a little as a joke, a little as a test to see if he will actually do it. he’s been asking to eat you out but in his usual way of staring you down and then demanding you to get on the bed. when you don’t move he nudges closer to you, kisses your neck, whines about that he wants to eat you now. it’s then you decide to test him. in your living room, a random show playing on the screen. you can see the lump in his shorts and you feel the same.
“get on your knees and beg for it.”
that has him pulling off you, a quirk of his brow to test if you’re playing or not. quickly, once you cross your arms across your chest, he realises you’re not.
“hah?” but it comes out like the last breeze on a windy day. breathless yet weighty.
“you heard me.” you reply, flicking your eyes up and down your pro hero boyfriend.
you’re aware he’d do anything for you. you’re wondering if anything stretches to this.
“you’re a fuckin… you want me to…,” he trails off, sitting up off you. his lower stomach heats. his cock twitches. he’s into this unsurprisingly. “fuck, baby.”
you don’t move but you look at him expectantly. like you know he will. you confidence makes his blood heat under his skin, his heart race with speed. you jut your chin to the floor.
always a stubborn man, he has to roll his eyes before he moves. even pushes out a huffy sigh and mumbles under his breath. “this shit you have me doin’.”
then he does it. manoeuvres his muscled, wide shouldered body onto the floor. onto his knees in front of your legs. your bare thighs spread on the sofa in your shorts… your pussy is right there. he can see your folds through the fabric since they’re so tight.
he’s got a muscle tank on and you see his biceps flex when he clasps his hands together. your favourite is how all his stubbornness dissipates away and he becomes completely and utterly yours.
when he opens his mouth, the corners of your lips spread to under your eyes in a smile.
“lemme eat it, baby. please. please let me. i’ll do it so good, get you comin’ on my face, screamin’ for me. baby.” it’s all a syrupy drawl, his gold tooth catching the lamp light with every word. he even leans forward to press a kiss to the flesh of your thigh.
katsuki on your knees for you. this is what dreams are made of.
he goes in for another kiss on your thigh, closer to between your legs. you place your palm on his forehead, pushing him off.
“you’re too needy. i didn’t even answer you,” you frown, lip curled.
bakugou doesn’t know where this version of you has come from but he thinks he loves it.
“my bad, baby. you’re just so gorgeous.” he grins with half lidded eyes. he wants to touch your calves, massage them, nibble hickies into your thighs and have your touch his cock.
but most of all he wants, “can i eat you? promise i’ll lick you clean. any position you want. miss your taste, baby. please.”
you tilt your head at him.
“please, princess. my beautiful girl. the love of my fuckin’ existence.” he’s too fucking jolly. smiling away with these sleepy yet needy ruby eyes.
you stand up. he looks better at this angle on his knees. head up to look at you. he’s like a dog ready to scent you, by stuffing his head between your legs.
“fine. i want you to undress me then i’m sitting on your face.”
cw: omegaverse, alpha mpreg, mating/rut sex (in a way…) m!reader, gay sex, selfship coded but written in reader pov… a/n: my brain and beloved @forest-hashira have haunted me with enigma kail [and getting karasu pregnant] thoughts, so here they are
while it is truly so comical and so fun to imagine the drama of alpha!karasu collapsing in the middle of a match and getting whisked away to the ER to discover he is with child, the surprise wouldn’t actually go down like that. we’re not entirely caught unaware.
it would start as a silent conversation. a look, of sorts. one that confirms the notion that eyes are the doorway to the soul, with all the wants and desires you find waiting there in that sea of blue. for someone known in his profession to be so calculating, so cunning with strategy clouded in mystery, karasu is an open book for his mate.
being mated for two years now gives you the confidence and credibility to know a thing or two about your alpha, what he wants vs what he needs from you. how he loves to protect and provide comfort when you seek it, but also how he needs you. karasu needs to feel like he is yours. and he is. he has only ever been claimed by you in all the ways that matter. and you cannot imagine yourself submitting to anyone that isn’t him.
there is a sense of trust so deep within the bond that the two of you have formed, it is a whisper away from being called faith. your faith in him, his love, his assurance to fill your days with happiness & safety in the feeling of being cared for & desired. karasu’s faith in you, in your love, your support, your light to keep him grounded and secure.
you have known this man for half of your life, and been bonded with him for multiple years now. in what world would you not know that something about this rut was different??
that the cedar wood notes in his scent stand out more than they should, smelling…burnt.
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.
there is a brief silence at the news, some rapid blinking from you, and the quiet is broken by a snickering from karasu that devolves into a full bodied laugh. that anxious wave of guilt at the idea of you potentially ruining your mate’s career early evaporates at the way your beloved chuckles and looks at you with that signature smirk before saying, “guess we’re canceling that fertility appointment for next week, yeah?”
Summary: The media was ruthless, but Ferran only cared about you. When he scores the dramatic World Cup-winning goal, the critics are silenced forever—but it’s the sight of you sobbing on the stadium screen that completely breaks him down on the pitch.
Warnings: angst, sports drama, media criticism, public breakdowns, crying, PDA, supportive teammates, pure victory and fluff.
Word count: 1.2k
The roar of the MetLife Stadium was a physical weight, vibrating straight through the concrete and deep into the soles of your shoes.
Everyone knew the narrative. The Spanish media had been brutal all summer. Every missed chance, every heavy touch in the group stage had been microscopic headlines. The pundits called him inconsistent; the internet commentators were louder. But inside the tight circle of the squad, the energy was entirely different.
Before the second half even started, while the team was warming up, the stadium's massive stadium screens had panned over to the VIP box, catching a clear shot of you. You were sitting with Ines, wearing a loose oversized Spain jersey with his name and number across your back, your braids pinned up. The second the camera flashed your face on the big screen, the bench instantly erupted.
Then came the 64th minute. The board went up. De la Fuente called his number.
Olmo immediately started shoving Ferran’s shoulders, whistling and pointing up at the screen. Ferran, who had been tying his boots with a tense, hyper-focused jaw, looked up. Seeing your face on the screen completely broke his stoic mask. A helpless, beautiful smile split across his face, his cheeks turning a faint pink as he shook his head, biting his lip to keep from grinning too wide while his teammates ruthlessly teased him.
The match was an absolute war against Argentina, a suffocating 0 – 0 that felt like it was breaking everyone’s nerves. But the moment Ferran stepped onto that pitch, everything was about to change.
It happened in the 88th minute. A rapid counter-attack, a brilliant, slicing ball from Lamine Yamal that tore right through the Argentine defensive line. Ferran timed the run perfectly. The stadium seemed to go completely silent for a microsecond as he brought the ball down. One touch to set himself. The keeper rushed out. With absolute, ice-cold precision, Ferran slotted the ball right into the bottom corner of the net.
1 – 0. For Spain.
The stadium absolutely exploded. The sound was deafening, a volcanic eruption of red and gold. Ferran sprinted straight toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, his face twisted in a raw, emotional scream of pure release. He was instantly buried under a mountain of red shirts as the entire team crashed into him, suffocating him in the celebration. He was completely submerged in the adrenaline, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs, fingers pointing at his jersey's badge.
