, immediately checking in.

Hitoshi winces.

"You okay?"

Hitoshi nods stiltedly, unwilling to remove his mouth from Aizawa's cock. Not if it means speaking. Hitoshi doesn't want to speak right now. Doesn't want anything more than to lap at the damp fabric of Aizawa's sweat, to smell the tangle of delicious scents invading Hitoshi's brain, and to maybe, just maybe, get a proper taste.

If Aizawa lets him.

"You have… You have done this before, haven't you, Shin?"

Hitoshi watches the tan, scarred hand tangled in the comforter tighten in his periphery.

At the nickname, Hitoshi fights back a moan, throwing himself back into his task—suckling at the head of Aizawa's cock, licking the underside, following where it curves slightly to the right near his hipbone. His mouth drifts up to Aizawa's waistband, and right as teeth bite the fabric—yanking it down, determined to get Aizawa in his mouth before he can question Hitoshi anymore—does his Sensei speak.

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi can't even bring himself to hum. On some level, he hears the words. But answering seems so unimportant right now in the face of Aizawa's cock, and Aizawa's laboured breaths. Sensei won't mind, right? No. Surely not. Hitoshi is making him feel good.

With barely a second to brace himself, Hitoshi feels a big hand thread into his damp hair at the back of his head and tug. Not meanly, just firm. Pulling Hitoshi away from his crotch and baring him in one smooth motion, his neck a long, pale line. He swallows and feels the sensation with uncomfortable tautness. Panic pulls at his chest at the suddenness, at being dragged from a nice thing so quickly, at having Aizawa's cock almost in his mouth one moment and then being humiliatedly exposed the next. Saliva coating his mouth, his chin, his cheeks. He must look awful. A mess. Like a child.

Hitoshi pulls against the hold immediately, drawing up tall. The hands behind his back fly up to clutch Aizawa's. Aizawa told him to hold them there, but that was before—before he was forced from the peaceful place he'd been existing within. Before he felt like a lamb before the slaughter, forced to meet the deep red of his Sensei's hard stare.

"I asked you a question," Aizawa utters lowly.

Hitoshi swallows a gasping moan when Aizawa's fingers press against his skull. "Sensei."

No other word encapsulates all that Sensei does. No word contains such multitudes as this title—the love, the fear, the honeyed plea that is a flashing neon sign for all its subtlety.

Sensei, Sensei, Sensei.

Hitoshi could repeat it ad nauseam.

"You're not going to get what you want until I hear your answer, Shinsou." Aizawa tilts his head back an inch further. Hitoshi can feel Aizawa's pulse beneath his fingers—smooth, steady, calm. It only makes him panic more. "Have you given a blowjob before?"

There's something strangely formal about the question. Hitoshi would laugh in any other circumstance, but hot and flustered under the spotlight, he's not finding this particularly funny. Not with his pride on the line, too. Because what the hell is his Sensei going to think of him if he says no? That he's some bumbling blowjob virgin? That he's been begging all this time to suck him off when in reality he has zero clue how to make it good? Hitoshi is quite convinced that it would be more humiliating than remaining silent and accepting whatever punishment Aizawa deems necessary. Even if that means stopping whatever… this is—a scene, sex, a new brand of bonding between them.

Hitoshi's gaze flickers askance, guilty. Lips still parted around his panting breaths. He never noticed that Aizawa had a vintage All Might frame on his dresser.

"And to think you were being so sweet earlier."

Hitoshi couldn't find any words even if he wanted to. Nausea brews low in his gut.

"What happened to him, hm? How do I bring him back?"

Being referred to like that only seems to worsen Hitoshi's stonewall, but he doesn't know how to explain as such to Aizawa. That he doesn't know how to give a blowjob, that he's as much out of his depth as Aizawa is in his. Being forced to answer doesn't feel good either. Hitoshi can feel his pleasant buzz quickly fading under Aizawa's hard stare, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the uncharacteristic mess littering Aizawa's dresser.

Aizawa sighs heavily.

Hitoshi jolts like he's being reprimanded. Like he's a child back in U.A., getting caught under Aizawa's feet, getting in his way on the field. He hasn't cried for years—not since he scrolled past a particularly heartbreaking video of a stray cat being recused, fed, and given a new, loving home—so why the hell are his traitorous eyes beginning to water?

Gritting his jaw, he tries to force the swirling mess of emotions Aizawa is drawing forth back down. He pulls on a thread of anger he can feel singing through his veins, because it's easier. Simpler. Weirdly familiar, even though everyone in his life knows him for his level-headedness, for his similarly calm nature to Aizawa. They don't know, though. Not like you do. How Hitoshi carries such anger, it threatens to swallow him whole. Rage at the hand he was dealt, at the divisive nature of his quirk, at the way he was treated so early into his underground career while barely breaking adulthood.

At being humiliated again and again and again. At being disregarded. Mistreated.

At being feared.

And fuck, he knows Aizawa doesn't fear him. Has never feared him.

But the disappointment? It's almost worse.

Hitoshi spares the briefest of glances at Aizawa, just enough to see the way his mentor's eyes have widened slightly, before using his hold on Aizawa's wrist to wrench his hand out of his hair. It goes easily, almost as if Aizawa had been barely holding on in the first place.

"Stop," Hitoshi says quietly. The one syllable lined with years of hurt so heavy the request drops between them like the swinging anvil of a battle-hardened command.

Aizawa is uncharacteristically frozen. One hand caught in Hitoshi's grip, the other still tangled in the sheets. It takes him a moment, but then that hand is raised too in a poor imitation of surrender. "Okay."

Hitoshi sucks in a deep breath, trying to level his panic back into calm. Trying to suppress his anger back into that little box he keeps tucked away in the dusty corners of his heart.

"I'm sorry," Hitoshi says after a moment.

The air between them loosens.

Aizawa shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Shinsou." Regret lines his tone. "I shouldn't have pushed you. Not today."

Hitoshi's mind latches onto not today. Is Aizawa expecting a repeat of… this? Hitoshi, on his knees. You, asleep on the bed. Something in his chest loosens. Hitoshi hasn't ruined anything, not yet. So he cradles Aizawa's apology, lets it smooth his anger into a tiny ball, then locks his outburst back in the box.

"C'mere," Aizawa murmurs quietly, the hand raised in surrender slowly lowering to the side of Hitoshi's shoulder.

Hitoshi lets his Sensei pull him up onto his knees. Aizawa leans forward and maintains eye contact until he's carefully knocking their foreheads together, eyes shutting.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, low and reverent.

Hitoshi studies the blurry sight in front of him, Aizawa too close to truly drink in. After a beat, Hitoshi lets his eyes flutter closed, too.

"'s okay," he murmurs back.

Aizawa makes a half-hearted noise in the back of his throat, a wordless complaint at Hitoshi brushing away his apology so quickly, but says no more on the topic. Seemingly content to bask in the silence for a moment. Hitoshi's nose brushes against Aizawa's. Straightening, Hitoshi feels heat crawl up his spine as the hot puff of Aizawa's breath hits his mouth.

A line.

There is a line.

A big, bold line.

Hitoshi scrambles away from it with all the composure of a deflating balloon.

Aizawa feels his hesitation; of course, he does.

He pulls back to look at Hitoshi with a small frown. "What's wrong?"

Hitoshi shakes his head quickly, physically trying to dislodge such thoughts from his mind. "Nothing." Topic change. Now. "Can I… Can I carry on?"

Eyebrows raised, Aizawa flicks between Hitoshi's eyes.

"You don't have to do that," he says carefully.

Hitoshi almost laughs. "I know."

Releasing Aizawa's wrist, Hitoshi drops both his hands—slowly, giving time for protest—to his Sensei's hips. The touch is unfamiliar, more intimate than is usual between them, and he fights to keep his palms firm against the warmth of him.

"That's why you're going to sit back," Hitoshi takes a breath, "and take what I give you."

Aizawa's pupils widen, swallowing the darkness of his irises with black. "Shinsou—"

Hitoshi feels the sharp vacuum of Aizawa's inhale—his mouth flattening into a line Hitoshi has seen many times before.

Aizawa never finishes his sentence.

Hitoshi bites back a smile.

"Does that sound okay?" An undercurrent of caution is injected into his tone. He'll back off if Aizawa tells him to. Won't hesitate for even a breath.

But slowly, ever so slowly, Aizawa's head dips into a nod—just the one, like it's all he can manage on such tenuous footing.

Accepting the permission, Hitoshi sits back on his haunches and squeezes Aizawa's hips to ground himself. Fingers spread across heated skin and brushed cotton, their tips sinking into soft flesh. They drift down to his waistband and pause. Hitoshi glances up at Aizawa, whose expression is unreadable, but a faint blush dusts high on his cheeks, and a stern set to his mouth belies his nerves. No words are exchanged, but his hips lift slightly, and Hitoshi understands, tugging his sweats down just enough to free Aizawa's cock.

Fuck.

Hitoshi thought he was prepared for the sight—angry and red and weeping onto Aizawa's navel—but that couldn't be any further from the truth. Hungry eyes linger. Thoughts stall into nothingness. Before he can stop himself, he's drawing comparisons.

Aizawa is slightly bigger—thicker, really. Not quite as long as Hitoshi, but it's a near thing, and the knowledge that this is what split you open earlier gives him a newfound appreciation for how long you managed to hold yourself together before you fell apart. How could you not? It must've been almost inevitable, considering his size. Even Hitoshi is curious if he could take it.

Leaning forward tentatively, Hitoshi licks the tip, tasting the bitter bite of precum on his tongue. Aizawa's breath lodges in his throat, and Hitoshi, distracted by the reaction, tucks the waistband below his balls impatiently and kisses the tip this time. He almost moans when Aizawa's cock twitches under his lips. Instead, drooling a line of spit down his shaft, pointless really, because his Sensei is leaking like a faucet, but worth it if only for how Aizawa's stomach jumps at the action.

Hitoshi's hands find their home on his Sensei's hips once more. Palm and fingers against the wide breadth of skin bared, thumb stroking over the bone.

There's no denying the size of him is intimidating, but Hitoshi doesn't let himself overthink it. Simply closes his eyes, opens his lips around the head, sinks a hot, wet inch and brushes his tongue on the underside of the tip. Draws it back and forth. He doesn't know how to suck a dick, but he knows what he likes. Knows he likes it when you focus on the head, when you make it messy and wet and noisy, when you manage to swallow him whole.

Though Hitoshi isn't sold on the last idea.

Will Aizawa's entire cock even fit in his mouth?

Could you take him?

"Shit," Aizawa pants already, both hands landing on the mattress behind him, stomach stretching deliciously.

Clearly an accident, his hips jump, and Hitoshi exhales in surprise when another inch slips into his mouth. Broad hands press down on Aizawa's hips: Stay still.

Aizawa huffs a laugh. "Shinsou, ah— can you take more?"

Bossy, Hitoshi chides in his head. But he sinks further all the same, feels much like he's a snake unhinging to swallow their catch, a pleasant ache forming on the corner of his jaw, his mouth getting fuller and fuller and fuller.

Then, Aizawa's cock hits the back of his throat sooner than he expected. Hitoshi pulls back with a filthy popping noise that echoes in his ears and makes the tips burn. He coughs, a trail of saliva dripping from his chin.

Aizawa groans loudly when his cock slaps back onto his stomach. "Breathe through your nose, Shinsou," Aizawa reminds him, voice drawn taut. "Go slower."

