Mar 4
WHO NAMED THIS JALAPENO MEGATRON
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WHO NAMED THIS JALAPENO MEGATRON
Hatter/Aguni NSFW Kinktober Prompts
"It's just a job."
[Sex Work/Crossdressing/Sugar Daddy/Oral Sex/Love Confession]
PS: I KNOW, I know, it's literally almost a year after 2025 Kinktober, but I'm still working on it.
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It's just a job.
That's what Takeru tells himself when he sees the name on his client list for the night. One name—because he doesn't like to share. And what he wants, he gets. Puts enough zeroes at the end of the check to make sure of it. Enough zeroes that Takeru could live comfortably on that money alone, even after the club takes its thirty percent.
It's just a job, and Takeru takes his work seriously. An e-mail from a keymash address gives him a list of instructions, and he goes over them five times just to be sure everything is right. He washes his hair with rose-scented shampoo. He shaves his legs and his underarms until they're smooth and hairless. He paints his fingers and toes blood red, lacquer so shiny he can almost see his reflection when he looks at his hands.
There's a box waiting for him at the club. Matte black and tied shut with a red satin ribbon. He feels his heart flutter as he carries it to his room, but it's just a job. Swallows down a budding thrill when he opens the lid and finds fresh rose petals scattered on top of the fine white tissue paper inside.
It's just a job…
…But the gown fits perfectly. Satin, backless, with a deep vee exposing his chest down to the bottom of his breastbone. Skirt gracefully skimming the floor, slit on the right side offering a peek all the way up his thigh as he walks. The forest green fabric makes his red lips pop, and even though it's just a job, Takeru lets himself savor the feeling of being kept, if only for the night.
“Pretty.”
Rough fingers run across his collarbone, drawing figure eights in the hollow of Takeru's throat.
Perched atop the man's lap, he lets himself be petted. Over his chest, over the dress, all the way down his stomach and stopping just short of where his cock pulses beneath the skirt. Takeru doesn't have it in him to stifle a moan when he feels an answering throb against his lower back.
“I look even better on my knees.”
What's the old saying? ‘Do what you love, and you'll never work a day in your life.’ With a heavy cock smothering his tongue and a fist gripping his hair, Takeru has never felt more unemployed.
“That's it,” he says. His thrusts are deep and slow. Patient. “Take it all the way. That's right, sweetheart. Show me what a good little cocksucker you are.”
Takeru whines at the endearment. Slut, whore, bitch—he hears those more often than his own name. ‘Sweetheart’ is unfamiliar to his ears, and his heart swells at the thought of it. As a reward, Takeru swallows him down to the hilt and lets his throat constrict around him.
“Shit,” the man curses. His thighs begin to shake, belt buckle jingling noisily from his open slacks. “Back off a minute. Back off.”
Takeru withdraws with a loud pop! Just a job.
“Something wrong?”
The man chuckles. Loosens the hand in Takeru's hair and uses it to cup his cheek.
“You're a little too good at that.” He looks into Takeru's eyes for a long moment. It's a level of intimacy they don't usually allow themselves, and Takeru gulps it down like wine. The man drags his hand down the line of his throat and traces the neckline of his gown. “Do you like it?”
“Yes.” It's easy to be honest when swathed in silk. Takeru pushes his chest out so he can be petted there, too. “I like the way you look at me when I'm wearing it.”
“I was in Osaka. Saw it in the window of a shop, some vintage place. I know you like red, and you don't really wear stuff like this, but it…I couldn’t leave it behind. The thought of somebody else wearing it– they wouldn’t look right. But you– I don’t know. It just. It made me think of you.” Takeru drags his index and middle fingers up the length of his cock, and the man sighs. “I've been doing that a lot lately.”
“Shopping in Osaka?”
“The other thing.”
This is the part where Takeru draws a line. The exclusivity. The lipstick. The dress. The confession. It's just a job. Just a job, just a job, just a job—.
But he looks into the man's eyes—dark and deep as the night—and he can't lie to himself anymore. It's not just a job. It’s never been just a job. It’s been long nights pretending not to notice the way the room gets warmer whenever He walks in the room. Winters and summers of waking up alone and wishing that there was a very specific someone sleeping next to him. Clients are clients; Takeru has never had trouble separating his work from his personal life, but this is different. Always has been. Even if he doesn’t dare admit it, even to himself.
“I think about you, too.”
Before his mouth can get him in any more trouble, Takeru puts it to work. He takes the man's half-hard cock back between his lips and coaxes his flesh to swell. Rubs circles with his tongue at the base and slowly massages his way up to the head. His lipstick smudges and saliva creeps out the corners of his mouth, and he knows that this won't take long.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” he groans. “I’m not supposed to– this isn’t. It’s not like that. How could you possibly…” Tosses his head back and lets Takeru watch his throat swallow down all the things he shouldn’t say. His eyes shine in the dark. “You don’t even know my name.”
