Work Text:
“Shouuuuuuuta!”
“Get out of my shop.”
Shouta wipes down his station, not bothering to look up at the voice ringing through the tattoo parlor. He knows it well; they’ve been friends for a while now, though he’d deny it if anyone asked. He just finished up with his last client of the day, a younger woman getting a fine line dandelion tattoo on her calf. Nothing particularly exciting, and not particularly in his specialty, but money is money.
“So mean, Shouta. I brought you flowers and everything,” Hizashi says.
Shouta sighs. “You just wanted to see Oboro while he was working. Don’t pretend they’re for my benefit,” he grumbles. He glances up. Hizashi grins at him, standing in the doorway of his tattooing room, looking as bright as the sun. His golden-spun hair is pulled back into a bun, his red eyes hidden behind those silly triangular sunglasses he wears. He looks casually cool in a tank-top for some British band Shouta’s never heard of and leather pants that look impossibly warm for the weather. His boots come up to his knees, shiny buckles adorning all the way up the sides.
Shouta glances at his bare arms, at the ink that cascades from his shoulders to his wrists. The design is deliberate, an illustrative style of a music staff that weaves and spins all the way down both arms, music notes spilling off in each direction in an explosion of color. Shouta remembers exactly how well he sat for those tattoos, and it makes heat curl in his stomach each and every time he sees them.
In his hands is a bouquet of vibrant purple flowers with small sprigs of white flowers throughout. “I mean, Oboro does say hi, but that wasn’t the only reason!” he complains. “He asked if you wanted to go out with us tonight.” He holds out the flowers, grinning.
Shouta sighs, taking the small bouquet. There’s already a line of them along a shelf above his station; he trades them out every time Oboro or Hizashi bring a new one. Oboro tests out different arrangements, and he gives them away to him if they don’t work out properly; that’s all it is. He ducks under the sink near his station, grabbing a clear vase from the twelve pack he ordered (definitely not for this specific purpose). He fills it with water, humming thoughtfully under his breath. “... Where are you going,” he asks flatly.
“Karaoke,” Hizashi says hopefully, leaning forward. “Pleeeeeeeease, Sho! Pleeeeeease? It’s been ages since you’ve come with us!”
He sighs, shifting the flowers around for a moment. “Which flowers are these?” he asks instead, thinking it over. Going out with Hizashi and Oboro is… tiring, because they’re enthusiastic, and they seem to talk to just about everyone they walk past. On the other hand, he does enjoy their company (again, not that he’d admit it).
On the other hand, there is the small matter that he does enjoy their company a little too much. Hizashi and Oboro are together, after all, and he’s not part of that. They seem to enjoy him as a friend, and that’s all he can dare to hope for.
“Uhhh, let’s see. He said they were… What were they.” Hizashi pulls out his phone, clicking over to his message thread. “Hang on, he sent me the names, I totally forgot,” he says, laughing brightly. “The purple ones are clematis, and the white ones are baby’s breath. Oboro wants to know what you think, so make sure to text him!” he says eagerly.
Shouta sighs, pushing back the loose strands of hair from his face. “No need. I’ll see him tonight, won’t I?” he asks.
Hizashi cheers, throwing his arms in the air. “Hell yeah! Karaoke!” he yells, voice ten times louder than anyone’s has a right to be. He rolls his eyes.
“Do you have that CD I was looking for?” he asks, tilting his head. He’s been looking for a specific set of older albums for the shop for a few weeks now, and Hizashi runs the music shop next door.
“Oh, yeah! Hang on, uhhh–” he pats around at his pockets. “Not on me. I’ll bring it over when we pick you up tonight, yeah?”
“Who said you’re picking me up?” Shouta asks, raising a brow.
“Me,” Hizashi says, tipping his sunglasses down to wink. It absolutely does not do anything for him, not at all. He rolls his eyes again, looking back to the flowers to rearrange them again.
“... Alright,” he mutters. “What time?”
“Oboro closes up shop in about an hour?” he asks, tilting his head. “So, after that.”
Shouta hums. “I can close up then,” he says, nodding. Normally he stays open for walk-ins a little bit later, but his posted hours close in an hour, and he doesn’t have any other scheduled appointments today. “Are you already closed for the day?” he asks, tipping his head toward the side, toward where the music shop is next door.
“I’ve got someone running it today,” he says, waving his hand. “She’s doing really well, so I’m giving her the reins for the day.”
He raises a brow, curious. Hizashi had mentioned he was training someone to run the shop so he could take some days off. Shouta goes back to resetting his station while Hizashi talks, assuming he’ll make himself comfortable and tell him about it instead of leaving and coming back. He does, of course, sitting down in Shouta’s tattooing stool to spin around.
“Her name is Kyouka Jirou. She’s young, but a huge music buff. She always has recommendations for customers, and she plays just about every instrument we have in stock, so she’s really good at leveling with people. Pretty good find, yeah, yeah!” he says, grinning widely. Shouta finds his lips turning up slightly at the little vocal tic, the way he slips into English here and there to show his excitement. “How’re your apprentices working out, hm?”
Shouta shrugs. “Bakugo is hot-headed and scares off customers, but the ones he does get won’t go to anyone else. Midoriya adapts styles better and he’s creative. Couldn’t really tell you who’s doing better, but they sure do like to pretend to hate each other. Midoriya wants to get into piercing, too,” he says with a sigh. “Shinsou isn't gonna like him edging in on his territory, but whatever. If he wants to learn, I’m not going to stop him.”
Hizashi laughs. “Shinsou could use a few days off anyway, yeah, he works almost as much as you do!” he says.
He gives him a look. “I own the shop. I should be here the most often,” he says dryly. “Also, I live here. It would be illogical to be here and not come down to help.” He lives just above the shop; he has to quite literally walk through it to leave. Walking through a busy shop to leave without stopping to help just isn’t in his nature.
Shouta yawns, looking around the station. It’s reset and cleaned for the night, and it doesn’t look like anyone else is going to come in, so he figures he’ll go ahead and close early. He doesn’t have time for another tattoo or a piercing anyway, at this rate. He clicks off the open sign and flicks the lock, heading over to the register to start closing it down. Hizashi trots behind him.
“So, I was thinking about getting some new ink,” he says casually.
Shouta pauses, tilting his head. “Go on,” he says. He’s done all of Hizashi’s tattoos. Hizashi and Oboro’s. Their skin was a blank canvas before they met him, and he doesn’t have any particular feelings about that.
He doesn’t, really.
“You know my back piece?” he asks.
“Mhm,” he acknowledges. Hizashi has a backpiece that spans between his shoulders, a continuation from his sleeves. The music notes spill across his shoulders, condensing together toward his spine to create the impression of wings.
“I figured we could wind that down and do something with some more notes and a mic on my leg,” he says, tapping his right leg. “For my show, you know,” he says, grinning. He has a fairly popular radio show, where his persona Present Mic talks about anything and everything. He’s surprised Hizashi hasn’t asked for something like this sooner, honestly. He nods.
“I can mock something up this weekend,” he says, counting down the bills in the register.
“Yeaaaaah!!” he cheers, throwing his arms up. “I love getting tattooed by you,” he says, bouncing in his seat.
“I don’t know why. I don’t talk to you the whole time,” he mutters, putting the last of the coins back in the register. He clicks out the last number, marking in the amount and closing it out for the day.
“That’s fine,” Hizashi says easily. “You’re so focused, and it’s cool to see you in that zone. You can tell you really love doing it, y’know?” he asks.
Shouta looks away. “... I’m gonna change. C’mon, I’ll get you a drink,” he says, gesturing him along. He heads toward the door that leads to the upstairs loft, unlocks it, and then flicks off the lights for the studio. Hizashi tromps along behind him, chattering along about his day without prompting; something about Jirou handling a tough customer without help, and a supply issue of some kind of jazz CD. Shouta lets it wash over him, basking in the sound of Hizashi’s voice. It’s nice to listen to, mid-toned and excited, easy to follow the flow of without much effort. Hizashi never requires much of an answer from him beyond a little head tilt or a nod.