Hitoshi wants to bristle at the command, but it falls from Aizawa's lips so readily—no ill intent, just his nature raising its face once more; a mentor teaching his student. And while Hitoshi never admitted he hadn't done this before, he doesn't even know why Aizawa pushed in the first place when it has become abundantly clear the older man already knew the answer. So Hitoshi slides one hand from his hip to grab the base of his cock. Catches his breath and brings Aizawa's cock to his lips, sinking down faster than he perhaps should, but eager to hear another punched-out moan.

"Slower—fuckkk—slower, or you'll choke again."

Success.

Hitoshi reins in his enthusiasm. Taking a moment to drag his tongue along a vein, to swallow around him, and listen to Aizawa inhale.

Then, he drops lower again. The tip pokes the back of his throat, and he jolts, choking instinctively but recalling Aizawa's command and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Two. Three. His throat quivers around the intrusion. Meanwhile, Aizawa is half-heartedly groaning above him, the noise noncommittal and airy like he can't decide whether to lean into the pleasure or hold himself back in case it gets abruptly ripped away whenever Hitoshi chokes again.

Hitoshi stays there for a second, letting his mouth adjust to the size of Aizawa.

Surprisingly, this isn't as humiliating as he expected—choking on his Sensei's cock.

Perhaps it's thanks to Aizawa, folding to Hitoshi's command. Or how he can feel how much this is affecting the older man. Hitoshi can hear his shaky breaths and even shakier moans. Can feel both his hips and stomach jumping under his touch. Can feel his dick twitching in the warmth of his mouth every time Hitoshi swallows around him.

I wonder if I can take more?

Hitoshi steels himself, breaths out slowly through his nose, and drops down another inch—the slide of Aizawa's dick down his throat is strange but not unpleasant. Quivering with the urge to gag, Hitoshi focuses on breathing, on accepting the incursion until he's still for long enough to wonder if this counts as cockwarming. Not that Aizawa's complaining—panting like he's run a marathon, despite being held warm and wet and decidedly still inside Hitoshi's mouth.

Surprised at how vocal Aizawa is, Hitoshi tries not to let it go to his head. His Sensei usually keeps his reactions under lock and key. But it doesn't seem that way now, like each new noise is slipping free from his lips against his will.

Hitoshi swallows around him again, and Aizawa swears before pleading, "Shinsou."

Figuring he's adjusted enough, he lifts his head slightly before bobbing back down—not entirely confident in his abilities to take any more of Aizawa in his mouth. Saliva pools in his mouth and slips from the corners, wetting Aizawa's cock until each pass of Hitoshi's head is slippery and easy. Is this how you do it? When you suck Hitoshi off, he genuinely feels like his brain will melt out of his ears, but he's never thought to ask about your technique.

On one pass of his head, he skims Aizawa's cock with his teeth unthinkingly.

Aizawa hisses, a hand spasming on the comforter. "Ow— no teeth, please."

Hitoshi hums in apology. Sets his focus to stroking the length he can't fit in his mouth in his fist, twisting it the way he likes when he gets himself off. Bringing his fist up to meet his mouth when he sinks down, until every inch of Aizawa is covered in him—slick as can be.

"Haah—" A strangled pant, torn from behind his teeth and settling in the air around them with a renewed, balmy heat serving only to make Hitoshi dizzier. As though he can't get enough air in his lungs around Aizawa's cock.

Hitoshi hums again.

I hear you.

Aizawa groans fully this time, his hips jumping. Hitoshi pushes down harder, pinning him to the bed with astonishing ease, considering how strong he knows his mentor to be. A beat later, he realises why—recalls how good it feels when you hum around his cock, the vibrations which shoot straight through his core.

Hitoshi purrs, long and drawn out, lifting to pout his lips around the head of Aizawa's cock, flicking his tongue in his slit, and hoping that this is doing what he thinks it is.

"Fuck, fuck, Shinsou—" Aizawa gasps, chest bowing, knees tightening around Hitoshi's shoulders, voice climbing higher, raspier, into heights Hitoshi rarely hears outside of the heat of a battle. "Ohhh-jesus-haah—"

Out of nowhere, Hitoshi feels the weight of another gaze on him—a sixth sense trained through a decade of underground work. He doesn't remove his mouth, doesn't give away that he's noticed, but he feels it.

You.

Your eyes are intent on the side of his face. On the cock in his mouth.

Oh god.

Now, Hitoshi doesn't hesitate. Not exactly. But his movements loiter, mouth occupied and gaze sheepish when it finally slides over to you.

You're curled up beneath your blanket, eyes wide as saucers. Redness stains your cheeks. Your eyes track up from Hitoshi's face—no doubt a similar shade of embarrassment and slick with spit—past Aizawa's quivering stomach, up to his twisted expression. Hitoshi doesn't know how long you've been watching. Did his sixth sense alert him when you woke up, or have you been awake in his distraction for longer than he wants to ruminate on?

In fact, Hitoshi can't even blame Aizawa for not noticing. His Sensei is usually even more perceptive than he is, but apparently, getting his dick sucked is a weakness.

Who would've thought?

Hitoshi feels a spike of guilt cut for doing this without waking you up to ask for permission first. For all of a prolonged heartbeat, he fears he's messed up… everything.

Then, it dissipates like smoke in a breeze.

You're into it. A bottom lip caught between your teeth as you take in how Aizawa is fracturing. A tiny smirk in Hitoshi's direction when you finally meet his eyes again.

At once, Hitoshi feels bowled over by his love for you.

You're his other half, without a doubt; the key to his lock; the sweet sunshine breaking through his rain. An equal partner in every measure—in his kink and his desires, even the most depraved, filthy ones. The ones most people would shake their heads at. The one where Hitoshi is on his knees and sucking his Sensei's cock.

Seeing your clear interest and emboldened by it, Hitoshi purses his lips on the head and drags them down Aizawa's shaft, kitten licking the heat he can feel pulsing against him.

The bed shifts.

Aizawa jolts, cock slipping through Hitoshi's mouth, and moans before abruptly tensing. There's a split second where Hitoshi thinks his Sensei really will launch himself at you on muscle memory alone, but then he stills, unnaturally so, and those piercing red eyes of his slide over to you.

Better late than never, Hitoshi supposes.

"Hi, Daddy," you murmur, cheek smushed against the comforter.

Aizawa softens instantly, all hard lines and drawn muscles melting from an off-duty hero to yours again.

"Hi, baby," Aizawa murmurs back. "How are you feeling?"

You grin, a small, cheesy thing. "Good. Really good."

Aizawa nods, silent and waiting for a full debrief. Hitoshi watches you bite back a laugh before you actually put some thought into your next words.

"Tired. Sore," you continue, eyes flicking up once like you're categorising your body. "Happy."

"I'm glad," Aizawa returns kindly. "Do you need anything? There's water on the nightstand and painkillers, too. But I can make some food for you now, if you want. I've got clean clothes as well. They might be a bit big on you, but they'll be okay for tonight. I thought you and Shinsou could stay since it's so late and—"

Your grin widens as you cut him off. "Taking care of us still?"

Aizawa doesn't fluster in the face of your teasing. Merely tilts the corner of his lips up and nods. "Of course."

Instead, you blush, expression turning sweet and surprised.

"What would you like, angel?" Aizawa reiterates.

Hitoshi mourns the moment to have been cut short—finds himself desperately hung up on the need to make Aizawa cum—but recognises it's more important to ensure you're okay. He leans back from Aizawa, hand leaving his cock, brushes his dry hand back through his hair, and wipes a forearm across his mouth to clear the drool smothered over his chin.

A beat of silence. Hitoshi watches you without much of a clue where your mind is heading.

Stretching out your arms in front of you, you let your gaze drag purposefully down the front of Aizawa's chest to his cock, bobbing in front of Hitoshi's chin.

"I'd like to see you cum," you state airily, body relaxing back into the mattress after your stretch.

Credit to Aizawa, he takes it in stride.

"Is that so?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, voice dipped in honey.

"Mhm."

"Well…" Aizawa draws his gaze down to Hitoshi, who straightens at being acknowledged. "I think that can be arranged. Right, Shinsou?"

"Yes! Uh… yep. Definitely. Right now… even."

Aizawa turns back to you. "Drink your water first, though."

You laugh, the sound no different from the sunlight beaming through that gap in Aizawa's curtains and pooling across the bed. "Alright, alright. Such a dad!"

Aizawa tongues his cheek, eyes sharp.

Both men watch you reach for the glass on the nightstand, unfaltering under the weight of their stares, and drain the entire thing in barely a few seconds. Hitoshi grins, despite himself. That's one thing he's never been able to beat you in, unfortunately: you have an uncanny ability to chug drinks, and you've won many bets thanks to it.

"There!" You place the glass back on the nightstand with a victorious thump and flop back onto your side. Laughter paints your next words: "Don't mind me then, 'tosh."

Hitoshi shoots you a mild glare, more playful than anything, though edged in embarrassment, and your laughter melts down into a fond smile. You raise an eyebrow expectantly. Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but turns back to Aizawa's cock all the same. Some part of him feels like it should be insecure about you watching his shit dick-sucking abilities. You know he's never sucked dick before. But you gaze at him so warmly, seem so turned on by the sight of him on his knees for his mentor, that any fear sinks to the recesses of his mind.

So, wrapping a hand gingerly around Aizawa's cock, Hitoshi stares at it with renewed confidence while he figures out if he should continue what he was doing before or if he should try a new tactic.

Aizawa leans back on his hands and peers over at you. "I think you're making him nervous."

Hitoshi bristles, tightening his fist and sliding up Aizawa's cock in retaliation. Aizawa sucks in a startled breath, humour draining from his face in an instant, and Hitoshi hears your twin gasp. You hadn't been privy to any of Aizawa's facial expressions earlier; you had been too busy burying your face in the comforter while he fucked and ate you. Hitoshi finds it sweet how clearly enamoured you are with the sight. He repeats the action just to watch you—strokes his thumb over his cockhead, jerks him off a few times, fast, slightly mean. Aizawa's knees tighten around Hitoshi's shoulders again, and Hitoshi catches his stomach jumping in his periphery. But he can only see you. Propping your body up on an elbow so you can see better, lazy eyes widening into something akin to reverence.

Hitoshi wonders what Aizawa thinks about this all.

About being so vulnerable for them.

Does he have qualms about the credibility of his dom image being diminished as Hitoshi does? Or is he so secure in his standing that even this is power to him—Hitoshi on his knees, stroking him, you in post-fuck bliss, staring on with rapt attention.

What does he think of you both?

Is Hitoshi still a student to him?

Are you just Hitoshi's pretty girlfriend?

But then he recalls the stickiness to Aizawa's expression when Hitoshi first walked in the room—sweet enough to trap flies— a big hand stroking your back, how obvious it was that he hadn't left your side once. Aizawa's insistence on giving Hitoshi what he didn't even know he needed.

What are you all now?

Hitoshi traces a vein, brushes his thumb on the underside of his cock, thinks about how important it is that he acts normal tomorrow when all the coital bliss has long worn off. He plays it out: waking up with you splayed atop him in the guest bed and pretending it's normal, padding into the kitchen and shooting Aizawa a normal smile, accepting Aizawa's offer to cook breakfast for you both and eating it all despite the churning in his gut. Saying goodbye after it all, normal, normal, normal.