While the boys were finally untangling themselves, Lamine aggressively grabbed the back of Ferran’s jersey, pulling him back and violently pointing up at the jumbotron.
“Look!” Lamine yelled over the noise, his eyes wide. “Look at your girl, hermano!”
Ferran wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked up at the massive screen.
The camera had found you again. But you weren’t cheering. You were standing at the very edge of the glass barrier, completely overwhelmed. Your hands were pressed tightly over your mouth, your hands shaking violently as tears streamed down your face. You were sobbing so hard your chest was heaving, ines was side hugging you but the sheer relief and emotional exhaustion of the past month completely made you break down in front of 80,000 people.
Seeing you like that completely broke him. Ferran’s jaw dropped, his eyes welling up with sudden, thick tears as he stared at the screen. Right there on the pitch, with the cameras glued to his face, he broke down. He pressed his trembling hand to his lips, blowing you a kiss up toward the screen, his chest tight. He wanted nothing more than to run straight to you, but the referee was already blowing the whistle, urging them back to the center circle. The match wasn’t over. Ferran fiercely wiped his face with the collar of his shirt, taking a deep, ragged breath to force the emotion down, desperately trying to gather himself as he jogged back into position, his eyes lingering on your section until the ball was kicked off again.
When the final whistle blew, the world went completely mad. Spain had won the World Cup.
The ceremony was a blur of gold medals, individual awards, and the golden trophy being hoisted high into the New York sky under a storm of red confetti. But the second the official protocols ended and the families were cleared to enter the pitch, the entire stadium faded into background noise.
You hurried down the steps, your heart in your throat, stepping onto the grass just as Ferran turned away from a television crew.
The moment your eyes locked onto each other across the crowded, chaotic pitch, everything else stopped. Neither of you walked. You both started sprinting.
You crashed into each other with a force that nearly took you both down. Ferran’s massive, damp arms wrapped fiercely around you, lifting your feet completely off the grass, pulling your body so tight against his chest it felt like he was trying to meld you into his skin. You locked your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder, sobbing all over again.
“You did it,” you wept into his skin, your voice trembling violently. “You did it, Ferri. They can’t say anything anymore. You did it.”
Ferran didn't care about the cameras surrounding you, or the fact that his face was streaked with sweat and tears. He held your face in his large, shaking hands, tilting your head up. “We did it, mi amor,” he choked out, his voice thick with raw emotion, his eyes looking into yours with so much love and appreciation. “We did it. I heard you. I swear I heard you.”
Then, he kissed you. It wasn't a polished, post-match photo-op kiss; it was deep, desperate, and fiercely passionate. It was a kiss born from months of quiet nights back at your place, where he sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, staring at the floor while the media tore him apart. It was the kiss of the only two people in the world who knew the agonizing weight of the pressure he had been carrying. He kissed you until you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours as he let out a long, ragged sob of pure victory.
To say the crowd was cheering for you would be an understatement. The massive jumbotron showed the entire embrace live, and the stadium erupted into a completely different kind of roar—one full of pure emotion. Fans in the stands were openly crying, rooting for the two of you as the players and coaches watched with soft, proud smiles.
Out in the digital world, social media was already going absolutely haywire. Clips of your shaking breakdown and Ferran’s emotional response were going viral by the second, breaking TikTok and X. The internet went from criticizing him to completely crowning the two of you as football royalty.
But down on the pitch, wrapped tightly in his arms with his gold medal hanging between your chests, the world was completely quiet. The striker had delivered, his girl was in his arms, and the gold belonged to you both.
♡ TW: dystopia, sex-trafficking, sexual slavery, vore-ish, forbidden love kinda, angst, size difference, predator x prey, subjugation, sexism allegory, master/slave dynamics
♡ FEM reader
Rabbits are born sluts.
That much has always been clear. Damn useless creatures except for one thing—being used. They’re everywhere, in the several hundreds, easily hunted, easily trained by carrot and stick, and easily broken when put under it.
And you, you’re the same, a dime a dozen among the other dumb bunnies in the burrow. You’re not any different.
And yet, from where he stands atop the mezzanine, lording over the pleasure den down below, his own empire, time and time again his eyes stray from admiring his rich guests and the cold cash they spend on his fluffle only to land on you.
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.
warnings. scientist!reader, school friends-to-lovers, mutual obliviousness, eccentric partners in crime, controlled laboratory chaos, swearing, very affectionate shidou, public declarations, pure fluff ♡
word count. ~4.6k
ryusei follows the sound of an explosion into your laboratory and discovers a girl just as thrilled by dangerous possibilities as he is. somewhere between volatile experiments, impossible goals, and months spent encouraging each other’s worst ideas, neither of you notices that the greatest chain reaction has been building between you two all along.
── .✦
The first time Shidou Ryusei enters your laboratory, he follows the sound of something exploding.
Technically, it is not an explosion. You will spend a considerable portion of your friendship correcting him on that point, although the distinction becomes difficult to defend when a sharp crack rings through the science building and sends a flock of birds scattering from the roof.
Most students would hear the noise and hurry in the opposite direction.
Ryusei appears in the doorway less than ten seconds later, one hand braced against the frame and a look of delighted curiosity spreading across his face.
You stand safely behind a clear protective screen with your goggles secured over your eyes, watching vivid violet foam climb from a glass container and spill into the broad tray beneath it. Mist curls toward the ventilation hood, the whiteboard behind you is crowded with hurried calculations, and a triumphant laugh escapes you as the reaction swells far beyond the line you marked earlier.
Ryusei’s gaze moves from the overflowing container to your face.
His grin slowly stretches wider.
“That was fucking beautiful.”
You push your goggles onto your head and turn toward him, still clutching your clipboard against your chest. His football uniform is streaked with grass, sweat darkens the roots of his blond-and-pink hair, and his pale eyes shine with the unmistakable excitement of someone who has just discovered a new form of entertainment.
“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”
“Do it again.”
“That isn’t how experiments work.”
“Then make the next one bigger.”
The suggestion should irritate you. You have spent weeks planning the reaction, and this strange boy has reduced all your work to make it bigger without even asking what you were trying to prove.
Instead, the corner of your mouth begins to rise.
Ryusei notices immediately.
He crosses the threshold without waiting for permission, weaving between the laboratory tables as though he has never encountered a room he could not make himself comfortable inside. His attention jumps from the bubbling foam to the rows of glass containers until he stops beside the enclosed chamber prepared for your next trial.
“What does this do?” You follow his gaze toward the switch beneath his hovering fingers.
“It changes what happens inside the chamber.”
“What happens if I press it?”
“At the setting I was considering?” You glance at the equipment, already imagining the result. “Something our instructor specifically told me not to attempt without supervision.”
His fingers remain poised above the switch.
“You saying I shouldn’t?”
You study him for a moment.
Anyone else might have looked nervous or suspicious. Ryusei looks almost painfully hopeful, as though you have placed the most interesting choice in the world directly in front of him.
Slowly, you set your clipboard aside.