The loft above the studio is small, a simple studio apartment. His bed is out in the open, shoved off into a corner of the room. He walks over to the kitchenette, tugging open the fridge. He pulls out one of the sickly sweet sodas Hizashi seems to favor and kicks the fridge shut, pressing it into his hand on his way over to his dresser. He digs around for a moment for a different shirt and a new pair of jeans.
“... and then he has the fucking nerve to say that I didn’t put in the order at all!” Hizashi is saying, waving his hands around. Shouta tips his head to the side, mouthing the word. It’s one of his English curse words, but it always throws him off for a moment, the harsh consonants sounding so awkward in Hizashi’s bright tone. “Like I’d forget! So I send him our email thread where he confirmed my order, because I’m not an idiot, yeah?” he continues.
Shouta hums, tugging off his shirt to toss into the hamper. He unzips his jeans, wiggling out of them as well, and tosses them in with the shirt with a yawn. He pauses, glancing over at Hizashi–he’s gone silent for some reason, the chatter cutting off abruptly.
Hizashi is just–staring at him, glasses slipped slightly down his nose, eyes dipping down his torso. He follows his gaze, looking down at his own hip.
“Oh. This one is new, yeah,” he says, tapping the sleeping cat curled up just above the line of his briefs, surrounded by sunflowers. The cat is all black except for a single pattern along its back like a cloud.
He didn’t think too hard about why he chose sunflowers, or why he’d designed the cat like he had. There was no meaning to it, really. He just liked cats.
Hizashi swallows. “... Uh. Yeah. It is. Uh. Who did that one?” he asks.
“Midoriya,” he answers. “He needed to check the illustrative box,” he says with a shrug. He pulls on the new pair of jeans, then tugs on the black shirt Oboro got him that has tattoo guns on it and the phrase “I Make People Bleed” in big bold font. He’d cut the sleeves off so he could show off his own patchwork tattoo sleeves, a tapestry of his own style. He favors cats, small cats and big cats alike, and they show up the most. He doesn’t think too hard about why flowers and music notes have started showing up more recently in some of the blank spots between them.
Hizashi still hasn’t started talking again, just watching him with a slight pink flush on his face, his teeth worrying at his lower lip.
… Does he not like the tattoo design?
Shouta pulls his hair back, banding it away from his face while he considers how to approach the topic. “... You were saying. About the merchant,” he prompts, deciding not to ask at all. He doesn’t think he wants to know if Hizashi doesn’t like it.
“Oh! Shit, right, yeah! So, I emailed him, right, and…” he starts again, launching back into the tale, hands waving animatedly. He tears his eyes away, looking at the wall as he talks. Shouta notices that his face seems to get a darker pink, like he’s embarrassed by something.
Perplexing.
Hizashi never seems embarrassed, usually. He’s usually fairly straight forward, confident, and unruffleable. He pretends to be, at least.
Shouta watches him talk, examining his face curiously. He watches his eyes flicker toward his face and away again, over and over, like he can’t keep eye contact. Watches the flush spread across his cheekbones, curious and–something else.
Something else he won’t acknowledge, because Hizashi is Oboro’s.
Hizashi’s phone chimes, flashing brightly for the times he doesn’t have his hearing aids in, and he grins, pulling it out. “Hell yeah! Oboro’s outside,” he says cheerily.
Shouta hums, turning toward the door. He heads down the stairs, Hizashi following close behind. He sees Oboro peering inside the glass door, bouncing from foot to foot just outside the studio, blue hair wild and flying in all directions. He sighs, walking over to the door to unlock it. Oboro pushes in almost the second it clicks, throwing his arms around both of them.
“Shouta! ‘Zashi!” he yells. “I missed you!”
Shouta blinks. “... Didn’t you just see Hizashi less than an hour ago?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Well, yes. What’s your point?” he asks, tilting his head. “Is this you angling for additional hugs? You could just ask,” he says shrewdly, moving his arm from Hizashi to fully grab Shouta.
He leans away. “In no way whatsoever was that my intent,” he says flatly.
Hizashi cackles. “I feel like it must’ve been,” he disagrees. “We’ve been neglecting poor Sho,” he says. He throws his arms around both of them, burying his nose in Shouta’s hair, and he–well. Hm.
His life vaguely feels like it’s spiraling out of control.
Oboro’s strong arm is wrapped around his waist, the other around his shoulder, his fingers resting by his neck. His tattoo sleeves are vibrantly colorful, much like his personality, a riot of different flowers that all have a tapestry of meaning that Oboro had explained to him in painstaking detail. He had some fascination with flower languages, a meaning within a meaning that Shouta was completely lost to but that Oboro adored. He’d dutifully redone the mock up almost seventeen different times until it was right, and he hadn’t minded it a single time, because each time had given him almost an hour's worth of explanation for what each change meant.
Shouta’s face is turned into one of Oboro’s arms, his eyes focused on where a forget-me-not twines around a white clover.
Warmth seeps into him on all sides for a moment before he decides that he–very much needs to get out of this embrace. “Alright, done with that now,” he says, pushing them both off. “We’re going somewhere, aren’t we?” he grumbles.
Oboro grins. “Karaoke!” he cheers.
“Karaoke!” Hizashi cheers back.
Shouta sighs. “Karaoke.”
· · ────── ♬₊⊹♬•❁ᓚᘏᗢ❁•♬⊹₊♬────── · ·
Karaoke invariably means a private room for just the three of them with a table of snacks, entirely too much booze, and Hizashi putting on a show like he’s singing to a stadium of thousands. Oboro is excitable and showy, too, but–he’s… different. He has a habit of singing directly to each of them in turns, in ways that are distinctly bad for Shouta’s health.
Shouta doesn’t know much in the way of music, and Hizashi tends to favor English songs. Oboro switches between English and Japanese songs, depending on whom he’s trying to fluster–if he’s singing at Hizashi, it’s always English, and he’s almost always half in his lap by the end of the song. If it’s Shouta, it’s Japanese.
Right now, Oboro is singing Natsu-iro by Yuzu, and it’s–really cute, actually. He’s bouncing all around the front of the room, pointing to Shouta and singing at him in that way he does. It’s a cute song. He’s actually familiar with this one, a song about summer that he vaguely remembers being popular for a while.
The lyrics are easy enough to understand, anyway, and Oboro is making fun of him, pinching his cheeks at the line about having a depressed face.
Shouta gives a put-upon sigh, taking a long drink of his draft, and it makes Oboro laugh, bright and loud. He grabs Hizashi’s hand, pulling him in to sing the duet section. He does, eagerly, and both of them singing at him is…
Hm.
Hizashi leans too far into his space, throwing an arm around him, and Oboro pulls him out of his seat entirely, dragging him into the space between them easily, as though he belongs there. He goes, pretending he does for just a few moments, and blames it on the drinks.
In between songs, they talk.
“Yaoyarozu is doing amazing, really!” Oboro says, grinning over the chicken skewers on the table. He’s half in Hizashi’s lap, and Shouta’s keeping his eyes politely on the table, not focused on how Hizashi's hands are wandering across Oboro's chest at all.
Hizashi hums. “You know, I keep seeing her and Jirou meet up after she gets off work,” he says conspiratorially. “Do you think there’s something there, hmmm?”
“You shouldn’t pry,” Shouta says reflexively, giving him a disapproving look over his mug of beer.
“Oh, c’mon, Sho! It’s practically my job as a mentor to pry, ya dig? I have to gossip about her a little bit!” Hizashi whines.
Shouta leans his chin on his hand, frowning.
Oboro cuts in before he can make a counterargument. “‘Zashi’s right! You can’t tell me you don’t meddle with your apprentices at all, Sho. I mean, Shinsou’s not making nearly enough for all that piercing gear he has, we both know it,” he says, raising his brows over glittering blue eyes.
Shouta looks away. “That’s shop money. He’s an employee. I’d do the same with any employee,” he mutters.
He wouldn’t, but they don’t need to know that.
They do, though, based on the way they both laugh.
“Sure, sure,” Hizashi says, waving his hand. “You don’t meddle with Midoriya and Bakugo, either,” he says.
“I don’t,” he replies churlishly. “They meddle with me more than anything.”