And maybe, when he passes the threshold to your flat, he will finally fall apart.

But right now, there is no time.

Not when he can feel Aizawa pulsing in his hand and hear him strangling the moans threatening his throat. Not when you're kicking back your blanket and crawling across the bed, sidling up behind Aizawa and shuffling forward on your knees until you sit back on your haunches, thighs spread wide around his hips. Aizawa's stomach jumps when you slip your hands around his waist to brush the quivering muscle there. But he settles back into your body easily and lifts one hand from the bed to tangle it with yours.

Hitoshi experiences déjà vu at the action. And isn't that strange—your hand in Aizawa's being enough to warrant the feeling.

Then, your chin hooks on Aizawa's chin, and the combined sight of you and Aizawa staring down at him, expressions painted with arousal, is enough for the fog to creep in.

"I wanna see you suck him off, 'toshi," you pout.

Aizawa groans, the sound pleasured and tortured all at once.

"Don't want to blow him yourself, angel?" Hitoshi teases.

You shake your head. "Not tonight."

Your words make Hitoshi tense, hand slowing on Aizawa's cock as he works over exactly what you mean. Why do you both keep saying shit like you're expecting a repeat? He knows he's acting blatantly weird again. Hell, he's been weird all night. Can't quite seem to work out how to not act this way. But you're being serious, he realises. Both of you.

This is going to happen again.

Hitoshi's heart lurches up into his throat.

You laugh, fingers flexing on Aizawa's tanned stomach.

Aizawa laughs too, his voice stronger without Hitoshi's touch.

"Hitoshiiii," you whine playfully. "Please? You looked so pretty with him in your mouth."

At that, Hitoshi can feel more than see the blush spreading over his cheeks. Face heating fast at your honeyed tone. Hitoshi wants to speak, but his tongue feels heavy and uncooperative in his mouth.

"You heard our girl," Aizawa murmurs, a lopsided smirk playing on his lips. Heat flashes through Hitoshi's body at the possessiveness of his words. Our girl… Ourgirlourgirlourgirl. They spin around Hitoshi's mind until every other thought is dislodged, floating freely up into the overheated air. "Pretty as a picture."

Hitoshi's free hand clenches into a fist on his thigh, before he remembers he can touch, is touching, and he brings it up to rest it over where Aizawa's hand is tangled in yours—cautiously, like sliding the final glass puzzle piece into a beautiful stained window. Flexing his fingers around you both, he swallows. At your combined heat. At both your expressions, softening. At his own heart, stuttering over a beat. The two most important people in Hitoshi's life, staring down at him as though his being holds the secrets of the universe.

Hitoshi's hand slides down to grab the base of Aizawa's cock, and he lowers his head, finally taking Aizawa into his mouth. He sinks wetly, like a stone dropping to the floor of a tranquil lake.

"Fuuuuuck," Aizawa grits out, the sound protracted like a passing breeze.

Aizawa's cock bumps the back of Hitoshi's throat, and he relaxes the muscles there to take him deeper, until he feels like he's one wrong heartbeat away from choking on the thickness of his Sensei. He forces slow, steady breaths through his nose. Focuses on the way Aizawa's hand tenses under his touch, on the tiny moan you let out as though you're feeling the sensation by proxy.

Hitoshi swallows around him and fights back a smile.

"Shit, Shin-mmmph!"

Hitoshi flicks his eyes up to see you, half-leaning around Aizawa's body to kiss him. It's an awkward angle, but you don't seem to care. In fact, your pretty hand is wrapped around Aizawa's jaw with some force, as though you've decided to take charge. When Hitoshi flicks his tongue over the tip, Aizawa pants into your mouth. You swallow a noise. Let Aizawa swallow one of your own—a tiny, pleased echo.

More slick sounds swamp the heavy air. You suck Aizawa's tongue into your mouth, teeth clacking. Hitoshi dips his head down, Aizawa sliding down the back of his throat with only one suppressed gag on Hitoshi's part this time. Another muffled moan, so low and deep it feels like it's reverberating through Aizawa's cock and straight through Hitoshi's spine.

Then, he sees your hand creep into his periphery, past it, until your nails are scratching up Aizawa's thigh. Loud enough for Hitoshi to know from experience that it hurts. Aizawa lights up, his heavy moan morphing into something downright pathetic and raspy as he bucks up into Hitoshi's mouth, thighs shaking.

Predictably, Hitoshi chokes.

His ears fill with the sound of his rushing heartbeat as he quickly lifts himself off Aizawa's dick, choking.

Hitoshi thinks he hears the first syllable of "sorry" from his Sensei, but then you're licking into Aizawa's mouth, and instead he's groaning like he's never tasted anything better. A small, devlish hand slips into Hitoshi's hair and starts guiding him back down before he's even caught his breath. He can feel your nails scratch at his scalp lightly, and Hitoshi shivers, doing as he's told and taking Aizawa back into his mouth in one smooth motion, giving his lungs no time to protest.

His jaw aches. His entire face is somehow wet. And his pulse is thundering like he hasn't taken a full breath since yesterday. But Aizawa is close; he can tell. Has little experience to base it on, yet can read the signs: Aizawa starting to shallowly fuck his mouth, his noises growing louder and gravelly. Not to mention the way Aizawa's cock is literally pulsing in his mouth, matching the erraticness of Hitoshi's own heartbeat.

"Mmmn—"

Hitoshi doubles down, not knowing what he's going to do when Aizawa cums but figuring he'll work it out when he gets there. He leans into the way Aizawa has started to rock up—clearly cautious of fucking Hitoshi's mouth even through his haze of pleasure—bobbing down to meet each haphazard thrust. The hand holding the base of his cock slips down to stroke his balls, slick with saliva.

Another moan, punched out from Aizawa as though it's painful.

He rolls his balls in his hand before sliding a thumb up between them and up to the base of his cock, rubbing small, tight circles.

"Mmmn-mph!"

The hand in his hair vacates, and soft fingers brush his mouth moments later. As though you're desperate to feel the connection, to feel how Aizawa's cock is practically fucking Hitoshi's mouth now.

"Oh my god." Your voice.

Turning his head slightly, Hitoshi glances up to see you staring down at him, lips bright and swollen. Aizawa's head tips back onto your shoulder, and he pants, open-mouthed into the air now that he's free.

"Close, Shinsou, close," he warns, voice worn thin.

Hitoshi hums around him.

He gasps. "Reallyclosefuck."

The deep-seated urge to impress rises in him, as familiar as breathing when it comes to his Sensei. After all, why wouldn't he want Aizawa to be pleased with him? To feel like all his years of teaching have paid off. Hitoshi sinks deeper, pressing his saliva-slick palm to Aizawa's hip in an attempt to hold him down. It's harder this time, with Aizawa bucking like a bull. But he manages—he'd be disappointed if his hero regime couldn't at least let him pin down his mentor.

"Shinsou-ngh! Pull off—" he blurts, panic making itself known.

"Mmm…"

"Shinsou!"

Aizawa inhales a big breath, and like the moment a vacuum sucks in all sound with it, cums silently—mouth dropping open, hips stuttering in place under Hitoshi's hand, cock spurting cum down Hitoshi's throat, thick and hot.

Hitoshi's body jolts in surprise, quickly swallowing. Aizawa's cock pulses in his mouth through each wave of his orgasm.

Hitoshi swallows again.

A third time.

Chokes on the fourth—because of course he does. Throat convulsing around Aizawa's thick cock, entirely unprepared to swallow it all.

Hitoshi tries to stay down, but cum lodges in his throat, and suddenly, he can't even breathe. Panic is one potent drug—shooting through his veins in an instant. Pulling off quickly, his spine rounds as he coughs into the space between Aizawa's thighs, fingers twitching over your tangled ones. Vision blurred as tears sprang to his eyes on reflex. Hitoshi chokes in a heaving breath, thick globs of cum dripping from his lips and hitting the mattress. Hitoshi can barely taste any of it, though, despite the stickiness he can feel on his tongue—the tag of cum, the salt of his tears. Blood roars in his ears.

Luckily, you pick up his slack. Those fingers that had been petting around his mouth, wrapping around Aizawa's cock. Twisting your wrist just the way Hitoshi likes, wringing out the final dregs of Aizawa's pleasure. Hitoshi feels a stripe of cum land across his nose, but he barely flinches, too busy alternating between throaty coughs and swallowing whatever's left in his mouth.

Only when Aizawa hisses do you slow your hand, fingers petting over his cock gently.

Hitoshi finally starts to catch his breath.

"Jesus," Aizawa breaths, head lifting from your shoulder to look down at Hitoshi.

You lean into Aizawa and bite at his jaw, grinning against his stubble when you brush your thumb over his cockhead and hear him hiss again. Hitoshi looks up at him sheepishly, aware he probably looks a fucking sight. And decidedly not one for sore eyes. God, he'd fucking choked on Aizawa's cock and not in a sexy way, not when it didn't really matter, but when he was cumming.

Did I ruin his orgasm? Hitoshi wonders, worrying his bottom lip.

Aizawa lifts his hand from the comforter and brushes his middle finger over Hitoshi's nose. "Are you okay?"

Oh, Hitoshi thinks. Sensei is wiping his cum up. That's humiliating.

"Yeah, I'm—" Hitoshi jolts, surprised at the grittiness to his voice, like stones at the early stages of tumbling. He clears his throat in an attempt to dislodge some of the evidence. "I'm okay, Sensei."

"More than okay," you pipe up cheerfully, finally dragging your hand from Aizawa's softening cock to his thigh, leaving a sticky trail of cum and saliva. "'tosh looked like he had a religious experience choking on your dick."

Aizawa cuts you a reprimanding look. If anything, you preen under the attention.

"Oi," Hitoshi protests, too tired to follow it up with anything else.

"That was pretty good for your first time," Aizawa offers, only a hint of cheekiness in his voice.

Then, his cum-covered finger is stroking at Hitoshi's bottom lip, coaxing it out from between his teeth—Hitoshi didn't even realise he was biting it. And he isn't sure what muscle memory is in operation when his lips fall open, but perhaps it's the assumption that he won't have to speak anymore, that he'll be allowed to just exist in the quiet of this moment.

Aizawa slips a finger into his mouth, and Hitoshi tastes the tang of cum before anything else, yet can't be bothered to do anything but let Aizawa feel.

Aizawa exhales a measured, slow breath at the sight. He pets over Hitoshi's tongue, and the sensation isn't entirely unfamiliar—you've had your fingers in Hitoshi's mouth before, he'd be an idiot if he ever turned that down—but Aizawa's one finger alone is so much bigger. In every way. Caressing his tongue in arching swipes. Intrusive where it begins to feel along his teeth, the cum from his finger melting into the saliva pooled in Hitoshi's mouth.

"And I saw it, too," Aizawa murmurs.

Hitoshi makes a questioning noise, too exhausted to be bothered speaking around the finger in his mouth.

Aizawa laughs. "I saw the type of dom you are."

"Safe…" A finger hooked behind his teeth, a tug that coaxes Hitoshi closer. "Clever."

Hitoshi feels the praise wash over him, warm and sweet. For the first time since he took Aizawa's cock into his mouth, Hitoshi realises he's hard as his dick twitches in time with Aizawa's words.

Aizawa swallows audibly. "Confident."

Hitoshi bites lightly at his finger to lift the air, and it works, Aizawa breathing out a chuckle.