You check that the chamber is sealed, pull the protective screen into place, and lower your goggles again. When you look at him through the clear barrier, your grin matches his completely.
“Do you want to find out?”
Ryusei becomes perfectly still.
It lasts less than a second before laughter bursts out of him, bright and delighted enough to fill the laboratory more completely than the earlier crack.
“Who the hell are you?”
You retrieve a spare pair of goggles and hold them toward him.
“Your new favorite person.”
He takes them without hesitation.
You are correct.
Ryusei becomes your unofficial laboratory assistant over the following weeks, despite possessing no qualifications beyond excellent reflexes, unreasonable enthusiasm, and a deeply concerning willingness to touch anything labelled experimental.
He begins appearing after football practice so frequently that you stop looking up when the door swings open. His arrival is usually announced by the sound of his bag hitting the floor, followed by an enthusiastic demand to know whether you have prepared anything catastrophic for him.
Your teachers object to his presence at first. Ryusei responds by memorizing the laboratory rules, passing every safety quiz placed in front of him, and becoming surprisingly competent with the equipment.
He never develops caution in the traditional sense.
He simply learns that ruining one of your experiments is far more dangerous than anything stored inside the laboratory.
“Hold this.”
You toss a clamp in his direction without looking away from the notes in front of you. Ryusei catches it one-handed and positions himself beside the table.
“What happens if I drop it?”
“You destroy three weeks of work.”
“What happens if I hold it higher?”
“The result changes.”
“And if I turn it sideways?”
You slowly lift your head. “Would you like to discover how quickly I can throw you through that window?”
His grin sharpens. “Is that part of the experiment?”
“It can be.”
“Hot.” You roll your eyes and return to your notes, although not before he catches the smile threatening the corner of your mouth. A moment later, his face appears beside yours, close enough that a loose strand of his hair brushes your temple. “You like me.”
“I like having someone expendable nearby.”
“Your favorite lab rat.”
“My only lab rat.”
“Even better.”
He presses a quick kiss to your temple before returning to his position, apparently unaware—or entirely unconcerned—with the way your pen pauses against the paper.
Ryusei touches you as naturally as he reaches for a football. He throws an arm across your shoulders whenever you explain something that interests him, rests his chin on your head while pretending to read your observations, and wraps himself around your waist from behind whenever you spend too long focused on your work instead of him.
When an experiment succeeds, he kisses your cheek and loudly announces that you are a genius. When one fails, he does exactly the same thing, insisting that scientific disappointment requires “emergency morale procedures.”
You return his affection with equal force.
Whenever he arrives boasting about a goal, you drag stools across the laboratory and demand a complete reenactment. He uses discarded boxes to represent defenders while you draw the path of the ball across the whiteboard, and when your diagram fails to account for what he calls his “explosive genius,” he climbs onto the nearest table to argue his case.
“You turned too late,” you tell him, circling the point where his imaginary run should have failed.
“I still scored.”
“Because the goalkeeper made a terrible decision.”
“Because I’m incredible.”
“Those possibilities can coexist.”
Ryusei places a hand over his heart. “You think I’m incredible?”
“I think the goalkeeper was terrible.”
“Still heard incredible.”
You throw the marker at him.
He catches it between both hands, laughing so loudly that it echoes through the empty room.
Your own victories are never celebrated quietly either. Whenever an experiment produces something brighter or stranger than expected, you forget every expectation that a promising young scientist should behave with dignity. More than once, you have launched yourself into Ryusei’s arms while shouting about the result.
He catches you every time.
Sometimes he spins you between the tables while you laugh against his shoulder. Other times, he lifts you onto the nearest clear surface and stands between your knees while you explain everything at twice your usual speed, his hands settled around your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you.
He does not always understand the details.
He understands the look on your face.
That is enough.
The first time an instructor discovers the two of you celebrating beside a tray overflowing with bright blue foam, she stops in the doorway and closes her eyes.
“What happened?”
You immediately point at Ryusei. “His fault.”
He points at you with equal confidence. “Her idea.”
“You encouraged me.”
“You asked if I wanted to make it bigger.”
“And you said yes.”
“Obviously.”
Your instructor opens her eyes and looks between the two of you—both wearing protective goggles, both splattered with harmless blue residue, and both far too pleased with yourselves.
“I regret allowing this partnership.”
Ryusei’s arm tightens around your waist. “Hear that, scientist? We’re official.”
“Scientifically.”
“Spiritually.”
“Academically.”
“Criminally.”
You raise your hand.
He slaps his palm against yours hard enough to sting.
“Definitely criminally.”
By the time you notice that your instructor has left, the two of you are already arguing over who deserves credit for the mess.
Other people find you exhausting.
You consider this evidence that they lack imagination.
For years, teachers and classmates have insisted that someone as intelligent as you should behave with greater restraint. They expect a talented scientist to be quiet, detached, and permanently serious, as though enthusiasm might somehow diminish your competence.
Your habit of giving experiments dramatic names, narrating countdowns like rocket launches, and laughing whenever an idea becomes real in front of you is treated as something you will eventually outgrow.
Ryusei never asks you to lower your voice.
The first time you describe an ambitious project everyone else dismissed as impractical, he does not suggest choosing something simpler. He listens with his chin balanced against your shoulder and asks what you need to make it bigger.
In return, when he tells you about an impossible goal he wants to score—the angle too narrow, the movement too strange, his body twisting in a way that would make any sensible player hesitate—you never tell him to become realistic.
You ask when he plans to try it.
Some people are supposed to balance each other.
You and Ryusei prefer amplification.
“You’re completely insane,” he tells you affectionately one afternoon.
You are crouched beneath a worktable, searching for a cable, while he lies on the floor beside you for no practical reason. His goggles sit crookedly over his forehead, and his long legs block the aisle behind him.
“You followed an unidentified noise into a laboratory and trusted a stranger who handed you protective eyewear,” you reply. “I don’t think you’re qualified to diagnose anyone.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
“You also tried to taste the indicator solution.”
“It looked delicious.”
“It was hot pink.”
“Exactly.”
You slide out from beneath the table and discover his face hovering directly over yours.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
His eyebrows lift. “Pretty?”
“Would you prefer handsome?”
“No. Say pretty again.”
You place your palm against his face and shove him aside. Ryusei catches your wrist before you can retreat, pressing a kiss into the center of your hand with an enormous grin.
“Love you too, scientist.”
“You say that whenever I insult you.”
“You make insults sound romantic.”
“You once told an open flame you loved it.”
“It was gorgeous.”
“You proposed to the centrifuge.”
“It knows how to move.”
You pull your hand away, although not before he threads his fingers through yours and gives them an affectionate squeeze.
Ryusei says he loves you constantly.
He says it whenever you allow him to start the final stage of an experiment, when you bring an extra drink because you knew he would appear after training, and when you threaten him for stealing your goggles. He writes it between the calculations in your notebook and shouts it from the far end of the hallway whenever he sees you leaving class.
Once, after you corrected one of his teachers so thoroughly that the man abandoned the argument, Ryusei announced in front of everyone that he intended to marry you.