“Right, and you don’t have tattoos from each of them just to make sure they get all of their regs out of the way, even though you don’t let anyone else touch you,” Oboro says, smirking.
“They tattoo well. Aren’t one of you going to go sing or something?” he grumbles.
Hizashi grins. “Actually–won’t you this time? We never get to hear it!”
“No,” he replies immediately. He’s sung for them maybe twice out of the several times they’ve managed to drag him out. It was two times two many, usually when he was three sheets to the wind, and generally when he was roped into some kind of bet or another.
Apparently Hizashi decides tonight will be the latter.
“Pleeeeeeease, Sho? What if–”
“No,” he says, cutting him off, because that glint in his eyes is dangerous.
“It’s a bargain! C’mon, hear me out!” He pushes his glasses up to the top of his head, unleashing the full force of his strange red eyes on Shouta’s poor heart. Oboro grins a sharp little smile, slicing his defenses further.
“Come on, Sho, it’d be criminal not to hear that face out. Look at him,” he says, grabbing Hizashi’s jaw, giving it a little wiggle. Hizashi moves easily with him, like he’s used to being manhandled by Oboro, and that–
God, that’s an image.
Shouta swallows a too-big gulp of his drink. “What do you want.”
“You let me pick one song for you, just one!” Hizashi bargains, holding up a finger. “And in exchange, you can design any tattoo you want, and put it wherever you want on me.” He grins. “No veto powers. Anything!”
Oh, that’s a heady power to have. He does have an idea, something he’s wanted to put along Hizashi’s neck but hasn’t suggested because of the way it won’t be able to be covered should he want to.
… Shouta really wants to put something permanent on Hizashi that can’t be covered.
His eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he flicks a glance to Oboro, whose pupils are huge, flicking between them with interest.
“And you’re alright with your boyfriend letting me mark him permanently with whatever I want, for two minutes of me singing?” he asks, arching a brow.
Oboro’s nodding before he even finishes talking. “Yeah, yep. His body. He can put whatever tattoos on it he wants, uhuh,” he says, lacking his usual eloquence.
“It’s not whatever tattoos he wants, though,” Shouta says, voice low and careful, leaning forward. “It’s whatever I want.”
Both of them swallow, staring at him.
“... Yeah,” Oboro says, voice cracking.
“Uhuh,” Hizashi agrees weakly.
He’s probably imagining the fact that they seem… very into that. Maybe as into it as he is. Hm. Something to consider later.
Shouta leans back, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Deal, then. Pick a song,” he says, tipping his head toward the machine.
Hizashi shares a look with Oboro before getting unsteadily to his feet, stumbling over to the machine. He clicks through it, scrolling for a moment. “Aha. You’ll know this one–I listen to it all the time when you’re in the shop!” he says.
Great. That could mean any number of things. Hizashi listens to a number of songs when Shouta ends up in his record shop for the evening, but generally it’s English pop or rock songs. Shouta, notably, does not know English. He’s never needed to learn more than the basics, and he’s kind of terrible at it. He’s great at mimicking the sounds, but the actual meaning, frankly, is lost on him.
Hizashi’s favorite thing to do is trick him into saying English phrases that are frankly kind of filthy, and then watch him flush about it later, so this doesn’t quite bode well. Hizashi is perfectly fluent in English, and Oboro is well on his way, so whatever he picks is probably going to be a little bit filthy and probably way outside of his normal comfort zone.
Whatever.
He lets the reward of tattooing Hizashi’s neck propel him out of the chair and put the mic in his hand.
Yeah, the tune that starts up is one he recognizes immediately, and one that he knows is definitely filthy because of the way Hizashi dances to it when it comes on. He has no idea what the lyrics actually mean, but there’s no other way to interpret the way that Hizashi sways to it when he dances around the shop, hips rolling, arms in the air, grin sharp and predatory any time he makes eye contact with Shouta.
So.
Yeah.
He’s familiar with the song, at least. He remembers how it goes, since it’s burned into his brain, along with the way that Hizashi moves to it, so he can sing to it. The little machine announces that it’s Shackles by Steven Rodriguez, whoever that is, so he hopes he’ll do it some justice. He drops his voice into that tone, tipping his chin up to let that rasping growl in, and mimics the words as best as he can.
Shouta figures he should be fair, at least, since he’s doing this as a proper bet, so he does put on a proper show for them. He mimics the way Hizashi sways his hips when he sings, prowling into their space, and he grins sharply when he sees the pink flush spread across both of their faces.
If they’re going to make him sing filth he can’t understand, they should at least both suffer for it, he thinks. He pulls his hair free from the hair tie, letting it loose at some point to toss it back over his shoulder, and flicks a glance over to Hizashi, raising a brow. He thinks he actually hears a little whimper, and that curls low in his gut, boosting his confidence through the rest of the wretched song. The moment it finishes, he tips the mic back to Hizashi. “I’m tattooing your neck,” he says flatly.
Hizashi swallows. “... Yep,” he says faintly. “Sure, okay, yes, sir, okay.”
Oboro elbows him.
He asks Oboro something in a flurry of English that Shouta doesn’t quite catch, and Oboro responds in kind.
Shouta sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’ll let you out of the bet if you changed your mind,” he says, sitting down. He grabs his drink, taking a sip.
“What? No!” Hizashi says quickly. “I didn’t!”
“No, really, he didn’t!”
Shouta frowns at him. “Then there’s no need to talk in English in front of the monolinguist, is there?” he says churlishly. Don’t leave me out, he begs without begging.
He sees Oboro’s eyes soften. “Sorry, Sho,” he says. “We were just saying you were amazing.”
“Really! We were!” Hizashi agrees, leaping to his feet to come around to his side of the table. “That was awesome!”
“Mhm,” he agrees quietly, trying to convey that he’s alright, that it was a momentary waver and that he’s fine now. Hizashi, as always, seems to understand. He grins, taking the mic up. “Let’s see, what should I sing now…” he hums.
Hizashi decides to get him back for teasing them by singing Hot Limit by TM Revolution, and that’s a show, especially in Hizashi’s tight leather pants. He drops into Shouta’s lap at one point, twirling Shouta’s loose hair in his fingers with a sharp grin, and Shouta looks at Oboro with a practiced, bored look of dismay that Oboro laughs at brightly.
He never understands how Oboro doesn’t seem to get jealous when Hizashi does this–he’s practically straddling Shouta’s lap for half the song, singing to him about how he’s next on the list, and how they’ll burst on fire, and make love until they burn to a crisp while the guitars go in the background, and Oboro is just… grinning away in the background, watching them with a fond little smile like everything is right in the world.
It always boggles his mind. Hizashi is the same way with Oboro, though, he supposes. Oboro will be sitting half on him, singing sappy love songs about holding his hand and riding bikes into the summer sunsets, and Hizashi will just laugh and watch on in amusement.
Shouta doesn’t get them, or how they work, not really. He feels like he’s along for the ride, caught in a whirlwind that will deposit him somewhere, eventually, and all he can do is wait to see where.
Maybe it’s the bet that makes Shouta a little reckless, or the fact that he’s been on the whirlwind for so long that he just wants to know where it could possibly land, or the fact that the song ends, and Hizashi doesn’t seem inclined to get off of his lap, but Shouta–settles his hands on his hips.
It’s a small concession. A very small one, but huge considering how very little he allows himself with them, something that could be brushed off as trying to stabilize him to keep him from falling over. Hizashi notices immediately, his words stuttering off into silence, his eyes snapping over to Shouta, widening.
Shouta moves to let go, and Hizashi immediately grabs his hands, putting them back. “No, no, don’t–” he says quickly.
Shouta lets them rest at his hips, staring at the table instead of at Hizashi. He considers for a long moment, then sighs. “... I don’t know what you two want,” he says finally, because he’s always been straight forward, and he doesn’t intend to stop now. If they want something from him, they’ll have to say it, otherwise he won’t dare to allow himself to think it, to hope for it, to want it, even a little. He’s never allowed himself hope for hopeless things. He’s too pragmatic for that.
“Want?” Oboro repeats.
