Chapter Text
Satoru can’t recall much of the previous night.
All he remembers are the fake IDs, the crowded bar and free drinks, the cute DJ with the long hair, the heat of bodies around him, the eyes on him as he lets Mahito dictate his moves on the dance floor, their hips moving in tandem with the hypnotic beat. Satoru tries to piece the night together: the IDs, the drinks, the kisses, the cock that had bullied all the way inside and emptied into his womb—
Ah, shit.
He remembers now.
.
.
.
A night out in Roppongi was never in Satoru’s Friday plans.
Any other weekend, he would be curled up on the living room couch, watching a movie with his dad to take a break from cram school and entrance exam prep he’s been doing since senior year began because he has to get into Tōdai without causing his dad any more trouble. Any other weekend, Satoru would have been tucked into bed by now, his heart light from the comedies they watch because his dad only has time for one movie. Any other week, and he would be following his tired old routine to maintain the careful balance and routine he’s been struggling to keep up with.
“Your dad’s too overprotective,” Mahito grumbles, in a very Mahito-like way, the tone he uses when he needs to do something much more reckless than catching up on summer homework the day school closes for break. “He never lets you do anything fun. When was the last time you did something fun, Satoru?”
“Last week,” Satoru answers. They had watched a movie, a Korean comedy that had them in stitches, their holy grail Friday movie nights, a reprieve from their otherwise packed schedule of business meetings and college entrance preparation. “We watched Extreme Job.”
“That’s it? You watched a movie about a fried chicken store?”
“A fun movie.”
“Gimme a break,” Mahito hisses. “You’re so boring these days. I miss the Satoru who used to do stupid shit. I don’t like this new you who thinks everything needs to revolve around your Common Test score so you can impress Daddy Dearest.”
Mahito has a point. Satoru can admit that; begrudgingly, he might add. He puts his pen down and turns to the boy with his cornflower blue hair up in a pony. Satoru knows that agreeing with Mahito’s plans is a first-class ticket to regret, but he trusts his friend enough to let him take the reins for one night.
“And what do you suggest we do instead?”
“You got anywhere to be tonight?”
“I—” Satoru sneaks a peek at his watch. 7:30 pm. Movie nights begin at 9. If Mahito’s plans can end before then, Satoru can get home in one piece to watch whatever is the pick of the night. But one look at the boy in front of him, and Satoru knows it won’t fly. “It’s movie night.”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t.”
“God, you’re such a fathercon.”
“I am not.”
“Then tell him that I missed hanging out with you and want to hog your attention and that you’ll make it up with father-son bonding later.”
“I don’t think that’ll—”
“Satoru.”
“—work.” Satoru sighs. “What do you even want to do?”
“Have you been to ni-chome?”
“We’re seventeen.”
“Duh.”
“Then?”
“These!” Mahito brandishes them as though he’s showing him tickets to an arcade. Satoru’s eyes widen when he notices the ID with a few details fudged. It looks real, but unlike the one tucked away in Satoru’s wallet, this one says he’s 22 and old enough to do whatever Mahito wants them to do.
“Where did you get these?”
“I met a guy—”
“And he agreed to get you fake IDs?”
“Lots of people will agree to do a lot of things for you if you just use your looks, Sacchan. I’m surprised you don’t do that anymore. Didn’t stop you before—”
“I don’t want to disappoint Dad.”
“Oh, I’m sure. But you’re disappointing me.”
“It’s—”
“You’ll be eighteen in December. This is fine, if you think about it. You might meet a guy who matches your insane standards. A head start. Do you really want to be in university with no experience because you don’t want your dad to be mad at you? For someone that hot, he’s a typical Shōwa era man—”
Which Satoru agrees with.
Because if there’s one thing Satoru’s dad is, it’s overprotective. He loves Satoru, and Satoru loves him. There’s no doubt about it. Satoru never minded it, but to expect him to be an innocent thing who only cares about grades and getting into a good college is a huge disservice to the boy he was shaping up to be—that he wanted to be. The more he thinks about it, the more Mahito makes a compelling case as to why Satoru should let go of his goody-two-shoes behaviour and have some fun away from his dad’s overbearing nature.
“Fine,” Satoru relents.
Still, it takes effort to draft a simple text saying that he can’t make it home for Movie Night. A concerned response follows, but Satoru smooths it over. He promises that he won’t miss any more of their limited and sacred time together, and his dad acquiesces. Satoru hates lying. The thrill of doing something forbidden remedies it almost immediately.
From there, it’s easy enough to raid Mahito’s closet for something skimpy and slutty that will let him masquerade his inexperience and insecurities with something much more tempting and tantalising. It’s easy enough to trail after Mahito to the club, the blinding lights and pulsing music making him wonder why he never did this earlier.
And now here he is.
All he feels is the resounding bass vibrating through his body as he twirls Mahito around, pulling him in closer, their movements in sync, all long lithe limbs, elf-like, elegant, and ethereal, putting on a show for all who’s watching; the slow grinding and the wandering hands, moving around the dance floor knowing that everyone wants a piece of them.
Satoru has not felt this way in a while; he has never felt desired in any capacity since he began T, his body changing in the ways he wanted but still leaving him feeling alien near others. He can get addicted to this attention, with everyone around him begging for a piece of him. He wouldn’t have known this had Mahito not forced him to confront all his worries and dragged him out of his shell with an evil glint in his eyes.