"Well done, baby." Your sweet voice, your bright eyes, your head tilted as you stare down at the way he's sucking on Aizawa's finger fondly.

"Th'nk'yu'," Hitoshi manages this time, a pleasant static settling over his worries.

You're both here—in front of him, smiling down at him—and pressed so tightly together it's as though you fear someone might rip Aizawa away from you. You're both okay. You both enjoyed it. Hitoshi shudders in relief, eyes slipping closed, body tipping forward slightly. Aizawa's finger slides deeper into the warmth of his mouth.

"Whoa there," Aizawa murmurs, a hand coming up to brace Hitoshi's shoulder. "You sure you're feeling alright?"

Hitoshi nods dumbly, content in the dark. "Mhm."

"You think too much, 'toshi," you say quietly.

Hitoshi hears a quiet kiss, there and gone, and Aizawa's rumbling hum.

"Thank you, Shouta. For tonight…" A meaningful pause. "All of it."

"I can't take all the credit," Aizawa huffs in amusement. Then, his voice softens. "But you're welcome, sweetheart. We had fun, huh?"

You laugh. "I definitely did."

Hitoshi blinks his eyes back open. Can't quite find his voice yet, but his gaze slides to Aizawa, and he hopes the older man can read his answer there.

I did, too. Thank you.

Aizawa smiles.

Cheek smushed against Aizawa's shoulder, you peer up at him. "Can we have curry for dinner?"

Aizawa laughs. Soft. Warm. Surprised. Hitoshi's lips curl into a smile of his own, and you look so at home in the divot of Aizawa's body—the sight settling deep in Hitoshi, sealing a gap he didn't know existed—that he barely fights the wave of fondness washing over him.

Then, "Yeah, sweetheart," and a kiss on your cheek.

Hitoshi watches your eyes well up at the gentleness of the action, a tiny pout crossing your mouth.

"I'll make you curry."

‹‹ MASTERLIST

"Why are you out so late." It's more of a statement than a question from Sukuna, reminiscent of something like a scolding father.

"You're one to talk. Don't you have breakfast starting at your restaurant in about four hours?"

"I let the kids handle breakfast these days."

Giving control to the rest of his staff. That shocks you. "You—,"

"Yes. On their own."

"Wow." You blink at him. "That's new."

He exhales, weighs the words carefully on his tongue. "You often said you wished we had more time together in the mornings."

"So you thought to do it after we broke up?"

"It was in motion already."

He leans back in a chair that seems much too small for him, one arm along the windowsill, seemingly unaffected by the crisp air that meets the glass, sliding raindrops like tear tracks. His chest expands with each steady breath, the breadth of him so clear — he's a big man, with a kind of distance that sometimes feels hard to cross. He feels cold but his passion burns hot.

(Sometimes, he feels like he might burn everything around him. It's easier to cut someone off than have an honest, heavy discussion that could end in tatters. A clean break is simpler. Too much of him might feel like ignition.

You've never felt that way, though. Hand in calloused hand. You want his honesty, even if it's cruel, even if it's forged in the fire of a past best left dead. Maybe the simmering rage that sits underneath you both makes you twin flames, feelings that collect and encapsulate, that you have to find outlets for before they scorch your entire lives.)

"You look nice." He clears his throat, like the words were begging to be said or it would suffocate him. You don't know when he turned to look at you, but his gaze feels heavy.

You soften. "Yeah, you do too. You always do."

~

His car was just outside the store, something you might've noticed if you hadn't swept your jacket over your head. You try not to think about what that means — how unnecessary it was for him to sit down with you, have instant noodles that he's not even a fan of with you.

Just to spend time with you. Sukuna has always made his ambitions clear, understands sacrifice in order to take. Yet with you, he's terribly muted about it. Wanting the world, to either have it or burn it down entirely, is something he can say loud and proud. He knows he will have it, because he will do whatever it takes or die having attempted it. Having you is wrapped with a kind of uncertainty he feels uncomfortable with. Can't force it, can't decree it. All he can do is hope you choose him.

His place is exactly how you remember it — sterile, more like a showroom apartment than a place a real person lives. The kitchen counter is entirely blank, save for a few gleaming silver and black appliances, and the back-splash the marble extends to is clean of any debris.

You sweep in with remembered steps, too familiar, catching yourself after the fact only to realize — you're standing much too close to him.

You're aware of how big his hands are when they cup your face, but there's a clumsy delicateness to it, like a giant trying to hold a teacup. He dips his head down, kisses you so gently, a windswept thing. With him, you are not your failures. With you, he is not his strength. There are no defenses that need to be met. He meets you where you are, with his entire, unabashed self at the forefront, encourages you to do the same. There's something about that, that feels a little like love.

He's not made for love, every part of him hardened and calloused — his hands as they make their way down your thighs and hoist you up, the scars on his face that you trace as you kiss him over and over. But the effort is there, the hope, the showing up. The wishing and the waiting.

Whisked to the next room, the bed dips underneath you, a graceful act that has you almost wishing he would just be a little… rougher, more himself.

"You don't have to be so careful," you tell him, your lips against his, like parting even a centimeter might cause him pain. He hums in return.

"You're a gentle girl," he says, a gruff whisper against your skin, and you don't know if you would call yourself that, but next to him maybe it seems that way. Soft curves for rough hands that beg to make a home in, he touches you like he's trying to prove something. He relents, a little. His grip a little harder, his teeth starting to show as they slide down your jaw, nipping at your pulse point.

Your clothes are removed ceremoniously, like an unraveling. He undoes the buttons with consideration for the clothing, drapes them on the chair nearby. It's aching — the time, intensified by his gaze, how he cherishes each strip of skin revealed to him with kisses that pepper and mount. He makes time stretch, taffy-sweet, makes his mouth count as he laps his tongue over your nipple, pulls it into his mouth, blows hot and cold air over it until it raises goosebumps up the rest of your body.

Sukuna entertains little. He understands routine and tradition, but it all has to lead to his end goal. What's this, then — him taking his time with you, making it so all you can think about is him, him, him. Maybe that's the point, making it so you can't leave him ever again.

That's the thing about Sukuna, he relishes meals, takes his time to eat and taste. What he does to you is no different. He laps his tongue over you slowly, lets your slick coat the wet muscle, swallows down before going in again. His moan into your cunt is audible, reverberates down his chest, his breath hot, your core hotter. Your slick drips down his chin and it really isn't like him to be messy but somehow he allows it when it comes to you, maybe even relishes in it. Coming over his mouth comes in waves, a tensing before it wracks through you.

He looms over you, backlit by the cold moon, and everything about him is warm. He looks down at you with so much want that it feels tangible.

To want is dangerous. To want is to give up a piece of yourself for another person to hold, and Sukuna's not sure how much of himself he has left. He slides into you. Every part of him you could want, is already yours anyways.

~

It's the morning after when you notice it, on your way out. Your jacket from before the breakup, hanging on the coat tree in the entryway. He never moved it.

"Did you want to bring it back?" He tracks your gaze to it, his spine stiffening.

You smile softly at him. "I'll come back for it later."

It’s so beautiful it almost takes your breath away. You’ve never been up this high in Orange County, and you suppose a lot of people don’t ever get to be. 

It’s under relatively odd circumstances you find yourself up here, too. Also in yellow rectangles are your previously-sent messages, in which you played not too interested and yet not too detached, the way you do with every other guy on that godforsaken app—in your defense, you didn’t set out expecting to woo an international football star. It was just that his abs looked really good, and anything other than a blank profile insistently hitting you up with hey. pics? ass pic? hi. pic4pic? is a grail of its own kind. You don’t waste time tapping. Besides, his bio spelled it out—DL visiting looking for right now—and you also don’t like to waste time negotiating your pleasure. You could practically hear your friends chiding you for even entertaining those two letters—DL. Have some self-respect, they’d say, not quite half joking, but you’re not in the business of telling people how to live their lives. What went on in so-called straight dudes’ consciences after you fucked them wasn’t really your concern. Something was pleasing about such candidness, anyway, however incomplete and rooted in convenience—here’s my shame, have me anyway, even just for a second, if you can stomach it. Anyway, you weren’t looking for a life story, or even a love story—just an evening. 

It obviously wasn’t the first time he’s done this, either. You appreciated that he also didn’t seem like a time waster. The guidelines were clear from the first message after the one where he told you you’re cute: he doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t bottom, and—get this—he’s a high-profile athlete with a reputation to uphold. 

You had shaken your head a little, eyes narrow, smirking despite yourself. It was like that, huh? You’re not stupid; it’s Newport Beach during the World Cup. 

You tapped the link to a PDF: an NDA, which came immediately in the wake of a picture of a heavy bulge through athletic shorts. His hands were sexy, a little veiny, and the dark, wet dime-sized bead of precum against the gray material he held himself through made it evident he was touching himself already. 

But the twinge of excitement you felt, suspended in the momentary mystery of who he could be and which team he played for, was lightly subdued by such a procedural interruption. You’re maybe the last person on earth impersonality scares—it tends to pique your curiosity, if anything, you think—but filing intimacy into a digital cabinet before it could be enacted? That’s new. New to you; probably very ordinary to him. You had tilted your head at your phone a little as you considered the degree of piteousness you could feel for a man in a situation such as this.

Nonetheless, you scanned the document for what you could divulge to your friends later. The answer was, predictably, not much. But it was a short thorough read, and it didn’t look terribly suspicious, so you scribbled on it and sent it back over. 

After all, if it wasn’t going to be you, it’d certainly be someone else.

The reward for this was the stunning, angular face of Sae Itoshi, looking a bit up at you through his phone camera—shirtless, from an angle where you could see his shorts slung low on his thin waist. 

Not that you’re particularly well-versed in the world of soccer, but you’d have to live under a rock, especially in the SoCal area in the summer of 2026, not to have seen his face along with many others on more than a few promotional materials. He stood out, with his rosedust-colored hair and general aversion to smiling politely as his colleagues tended to. But even before all that ramped up, you’d scrolled past a few of his interviews on socials before; strange, that it would be him, you think. In the limelight, he seemed like he didn’t care about much. Funny how easily indifference passes for mystery when someone’s attractive enough. The internet had spent Sae Itoshi’s late teenage-into-early adulthood years sanding him down into archetypes; stoic prodigy, too cool for interviews, too talented to bother performing gratitude. What you sense is that no one ever seems to imagine that a person can look detached because they’re exhausted from keeping whole facets of their being hidden. And he’s not close to the first professional athlete your radar would ping, much less would strike you as one to go out of his way to keep it so strictly on the low. All just goes to show how dumb all that parasocial shit is. But it’s also not terribly shocking, either, you guess. Men’s sports are like that. Either way, it deflated you a little the longer you stared at him on your screen—his prominent collarbones, his toned abdomen, his biceps, the tent in the same gray shorts from the first photo. Anyway, how bummed could you really be if you were about to hook up with Real Madrid’s star midfielder? 