Because he throws every emotion into the world at full volume, you can never tell where the performance ends.
You convince yourself that affection is merely another outlet for his endless excitement.
It is easier than admitting how desperately you want him to mean every word.
The phrase chain reaction becomes yours halfway through the school year.
You are preparing a demonstration for an upcoming science competition when Ryusei arrives with a split lip, grass stains across one knee, and the triumphant expression of someone who has just made several opponents regret challenging him.
He sits on the edge of your worktable while you arrange the materials, swinging one leg and stealing sweets from the bag beside him.
“What’s this one do?”
“One reaction starts another,” you explain. “Then that one sets off the next, and it keeps going until something finally stops it.”
He chews thoughtfully. “So one thing explodes—”
“Reacts.”
“—and makes everything else explode too.”
“That is a terrible explanation.”
“Still right.”
You glance at him. Ryusei reaches forward, catching you by the loops of your lab coat and drawing you between his knees. His hands settle comfortably around your waist while he looks up at you, pale eyes shining with the certainty of someone who has just reached a magnificent conclusion.
“That’s us.”
You stare at him. “We are not a chemical reaction.”
“You get excited, then I get excited because you’re excited, and then you get even crazier because I’m encouraging you.”
“You say that as though you aren’t the one climbing onto tables.”
“You like me on tables.”
“That is unrelated.”
His grin stretches wider. “Is my explanation wrong?”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
“Thought so.”
“You skipped almost everything important.”
“Still us.”
“An increasingly unstable situation that becomes impossible to control?”
“Exactly.” His thumbs sweep slowly over your sides. “Romantic, right?”
“Deeply concerning.”
“Same thing.”
He laughs and draws you closer until your knees bump the edge of the table.
“Chain reaction.”
You should correct him again.
Instead, your hands settle over his shoulders while warmth gathers beneath your ribs.
“An extremely volatile one.”
“The best kind.”
After that, the words become a challenge passed between you.
Before an experiment, Ryusei looks at you over the top of his goggles.
“Bad idea?”
“Catastrophic.”
“Partners?”
“In crime.”
His smile turns wild.
“Let’s explode.”
Before an important match, you ask him the same questions.
He always gives you the answer you want.
── .✦
When Blue Lock takes him away, the laboratory becomes unbearably quiet.
There are no arms suddenly appearing around your waist while you work, no demands to see the day’s most dramatic experiment, and no tall striker stretched across the floor where you are trying to walk. Your instructors seem relieved by the peace.
You hate every minute of it.
Before leaving, Ryusei comes to the laboratory in his street clothes and finds you pretending to reorganize equipment that had already been perfectly arranged for over an hour.
His invitation is folded inside his jacket.
“You’re going,” you say.
“Damn right.”
His grin is familiar, but the excitement beneath it feels sharper than usual, edged with something restless. Blue Lock promises a sealed building full of strikers willing to tear each other apart for the chance to become extraordinary.
It is exactly the kind of experiment Ryusei would willingly enter.
You would never ask him to remain contained.
Instead, you retrieve a roll of athletic tape from the table.
“Give me your wrist.”
He offers it without question.
You wrap the tape securely around him before taking a marker and writing two words across the white surface.
CHAIN REACTION
Ryusei studies them. “What’s it do?”
“Nothing.”
“Boring.”
“You’re the experiment.”
His eyes rise toward yours. “And you?”
“I’ll be observing the results.”
“You watching?”
“If they ever let you onto television.”
“They will.”
“Someone's confident.”
“I’ve got something worth exploding for.”
The words settle between you before you can ask what he means.
Then his hands close around your face, and he kisses your forehead hard enough to push you back half a step.
Another kiss lands on your left cheek.
Then your right.
“Ryusei.”
He presses one to the tip of your nose.
“You’re going to miss me.”
“The laboratory’s accident rate might improve.”
“Not what I asked.”
You catch him by the front of his jacket before he can retreat and pull him down, planting an equally loud kiss against his cheek.
Ryusei freezes.
The reaction is rare enough to qualify as a scientific breakthrough.
“You’re going to miss me too,” you tell him.
His entire expression ignites.
“Fuck, yeah.”
When he hugs you, nothing about it is restrained. His arms lock around your waist and lift you from the floor while his face disappears against your neck. You cling to him just as tightly, laughing when he begins turning the two of you in a slow circle between the worktables.
“Come back with catastrophic results,” you whisper.
He lowers you far enough to meet your gaze, his grin all teeth and promise.
“Baby, I’m gonna blow the whole experiment apart.”
── .✦
The Japan U-20 match is the first time you see him again.
You enter the stadium with no intention of behaving like a dignified observer. Several students from your science program are seated elsewhere, having learned from experience that sharing a confined public space with you during one of Ryusei’s matches is inadvisable.
The moment he steps onto the field, you are standing.
From the distance, he looks both exactly as you remember and somehow more alive than he ever did within the boundaries of your school. His body appears incapable of true stillness, every movement carrying the anticipation of something dangerous and magnificent waiting for the right moment to break free.
You shout his name despite the thousands of voices surrounding yours.
There is no reasonable possibility that he can hear you.
Still, his head turns briefly toward the stands.
For one impossible second, you think he is searching for you.
Then the match claims his attention.
Watching Ryusei play has always reminded you of waiting for something to blow.
The warning signs are all there: the growing impatience in his movements, the wild brightness in his eyes, the way every missed opportunity seems to wind him tighter. He does not become discouraged when the path to the goal closes. He becomes excited, as though the resistance only promises a more satisfying release once he finally tears through it.
You know that look.
Something inside him is waiting to ignite.
Itoshi Sae gives him the spark.
The pass rises into the penalty area at an angle that appears impossible only until Ryusei moves. There is no hesitation in him. He throws himself into the air, his body twisting backward as though gravity has personally offended him and he intends to punish it.
The noise of the stadium disappears inside your head.
For one suspended moment, he hangs above the field—wild, weightless, and grinning as though the entire stadium has become his laboratory and he is about to discover exactly how much noise one body can create.
Your hands close around the railing.
“Come on,” you breathe, a grin already spreading over your face. “Show me.”
Ryusei’s foot connects with the ball.
Everything explodes.
Sound crashes across the stadium as the net snaps behind the goalkeeper. The crowd surges to its feet, but you are already standing, screaming so loudly that pain immediately scratches at your throat.
“That’s it!”
You throw both arms into the air, laughter breaking through the shout as the enormous screen replays his body suspended above the field.
“That’s the reaction!”
People around you turn to stare.
You do not care.
On the pitch, Ryusei celebrates with the same wild joy that has filled your laboratory a hundred times. His laughter is visible even from the stands, his entire body overflowing with the release of everything that had been building inside him.
Then he begins searching.
His head turns from one section of the audience to another until his gaze reaches yours.
You know the exact second he finds you.
The fierce exhilaration remains, but recognition moves through it, transforming his grin into something warmer and far more personal.
You raise one hand and tap two fingers against your wrist, directly over the place where you had written on his tape.
Ryusei glances at his own wrist.
Then he points straight toward you.
“CHAIN REACTION, BABY!”