“Want,” Shouta confirms. “If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing. We’re friends, and that’s fine,” he says flatly. “If it’s not, then.”
“Then what?” Hizashi asks, leaning forward, licking his lips.
“Then you’ll have to say it,” Shouta says. “I’m not going to.” He looks up at Hizashi, furrowing his brows. “... I don’t pretend to be more than I am. I’m unsociable. Closed off. Too quiet, probably rude. Vindictive, at times.” He lists them off one at a time, all of the things he knows about himself, all of the things that have been handed to him by one lover or another over the years. “I’m terrible at taking care of myself, and I’ll work more than I’ll be there for anyone else. I’ll likely choose the shop over other people, more than once.”
Hizashi takes his face in his hands, putting his thumb over his lips, stopping the words from coming. “... Is that really how you see yourself, Sho?” he asks, his brows furrowed.
Shouta blinks. “... S’true,” he says against his thumb.
“No, it’s not,” Oboro says flatly. “You’re… Fuck, Sho. You’re perfect. You’re kind to everyone who deserves it, and you’re one of the most hardworking people I know. Yeah, you’ll choose the shop over other people, but not in emergencies. If ‘Zashi or I absolutely needed you, you’d be there. You’d choose the shop over stupid shit, like karaoke dates or hangouts that can be rescheduled,” Oboro says. “And so would we. I’d choose my shop over it, and so would ‘Zashi.”
‘You’re perfect’ rattles around in his head, not finding purchase anywhere. Hizashi is still in his lap, still holding his face so gently.
“You are perfect,” Hizashi agrees gently. “You’re so passionate about what you do, and just because you don’t fill every silence or sugarcoat everything doesn’t mean you’re unsociable or too quiet or rude. You’re just honest, and you don’t waste words,” he says. “And… yeah, okay, you’re pretty bad at taking care of yourself, I’ll give you that one, baby,” he says, laughing that bright little laugh.
‘Baby’ rattles around right next to ‘you’re perfect’, and Shouta can barely breathe.
“... What are you saying,” he croaks.
Hizashi glances at Oboro, who stands up to come to his other side, leaning down to bracket him in.
“I’m saying it’s not nothing,” Oboro says finally, carefully carding his fingers through his hair. “Never been nothing,” he adds.
Oh.
Well.
That explains some things, he thinks. He tips his head back to look at Oboro. “... Is that why you got a half sleeve for your first tattoo?” he asks, a wicked grin curling across his lips.
A lovely little flush blooms across his face. “... Look, when you moved into that shop, it was–a problem,” Oboro says with a laugh. “You were hot, covered in tattoos and those goddamn piercings, and you spent half of the time you were moving in shirtless. Thought ‘Zashi was going to die,” he says.
Hizashi whines. “Oboro!” he complains. “You were just as bad!”
Shouta hums. Alright. He can–work with this. If they think he’s hot and want to have fun. If that’s what this is. It’s not necessarily what he wants, but he can work with it. It’s not exactly the first time someone’s been into him specifically for the danger factor he gives off.
“Then you want to fuck,” he says, to clarify.
Hizashi chokes, dropping his forehead on Shouta’s shoulder. Oboro makes an equally strangled noise, his hand tightening in Shouta’s hair in a way that drags his head back a few centimeters. He raises a brow at him. “... Is that a yes?” he asks.
“Well–it’s not a no,” Hizashi whines into his shoulder. “Of course we–want that,” he says, laughing. “Jesus, Sho, you’re straight forward.”
“I’m rational,” he counters. “If we’re not clear, miscommunications happen,” he says. “I don’t like miscommunications. They’re messy.”
Oboro laughs helplessly. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. Can we–can we go somewhere that’s not a karaoke bar to talk about this, at least?” he asks.
Shouta shrugs. “Sure. My place or yours?” he asks, tipping his head back to look at him.
He groans, dropping his head to put their foreheads together. “... You’re killin’ me, Sho.”
· · ────── ♬₊⊹♬•❁ᓚᘏᗢ❁•♬⊹₊♬────── · ·
They end up at Hizashi and Oboro’s. It’s above the flower shop, just across from the tattoo parlor. It’s nicer than his, larger, and has an actual bedroom with a door. Their bed is also bigger, something Shouta is specifically not thinking about because they haven’t finished talking yet. He sits on the couch, waiting expectantly. He’s not nervous.
He’s not.
Shouta doesn’t get nervous because he doesn’t allow himself to hope for things he’s not going to get. At best, he’s going to maybe get one night with them, and then they’ll go back to normal. If that. More likely, they’ll have an awkward conversation then go back to whatever they were doing before, and Shouta can handle that.
It would be a lot easier to be not nervous if Oboro would stop pacing.
“Can you sit down,” Shouta says.
“Right, yeah, sorry,” he says, sitting down quickly on the coffee table in front of Shouta, so that their knees knock together. “I just–you know–it’s–we’ve know each other for… how long now?” he asks, smiling crookedly.
Shouta thinks. How long has he had the shop? Years, at least.
“Almost eight years,” Hizashi says easily from the seat beside him. “You got here when you were twenty-one.”
Shouta hums. Eight years for him to build his practice into what it is. It feels like barely any time has passed since Oboro bounded into his business, introducing himself and saying he’d have to come back for a tattoo, since Hizashi came in and handed him a CD to play and helped him install a sound system in the shop after complaining that it was too quiet. He’s not sure he remembers exactly when the flowers started, when the little bouquets started lining his station, when the stacks of CDs got their own shelf in the corner. After a year? Two?
“... Yeah,” he murmurs. “A while. So… Don’t wanna break it,” he summarizes.
“Yeah,” Oboro agrees. “We have something pretty good.”
“But,” Hizashi says quietly. “I… I think we could have something better,” he says nervously. He reaches out and takes Shouta’s hand, toying with his fingers, trailing along the end of the tiger’s tail that loops to an end on the back of his left hand. “More, y’know?”
Shouta sighs again. They’re dancing around it. “So, you want to fuck,” he reiterates. “Is it that hard to say?”
Oboro groans, putting his head in his hand. “We don’t just want that!” he objects. “We–I–” He flutters his hands, flustered. “I love you.”
Shouta blinks. Then blinks again. “... You love Hizashi,” he says carefully.
Hizashi squeezes his fingers. “I love you, too,” he says nervously. Shouta looks at him, sure that he’s looking at Oboro, but he’s not, he’s looking at Shouta. They’re both looking at Shouta, saying ‘I love you’ like he’s someone worth loving, and he’s–no longer sure what this is.
He thought they just wanted him for his looks, for the artpiece he’d meticulously turned himself into over the years. This is not the deal, and not something he knows how to deal with.
He’s not someone to love.
Shouta looks down at his hands for a long moment. “... Why?” he settles on. “Why would you need me when you have each other?”
Oboro smiles. “We don’t,” he says softly. “I don’t need anyone… not really. I can be stable on my own. But I want you. And I want ‘Zashi. I want your intensity. Your honesty and your straightforwardness that cuts right to the heart of every problem. I want your single-track mind that doesn’t rest until the issue is solved.”
“I’m–well, I’m kind of needy, actually,” Hizashi says, laughing. “I need people. But he’s right. I want you, too. You’re determined, and you’re so quietly kind to people when you decide they’re worth it that it makes my heart clench. I love seeing you work, watching you get lost in making a new design, or tattooing someone. God, especially when you were tattooing me. Watching you work is… Fuck, Sho.” He sighs, leaning back against the couch.
… Well, if they love him, and they’re not opposed to fucking him. He’s–not sure what he’s ready to say back, but he does want this. He wants them. He knows where he wants to start.
Shouta leans forward, carefully taking Hizashi’s jaw in his hand. “Oh? It’s… what, Hizashi?” he asks, tilting his head. “Tell me.”
Oboro’s breath catches. “You–are you…?” he asks breathlessly, slipping forward onto the couch behind Shouta.
“Mmm,” he agrees, not moving his eyes from Hizashi. “If you’re both… agreeable,” he says quietly. “I’d like to try.”
“Fuck,” Hizashi breathes, his eyes wide. “Okay. Yeah. Yes, please.”