You tried not to think about it too hard all the way up until you slid quickly through the door into the line of his pressing, empty gaze and to the chair upon which you now sit as he saunters about, still shirtless, incredibly delicious but slow, like he’s trying to give some invisible audience the impression that he’s not overly eager about anything, especially not for what’s supposed to happen. And, again, you really do try not to stare at him—not because he’s difficult to look at or you don’t want to make him feel weird but because fame tends to trick you into thinking you’ve already seen someone. But sitting here, watching him, you get the feeling that the public version of Sae had never occupied three dimensions. Also, you’re a little bothered from his photos, a little impatient to get your hands on him, a little unsure of what to say—or if you should say anything at all—to a really handsome, really closeted athlete whose room you’re in solely and only to fuck him in a way that will probably never leave the cover of night and non-disclosure. You pretty much clarified everything over text. People had informed him before that his demeanor comes off rather cold, he told you. You got that, you had poked jokingly. Very funny, he’d replied. A brief moment of humorous gratitude passed between you when you said you didn’t mind; if anything, it made him sexier. But as you sit, it’s like you used up all the banter over the phone and now there wasn’t any left. That’s okay, though. The message where he said he’s into you, that it’d be a good time even if it didn’t necessarily show on his face, sticks to your ribs. You know asking him to show it might be asking for too much, but you don’t mind, really. 

“Do you care if I smoke?” 

But before you can nod no, that you don’t care (which you were going to, anyway), he’s already twisting the dropper off a sage-green vial with a label that proudly reads Product of California, USA and sticking it under his tongue to deposit a couple drops of what looks like olive oil. Of course, Sae Itoshi would never actually, literally smoke his marijuana, the same way he wouldn’t let you more than three steps past the door without requiring the removal of your shoes, or wouldn’t permit you entrance to his penthouse suite if there was anyone else in the hallway. Walk directly past my door if anyone else is around. Don’t even look at it and don’t turn back until you’re alone, one of the many blue chat bubbles you’d rescrolled through on your way here read. He doesn’t offer you any of the tincture. 

You shift a little as he throws something in a duffel bag here, checks something on his phone there, draws the blackout curtain forward a bit. Finally, he plops onto the foot of the big plush bed, kicking off a pair of expensive-looking house slippers as he does. A drawn-out sigh leaves him. He doesn’t look over at you, opting instead to lean back on his hands, and you quietly admire the slope of his torso as he breathes. Shoulders tense. His composure is very obviously manufactured, and you’re unsure if he lets you see this because he possesses a legally binding document ensuring you can’t expose such a thing to the public, or if he just doesn’t care. Maybe he thinks you’re too dumb to realize, or too much of a starfucker to care yourself.

Either way, the draw against Cape Verde in the first round was rough. You do not have to ask him personally about this or even be observing him right now in order to know that. You’ve seen the headlines, all the way up until this afternoon—Spain’s listless performance won't cut it against better teams at World Cup—after the win against Uruguay on an error. It gnaws at you a bit, that two shaky parts of his life are colliding in this room, and you’re here to watch. No, not watch—participate. 

He runs a hand through the fringe he keeps pushed back when he plays; right now, it sweeps across his forehead. You know enough to know that no one ever really sees him like that. He’s obviously somewhere between pissed and defeated, and putting forth an artifice of indifference. There are too many things lingering in the room to appear indifferent about, in your opinion, but it’s another thing you’ll just have to not to think about too deeply. He’ll be fine. If he wanted you to therapize him, he’d have said that, but he didn’t, and he doesn’t. He just wants to fuck. However this goes, you remind yourself, he’s making a fat wad of cash either way. 

People would kill for this life. It seems almost insulting to imagine someone could be lonely in a suite this expensive. You’re reading too far into the ephemerality, surely; after all, everything in a hotel room counts on guests leaving before there is a chance for an impression to be made. The mattress won’t remember the shape of one body before the next inhabits it, and the stocked minibar will never run empty. You wonder if he’s a drinker. It doesn’t look like it, but he’s only been here for less than a day. You make a mental note to help yourself later. A liminal space has never made you itch so terribly. 

And the least you can do is treat him like a human being. 

“You waiting for something?” he murmurs over his shoulder at you, cutting through your thoughts. It’s not bitey, but it is impatient. He doesn’t cast his sidelong glance at you as much as he does the wall. 

You rise and make your way to him—one, two, three, four, five, six intentional steps until you’re turning to stand before him, one hand playing at the hem of your shirt, the other dangling limply. 

Sae looks through you in your pause, sultry, unamused green eyes tired as they lift up to yours. They flit down once, toward the floor, and then back up to you. You understand this as your cue to drop to your knees. 

As you sink onto the shag carpet you momentarily imagine yourself from a third perspective. And from this perspective, you speculate further about what Sae’s type in women might be; you imagine your own hair, but long and in a cute, athletic ponytail. While you shuffle closer to him, trailing semi-confident fingertips up his thighs to his waistband, you envision a set of understated French-tipped nails doing so instead. It’d be easier all around—tidier for the tabloids if anyone ever found out; star footballer spotted with mystery girl. His PR team would grit their teeth, a couple new sponsors would pop out, fans would speculate for a week or two, and then the world would move on. Sae is the kind of man who could build a life out of things like that, if he wanted; he has the face for it, the money, the path paved before him. But he hasn’t, and you’re here, tugging his shorts off his hips, down his muscular thighs, down his calves, looking up at him with want. 

He kicks his shorts aside and places a firm hand on your jaw, peering down at you from behind the prettiest lashes you think you’ve ever seen on someone as you wet your lips and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. The third perspective is gone—was never there to begin with. Just you and him in this room, like so many rooms he keeps returning to, where everything must disappear by the light of day. 

The thought should flatter you, really, that in all the possibilities available to him, he chose you. But the longer you spend in his orbit—and it’s not even been two hours—that thing that’s been sticking to your ribs drifts down toward your stomach, where you know it will settle like a rock. It’s not really you he's choosing, anyway; rather, a version of desire that isn't real enough to him to threaten the rest of his life. 

You push this unsavory line of thinking back out to sea again as you loll your tongue out. 

Sae’s fingers skirt from your face into your hair. It’s hardly perceptible how he pushes you toward him, especially with you leaning into the motion so you can hold him to your mouth and lave the flat of your tongue over his frenulum. The closed-mouth sigh he breathes makes his chest flutter. You wonder if he’d let you touch it. And then you hold still and swipe him against you, slowly, arching closer to put better pressure on him, looking up into his striking face to watch his brows stitch together. When you ball up a mouthful of spit onto his tip so you can stroke him fully, once, then twice as you feel his warm, neutral precum mix with it on your tongue, his pretty lips fall open as he draws in a deep, controlled breath and lets it out just so. Laser-focused on you. You, laser-focused on him. If he’s going to battle with this internally, you at least want to make it good. Yes, there is conflict in his gorgeous ocean-colored eyes, and it fills you with the unmistakable urge to be good for him. 

When you wrap your lips around his tip and swirl your tongue in honeyed circles, a deep rumble rises from his chest; it makes your stomach and your eyelids flutter in tandem, and you nod against him, suctioning and releasing to make more circles and draw more precum out of him, switching back and forth until his fingers in your hair tighten up. The longer you bob your head, the quicker he wants you, and the fuller his groans come. 

And then he pushes. You figured he’d want it rough—a lot of DL guys seem to; it’s a dominance thing—so you move your hand off him and brace yourself against his inner thighs, which flex and twitch lightly as you take more of him in your mouth. Fuck, he breathes headily when you’re halfway down him, I wanna use this mouth; he’s not asking for permission, but you moan around him eagerly, nodding still, to mean yes anyway, just as much as you mean to make him feel good. 

So his other hand knots up in your hair, too; you suck in air through your nose, ready—ready for him to guide you down until he’s prodding the back of your throat. You dig your nails into his thighs before slipping a hand down and beneath your own waistband; when you touch yourself, you’re unsurprised to feel yourself leaking and throbbing as he works into you. 

Sae’s fingers interlock at the back of your skull, and you know this is where you resign yourself for a bit—you stop nodding, stop bobbing as he thrusts you down once, twice, and three times until you’re buried in the sparse patch of hair at his pelvis. He smells so good, you think, tastes so good, fills you up so good—and he holds you there as you gag around him, shoulders beginning to tremble; if you were looking at him, you could see him throw his soft head of rosy hair back before he lifts you so far up just to slam you back down. 

And he makes good on his word. What he does is definitely use you, with no regard for how your scalp burns as he manipulates you up and down his length, uncaring for the pathetic gurgling sounds his cockhead forces out of the corners of your mouth each time he strikes your windpipe. You screw your eyes shut when the tears come—they blur everything anyway—and you falter as you rub yourself, no less content to listen to him grunt and sigh than if he was fucking you in a hole that felt good for you, too. 

But his hips are restless even as you let him maneuver you. Sae returns the thrusts to himself double, going from passive to actively fucking into you, and you grasp onto him, squirming backward; you feel his form overtake yours—but Sae holds you, doesn’t let you falter from him as he stands to leverage his hips against your head until he’s standing, knees bent, unwilling to leave your mouth. 

Instead of moving you along his cock, he clutches you still in his hold and fucks your face with fervor—balls slapping your chin while you sit like a good boy and take him, clawing at him like you want him to stop but you’re certain you both know you mean the opposite. He mutters something you can’t quite make out over the feeling of him wrenching your jaw open wider and wider to accommodate his relentless thrusts; you feel spools of drool collecting, sticking to your chin. You’re lightheaded. You’re letting up on his thighs as he growls above you; you catch good fucking hole as he batters into you and your eyes are rolling back and he’s trapping you between his knees. Fucking your face, holding you close like he needs you. You want to see him from that third perspective again, becoming a pretty, sweaty mess above you. 

Just when you wonder if he’ll cum down your throat, he pulls out of you, punching the air back into your lungs. 

And before you can breathe in fully, he’s slapping you hard. 

You like the way your ears start to ring when your gasp gets caught in the shock of it; you like the way he doesn’t let go, just to shove himself back down your throat to the hilt again, deliver a few more bruising thrusts to the back of your throat, before he does it all over again. 

He pulls out. He slaps you hard. He readjusts your head in front of him to choke you a few more times on his cock, and he repeats this a few times—again, again, again—until you can’t hear anything but your own ragged breathing wearing into rough gags and sobs. 

Your senses come back to you after he drops you, and he really does drop you; your palms hit the shag rug as you heave, willing oxygen back to your brain with everything in you. You’re vaguely aware of him settling himself back down on the edge of the bed, but you can’t yet move to see what he wants next. You know what he wants next. You’re hard and leaking all over the carpet, too, and as soon as you can stand to get yourself on the bed next to him, you’ll gladly give it to him. 

You’ve done enough psychoanalyzing him, anyway. How about how flushed and needy your cock is after being used so brutally? Why do you crave things like this from men like Sae—men who conflate distance and strength? 

Through wet eyes you look up at Sae from the floor, his stone-carved chest and shoulders rising and falling, his cock slick and twitching, and you understand there are some distances no amount of reaching can close. Distance between two people is survivable, navigable—but the distance between a man and himself is an unscalable mountain. And you, you know, are unequipped to give a man like Sae the tools to begin. 

Besides, you know why you do this, and it’s much simpler than why he does. You like sex. You’re young and hot and live in LA. You’re a huge sadomasochist—yes, that’s it. Maybe, you think innocuously, as if you have never thought this before (you have): you just like seeing something in men like Sae break. And you also like it when broken men break you a little bit. 

And that doesn’t make you better or worse than him. You don’t even need that line of thinking. If anything, all that does is make you hurt more for him. The big difference between you and Sae is you’re into something, and he’s into something he can’t admit. 