The stadium is too loud for you to hear him, but you read the words from his mouth easily.
Beside him, Sae follows the direction of his hand.
“The scientist?” he asks.
Ryusei looks offended by the inadequate description.
“My partner in crime.”
Sae turns toward the stands in time to watch you mimic an explosion with both hands and nearly strike the spectator beside you.
“You’re both public safety concerns.”
Ryusei’s grin becomes almost predatory.
“Hot, right?”
Sae walks away without answering.
Ryusei shouts after him that silence means agreement.
── .✦
Whether you find Ryusei after the match or he finds you remains impossible to determine.
The instant you see each other at opposite ends of the corridor, you both begin running.
His legs are longer, so he reaches you first, but you leap before he can slow down. Your arms lock around his shoulders as he catches you beneath the thighs, the collision forcing him backward while laughter bursts from both of you.
“You saw it!” he shouts against your neck.
“Your elevation was disgusting!”
“Good disgusting?”
“You threw yourself backward in midair like gravity had personally insulted you!”
“That sounds hot.”
“It was beautiful.”
“Fuck, I missed you.”
You grab his face between both hands and pull back enough to examine him. His skin is still flushed from exertion, sweat darkens the roots of his hair, and the exhilaration glowing inside his eyes has not dimmed.
“Well?” he demands. “How bad was it?”
You narrow your eyes, pretending to inspect him while he practically vibrates beneath you.
“Catastrophic.”
His grin widens. “Yeah?”
“You blew their entire defense apart.”
“Keep going.”
“You made an entire stadium lose its mind.”
“And?”
You laugh, unable to contain it any longer.
“You exploded, Ryusei.”
A triumphant yell tears out of him before he spins you in the middle of the corridor.
You cling to his shoulders, laughing while his voice echoes against the walls. Anyone approaching takes one look at the two of you and wisely changes direction.
When he finally lowers you, his hands remain securely around your waist.
“So I win?”
“This wasn’t a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
“Then yes. You win.”
His expression brightens. “What’s my prize?”
“You scored in front of an entire stadium.”
“Already had that.”
“Public recognition.”
“Got it.”
You tilt your head. “Then what do you want?”
Ryusei looks at you as though the answer should have been obvious from the beginning.
“You.”
Your heartbeat gives one hard, inconvenient thud.
He says things like that. He has always said things like that.
Before you can decide how much meaning to give the word, footsteps sound behind him. Sae passes the entrance of the corridor and glances briefly in your direction.
“There’s the love of your life,” he says.
Ryusei beams. “Told you she was real.”
Sae continues walking.
You stare after him before slowly turning back toward Ryusei.
“The love of your life?”
“Yeah.”
“You told Sae that?”
“Pretty sure I’ve told everyone.”
“Ryusei.”
“What?”
“You have never actually asked me out.”
His expression empties.
The silence that follows is so complete you could record it as an anomalous event.
“What?”
“You have never asked me to be your girlfriend.”
“I kiss you.”
“On the cheeks.”
“You sit on my lap.”
“The laboratory had one functioning chair.”
“You slept on me during the train ride to the science competition.”
“You occupied the entire seat.”
“You threatened to strap me to an examination table.”
“For science.”
He stares at you with increasing disbelief.
“I thought we were dating.”
Your laughter erupts before you can contain it.
Ryusei’s arms tighten around you.
“Don’t laugh! I’ve told you I love you, like, a thousand times.”
“You told a Bunsen burner you loved it.”
“It had a beautiful flame. I didn’t want it to meet my parents.”
“You proposed to the centrifuge.”
“That was physical attraction.”
“Ryusei!”
“What the hell was I supposed to think?” he demands, although his own mouth is beginning to curve. “You kiss me, jump on me whenever something blows up, and call me your partner.”
“In crime.”
“That’s more serious than dating!”
Your laughter grows until you have to brace both hands against his shoulders.
“You honestly thought I knew?”
“You’re the genius.”
“That does not make me telepathic.”
“It should.”
You eventually straighten, though your smile remains and your hands stay resting against him.
“Then ask me.”
Ryusei blinks.
“Properly,” you add.
The disbelief disappears from his expression, replaced by something bright and intent. He has never been shy and does not become shy now. Instead, he looks at you with the same hungry focus he gives the goal whenever an impossible opening appears.
His hands slide more firmly around your waist.
“Be my girlfriend.”
“That sounded like an order.”
“Be my partner in romantic crime.”
“Terrible.”
“My favorite catastrophe?”
“That isn’t a question.”
Ryusei leans closer until the tip of his nose brushes yours. His grin softens without disappearing, warmth settling beneath all his eccentric delight.
“Be the girl who blows shit up with me, screams at my goals, and makes every terrible idea I have even better.”
Your heartbeat quickens.
His forehead comes to rest against yours.
“I don’t want somebody who tries to put me out,” he continues, his thumbs moving restlessly along your waist. “I want you standing there with that crazy grin, asking whether we can make the explosion bigger. I want your experiments, your stupid goggles, and your face in the crowd every time I score something incredible.”
“My goggles are not stupid.”
“They’re hot.” You laugh. “And I want to be the first person you run to whenever you make something impossible happen.” His gaze holds yours, direct and entirely unashamed. “So be my girlfriend, scientist. Officially this time.”
You let him wait.
One second.
Then another.
His eyes narrow.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“Evil woman.”
“Your favorite.”
“Always.”
You catch him by the collar and kiss him.
The surprised sound that leaves Ryusei disappears against your mouth as his arms drag you closer, meeting your energy with his own. The kiss is warm, eager, and slightly crooked because neither of you can stop smiling long enough to accomplish it properly.
When he starts laughing, you do too, the sound caught between your lips while one of his hands rises to cradle the back of your head.
You pull away first.
He immediately follows, stealing another quick kiss before you can speak.
“So that’s a yes?”
“That requires further experimentation.”
His pink eyes light up.
“Hell yeah.”
You kiss him again before he can become any louder.
── .✦
The laboratory feels right once he returns.
It is too loud, mildly hazardous, and alive in a way it never manages to be without him.
Ryusei enters wearing goggles stolen from your drawer and finds you adjusting a new experiment inside a reinforced glass chamber. He slips behind you, his arms circling your waist while his chin settles against your shoulder.
“What does that do?”
You glance toward the chamber. “It should glow.”
“Should?”
“Possibly very brightly.”
“And the noise?”
“There may be one.”
His smile appears beside your cheek. “Bad idea?”
You check the seal one final time before lowering your goggles.
“Terrible.”
“Partners?”
Turning within his arms, you place one gloved hand over his chest.
“In crime.”
He kisses you, bright and quick, before following you behind the protective screen.
“Let’s explode.”
You begin the countdown together.
At first, there is only a spark beneath the glass. Then color rushes through the chamber, growing brighter and brighter until the reaction blooms in a flash vivid enough to paint the entire laboratory in light.
Ryusei shouts as though he has just scored another goal.
You laugh just as loudly.
A second later, his arms are around your waist and your hands are catching his face, excitement passing between you as effortlessly as it always has.