“I asked a question, ‘Zashi,” Shouta says, adjusting his grip on his jaw to something a little more firm and grasping, tipping his head to the side just to see how well he’ll obey.
Hizashi’s head moves with no resistance, baring his throat easily. It’s a heady rush of heat, that power. “... You,” Hizashi says, swallowing. Shouta can feel the motion under his pinky, pressed lightly against his throat. “Your eyes are so focused when you tattoo. It’s like a brand on my skin,” he says shakily. “And you move me around like I don’t weigh anything at all. When you were doing my back piece, you shifted me in the middle of it at one point–just–picked me up and moved me over a little,” he breathes. “Then said I was a good boy for sitting so well, murmured it in this deep throaty voice, God, I got off to that for weeks, Sho,” he whimpers.
Shouta’s brows raise. “I said that out loud, huh,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think that one left my head.”
“God, I’m glad it did,” Hizashi laughs.
Oboro winds his fingers into Shouta’s hair, scraping lightly as his scalp, and he feels him settle more firmly against his back, his free hand sliding over his shoulder to drift over his chest. “... Wanna kiss you, Sho,” he whispers.
“So do it,” Shouta says back, tilting his head back toward Oboro. He turns Hizashi’s face toward them, still holding his jaw so he can watch as Oboro shifts forward, tipping Shouta’s head to the side to press their lips together.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted, open-mouthed and messy and wanting, with just a touch of sweetness that he’s come to expect from Oboro. He hums into the kiss, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, and revels in the moan it drags out of him. Hizashi squirms in front of him, his hands reaching out to toy with the edge of Shouta’s shirt.
“Sho, my turn,” Hizashi complains, pulling on his shirt.
Shouta pulls back slightly, brushing his lips against Oboro’s one more time. “... What do you think? Does he deserve a turn yet?” he asks against his lips. “Has he been a good boy?”
Hizashi lets out a pathetic little whine, writhing in front of him, and he watches Oboro’s eyes go dark.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs. “I’d say he’s been well-behaved. He waited until we got home to jump you, didn’t he? Patience of a saint, practically.”
“Hmmm. Suppose,” he agrees. Shouta turns to Hizashi, pulling him forward. He drags his thumb along his lower lip, pleased when his tongue flits out to lathe along the pad of his thumb, showing off the flash of silver from the tongue ring that Shouta had pierced him with some time back.
“Come here,” Shouta commands, dragging him forward by his hip so that he falls halfway into his lap. Hizashi comes willingly, his hands settling onto Shouta’s shoulders. He tugs him forward, dragging him into a rough kiss, one that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else. He drags out as many sounds as he can out of Hizashi, rubbing circles into his hips as he explores his mouth like a man on a mission.
Oboro seems to decide that he’s had enough of just observing after a few minutes, ducking in to press his lips along the side of Shouta’s neck. It surprises him, making him gasp softly into Hizashi’s mouth. He moves one hand from Hizashi’s hip to Oboro’s hair, tangling it in the soft wild blue strands, pressing him in a little more firmly. Getting the idea, Oboro scrapes his teeth along Shouta’s neck, and he groans softly, hips twitching against Hizashi.
“... Bedroom?” Hizashi asks breathlessly against Shouta’s lips.
“Don’t wanna ride me on the couch?” Shouta asks with a wicked little grin, just to see the look on his face.
Hizashi gasps, rolling his hips down against Shouta’s. “I–fuck, want everything,” he admits. “Anything you’ll give me.”
Oboro bites down on his neck, hard enough to make him moan. He grips his hair tightly. “I wanna fuck you in our bed, actually,” he says, almost conversationally. “Preferably while you fuck ‘Zashi stupid.”
Jesus.
“And you said I was a problem,” Shouta says, slightly strained. He huffs a laugh. “Bedroom. Now.” He tugs Oboro’s hair, pulling him away from his neck. Hizashi starts to move, and Shouta grips his thighs. “You, don’t move,” he says firmly.
Oboro’s eyes widen, and he scrambles to his feet with a little grin.
Shouta slips his hands under Hizashi’s ass, balancing him, then hefts them both to a standing position. He’s not the strongest guy in the world, but Hizashi has a fairly narrow frame, and Shouta does work out a fair bit, so he doesn’t even grunt from the effort. Hizashi makes it easy, wrapping his legs around his waist, putting his arms around his shoulders, letting out a positively sinful moan.
“Fuck, Sho. Love when you move me around,” he mutters.
“Love when you curse in English,” Shouta mumbles. It’s weird, so he hasn’t mentioned it, but it–does something for him, the harsh consonants, the way they fall out of his lips so easily, so different from his normal speaking tones.
“Love you both,” Oboro whispers. He opens the door, and they all stumble in.
Shouta carefully tosses Hizashi onto the bed, kneeling down in front of it to undo his leather pants. “No idea how you get in and out of these each day,” he says, tugging on them. They barely budge.
Hizashi drops his head back and laughs. “It’s an art, Sho. Watch and learn.” He reaches down, wiggling and peeling himself out of them in a way that’s so decisively unsexy that all they can do is laugh for a few minutes.
“That was not art,” Shouta finally manages.
“It’s modern art. You’re just a critic,” Hizashi dismisses.
Oboro cackles. “You looked like a rolly polly, flailing around,” he says, and Shouta can’t help another round of quiet laughter.
He shakes his head, pleased that, if nothing else, this is still Hizashi and Oboro. They may… date, or fuck, or do whatever, but they’re still a little ridiculous. They’ll still laugh at each other. He crosses his arms, tugging off his shirt to toss it aside, and blinks when Oboro and Hizashi’s eyes snap to him immediately.
“... Oh?” he asks, tilting his head.
“I mentioned you’re fucking hot, right?” Oboro says, stalking toward him. He sighs, running a palm across his chest, pausing to flick the metal bar through his nipple. “And these,” he says thinly. “These are just mean.”
Shouta groans, low in his throat. “Like them?” he asks.
“Like everything about you,” Oboro says lowly. He leans forward, dragging his teeth across his collarbone, sucking a mark into the hollow at the base of his throat.
He grips his waist, breath speeding up. “Ngh… Yeah?”
“What other piercings do you have, huh? Anything else you’re hiding?” Oboro demands, his hand snaking down between them to grip at the bulge in his pants.
Shouta grinds against his palm with a breathy groan, nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ll have to–ngh–take off my pants to see it, though,” he challenges.
Oboro swears quietly under his breath. “‘Zashi, show him how good you are at giving head, huh? Wanna see you choke on his cock.”
“Fuck,” Shouta gasps, closing his eyes for a moment.
He hears the sentiment echoed by Hizashi as he scrambles off the bed. His shirt came off at some point, so he’s only in black briefs, dropping to his knees in front of Shouta immediately. He undoes the button on his jeans, leaning forward to snag the zipper with his teeth, and Shouta has to close his eyes again, putting a hand over his mouth. Oboro moves behind him, taking the hand over his mouth to link their fingers.
“No,” he says firmly. “Wanna hear every sound you’re going to make, Sho. Gonna sing for us again? Twice in one night?” Oboro’s voice is low and dark in his ears, and he lets out a soft gasp.
He’s distracted for a moment by Hizashi tugging down his jeans, running his hands along his thighs. “Love these,” he murmurs, pressing his thumbs into the thigh tattoos he has. His left thigh tattoo is a realistic mermaid with a long golden tail that flips around the side of his leg, and his right is an experimental one he’d done earlier on in his career of a dragon tearing its way out of his knee, winding its way around his thigh. He’s fairly proud of it, frankly–it doesn’t look half bad. Shouta steps out of his jeans, reaching down to tug Hizashi’s hair out of the careful bun it’s in. He winds his hands into the silky blonde locks, tugging lightly, and revels in the way Hizashi sighs, like he’s pleased.
“C’mon, ‘Zashi. Wanna see him,” Oboro murmurs. He slides his hands along Shouta’s abdomen, reaching down to push down his boxers. Hizashi reaches up to help, tugging them down and off the rest of the way.