It’s really, truly whatever, you think as you push yourself up off the floor. You cough and it aches and you wipe drool and tears from your face with the back of your hand and stand on feet that tingle badly, and he looks bored with a barely-there twinge of dark satisfaction at watching you pull yourself together, and you like it. You bite back a watery grin as you stumble toward him and his open legs; he catches you by the hem of your shirt and slips it up until you raise your arms and let him tear it away. 

Brow still furrowed, bangs sweaty, he suddenly tucks his arms back at his sides—like he’s caught himself doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. 

But he looks at you. Drinks you in, even if he wants to act like he doesn’t, and the rock drops into your stomach so you let your grin break out fully now, growing like a flame before you wrangle it back. 

Still breathless, Sae flicks his sea-colored eyes up to bore into you. “Pants off.” 

You oblige, and he continues to gaze at you as you do. You don’t look away from him either, following his eyes as you step out of your boxers; he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth as your cock bobs, and you stand, bare, waiting for him to move.

But he doesn’t, you do. He doesn’t touch you and you don’t expect him to. You slink to him again, reaching for him somewhere in the space between his throat and his pecs, just to see what he’ll do, and he doesn’t disappoint; before you can sling yourself across his lap, his scowl deepens—he grabs your forearms, swinging you to the side of him onto the bed. You hit it and it feels like a cloud, the crazy threadcount sheets and pillowy mattress; one of his thighs wedges between yours as he wrestles you onto your back. 

“Uh-uh,” he scolds you before you can link your legs around his waist, shoving you off him before he grabs you hard by the middle and, in a moment of feeling weightless, flips you onto your stomach. You splay out like a bug on impact, wriggling to right yourself, but you’re nowhere near quick enough; Sae and his strong grasp push and pull you around once more, taking you by the hips and yanking your ass up into the air. You yelp while he tells you, “Gonna let me do it like this.” 

And you do, folding your arms up by your chest to brace yourself as he arches you down with one forceful hand. Cheek pressed to the bed, you gasp when you feel his cock heavy against your thigh. His other hand palms your ass, spreading you apart for him, and his thumb, coated with what must be his spit, circles your hole. 

You flinch as he presses in. He smacks your ass for this. 

“Sae,” you whimper. 

He drops a glob of spit from above; you flinch at this, too, not because you’re a slow learner but because you know the sting will contrast the chill nicely, and you’re right—he lands another hard smack to your ass, and your breath gets caught between a sigh and a groan and then cut off when he sinks his thumb further into you. 

You push back into him just for him to take his thumb out, smack your ass again, mutter slut underneath his breath. “So fuckin’ desperate for it.” 

“I want it,” you tell him, truthfully—he pulls your ass apart again, with both anxious hands this time, and watches it recoil before he lands a few more smacks to it, and you whine into each one. “P—please, Sae.”

He leaves one palm firmly on your asscheek, fingertips digging indents into the fat of it as he gives you his index finger. You can’t help the moan that falls from your mouth, and you don’t fall back because you want his cock and now would be a moment to display the fact that you are a quick learner, but regardless, you’re confident he won’t tease you all that much more. You both have things you can’t think about too long. You can’t speak for him, but you just want him in you. 

“I can take more,” you tell him, and his middle finger inches into you just like you anticipated because this is surely one of the parts he wouldn’t want to prolong if he wasn’t enjoying it, right? If you weren’t just a hole? You find this undulating obsession with having him admit it troubling. You don’t need that from him like he needs it from himself. It’s certainly not your responsibility to draw it out. Stop thinking like that, you tell yourself. 

But he spends another minute or so stretching you out good, scissoring his fingers a bit in your ass to work you open. “Stay still,” he instructs you when you hump into nothing, and you bite the sheet and dig your nails in while your cock twitches with each upward curl of his fingers. 

And you whine petulantly when he pulls them out. 

“Greedy fuckin’ whore,” he calls you as he aligns his tip with your hole. Another smack, another glob of spit, another smudging of it across you. You have yeses spilling from you as he thrusts himself in in a way that would’ve undoubtedly hurt badly if he didn’t spend that extra bit of time opening you up. 

And a full-bodied moan leaves your chest when he bottoms out. You cut it short so you can hear his before you start babbling things to get him moving—fuck, you’re so big, I’m so full, feels so good—but he smacks your ass again and tells you to shut up. 

So you do. You clamp your mouth shut and hum moans as he works up a steady pace until you can’t keep it closed anymore and your jaw falls slack against the sheet. 

You want to look at him. You have to see him. 

So you twist the best you can, trying to glimpse him over your shoulder. In your peripheral, he looks wrecked—hypnotized as he watches himself disappear into you. His hips clap off yours in an obscene notation of rhythm and you feel his blunt nails in your asscheeks, keeping you open for him to ogle with his tongue pressed to the side of the inside of his mouth and pretty, breathy grunts and hisses leaving his lips. God, the sounds he makes are so hot. His abs flex when he hits deep inside you, his biceps, taut and sculpted, keep you in place, and his hair sways dazzlingly; he’s gorgeous behind you, and your moans get louder at the sight. 

But he catches you watching him and one coveted hand flies down to shove your face into the bed. He props a leg up and in one vicious swoop, thrusts into you hard and stays there, knocking a shriek out of you that gets muffled hotly against your face; after this, not only does he pick up the speed, but the depth at which he pounds your insides. Suddenly every moan is a scream, every thrust is a punishment, and his hand is wound tight in your hair again, pushing you down and away from him this time instead of towards him and you want to just go limp and feel used. He’s using you. And you’re using him, and the word used echoes around your brain, making your cock jump erratically as Sae begins to grunt. It’s such a pretty sound. 

You start to collapse under the force of him until you’re flat against the bed, your sensitive cock jostling against it with each harsh clash of his hips into you. It starts to hurt so good. All the stimulation begins to accumulate in your gut, blanketing that rock from before until it grows so warm and sweet and overwhelming you can’t remember the rock was ever there to begin with. Sae’s fucking your brain out of you, going to leave it leaking out of your spent hole, and you feel the tears again, wet and hot between you and the fabric as he drops to his elbows and cages you in. 

You cum hard and loud, shaking and arching and jolting against him and the mattress and he doesn’t care. He’s relentless, splitting you open as the stickiness of your release soils the sheets. He fucks you at that pace until he can’t contain his voice anymore—tells you to fucking take it through open-mouthed moans until he pulls out fast enough to give you whiplash. You whimper all over again as you feel him cum across your ass in hot spurts. It’s like he cums forever and yet at the same time, it’s over too fast. But either way, as you lay there and wait for him to be done, you clench around nothing and wish, in your cockdrunk daze, that he would’ve cum inside you. 

And he pushes himself off you to stand and disappear from your field of touch. His heat signature, too far from you. Most DL guys don’t cuddle after, and you didn’t expect him to be any different.

He just tosses a towel onto the bed in your line of sight, next to your unfurling fist, putting a fluffy gray splotch over the bit of window you were gazing out of as he used you until he didn’t need you anymore. You hear his footsteps, light and slow, before the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower turns on. 

And you get up quivering all over. After wiping yourself as clean as you can, you retrieve your clothes; you shimmy back into them, feeling uncomfortably damp and dumbly wondering if you can expect to see him before you leave. It’s likely you won’t, you think. Wordless works well for men like Sae, in and out of public life. 

It’s funnily appropriate, you think, the isolation he leaves you in. It’s one he knows well, you assume. Less than twelve hours ago, after all, he was tearing across countless television screens internationally, scoring the only Spanish goal of the tournament so far—the prodigal son of Japanese soccer, dull and burning and stunning like a star beginning to die. A spectacle. You’ve always wondered how athletes, or actors, or people with any sort of celebrity status maintain their humanity among the artificial intimacy that colors their lives. Loved by so many, known by none at all. It’s cruel and sad. 

You like to think, in the quiet of the penthouse, that you do know some things about Sae Itoshi. But it’s no good, really—of no worth, because you can’t tell anybody, and even if you could, you wouldn’t want to because it wouldn’t be their business. Except it’s Sae’s business—but he, too, turns away from it. You know his body, which is a logistic in the eyes of the world, is going back to being just that under a hot stream of shower water as you reluctantly curl yourself up on a corner of the bed. It is with resignation that you understand he sees himself as national property. 

But sadder than that—what makes you shrivel into the corner of the bed you’re going to be expected to abandon very soon—is what he really is, which is, of course, nobody’s at all. Not the public’s, not his country’s or another’s, and most certainly not yours. The loneliness of men like Sae Itoshi doesn’t start or end in stadium tunnels or hotel rooms or on the pitch; it begins somewhere so incredibly private, somewhere he keeps boarded shut with insistence and devotion close to fanatically religious. Sae is the kind of man you could reach for forever and still barely grasp the traces of the self he puts forward as player, competitor, genius, performer. 

And the saddest thing isn’t even that Sae can’t be yours—it’s that he can’t bear to belong even to himself. 

You pat your pockets for your keys, your wallet, your phone. And you remember the minibar. You sit in its call for a moment and listen to the water and look at the mess on the bed and at the tincture bottle and the cologne and the towel and his slippers and you scrunch your nose up a bit before you make your way over to the display of smoked glass bottles and pellucid whiskey cups. One, two, three, four, you count in your brain as you pour out the rest of the Ciroc Ten Year—looks like he does drink, but only the bougie shit. You roll your eyes as you down it, not counting, breath held. It burns and you like it.

Emptily glancing around the room, like something or someone in it is still waiting for you, you leave the glass on the cart before padding over to slip your shoes on and reach for the door handle. Funny, the room is already forgetting you. Another day and housekeeping will strip the bed, bring him fresh towels. In a week or two some other rich man might order a bottle of wine up here, looking out the big window over these same lonely ribbons of freeway and not suspecting Europe’s best midfielder stood there shirtless and silent and trying to look like he wanted nothing at all in this world. It’ll be like you were never even here. That’s the point of all this, anyway.

The next time you will see Sae Itoshi will be on a television screen, versus Austria at SoFi Stadium. And you will not know anything about him, and it will be a gross understatement for the next guy to say it’s a nice hotel room. 

You open the link to the attached video, noting the three year old timestamp and a rather younger looking Oliver Aiku right after he was scouted for the league.

It’s a talkshow format, two interviewers asking the new center-back player about his upbringing and where his passion for football came from, as well as his rather scandalous endeavors with amateur models and socialites yearning for a tabloid spread with the coined “Serie A Serial Playboy.”

All things you’ve heard straight from Oliver’s mouth regarding his early more immature years while exploring your budding relationship. He’s since settled down, but it’s still entertaining seeing him a bit more lean, exuding charisma and much cockier than you know him to be now.

At the end of the segment, the hosts play a rapid fire round of questions with Oliver, intended to be fun and off the cuff. You smile with every answer that’s all too predictable to you, nearly answering in tandem along with him.

His favorite football player?

Virgil van Dijk.

His favorite type of food?

Anything spicy.

The movie he’s seen a hundred times?

Jurassic Park.

What career would he choose if he didn’t play football?

Teaching.

His favorite season?

Summer.

His favorite animal?

…

Wait— You don’t think you’ve ever consciously asked Oliver what his favorite animal is, and you’re surprised that it’s never really come up in conversation before. It’s so basic and yet you can’t really fathom a quick guess as you stare expectantly down at your screen.

Even Oliver seems to hesitate to answer the question himself, but it only takes a beat and that signature grin of his to bring about his final answer.