Takeru takes him to the back of his throat and chokes against the truth. I don’t care. I don’t need to know your name. All I know is that I want you. I want you in ways that scare me. I want you even if this is all I can ever get from you– it’ll be enough. If that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it–
It’s always the same when he comes. The man twists to the right, a long, shaky exhale rumbling from his lips. Takeru swallows around him and hums when he feels the gentle caress of a warm hand on his jaw. Lingers for a moment too long then pulls away. Always the same.
He likes quiet, after. Quiet and a cigarette. Takeru discreetly daubs the residual wetness from his lips with the back of his hand and takes the glass ashtray from the coffee table behind him. Wordlessly, Aguni places a cigarette between his fingers.
“I’m sorry.” The man has refastened his pants. The only evidence of their tryst lies in his face, still pinked from exertion. “That was…”
“Wonderful, as always.”
The man brings a hand to his forehead. Shame? Exasperation? Takeru nudges his cigarette hand towards his mouth, and when he strikes a match, the man allows him to light it. Doesn't look him in the eye as he takes a long, slow drag.
“This is wrong,” he concludes. Takeru kneels at his feet, watches him exhale through his nose. “I shouldn't have bought the dress.”
Takeru takes a cigarette for himself.
“I like it.”
The man scoffs.
“That's because I pay you to like it.”
And there it is. It's just a job. It's not a job at all. Nicotine only fans the flames of the divide in Takeru's head, but he smokes all the same. Gives him something to do with his nervous hands.
The man doesn't say anything. Funny how someone can go from hot to cold so quickly. Five minutes ago, Takeru had him burning on the surface of the sun, and now he's ice.
“You paid me to wear the dress. Put on lipstick. Suck your cock,” Takeru taps ash into the glass on the table. “But all the money in the world couldn't make me like it. Only I can decide that.”
They sit. They smoke. Silence stretches between them like an oil spill and stains the mood with heavy, greasy reality. They can no longer continue. Takeru explicitly states in his contract that emotional attachment from either side means immediate dissolution of the arrangement. Feelings muddy the waters. It’s just a job. It can only ever be a job.
The man stands. It would have felt abrupt, but Takeru has had this conversation before. The others were faster. Tearful. Getting on their knees and begging him to let it slide–it was just a moment of passion, they didn’t mean it, it just slipped out– but he lets them go all the same. This one will be no different.
“I should go.”
“You paid for the full night.”
“Keep it.”
What can Takeru do? He sits on the floor and lets the cigarette between his fingers burn low enough to scald his skin. One final kiss goodbye. Watching the man gather himself feels like keeping vigil for a dying thing, his memory committed to witness the final moments of whatever-this-was draw to a close.
When the man dons his coat, Takeru rises.
“No need,” the man says, but Takeru doesn't pay him any mind. He'll allow himself this one last thing, a little intimacy for the road. The hem of his gown swishes along the floor as he crosses the room.
“I would apologize—”
“—Don't—”
“—I would apologize,” Takeru repeats, “but I'm not sorry. About any of it.” With all the grace he can muster, he reaches down and picks up the man's bag. Black leather, luxurious but plain. All the years they've been doing this and Takeru has never once looked inside. “I hope you feel the same.”
“I don't,” he answers. Takes the bag from Takeru's hand and flinches when their hands touch.
That hurts more than Takeru expects. Fishhooks sunk into the back of his eyes, their lines weighted by bricks. He'll be feeling the sting of it all for a long, long time. Perhaps forever.
“I,” the man says, but stops. His jaw works, but he can't quite get the rest of himself to force the words out. It's probably for the best.
And when Takeru opens the door, the man doesn't hesitate. He walks into the hall, into the elevator, into the cruel February, and out of Takeru's life.
A job well done, but Takeru's eyes well up. Big, ugly tears ready to bubble over and stain his face with mascara. All that time spent looking pretty only to have it melt away in a matter of minutes. For a man that ended up being just a job. What a waste.
The dress is discarded, an inelegant lump of forgotten fabric on the floor. Green like algae, green like rot. Takeru kicks it to the side and doesn't pay any mind to how the edges of his lungs curdle at how it made him feel seen. He ought to have put it away nicely. Sent it for dry cleaning and let it rest in the back of his closet until he got the nerve to sell it. More money. The only thing he can hope to keep.
Getting a familiar robe from the armoire, he stumbles—and there is a box. Black with a red satin ribbon. The lid flops open. Rose petals on tissue paper wilting by the second. Takeru stares at them for a long, long time.
Time enough for him to notice a small white rectangle peeking out from beneath the tissue. Forgettable, in most cases, but he picks it up all the same.
And when he reads it, he smiles.
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“Mr. Aguni? Your ten o'clock is here.”
“I don't have a ten o'clock.”
Aguni Morizono bounces a tennis ball against the tile floor. Thonk! Bounces off the drab concrete wall and lands back in his hand. Ka-op!