Hizashi looks like a vision on his knees below Shouta, his hair tangled in between his fingers, his eyes hazy and dark with lust. Oboro is just as gorgeous, his chin hooked over his shoulder, his hair mussed, eyes dark and focused on his newly exposed cock. Shouta vaguely realizes he hasn’t taken off any of his clothes, and it makes him–vaguely hot, actually, that Oboro is fully clothed, watching them like this.
“... You really do have a piercing down here,” Hizashi breathes, running his thumb along the line of piercings.
He drops his head back on Oboro's shoulder, closing his eyes. “Mmmhm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to–know what it felt like. So I could recommend it or not. S’the first thing people ask about with–ngh–piercings half the time,” he says, his hips twitching as Hizashi toys with the piercings, running his thumb up and down the ladder, around the thin, sensitive skin between each bar. “It was only logical to get it done.”
“How’s it feel inside someone?” Oboro asks quietly.
“You can ask ‘Zashi when I’m fucking him,” he answers breathlessly.
“Jesus,” Oboro murmurs. “You’re unreal.”
Hizashi lets out a soft little moan, swaying forward to drag his tongue along the side of his cock, careful to keep his tongue piercing away from Shouta’s piercings. He lets out a little breathless chuckle.
“Really makes you work for it,” he murmurs. He adjusts his grip in his hair, letting himself relax for a moment as Hizashi explores what he likes to do, trading between kitten licks and long, flat dragging licks that make him sigh, his head lolling toward Oboro.
Oboro takes advantage, dragging him in for a messy kiss, sucking his tongue into his mouth in a way that drags him from pleasantly turned on to filthily horny in no time. His hand tightens in Hizashi’s hair, and he pulls forward slightly on accident, gasping when he accidentally pulling himself into his mouth, toward the back of his throat in a shallow thrust. Hizashi doesn’t stop him, instead rubbing his thighs in encouragement, quickly covering his teeth and relaxing his jaw.
Shouta pulls away from Oboro for a second, glancing down at him to pull Hizashi back slightly. “... Yeah?” he asks, his voice low.
“Yeah, fuck, I can take it,” he says immediately. “Ask Oboro.”
“Can I fuck his face?” he asks, tilting his head toward Oboro.
“Yeah. Loves it,” he murmurs. “You’ll tap out if you need to, won’t you, Sunshine?” he asks, looking down at Hizashi.
Hizashi nods eagerly, patting Shouta’s leg twice in demonstration.
Shouta nods, guiding him back. He takes Shouta back down in one slow movement, tongue swirling and careful. “God. He’s–so good,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, he is,” Oboro agrees in his ear. His hands have been aimlessly wandering, toying with the bars in his nipples, dragging nails down his chest and his sides, ghosting across his neck, slowly driving him crazy. He tugs Hizashi forward a little bit further until he bottoms out, briefly surprised by the lack of resistance.
“God. Perfect,” he murmurs.
Hizashi flickers a glance up at him, looking pretty and pleased and wrecked, spit gathering at the corner of his lips already. Shouta rolls his hips back, then forward, finding a slow, careful rhythm.
“You know, we fucked before I sent Hizashi over to you,” Oboro says conversationally, and Shouta’s hips stutter. “In the back of the shop. He said he was going to see you, and he got that look in his eye.”
“Look,” Shouta rasps back, too flat to be a question, his free hand coming up to grab Oboro’s jaw. He turns into his hand, nipping his palm.
“He was drooling for you,” Oboro says, his voice low and raspy. Hizashi moans, and it reverberates through him, making him gasp. “He always does, every time he goes over to see you. Puts on his tightest pants like he hopes you’ll rip him out of them and fuck him over the nearest chair.”
Shouta’s hips jerk forward a little bit harder, and Hizashi makes a small choking noise. He hesitates, pulling back, but Hizashi just pulls him back in with an impatient little tug.
“He likes it, you know. Go on. Fuck his face properly, Sho. You’re being too kind,” Oboro says, turning his face into his neck to bite down. Shouta cries out, tightening his grip so he can thrust forward with purpose, fucking into Hizashi’s throat properly. It gags him, just a little bit here and there, but he does seem to enjoy it. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, and God, he looks wrecked. Shouta isn’t much better.
“Oboro,” he moans. “‘Zashi–gonna–” he gasps.
“Go on. Won’t be the last one we get out of you tonight,” Oboro says with a firm certainty that makes Shouta’s toes curl. He throws his head back with a gasping little moan, trying to pull Hizashi away, but he resolutely pushes forward, letting Shouta finish.
“Ngh… Fuck,” he mumbles, relaxing back in Oboro’s arms, watching Hizashi pull off. He turns to Oboro and opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue to show off his mouthful of cum like a prize. “Fuck,” Shouta says, dazed.
“Good boy,” Oboro purrs. “Swallow.”
Hizashi obeys, then grins, leaning back on his palms. “Well,” he says, and Jesus, his voice is wrecked. “How’d I do, Sho?”
Shouta leans down to grab him, hauling him up to toss him onto the bed. He follows him over, climbing on top of him to lean down and kiss him roughly.
“Where is–” he starts to ask, reaching down to tug off Hizashi’s briefs. Oboro holds out a bottle to him, and he looks back, huffing a little laugh as he takes the bottle of lube. “Prepared,” he says approvingly.
“He is, mostly, you know. Like I said. We already fucked before he came to see you,” Oboro says with a little rebellious grin. “When’s the last time you got fucked, Sho? How long is it going to take me to open you up? Make you sing pretty for me?” he asks, running a finger down his spine.
He shivers, looking away from Oboro. That, unfortunately, puts his gaze straight to Hizashi, who grins at him crookedly.
“... It’s been a while,” he admits. He doesn’t want to admit it’s been almost five years, that it’s been since he realized that he liked them; that he decided if it wasn’t them, it wasn’t good enough. He thinks that’s… probably a little pathetic. He hasn’t even really admitted it to himself until now that that’s why he’s turned down every advance, tossed every number he’s gotten, ignored any interest he’s gotten.
Oboro presses a kiss into his spine. “How about I start with you first, then you work on Hizashi? He’s easy,” he says with a little smirk that he can feel against the skin of his back.
Hizashi makes a little noise of complaint, but laughs anyway. “I’ll just have to kiss you the whole time,” he says, like he’s making a sacrifice.
“Tragic,” Shouta says flatly. He passes the lube back to Oboro, glancing over his shoulder. “You need to take off your clothes, first,” he says firmly.
Oboro glances down at himself in surprise. “Oh. I didn’t–even realize,” he says, flushing. “Yeah, hang on.” He stands up, tugging off his t-shirt. Shouta’s eyes trail across the sleeves that spill across his chest, the flowers that drift across his collarbones and pecs. He follows Oboro’s hands down as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, wiggling out of them quickly. Hizashi’s hand gently taps his jaw, guiding his attention back down, and he hums, looking back down to him. He leans down, giving him a slow, syrupy sweet kiss for the request. Hizashi seems to soften under it, an arm wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer.
Oboro settles back onto the bed behind him, running his hands along his back soothingly, leaning forward to pepper kisses into his lower back. Shouta obligingly parts his legs a little wider over Hizashi, arching his spine slightly, and glances over his shoulder.
Oboro looks at him, eyes dark and wanting. “... God, you two are a vision,” he murmurs. “Art pieces, laid out just for me.” He sighs. “... How do you feel about marks?” he asks thoughtfully, looking along his spine. “I left a few already. Should’ve asked first.”
“I’m a fan,” Shouta says dryly. “You couldn’t tell by the permanent ones I’ve left on you both?” he asks, bracing himself on one palm to caress the sleeve on Hizashi’s arm.
Hizashi shudders, and Oboro moans quietly against the skin of his back.
“... Knew you got something out of it,” he whispers against his back.
“Obviously,” he says with a little smirk. “You both walked in, blank canvases, begging to be marked up by me specifically. Not sure why you think I wouldn’t get a bit of power trip out of that,” he murmurs.
Oboro clicks the bottle, and he feels a finger drift to his entrance, slick and circling. “I didn’t beg,” he tries to argue, pressing his lips to Shouta’s shoulder.