One spark becoming another.
A perfect chain reaction.
I HAD TO DO ONE FOR MY MAAAAAN. gods i love him so much.
I have soooo many ideas that i have been writing nonstop these past few day hehe.
tw: psuedocest, cunnilingus, dick grayson being a freak but what else is new
dick grayson with a big brother kink dick grayson with a big brother kink dick grayson with a big brother kink
it's just... can you blame him? You're so cute and sweet and gentle, always clinging to bruce's side whenever he's around. You took it hard when they first brought you home. Hell, he can't blame you, getting ripped from your old life and thrown into their world with only "it's for your own good" as an explanation couldn't have been easy. He's sure living at the manor hasn't helped with the transition either. He loves bruce, but he knows how he is. Too cold, too intense for someone like you. You need someone gentle, someone who makes you feel safe and comfortable. You need a big brother looking out for you.
Thankfully for you, B has always trusted him with the things that are most important. So on the nights when alfred is busy and bruce is called away on business, he gets to play babysitter.
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."
You lose count of how many times you cum, his tongue flicking and suckling at your clit like he'll die without it. After your second or third orgasm dick looks up at you, flushed and drunk on your juices with the widest smile you've ever seen. "Y'know," he mumbles, in between open mouthed kisses to your clit, "I love my brothers..." he licks a long, languid stripe up your slit, "but i always really wanted a little sister..."
THINK I NEED SOMEONE (OLDER)
aizawa shouta x f!reader x shinsou hitoshi
A mentor like Aizawa can teach you many valuable life lessons: how to survive U.A., how to become the greatest underground hero Japan has ever seen, and how to properly fuck your girlfriend. Hitoshi faces a jarring realisation in the process.
CONTENT: 18+, post-timeskip, previously suspicious sensei/protégée dynamics are made way weirder lol, panicky hitoshi, non-sexual kneeling, possibly The Worst Blowjob Ever but in a sexy way (hit. giving, aiz. receiving), mild angst, non-traditional d/s dynamics, daddy kink (reader only), sensei kink, voyeurism, 14k words.
MEL'S NOTE: the entire tins(o) universe is dedicated to my beautiful friend, marcie @olivebowl. our horny echo chamber might just be my favourite place in the world. p.s. beyoncé's dangerously in love album is The Soundtrack to this fic if anyone wants to go into it with some background tunes!!
READ ON AO3 ┊ PART I ・ PART II
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
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sukuna ryomen x f!reader, smut with plot, modern au. you run into your ex boyfriend in the pouring rain and end up spending the night as his place. reader has a vagina and is referred to as "girl".
- author's note: title is from i don't like darkness by chase atlantic
- word count: 1.5k
The rain batters hard, and even though your jacket that you have pulled over your head is taking most of the damage right now, you fear it won't last you the night. You duck into the nearest 7-11, luminescent lights reflecting against the floor beacon your savior. Flinging your jacket lightly with the tune of the sliding door, too exhausted to think, to even really look or breathe as you turn in the isle and slam your face into the chest of —
Your ex-boyfriend.
Ah, fuck. Just your luck, isn't it? You think about those TikTok posts that talk about how if you're not meant to see them again, the universe will make sure you don't. You wonder what it means now then, standing face to face with Sukuna, in a turtleneck that seems much warmer than whatever you're wearing, glasses perched a little lower on his nosebridge so he can tell it's really you.
So now you're sat at the only table inside this 7-11, where it's definitely warmer than outside but you can still feel the chill from the window, cupping your hands around an instant ramen cup that smells so salty delicious you could melt. Sukuna slurps his with an easy grace. Everything about him feels refined, so much so that it's almost cold.
But he's been warm with you, before. In the steady stream of early morning light with his body curled around yours, at the kitchen table where he cooks your favorite dish for today's lunch.
"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."
credits to summer-oil for talking about restaurant owner sukuna both on their blog and with me, i love and miss them lots
Warning: Smut, threesome, group sex, oral, deep throat, unprotected sex, slut calling
a/n: This is a collab with wonderful @xreaderdumpster go read part one!
—————————
“Are we ready, petal?” One final attempt at seeking approval, even though his finger was already inside you.
You gave him a lazy nod, overwhelmed by the sensation, the experience and his touch.
His scent faded, leaving nothing but that lingering touch between your folds you desperately clenched onto. He took his seat as an observer, watching as two hungry bodies claimed his previous spot.
Surrounded by naked bodies slapping and piling onto each other, the obscene sounds and images will forever keep you unrest (in a good way). You were rolled onto your stomach like a log and guided onto all fours by hands you could not see.
Finally they could catch a better view of your pretty face and your perfectly tight holes. Rough calloused hands began to examine your rear, spreading your cheeks and folds apart with ease.
“Tch….too small and tight”, you heard Captain Zaraki comment as he measured you out with his exploring fingers. “Ain’t gonna fit.”
The embarrassment finally hit and you felt like you were being auctioned at a cattle farm.
“Weren’t we all ‘too small and tight’ at some point?” Rangiku blissfully giggled on the sideline. Had they all gathered around to witness this unusual ceremonial inauguration?
“Ya and look at you now. Taking two cocks in one hole is your specialty,” Renji teased, making his way with an erect cock towards your head.
Renji ran his fingers through your hair, feeling the strands glide between his fingertips. Your hair was so perfect. Pity it would be a tangled mess and covered in cum by the end of tonight. He leaned forward, burying the tip of his nose into the lock of your hair he held firmly in his grip.
You smelled good. Good enough to devour. Unfortunately, he had to get in line for that as it was ‘Captain’s first’ kind of silent claim.
“Fancy shampoo. Fancy body lotion. Did you unknowingly prepare for the occasion?” Renji grinned, his fist tightening around your hair. “Such a slut. Getting all wet while watching us fuck each other”.
You passed Shunsui a quick glance, unsure how to play your part. That man you wanted sat lazily before you and watched you get passed around eagerly. He was the shiny prize you wanted to win at the end of the line. The shiny prize that was covered in precum.
You shamelessly licked your dry lips while imagining them heavily coated with his precum. Shunsui shuffled a little and proceeded to grab the base of his leaky cock but before your eyes could witness more of what was to cum, another man’s cock sprang before your dilated vision.
A sharp sting in your scalp steered you back to the man who held you, his cock leaking just as much precum as your prized obsession.
“Eyes up, pretty girl. Let’s turn you into Seireitei’s slut!”, Renji groaned, the angry tip of his cock pressed between your sealed lips.
Seireitei’s slut? Were you worthy of such a degrading title?
To prove your own point, your tongue darted out to grab a quick taste of sluthood. Bitter but surprisingly pleasant. You rubbed the surface of your tongue against the slit, feeling more of his precum pool and overwhelm your taste.
While you immersed yourself with the red head’s red tip, you felt a warm puff of breath against your exposed slits. Kenpachi had begun feasting on your tight holes. He was sloppy with his fat tongue, pushing through any resistance and easily gaining entrance past your folds.
For a split second you had abandoned Renji's cock and began thrusting your hips into Kenpachi’s face. It started off as slow, shy hip thrusts with uncertainty and no rhythm.