“Schedule says you do.”
Thonk! Ka-op!
“Schedule's wrong.”
“My schedule is never wrong.”
Thonk! Ka-op!
Aguni grins. Tennis ball back in hand, he rolls it between his fingertips absently.
“Fine then. You gonna tell me who it is, or is it a surprise?”
“Your tailor.”
Aguni looks down at his sweatpants. There's a mustard stain on his left thigh. (Huh. When did that get there?)
“You're joking.”
“Trust me, I was surprised as you are, but the guy seems legit. Said the, and I quote, ‘stunning ensemble’ you found at a vintage shop in Osaka needed a little extra work, but it's ready to be picked up.”
Everything stops. ThonkKaOpThonkKaOpThonkKaOp goes his butterfly heart. Surely, it couldn't be…
“...Send him in.”
To his credit, Aguni doesn't drop the tennis ball when the man walks in. He certainly looks the part; sharp suit in a rich navy blue, shined shoes, and a well-fitted hat tilted just so atop of his glossy, dark hair. With a garment bag slung over his shoulder, he more than looks the part of a man who knows his way around a needle and thread.
Knows his way around cock, too—Aguni squeezes the tennis ball tight enough to make his knuckles bulge. Not helpful. So many thoughts running through his head, all mixing themselves into knots he couldn't even hope to undo.
“Mr. Aguni Morizono,” Takeru purrs. He drapes the garment bag over the back of the black faux-leather armchair in the sitting area and saunters towards Aguni's desk. He leans his hip against the edge and snatches an abstract glass paperweight to inspect lazily. “What a lovely name.”
Aguni's mouth runs dry.
“I didn't…” The tips of his ears turn red. “It's been…a while.”
“Almost a year.” Takeru places the paperweight back on the desk. “Not too long, I hope?”
“No,” Aguni says too quickly. He looks down at his stained sweatpants, his scuffed sneakers. He looks nothing like the man he made himself out to be. “This is. Uh. I mean. I didn't think I'd ever see you again, and now you're at my job—”
“—You left me your business card—”
“—And I'm just,” Aguni exhales heavily through his nose. “This is weird. Like, really weird. You should've called.”
“I did,” Takeru says. “Twice. Your receptionist asked who was calling, and I improvised. Figured ‘guy your boss was paying for sex and accidentally fell in love with’ was a little too on the nose.”
“Fuck.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I am actually a tailor. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“And you're doing…” Takeru looks around the room. “...Whatever this is. Director and COO of Systems and Something? Sounds fake.”
Aguni shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“It's just a job.”
Takeru smirks like Aguni just said something particularly amusing. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a thin, white rectangle from his breast pocket.
“This is a lot to take in,” Takeru says, and this is certainly not the first time he's heard something like that come out of his kissful mouth. “So, I'll leave you with this. And that.” He nods his head towards the garment bag in the corner. “You can decide when you want to come to me.”
Aguni picks up the card and inspects it carefully. Danma Takeru—Haberdasher. There's an address stamped along the bottom, and Aguni realizes he knows the area. Shopping street in Shinjuku, maybe a ten minute walk from his office. All this time, he's been down the street. It makes something uncomfortable flutter in Aguni's stomach.
“You seem confident that I'll show up.”
“I'm not,” Takeru says. Honesty sharpens the typical sharpness in his gaze. “In fact, I'm almost sure you won't. Relationships built on prostitution and secrecy rarely thrive. But,” he says, and he looks Aguni dead in the eye as he does, “I know that I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't give it a shot. The balls in your court, Mr. Aguni. Whether we play or not is entirely up to you.”
He leaves. Aguni lets him, card still pinched tight between his forefinger and thumb. The suit hangs like a ghost, haunting the confines of his office with the spirit of opportunity. Before he can think better of it, Aguni pages his secretary.
“What's up?”
He's got her on speaker, but Aguni can hardly hear her over the racing of his (stupid, reckless) heart. The garment bag looms, ominous, exciting. He walks over to it and flips at the zipper with his index finger.
This is stupid. This is so goddamn stupid—
“I need you to clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” Aguni says, words bursting from his mouth at a suspiciously rapid pace. He pulls the zipper three teeth down, then another.
“Oh?” Typing on a keyboard, the clackity-clack of her manicure tapping the keys a metronome to which Aguni sets his heart. “Something come up?”
“Yeah,” he answers. A flash of color, verdant and lush, makes the corner of his mouth purse into a smirk. Of course. No other color would do. Aguni zips the bag back up.
“I've gotta go see my tailor.”
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what was in the garment bag? wrong answers only
Ok, I know he's supposed to look like a super tough BAMF.....
But the clenched black leather gloves looks like a kitty paw and he's just being a spicy boy
🐈⬛
Pet the Breaker Boys (probably getting shocked)
-Inhales-
BOY
Updates!! Almost done :P