Shouta arches his back. “Ah, no, you just–made it wildly interesting,” he says. “Talked to me about flowers for hours and brought me coffee. Bribed me during our consultations with the best coffee I’ve ever had,” he remembers, sighing.
“God, yeah. Expensive, too. Worth it. Every time you took that first sip, your eyes would roll back just a little, and you’d let out this sinful little moan,” Oboro groans in his ear. He presses inside, biting down on his shoulder, and Shouta moans. Hizashi’s hands come up to wander, sliding across his sides, his hips, his pecs.
“Fucking hell,” he mumbles. “You two are amazing,” he says, leaning up on his elbows to press kisses along Shouta’s neck as well.
“It was–ngh–good coffee,” Shouta murmurs, tilting his head back. Oboro slips in a second finger, gently and carefully working him open. It’s a slow and gentle process, and with Hizashi’s hands on him, and both of their lips on his neck and his shoulders, he’s more than a little distracted and warm. It’s the most attention he’s ever been paid in bed; most people expect him to take charge, and he’s generally happy to do so, to find his partner’s quirks and get them off as efficiently and pleasurably as possible.
This… isn’t that.
Shouta tries to pay attention to Hizashi, but he seems more interested in mapping out every single tattoo on Shouta’s chest and shoulders with his tongue, which is–delightful, really, but not conducive to a train of thought. He tries to turn his head and kiss Oboro, to give him something back, but Oboro seems focused on his task at hand, and the moment their lips meet, he curls his fingers, striking against the bundle of nerves that makes him gasp, and he’s kind of a shit kisser after that, mouth slightly too open as he tries to find air.
Oboro doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, a little grin curling at the edges of his lips. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah, uhuh,” Shouta answers, mouthing at his jaw. Hizashi bites down on his shoulder, and he lets out a startled little moan, hips bucking forward slightly.
“... Why don’t you go ahead and make sure you’re ready for Sho, huh, Sunshine?” Oboro asks. He tosses him another bottle, and Hizashi huffs a little laugh.
“Thought I was–ngh–going to–” Shouta starts.
“I think I’m going to have you thoroughly distracted in a moment, sweetheart,” Oboro says in a low purr, and he feels another finger slide into him, twisting expertly to add to the pressure. He grips the sheets, rocking back into it, distantly aware that he’s desperately hard again.
“In a moment?” he asks incredulously. He’s pretty sure he’s quite distracted now.
“Mmmhm,” Oboro murmurs, reaching around to tease at his cock. Shouta rocks into the motion, letting out a small wheezing gasp. He leans back into Oboro, grabbing at him desperately. He comes along easily enough, accepting his messy, open-mouthed kisses. Shouta’s not even sure where to look at this point–he hears Hizashi’s soft little moans beneath him, slick sounds as he starts to open himself up, but Oboro is pressed against the length of his back, his face dark and predatory as he opens him up fully, eyes promising to ruin him.
Shouta looks down to Hizashi, seeing his legs spread wide, already two fingers in, rocking down desperately, face pink.
“Sho,” he murmurs. “... Want you.”
Shouta swallows. “Need more than two if you’re going to take me,” he rasps. “Three at least.”
Hizashi slips in a third without hesitation or effort, and Shouta grips his thigh, pressing it into the bed to spread him out further.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, punched out slightly as Oboro thrusts his fingers inside again, dragging a wave of pleasure through him. “Fuck, think I’m–Think I’m ready. Condoms?” he asks.
“Clean and don’t need them if you don’t want them. Bedside drawer if you want them,” Oboro says in a rush.
“Clean,” Shouta agrees, eyes falling back to Hizashi. “‘Zashi? Want me to–”
“Want to feel you,” Hizashi moans, tipping his head back.
The bottle passes hands a few times, and Shouta finds himself leaning over Hizashi, pressing against him. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs firmly. Oboro leans against his back, one hand sliding along his side, the other reaching past to stroke along Hizashi’s.
“He can take it. Can’t you, Sunshine?” he murmurs.
“Yeah, please, I want it, Sho,” he pleads, reaching up to wrap his arms around his shoulders.
Shouta nods, leaning down to press soft kisses into his lips, his jaw, his neck. He presses in, slowly and carefully, inch by inch, appraising his expression with every centimeter.
Hizashi’s face is resplendent; the flush spreads from his cheeks to his neck, and his lips part, small little gasping whines falling out of his mouth. “Fuck, fuck fuck, so big, feels great, come on, baby,” he babbles, his nails digging into Shouta’s shoulders.
“How does he feel?” Oboro asks, his voice alight with interest.
“Can feel–ah, ah–each piercing catching on the way in,” he gasps, his back arching. “Feels–great, actually. Almost… textured, inside,” he mumbles, his eyes closed tightly.
“How’s ‘Zashi feel, Sho?” Oboro asks, running a hand across his chest, toying idly with his nipple piercing, eyes locked on where they’re joined.
Shouta groans, low and throaty. “Like sin,” he breathes. “Tight, squeezing around me like a vice. Never wanna leave. Wonder if he’d sit pretty on my cock while I tattooed his neck,” he breathes, reaching out to run his fingers across Hizashi’s pale neck, where he’s planning on putting the next tattoo.
Hizashi lets out a loud moan, writhing beneath him, and oh, he rocks down, bringing Shouta all the way inside of him. He groans, leaning forward to kiss Hizashi desperately for a moment as he rolls his hips against him, reveling in the sensation of just–being inside of him for a moment. Hizashi bites his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and all it does is make him groan.
“Fuck, ‘Zashi, you’re–incredible,” he whispers.
Oboro runs a hand down his spine. “Can I–” he murmurs. “Wanna fuck you now,” he asks plaintively into Shouta’s shoulder. “Can I?”
All he can do is nod. Oboro tugs him back slightly, and both of them moan softly at the motion; he presses in carefully, and it’s–not exactly comfortable at first, but Hizashi immediately starts cooing at him, running his hands up and down his sides, and Oboro starts whispering in his ear, running his hands down his spine lightly.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” Oboro murmurs.
“Look wonderful like this,” Hizashi coos. He coos something in English next, something nonsensical that Shouta doesn’t understand and doesn’t care to ask about. It starts a string of English reassurances, and the only words he catches are the curses, the sharp consonants that drop out of his mouth here and there amongst what are clearly praises.
“Doing fantastic, taking me so well,” Oboro whispers in his ear. “Nearly there, just a little more, you can do it for me, can’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” Shouta agrees, because he wants to, wants to be good for Oboro; it’s a confusing line to walk, one he’s been dancing between for them since he walked into the room, between dominant and submissive and he’s–a little whiplashed from it, but he’s definitely not complaining right now. “For you,” he breathes, reaching one hand back to grab Oboro’s hair, the other braced on Hizashi’s chest for balance. Oboro leans forward immediately, kissing him roughly as he slides in the last inch, pressing him forward into Hizashi. Hizashi moans, arching up into his hand.
Oboro leans back just an inch, eyes examining his face, blown with lust and–slightly calculating. “Do you–” He inhales sharply. “Do you like that? Being good for me, too?” he asks, voice low. “Like ‘Zashi?”
Shouta’s laugh is a little breathless, and his thoughts are more than a little scrambled right now. “Don’t think–ahh–anyone can be good like ‘Zashi,” he breathes, grinding his hips forward, desperately seeking some kind of motion, forward or backwards, feeling both full and desperately taken, half out of his mind. “But–yeah, wanna, wanna be good, just, please, Oboro, fuck me, please,” he says, leaning forward over Hizashi, mouthing at his throat, breathing heavily. “Please–”
“Please,” Hizashi echoes. “Please, baby, he’s asking so nicely, please?”
Oboro groans, gripping his hips tightly. “You two are a menace together,” he says darkly. He pulls back, thrusting in once, testing, and hums a pleased little hum when Shouta lets out a little gasping moan into Hizashi’s throat. “You make some pretty noises, sweetheart. Sunshine, let’s see if we can get him to make something louder, hm?” he asks, a wicked note of glee in his voice that has Shouta glancing back over his shoulder warily just in time to see the grin on Oboro’s lips.
Ah.
He’s made a mistake, apparently.