Suddenly, you felt a pair of soft, tender hands on your waist and you were guided further and further into Kenpachi’s face, feeling his nose tease the depth of your crack.
Renji watched Rangiku guide your hips into Kenpachi’s face. If only they put this much effort into teamwork during a mission.
With Renji’s cock still dancing against your lips, he pushed forward as soon as you parted your lips. A muffled moan barely escaped. Your mouth stuffed wide open with his achy cock that left a lingering potent aftertaste. Addictive nonetheless, your tastebuds sweeping around his invading shaft. He kept your head steady by the hair, using your mouth like a pussy for his greedy cock.
This was your first time deep throating, so of course you gagged. And you gagged some more. You gagged so much that you clamped down hard on Kenpachi’s hungry tongue.
Kenpachi quickly pulled out, slurping all the flavors that dripped down his chin. He hooked his thumb right into your tight asshole and pulled you further back. With your body being dragged towards the larger men behind you, Renji’s cock slipped out of your mouth, much to his displease.
Kenpachi was rough and demanding, certainly the opposite of the one who was commanding.
You wanted to see Shunsui’s face, but all you saw was a tuft of red pubes that was Renji coming back to use your mouth. It was good that he got right back in because it was a much needed distraction for what was ready to come in.
You felt a burning sensation wrap around your wet folds. Kenpachi had barely got his fat tip in and he felt more of that resistance.
“Ya gonna keep that wall up the entire time?” He growled, almost ready to pull out.
“Mmm Easy with her. Ah. It’s her first time at a mmmm party”, Rangiku came back to your rescue. By the sound of it, she was getting absolutely railed by someone else. With Renji’s balls in your face, you couldn’t make out.
“Take a deep breath”, Renji suggested and quickly chuckled at his own suggestion. “Oh right. You can’t”. He grinned and started sliding his cock in and out of your wide stretched mouth.
Rangiku was right beside you, on all fours, her big breasts bouncing to the rhythm of someone’s thrust. You could see her blissful face from the corner of your eyes. She let herself go the moment a cock stretched her insides.
“Mmmm ahhh you can do this”, she encouraged you with her sweet strings of moans.
Locking in on her face (and bouncing tits), you made a conscious effort to also let go. Let go of those walls. Let go of any doubt and resistance.
Let go.
Slam!
Kenpachi was finally balls deep inside you.
Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull like you won the jackpot. You relaxed enough for him that he could plough his way through minor resistance and he didn’t stop there. He kept his hips moving, making sure you didn’t tighten back up once again.
“Good. Keep that pussy open for our cocks”, Kenpachi shouted.
“And tongues”, Rangiku pouted beside you, her soft hand now resting on top of yours. She was definitely craving a taste.
It didn’t take long before both you and Rangiku were rocking back and forth in a synchronized rhythm. Kenpachi fucked you forward, Renji fucked you back— pingponging between the two horny men.
It was nice to let go. It was nice to be used. It was nice to be fucked by men and women you had admired from afar.
“Cum for me”, came Shunsui’s soothing voice from beyond the slapping bodies. Not commanding. More like begging. You weren’t sure if he was jerking off to the sight. Your half lidded eyes twitched, your back arched, hips jutted back into Kenpachi, allowing him to hit the deepest crevices of your core.
“I’m cummingggg”, moaned Rangiku beside you, setting off a chain reaction in the room. With a mouth full of cum, your walls tightened around Kenpachi’s thick girth, milking his balls dry with a gushing orgasm.
You swallowed Renji’s seed once you recovered from your release. Renji used the back of his hand to wipe off the cum that trickled down your chin. Kenpachi had pulled out, leaving your exposed hole throbbing and dripping cum.
Rangiku giggled beside you and gave you a pat on the back.
SAY WHAT YOU WANT AND I’LL KEEP IT A SECRET . . . ft. Sae Itoshi
wc: ~6.1k
cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI. set post-canon/during 2026 World Cup; all characters depicted are 21+. m!reader (anatomy described as cock + hole), smut + angst, NDA, light drug + alcohol use, very lightly referenced internalized homophobia, spit and drool, spit as lube, oral sex (Sae receiving), hair pulling, throat fucking, face slapping, ass slapping, choking, anal fingering, anal sex, dirty talk + pet names (slut, whore, good boy), mean Sae, rough sex, doggy -> prone my beloved, speculative af, just a sad grindr hookup rly
r: thank u to my sweety silas for hatching this idea with me. dl sae is real to me and i will always want to put him in a situation
To say it’s a nice hotel room is a gross understatement.
Everything in the room shimmers mutedly, even the mundane belongings he’s brought with him—a crystalline bottle of cologne, a robe dangling from the hook on the bathroom door, the like—which is unsurprising because of who he is, and also the occasion for which he’s in the city. The midcentury modern chair you’re perched upon is much comfier than it looked—low to the ground, so you’re not sure if you should splay out or draw your knees up to you. But the sheer presence of him freezes you somewhat between, and you sit a little meekly, legs sort of half crossed under you at your ankles. You crack your knuckles subtly as he moves around unhurriedly. And you try not to stare, but he’s very pretty.
Newport Beach glitters behind him. All the white terracotta is dusted deep blue and purple in the coastal evening; aquatic light from pools below dot the dimness (you consider, briefly, the irony of containing such an element in a place like this) along with fluorescent gemstones of windows, green and blue and mostly rectangles of yellow. Palms ruffle in the night air and the Pacific is only a suggestion by the jagged bit of coastline allowed to you from where the blackout curtain is pulled back; the further out you look, the more the lights dissolve, until the water is indistinguishable from the sky.
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.
When you get home and mix yourself a vodka soda with Smirnoff No. 21, you find that you smell like him. You wonder who you can tell.
“Wouldn’t it be hot if your brother walked in on us?” Hiori had whispered against your neck. His hard shaft ground against your ass as he pinned you down.
You had scoffed breathlessly. “You’re insane.”
But now you were gagged with your own panties. Your wrists bound with his belt to the headboard of your bed. He knew damn well that Karasu wanted to come over later.
Spread open and dripping, a string of saliva stretched from your parted lips as Hiori knelt between your thighs, pumping his cock slowly before plunging it back inside you.
“Oh, you like this,” he whispered, grinning like the innocent devil he was as he drove in deep. “You’re tighter when you’re scared.”
You moaned around the fabric in your mouth, eyes rolling as he fucked you harder. He wanted to leave bruises, leave proof, leave everything behind in you.
“You wanna get caught,” he taunted hoarsely. “You want him to see how good you ride his best friend’s cock.”
You shook your head weakly, but your cunt clenched around him, all wet, hot, throbbing as he bullied his cock against your cervix.
“You’re so wet, it’s obscene,” Hiori muttered, sweat dripping down his neck. “Look at you. Ruined. Stuffed full of me while Tabito’s down the hall.”
The door opened and you of you froze. Karasu’s footsteps paused just inside the room. “Hiori?” he called out suspiciously. “What are you—” then the silence cracked open. A deep breath. A slow exhale. “What the fuck.”