“Chicks,” he responds. “I like seeing lots of chicks. It’s… healing, ya know?”

Oh, you cheeky bastard, you say to yourself, absolutely no shock or surprise written across your face. Of course he’d say something that would make the show hosts laugh while also reinforcing his unofficial moniker at the time.

But this playful answer of his hatches an idea in your head, one to liven things up around the space you both now share.

You quickly take to the internet to search for what you need, scouring sites and corners of the world wide web you didn’t even know existed until you found the perfect catalyst to a rather genius prank.

-

You do you best to be as nonchalant as possible waiting for your order to arrive, checking the tracking movements and praying the delivery would be inconspicuous and, most importantly, when Oliver wouldn’t be home.

This proved to be quite difficult with a man as observant as Oliver, quirking a brow over you insisting on checking the mail yourself for three consecutive days, but thankfully you were able to slip the package past him without suspicion.

You wait until he’s out at training to execute your plan, conveniently heading out for a girls day right after so you wouldn’t be home when he got back.

Oliver returns that day with a curiosity for the tented piece of paper seemingly waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Upon inspection, there’s a small yellow object that accompanies the handwritten note:

‘I heard you like lots of chicks, playboy. Find all 100 99 of them and you get a prize. Good luck! — ♡’

Oliver sees the first offender next to your note, a tiny yellow chick ornament, what he assumes is used in crafting of some sort. He picks it up and turns it in his hand, scoffing playfully at your little joke.

While you’re out chatting with your friends, you receive a text from Oliver, a photo of him holding the first tiny chick and the note.

Challenge accepted, pretty ;)

-

“Oli, I’m home,” you announce yourself later that evening, a few shopping bags in hand before you notice the small pile of plastic chicks on the counter.

“Forty-two!” You hear Oliver come out of the hallway, towel-drying his hair. “Not including the freebie you gave me.”

“Impressive,” you commend in sing-song, noticing that all the quite obvious ones you placed about the apartment have already been confiscated.

“I thought maybe you’d find them all, but…” You fake a look of disappointment over your shoulder. “Perhaps I overestimated you.”

Oliver playfully scoffs, coming to wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your shoulder. “That’s because I wasn’t really trying at all.”

“Mhm. Of course you weren’t.”

“At this rate you should have thought about better hiding spots.”

“And yet…” You sigh, continuing to tease him for his lack of progress. “You still have less than half.”

“Brat,” he playfully chides, rubbing his stubble on your cheek just to hear you groan in annoyance. You know as well as he does that it’s all in the name of affection, and more importantly…

There’s now a game to be won.

-

Over the next week, more and more chicks are discovered in rather peculiar places: One having been shoved inside one of Oliver’s spare training shoes, another hiding in the house plant near the window, and even one inside the toilet paper tube that Oliver definitely wouldn’t have found if he didn’t ever change the roll himself.

Every time you get a text from him, you immediately light up.

I WILL find them.

In my protein powder? Really???

Imagine my surprise when I notice something inside the pocket of my shorts and pull out one of these CHICKS in front of my coach…

That’s it I’m having Sendou come over to help me tomorrow

(That last one you deny him on grounds for cheating.)

Weeks pass, and by the time he discovers chick number eighty-nine, Oliver starts to reach his wits end. He’s all but flipped the furniture upside down, opened every cabinet and checked every corner. He’s even tickled you breathless to get you to tell him where the rest of the infuriating little birds are, but you never yield.

The frequency of discovery begins to dwindle as time goes on, and sometimes Oliver goes days without finding a single chick. You even start to genuinely forget where the remaining ones are, wondering if the final few will only be discovered once the two of you decide to completely move out of this apartment.

There’s a time where Oliver and his team lose an important match, which understandably rattles him and sours his mood. He returns home late, after you’ve already gone to bed for the night, left to deal with his frustrations on his own.

After showering, he opens the medicine cabinet in search of relief for his pounding headache, and after moving a few things around he sees one of those stupid little plastic chicks staring back at him.

Oliver can’t help but laugh, reminding himself how much he adores you.

He starts to keep one of the chicks in his training locker, like a good luck charm, and Lorenzo eventually calls it their team mascot.

Your little prank has started to leave big impressions in Oliver’s life, and on days when he’s unsure of himself or when you have spats and arguments among yourselves, he thinks about those damn chicks.

How could something so small offer him such clarity in the most unexpected ways?

Maybe it's because they're from you.

-

It’s months later, and Oliver joins you on the couch to catch up on one of your TV shows, resting his head in your lap before presenting you with one of the few remaining chicks.

“Where was this one?” you ask curiously.

“In the bedroom… In one of my high school trophies I have up on the wall.” Oliver mumbles.

You point an unserious finger to his chest, grinning triumphantly. “I told you that you should dust more often.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he responds only half-bitterly, taking you by the wrist and kissing your palm despite his exhaustion.

“That only leaves one more, ya know?” Your eyes wander to the glass jar that’s been living on the kitchen counter, full of those little yellow chicks with a bold sticky note with the number ‘98’ written on it.

“Can we just say I found them all and you give me my prize anyway?”

“Oli, that’s not—”

“I have looked… everywhere.” He groans like a child, clearly winded from playing the longest game of his life. “You drive me crazy, woman.”

“Clearly you haven’t looked everywhere—”

Oliver pounces then, manhandling you until you’re flipped onto your back and giggling so loudly that it makes his heart flutter. He could never be mad at you over something like this, and you both know that.

But Oliver hates losing.

“Is this some sort of trick?” He stares down at you, brow raised in thought. “Some sort of message where I’m supposed to realize that the last one is some sort of metaphor and the final chick is actually you?”

You reach up to brush your fingers over Oliver’s jawline, eyes softening at even the mere suggestion that he came up with all on his own.

“You’re such a romantic, Oliver Aiku.”

He groans again, doing a terrible job at hiding his smile before leaning in to kiss you, something bold and reverent, willing to throw in the towel and concede to victory.

You might very well be the last chick that Oliver has been searching for in life.

-

“Okay, baby, I’m gonna be leaving in a few minutes… I know, I know, but you know how Sendou is. Always acts like he’s gonna be on the cover of Vanity Fair… Yeah, the other guys should be on their way, too… Okay… Love you too, baby.”

Oliver hangs up the phone, grinning like a lovesick fool he never thought he’d be if he asked his younger self about it.

But he’s never felt happier.

It’s a whole year later; You’ve just gotten a promotion at your job, and Oliver’s team has just secured a spot in the UEFA Champions League. The consensus was to have one combined celebratory dinner at the best restaurant in the city proper, inviting your coworkers and friends and Oliver’s entire team to give praise to your recent successes.

Oliver adjusts his tie in the mirror, about to grab his keys to go pick up his best friend and star striker companion when his eyes drift over to his dresser like there’s one last thing to retrieve before he heads out.

He takes a heavy pause before meandering over to it, sliding open the very bottom drawer. It takes a bit of rummaging, but eventually, once he gets to the bottom, he finds what he’s looking for.

In the back corner covered with old t-shirts sits a small velvet box.

Oliver bought you a ring ages ago, the exact moment he knew he had no intention of ever letting you go. But he could never find the right time to present it to you, nervous like a damn boy in middle school asking his crush to go to the dance with him.

It makes him feel utterly silly.

But if there’s going to be any night he pops the question, this night is just too perfect to pass up.

He opens the box to take a glance at the jewelry inside, only for something else to fall out and bounce unceremoniously onto the floor by his feet.

He shifts carefully, eyes roaming the carpet for the unknown whatever-it-was that…

...

And then he locks eyes with it.

A tiny, yellow plastic chick.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughs incredulously to himself.

You’ve known about this ring every since you started this scavenger hunt that seemed to have no end. Oliver was convinced he had it right when he said you were the last chick, thinking he saw right through your cleverness.

How wrong he was.

You never said anything, not even so much as hinted at the fact that you had knowledge of Oliver’s one and only secret he’s ever kept from you.

Suddenly, he feels really stupid for making you wait this long.

Oliver proposes to you that night, not just with a ring, but with that last tiny chick in hand, too.

Because even out of a hundred, you’re the only chick he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

he experiments a little, after that. stretching his fingers, pumping them in and out. your reactions are novel to him and zoro loves learning you. watching you feel good is one of sex's main pleasures, something he can gain mastery at like swordsmanship. a new way to mold his touch to your body excites him more than words. he almost feel transfixed see you bury your face into the pillow.

big gasps and shudders, groaning like the pleasure is too much for you. you get so wet it starts to drip and it makes his cock twitch inside of their confines. makes him ache to watch you like that, your pussy still sorely neglected.

he toys with you for a while. silent, keen, observant like he always is. he's too in awe of you to speak much other than a spare laugh or a soft gasp where he's holding his breath.

you cum so easy with something in your ass, zoro can't stop himself from wondering about when you got such a taste for it. if it always made you so fucking needy.

he fucks three into you, all down to knuckle. the deepest he's gone and the thickest you've taken and you take it all.

zoro feels his breathing shallow watching your ass gape. it feels vulgar, but you're so fucked out in a way he's never seen before in his life. overwhelmed by it so completely. it's all so crazy to him, so fucking obscene. watching you cum in a way that feels improper for someone he otherwise admires—respects, really.

and you're there in front of him with your ass stretched, faceplanted into the sheets while you drool and pushback on him. an animal kind of need possessing you, cumming endlessly. speaking only so much as to beg.

when you cum with your ass, the reaction is so much bigger. the intensity from just his fingers is incredibly, like something so unbelievable he couldn't picture it in his fantasy. your legs shaking, whole body stiff as you drown in it and your pussy clenches visibly.

he can't help it by the time your ready. of course he wants to know what his cock can do for you if it's that easy for his fingers.

you're begging by the time he feels comfortable enough to put it in. just a repeated stream of please, zoro, fuck please, put it in my ass, please. and zoro can't take much more of just watching you either so he does.

and you're still so fucking tight, but it goes it smooth. he has to push but all the prep makes it slide in with relative ease. it feels like you're going to snap it clean off from the way you clench. zoro pushes and pushes, and even when he stops you push back onto him until it's deep.

all the way in your fucking stomach. one push is all it takes and your cumming so hard you go limp. it feels like having someone crushing your gspot from the outside, the indirect sensation making you cum endlessly. your ass clamps down on zoro, pussy twitching. he feels something wet spray onto him and his eyes go wide from seeing you squirt so immediately.

Sometimes you do wish that Oliver would be a little less skittish about his feelings or show more interest in things a little deeper than the surface when it comes to you…

He’s a good lay, that fact is certain, but he’s been relatively noncommittal. And you just had to reason with that on your own if this was going to continue.

But after a miserable night of trying to break that cycle of sleeping with a guy who won’t take it to the next level and going on an actual date with someone with the right intentions, only to find out they hardly had the decency to make an appearance at the restaurant after an hour of waiting, there’s only one person your mind thinks to call upon.

To feel better. To forget.

Oliver is good for that.

Bzz!

Sure. Give me 15 mins 10:55pm

You sniffle and blot away your streaky tears with a rough paper napkin from your center console to do your best to save your makeup and head over to Oliver’s apartment.

Within minutes of crossing the threshold of his front door, still in the dress and heels you wore to the date you never got to enjoy, you’re crashing your lips against Oliver’s and quickly straddling his lap on the couch. You paw at his bare chest, fingers roughly tangling in his hair to lick into his mouth and promptly grind down on his crotch.