Oboro’s hips snap forward, angling slightly. He grasps at the sheets beside Hizashi’s head desperately as it fucks him forward into Hizashi and strikes against his prostate, sending sparks of pleasure zipping up his spine.
“Fuck,” he moans.
“There?” Oboro asks breathlessly.
“Yeah, there, please, yeah,” he says, nodding into Hizashi’s shoulder.
Hizashi says something in English, and all he can pick out is his name. The tone is awed, breathless.
“What’re you saying,” Shouta manages.
“Sorry, said you were gorgeous, gorgeous,” Hizashi says. “Shit,” he gasps.
“I’m going to have to learn fucking English, aren’t I,” Shouta grumbles, and then Oboro thrusts forward again, and all of Shouta’s thoughts scatter.
Oboro picks out a rhythm, and it’s merciless, a steady pace that has both him and Hizashi gasping and moaning.
Hizashi is the first to break, reaching for Oboro’s hand. “Please, please, I wanna–please…” he starts, writhing beneath Shouta. His neglected cock looks red and aching for release. Shouta reaches for it on instinct, the desire to please strong and overriding, but Oboro’s hand catches his.
He whines, looking back at him in question.
“Not yet,” he says firmly. “Be good a little longer, Sunshine. You can hold out until Shouta cums, can’t you?” he asks. “You’re close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asks, nosing at Shouta’s neck.
Not close enough to torture ‘Zashi with waiting; he can feel the heat coiling, the slow syrupy beginnings of it building, but it’ll be moments more before he can finish. He shakes his head desperately. “Please, Oboro, let me–let me–” he begs, tugging lightly on his hand.
“Mmm, no, Sunshine’s good at waiting. We’ve tested his limits extensively,” he purrs in his ear, hips grinding forward in a filthy way that jerks Shouta closer to the edge. He can see the image Oboro paints vividly, Hizashi lain out and edged, over and over and over again, just to see how long he can hold out.
He looks down, and Hizashi’s eyes are glazed slightly, his back arched as he rocks down into each motion of Shouta rocking forward, his lips parted as he lets out soft little, “ah, ah, ah” sounds that Shouta doesn’t think he even realizes he’s making.
“Tested–how,” Shouta asks. He needs something, needs more.
“Mmm,” Oboro murmurs, keeping up that merciless pace, and it’s maddening how even his tone stays. “Kept him tied up here for hours one day. Had a vibrator to keep him just on the edge, see how close I could get him without getting him over,” he whispers in his ear. He strokes his hands over Shouta’s neck, over his collarbones, his chest. “By the time I finally let him cum, he screamed for me, Sho,” he murmurs. His next thrust is brutal, making them both gasp out a broken moan. “Bet you’d love to see it.”
“Jesus,” he gasps. “The mouth on you,” he groans. “Never would’ve–guessed.”
“Are you complaining?” Oboro asks.
“N–aaah, fuck–No, fuck, harder, like that, please, please,” he begs, feeling the heat coil tighter.
“Close?” Oboro asks again, picking up the speed, reaching around him to grab Hizashi’s hips to snap forward, and God, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, being between them.
He nods.
“Go on, touch him,” Oboro says, and Hizashi actually sobs in relief when Shouta reaches down to take him in hand, stroking him eagerly. He leans down to kiss him, but they’re both too out of it to do more than breathe each other’s air, pressing their foreheads together. Hizashi’s eyes are shut tight, and he starts babbling, a flurry of words in English and Japanese and–hell, is that French? He’s just saying anything and everything at his point, and Shouta doesn’t even try to keep up as his own release takes him by storm. He feels Hizashi follow immediately after, and Oboro doesn’t even pause, fucking them both through it. He feels his hips stutter, the way his voice drops into a low groan, and then Oboro is following them off the edge as well, gasping nonsensically about how good they were, and how well they did.
It’s not often that he falls into a floating headspace during sex, usually too focused and determined to make it good to be able to let go in the way he would need to in order to do that, so he’s–a little shocked, actually, when he drifts back into focus only to realize he’s been cleaned up already and was only distantly present for it.
Shouta blinks owlishly, looking down at himself, then over to Hizashi, who’s curled up against his chest, eyes closed. Oboro strokes a hand through his hair, and he looks up at him. “... What happened.”
“You were beautiful, sweetheart,” Oboro says, and his voice is so soft and pleased that Shouta finds himself relaxing almost immediately. “You did amazing. Fully back with me?” he checks, leaning down to look at his eyes.
“Mmm,” he acknowledges, tipping his head back to meet his gaze head on. “Not often I get that kind of…” He waves his hand.
Oboro nods. “I’m well-adapted to take care of it,” he says, grinning in that way that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Hizashi floats pretty often. He likes going down.”
Shouta hums. “Yes, he did seem to, didn’t he,” he says with a little smirk.
He laughs, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
“Whazzapning,” Hizashi asks, looking up at them blearily. Shouta runs a hand through his hair lazily.
“Just talking about how well you did,” he murmurs.
Hizashi gives him a pleased little smile. “Easy to be good for you,” he mumbles, tucking his face into Shouta’s chest. “Really wanted to do this for a long time.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
Hizashi nods, pressing a kiss into his sternum. “Thought you were just hot to begin with, but you’re… really nice, too,” he mumbles.
Shouta knows he’s out of it. No one’s ever really accused him of being nice before. He raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, amused.
Hizashi yawns, shifting slightly to look up at him. “Yeah. Do you remember…” His brow furrows, like he’s thinking. “It was in your first year, when you were still getting established. That kid came into your shop, full speed, just as you were closing.”
Shouta blinks. He does remember, but he’s surprised Hizashi does. “You weren’t there for that,” he says, confused. He remembers the kid, no older than nineteen, barreling into his shop, chest heaving, face blank with panic, sprinting back into his shop room, asking if he could hide out there from his father. He’d agreed without hesitation.
“No,” he agrees. “But we saw you anyway. We kept an eye on you in those early days, just out of curiosity, you know,” he admits. “So when we saw that kid run in, we were worried about you. Not sure if we could step in and help or not, y’know? And we saw him show up, later–” Hizashi says, his eyes going dark with anger.
Oboro runs a hand through his hair, and he relaxes.
“We were going to come help. Oboro had the cops dialed,” Hizashi says, a little dark grin on his face. “But then you stalked out of the shop like a goddamn avenging angel, and–”
“Jesus, Sho,” Oboro breathes, laughing. “Never seen anything hotter than you tossing a guy three times your size bodily out of your shop.”
Shouta snorts. “He was cocky. He thought because he was taller that he was better,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “He could have taken me if he hadn’t underestimated me.”
“You stepped on him,” Hizashi whines.
“It was more of a stomp,” Oboro corrects.
“You were so ready to help someone you just met,” Hizashi says, sighing wistfully. “Without hesitation. That wasn’t even an isolated incident. You do it all the time,” he says.
“I don’t beat people in the streets all the time,” Shouta says, snickering.
Hizashi and Oboro cackle. “No no,” Hizashi clarifies. “Helping people. You helped Shinsou. Practically took him in and gave him a career, a place to stay while he was getting back on his feet.”
Shouta looks at the ceiling, frowning. “... That doesn’t make me nice, that just makes me…” He huffs. “It was just the logical thing to do. I needed a piercer. He was interested in piercing, and he’s good at it.”
“Right, and funding his apprenticeship and making sure he had a place to stay, food to eat, and that he stayed off the street for two years was just logical, right?” Oboro teases.
“Yes,” Shouta replies tartly.
Oboro thumbs at his jaw, turning his head to pull him into a gentle kiss. “Your softer edges aren’t a bad thing, Sho. We like them,” he murmurs.
Shouta looks away. “... You both have enough soft edges for all of us,” he says churlishly.
Hizashi snickers. “I don’t think there’s anything soft about me, actually,” he says with a raised brow.
Shouta blinks. “... You’re kidding me,” he deadpans.
Oboro laughs. “He’s probably not, actually, he’s a menace.”
“You’re both going to kill me,” he groans, dropping his head back on Oboro’s shoulder.
“What a way to go, though?” Hizashi offers with a little smirk.
“... Ugh, fine.”