You whimpered panicked, but Hiori didn’t stop. He thrusted deep again, hands gripping your thighs as your bound wrists strained above your head. Panties still gagged your mouth, soaked with spit. Your eyes flicked to Tabito’s silhouette in the doorway and it only made your pussy tighten around Hiori’s cock.
He groaned. “She begged for it, Tabito.”
You moaned, desperate and trembling. You wanted to die. You wanted to cum.
“You can’t be—,” Tabito muttered dangerously, but his feet didn’t move. “You’re both sick.”
Hiori grinned. “Told you she was a brat. Look at her. Look at how good she takes it.”
Tabito turned to leave and Hiori snapped his hips one more time, slow and possessive. “Next time,” he called after him, “Maybe you should stay and see what your sister really likes.”
The door slammed and Hiori came deep inside you with a low groan, hips jerking against your slick thighs. You were still tied up. Still gagged. Still gasping.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin. “Even if he hates me for it.”
OLIVER AIKU x F!READER. SFW/FLUFF. Pro Player!Oliver, Established relationship, reader pulls a funny prank on Oliver, domestic goodness, shenanigans, sprinkle of brattiness on readers part. WORDCOUNT: 2.3k
18> TO FOLLOW. REBLOGS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED ♡
<- DAY ONE | AIKU WEEK MASTERLIST | DAY THREE ->
You and Oliver have been dating for just over a year now.
Having just moved in with him three weeks ago, you’re still getting used to coming home to the smell of rich Italian spices wafting from the kitchen, getting scuffs and grass stains out of training kits while doing laundry, and having to share a bed with a 190cm furnace every single night.
But you’ve never felt happier.
The welcome mundanity has already started to settle in; Oliver wakes up early to go for his morning run and you make your coffee at your leisure before heading out for the day. Some evenings are spent with a movie on the couch, others are celebrated with soirees hosted by his football club.
Oliver especially enjoys it when you surprise him at his training camp, because it gives him the chance to boast about taking you home— to your shared home.
Everything fell into place so easily. Your life while dating a professional athlete had never felt more… normal.
Ding!
Your phone chimes on the kitchen counter as you make a grocery list for the week, and you curiously see a notification from you group chat of closest friends:
OMG look at this old interview of Oliver I just found!
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.
chigiri is your gay best friend until you go out with him one night and witness him shamelessly fucking a woman in the bathroom. you want to be pissed, but you’re so disgustingly turned on by the sight—oblivious that everything is progressing according to his plan...
he makes eye contact with you in the mirror while he’s balls deep in a woman who is wailing, hunched over the sink; his smooth lips twitch up into a smirk. your stomach drops.
humiliated, you shoulder your way through the crowd and stumble outside, taking shuddering breaths. you didn’t realize you were sweating until now—no doubt a mixture of the alcohol, body heat, and arousal. you attempt to cool off as you sit on the curb with a sigh.
chigiri is your ride home—coming here was his idea, after all—but you contemplate calling an uber, fingers shaking as you pull out your phone. how could you possibly face him after that? you wrack your fuzzy brain for answers, trying to remember if you ever asked him if he was gay.
tears sting your eyes and you rub a clammy hand across your forehead. no: you simply assumed he was gay. he’s beautiful and meticulous and flirty around everyone; you never asked him, and he never clarified. but all those times you held hands in public and cuddled in your bed and tipsily kissed each other on the lips...you can’t help but feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
even still, though, there’s a small, giddy voice in your head: does this mean that he...wants me?
so lost in your thoughts, you don’t hear him open and close the door behind you.
when he approaches you on the curb, he crouches down, offering you a hand.
“let’s go back to my place. we can talk things through.”
maybe you’re naive, or maybe you’re horny beyond belief, but you agree without a second thought; that’s how you end up on the couch in his penthouse—a place you know so well you could draw a map of it with your eyes closed. but you’re seeing everything in a new (lewd) light.
it’s awkward as you tuck your legs beneath yourself and pick at your cuticles. his legs are spread wide from where he sits on the coffee table, directly across from you, elbows resting on his knees. was he always this...masculine?
you attempt to restrain yourself, you really do. but it’s difficult to focus on that gorgeous face of his, on the fuschia of his irises that seem to reflect your lust; you can’t stop looking at his body, at the cropped top you picked out for him a few weeks ago—the one that’s so tiny you can see his pecs when he raises his arms, the one that shows off the lean, toned planes of his stomach. paired with his low-rise jeans, you spy the tiniest sliver of his happy trail.
“you can touch, you know,” chigiri’s amused drawl pulls you out of your head and back into your painfully-aroused body.
“...w-what?” is all you can manage.
for the second time tonight—but not the last—your best friend reaches for you. his slender but strong fingers encircle your wrist. for a moment, you forget how to breathe as he guides your touch to his abs, coaxing you to splay your hand, the heel of your palm grazing the waistband of his pants. he smiles at you: half-teasing, half-predatory.
“you can touch all you’d like. you don’t even have to ask...but it’d be cute if you did.”
tags for anal sex and anal fingering (reader recieving), reader is explicitly described to have a pussy and implied to prefer anal, squirting 18+
i cant stop thinking about zoro and anal
like. specifically begging him to fuck your ass and him not really understanding. he's worried about hurting you, and it's not like it's the only option you have. he really has a hard time with understanding, but you're so desperate.
and zoro is so so weak to you. he hates it about himself, how easily his will bends to your whims when you want something from him. it doesn't need begging, just a word is enough to get him.
but you are begging him for it. being so insistent and whiny, pawing at him and kissing his neck trying to get him to please please please put it in, despite his grievances. he's not unwilling, just unsure - the last thing he wants to do is have his brutish manner hurt you when you don't want it. you offer to take care of stretching yourself without him as a compromise but zoro very fiercely reject the idea
if you want this, he'll learn how to do it all and correctly. no shortcuts.
he doesn't think it'll do much for you even when you tell him otherwise. he can't really wrap his head around how it could be pleasurable for you until you're on all fours with your ass up. skin shiny with oil, impatient as you give him access to your body.
you have to guide him through it a little. zoro is expecting it to be tight, but fuck, it's so tight. he's convinced it won't fit as soon as he manages to get one finger all the way in, and your breathing is already a little shallow when it happens.
but he's surprised at how....easy it goes in. easier than when he's inside of you otherwise, which makes him blink a little in surprise. you tell him to keep going, and he listens—now watching it very closely and unable to tear his eyes away. your pussy sits pretty underneath, increasingly wet and shiny with arousal. you're dripping without him having touched you much at all and only getting wetter as he stretches your ass open.
when it feels too tight for him to keep going, you let out the shakiest little breath and squeak out a "please touch my clit,"
so zoro listens, big, scarred hands carefully reaching to toy with it every so slightly. your whole body wracks with shivers at the slightest brush. the reaction is so quick it stuns him, your hole tightening around his fucking fingers when he didn't think it could get any tighter
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.
it takes every shred of restraint he has to not cum right with you. a little fear in his stomach that he might develop the same taste for this that you seem to have.