Any other time, your eagerness would only get Oliver going that much faster, but his keen perception has seemingly decided to speak before his dick this time.

“Baby— Baby, slow down a sec,” he urges between every hurried kiss.

Weird. He’s usually the first one to get straight to the point.

You try to ignore him, overpower him with physical desires, but when his hands take hold of your waist and push instead of pull, you flare with annoyance.

You reluctantly stop attacking him and sigh sharply. “What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…” You realize that have to test out your bluffing skills in real time because you hadn’t anticipated this reaction from him. “I’m really horny.”

Oliver chuffs a laugh, untangling your arms from around his neck and forcing you to look at him. “You’re a bad liar, ya know that?”

You make a face then, and something about him… softens.

“C’mon, you come over here unexpectedly in this pretty dress and expect me to not notice that your mascara is all clumpy? And your eyes are all red and puffy. What—”

“Oliver…” You sigh again, this time long and hard, hanging your head between the two of you. “Please don’t.”

You don’t see it, but his eyes narrow, tightening his brow. “Don’t what?”

“Act like you care.”

You can feel his muscles tense underneath you, a twitch of his fingers that still rest on your waist. He’s quiet for a second.

“I can tell something is up.” He soothes his thumbs over your dress, a pacifying thing to get you to calm down. “Just thought you might wanna talk about it.”

And maybe talking about your shitty and embarrassing night of being stood up would be the better option, but you never imagined Oliver Aiku of all people would offer such an intimate kindness, especially not when your dress is already riding up to your hips and you’re practically begging him to fuck you right here on his couch. He should be drooling like a dog with a treat in its mouth.

Oliver is just better suited for things of physical nature, not the emotional kind.

“No,” you finally say.

“I don’t want to talk. I just want to forget.”

“Forget about what?” he pushes again. “What happened?”

“Oli, please. Please…” Your plea dies in your throat that’s fighting to not choke up again. Oliver couldn’t possibly understand. Because he’s happy with being alone, in that way. He’s made that pretty apparent for months now.

He hasn’t wanted more.

“Can you just… be normal Oliver tonight and pretend that I wore this dress to, like, spice things up or whatever and that nothing is wrong?” Your fingers press into his shoulders, voice wobbling despite your efforts to keep it together because whatever he’s doing is melting that wall you tried to put up.

Your eyes start to sting once again. “I just need—”

The touch of his forehead against yours stops your tirade. You feel the way his arms hold you a little tighter now, big palms pressing into your lower back, if only for the comfort.

“Shh,” he finally cuts in. “Okay, alright. No more questions then.”

He holds you close against him and rises to his feet, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for support. You hardly need it, though.

“I gotcha, sweetheart.” Oliver’s voice takes on a gentler tone, a whisper against your skin. You feel goosebumps starting to rise, clutching your arms around his neck as he effortlessly carries you.

It’s a short stride from the living area to his bedroom, cast in nighttime hues and warmth from the street lights below, the soft glow that highlights the differing tones of his eyes that stay trained on you as he lowers you to the edge of his bed.

“So is this a new dress?” he asks, hooking a finger under the shoulder strap.

You nod silently before Oliver is craning down to press a trail of kisses to the curve of your shoulder, pulling the strap of your dress out of the way as he works his way down.

He hums, and you promptly shiver.

“Pretty as a flower.”

You swallow hard, taken aback by his shift in demeanor. His mouth is hot against your skin, a chill rolling down your spine as his tongue flicks over your neck before sucking on it softly.

When you whimper and reach out to tug on the waistband of his sweats, Oliver shushes you again and grabs your wrists with gentle strength.

“Relax, baby. Let me help, yeah?”

He leans into you, his lips finding yours in the darkness as his hand reaches for the zipper at your back. His fingertips run over the length of your back as he brings the zipper down and peels your dress away from you, painstakingly slow and a little too thoughtfully.

It leaves you stunned silent.

Oliver positions you on the bed, your head laid perfectly against his pillow that smells comfortingly like his shampoo, nervous at the way he takes his time admiring your silhouette, nearly bare in the bra and panties that don’t match at all because you weren’t actually expecting to have sex tonight.

And you think that maybe Oliver has put the pieces together by now, why you came over here in a rush in this outfit with smudgy makeup and refusing explanation, but he’s forgone his previous attempts to get it out of you.

The look in his eyes now says he understands what you want.

His large hands cup your tits, kneading them over the thin material that still covers them, listening to the way you breathe deeply against his palms. When you automatically arch into the touch, he smoothly guides one hand behind you to unclasp the hooks of your bra and slip it off of you.

You hear Oliver hum with appreciation, and it makes you shudder once again. You can see that lopsided smirk of his through the shadows, usually smug but now something else entirely different.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day, baby.” His tone is warm, hushed and husky as he brings himself lower to kiss across your collarbones. His indigo mess of hair tickles against your cheek and all you can do is whine with need.

He slow to work his way down until his tongue circles around one of your stiff nipples, immediately blowing on it until you’re keening at the sensation.

“Oli…” you whine again.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Oliver smiles. “You just look so damn cute in my bed like this.”

Usually, Oliver says something really brazen to get you to blush, but even just that comment has your cheeks feeling hot already.

He takes his time giving each of your tits the proper attention, keeping a hand on whichever one isn’t occupied by his mouth, all the while you moan and squirm beneath him.

His lack of haste has your head spinning.

Eventually, he moves further down, kissing gingerly around your navel and your hips while his fingers curl under the waistband of your panties.

But he doesn’t yank them off in his typical fashion, only pulls them down one inch, then another, until his stubbly lips are kissing directly over your mound.

His teasing is starting to make you feel like you might explode. The slick ache between your thighs has you pushing your hips off the bed which only makes Oliver coo at your impatience.

You’d smack him if you didn’t catch the gleam in his eyes that makes your mouth go dry, a look that carries a patience to attend to you just the way you need, not the way you want.

“Shit,” he marvels as he slips the lace over the length of your legs, parting your thighs with a gentle firmness. “Already so wet. Must’ve really needed me, huh?”

“Y-Yeah, I did,” you weakly admit. “I do.”

“’Course ya do, baby.” Oliver lets some of that smug confidence that you’re well acquainted with slip out as he settles between your thighs, leaving hot open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive inner areas leading to your now exposed core.

Oliver lets his tongue drag over the length of your cunt, entrance to clit, before kissing your center so heavily it has you gasping for air. You thighs twitch under his grip, framing his handsome face as he dives right in.

“Fuck,” he groans against your folds, kissing from left to right, up and down. “You taste so damn good.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scratching his scalp and tugging at the root as he eats your pussy like it’s his favorite meal. He sucks your clit just how he knows you like it, over and over until you’re coming undone with a wobbly cry of his name.

But Oliver doesn’t stop there.

He spends so much time with his face in your cunt that your entire lower half is left trembling from the orgasms he delivers. His tongue eagerly accepts your release, arms pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth like he can’t get enough.

You’re left dizzy and breathless by the time Oliver pulls away, the scruff of his jawline glistening with slick and spit, licking his lips as he finally rids himself of his sweats that have grown uncomfortably tight.

“You alright, sweetheart?” You feel his stubble against your cheek, the warmth of him hovering over your pliant body as you search for his gaze and give him a nod.

Oliver grins proudly. “Good girl. Eyes on me, then, ‘kay?”

You blink through the haze of euphoria he’s plunged you into, looking at violet and green hues as he guides the head of his cock to your entrance, thrusting his hips enough to slide himself almost halfway in on the first stroke.

You both moan in tandem, simultaneous sounds of pleasure racking through you as his cock stretches you open, a welcome feeling of fullness hitting the very heart of your core.

“So fuckin’ tight, baby. Takin’ me so well, hm? That’s it.”

Oliver’s filthy mouth lights a fire under your skin, his pace slow and deliberate and downright mind-numbing. He’s not rough or demanding, no harsh slapping of skin echoing off the walls as his neighbors are used to, but a meaningful rhythm that has tears wetting your lash line once again.

But it’s a different flood of emotion about to hit you this time.

“O-Oli—”

As if he can sense that you’re about to break, Oliver brushes his nose with yours, voice low and reassuring.

“S’okay, baby. I’m here.”

He entwines his fingers with your smaller ones, holding your hands above your head as he kisses you so deeply it squeezes your heart with a frightening intensity.

You’re almost not sure that it’s him.

Oliver fucks you just like that, uncharacteristically close and intimate, letting you thoroughly taste yourself on his tongue and pressing you softly against the mattress. You moan together as his cock strokes your walls in all the right ways, building up that delicious pressure every time he sinks himself deep.

Your sounds of pleasure begin to heighten, pitchy breaths still muffled against Oliver’s mouth, a desperate rock of your hips to increase the friction you need.

Oliver responds in kind, releasing one of your hands to slip between the heat of your bodies. He presses his thumb to your sensitive clit, moving in firm gentle circles until you’re chest heaves against his own.

“One more, yeah?” His voice effortlessly coaxes you closer to the edge. “C’mon, cum for me, baby.”

The precise stimulation makes you shake, the corners of your vision going white as you shatter beneath him, tears trailing down the sides of your face and you sob and stutter out his name in desperation.

Your mind completely melts, every nerve in your body surging with the shock of pleasure.

Oliver drinks you in, groaning unabashedly as your cunt squeezes him so tight that it kickstarts his own release. He draws out a curse, almost panicked as his cock twitches with every thrust that paints your walls white with his cum.

There’s a liminal moment, maybe seconds or even minutes, caught in the comedown that’s left you boneless, mind completely devoid of everything that happened before you got here.

Oliver lets you catch your breath, hands smoothing over your tired body and kissing the tears that streak your temples.

It could be your imagination, but it feels like the two of you eventually start breathing in sync.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” He eventually says. “I’m gonna go get some water.”

He peels himself away from you with a satisfied groan, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging his sweats back on to go out to the kitchen.

You wish your voice would have asked him what the hell is up with him tonight, but nothing comes out.

When he returns, you sip on a chilled glass of water while Oliver dabs a cool towel over your face, taking care to be gentle when he places it between your thighs. You almost watch in awe, thankful that he’s being so attentive by also downright confused about his behavior.

“Feeling okay now?” He asks before placing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You want anything? Hungry?”

That’s when you deflate, embarrassed by the light churn in your stomach. “A little. I didn’t really get to eat dinner...”

Oliver doesn’t follow up with a prying question this time. He retrieves one of his shirts and a pair of shorts from his dresser instead, placing them in your lap.

“Then how about you get comfy and I’ll order us something? There’s makeup wipes in the bathroom.”

You look at him with playful incredulity. “Since when do you have makeup wipes in your bathroom?”

“In case you ever came over and wanted to take your makeup off.”

He answers so matter-of-factly that you lose any rebuttal you might have had, watching as he kisses your cheek one last time before exiting his bedroom again.

Maybe there was never any pretending when it came to caring.

And what you don’t know as the two of you lounge on the couch well past midnight, you draped in his too-large tshirt and baggy shorts, fresh faced and legs draped over his lap, eating takeaway and watching bad late night TV…

Oliver has decided that he’s never going to let you go on another shitty date again.

a/n: Nepenthe (nuh-PEN-thee) is a mythological potion that relieves emotional pain by inducing forgetfulness. The word is used to describe anything that soothes grief, provides comfort, or offers an escape from mental suffering.