They finally move to the bar, panting from having danced their asses off; exhilaration coursing through Satoru’s veins. Next to him, Mahito giggles, sipping on a drink he didn’t remember seeing the other boy ordering. Right, the older guy.
Satoru swallows, his mouth dry. He turns to the counter, about to ask for a glass of water, when the bartender hands him a bottle without prompting.
“Uh— Thanks,” he mumbles, opening the bottle and taking a sip. He looks around, eyes catching on the colourful bottles. He imagines what it must feel like to get drunk, to blame his actions on the alcohol and not on the twisted desires inside him.
“For you.” Almost like he read his mind, the bartender slides him a shot of whiskey. Expensive, from the looks of it. It looks similar to the one his dad drinks at home; the one Satoru has stolen a sip off, only to retch his insides out as a kid. “It’s Yamazaki.”
“Uh, how much is it?”
“It’s already paid for.”
“Is it? By who?”
“They told me not to tell you—”
“Sure, like that’s not creepy at all.”
For all his objections, the whiskey tempts him, stoking his curiosity. He’s not the type to drink; even at family functions, Satoru sticks to water. Satoru tried drinking wine on the odd occasion, only to wake up to his dad nursing his hangover. He always sees Satoru as a kid. The need to be an adult, the need to be taken seriously, bubbles up from inside at the memory, and he downs the shot, the unpleasant burn making itself known the moment he empties it. He coughs, drool slipping past his lips. He doesn’t know how his dad drinks as much as he does, but the familiar smell of whiskey has him shivering, goosebumps lighting his skin. Satoru braves the urge to gag. He sighs, and another shot of whiskey gets slid his way. Satoru drinks this one as well, the burn still unpleasant in his throat. Another gets slid his way, and Satoru finds it amusing. Whoever it is knows their liquor, not that Satoru knows his.
All the while, Mahito clings to him and slurs the lyrics to whatever song is playing. He looks beautiful, a vision in his lace number, and Satoru never understood where Mahito got his confidence from. Not that Satoru’s any different: everything he’s wearing is too tight, ripped in areas to accentuate his features, skimpy in the best way possible.
The music around them changes, a slow, sensuous rhythm that seems to go hand in hand with the liquor he’s sipping on.
A hot breath fans across his nape.
The DJ from earlier sidles up next to them, one hand gingerly placed on Satoru’s waist, the other wrapping around Mahito’s with the ease of having done this countless times.
It takes him a moment to make the connection. The older guy. The one who was trying to impress Mahito. Maybe he’s the one trying to loosen up Satoru’s nerves with expensive whiskey.
“Thought you’d be a no-show,” he speaks with a teasing tone, kissing Mahito in the next flash. Satoru blushes, watching the way Mahito’s eyes flutter shut, only putting distance between them once he’s had his fill.
“And miss your set?” He sips the fruity cocktail again, lips glistening from spit. Satoru licks his lips unconsciously. What must it feel like to kiss someone with that kind of hunger? “Have more faith in me, Suguru-chan.”
The man, Suguru, laughs, turning to Satoru. “Is this the elusive Satoru you’ve been telling me about?”
“Mmmh, he’s my Sacchan. Pretty, isn’t he?”
“That he is.”
Satoru nods in greeting. He breathes in Suguru’s scent—sweat and spice—and stutters. “T-thanks for the drinks, by the way.”
“Drinks? Oh, that’s not me. Mahito’s, yes. But I don’t know your poison well enough to pick for you—”
“Oh? Then—”
Mahito leans in just then, whispers something that Satoru struggles to catch over the loud music. Suguru repeats the words, a question laced in them, the hand around Satoru’s waist wandering, his intentions clear, and Satoru’s eyes widen. He swivels around to face Mahito, who kisses him then, as if to swallow up his sounds, tasting the fruity cocktail he was sipping on.
“Can we, Sacchan? Suguru will take care of us. I want you to feel good. You deserve to feel good.”
It’s all going too fast for him, and uncovering the whiskey guy’s identity will have to wait. Satoru nods and groans into Mahito’s mouth, breaking the kiss only to slot his lips against Suguru’s. Right now, all Satoru wants to know is whether they’ll end up tasting like each other with how they keep swapping spit with no problem.
They stumble away from the crowd, moving into the private room in the back of the club. Satoru moans into the mouths that steal his breath, not stopping to catch air. They must make quite a sight: three beautiful people all tangled up and lost in each other. Satoru can’t find it in himself to care. He’s been a prude far too long. Maybe this is how he finally joins the league of adults.
The room they take him to is quiet.
Satoru gets a moment to catch his breath, crashing against Suguru in his alcohol-fuelled haze. His hands roam Suguru’s frame until they brush against his crotch: he’s hard. The unfamiliar texture of a stiff cock shocks him, but Mahito soothes him just as quick. He swallows Satoru’s yelp with a kiss, hands undressing Satoru, putting on a show for the man who’s slowly palming himself through the sweats he’s wearing. Satoru revels in it, slipping Mahito out of his outfit as well, exposing soft skin to the cool air of the air-conditioned room.
Suguru’s eyes don’t leave them; the longer he’s exposed to his heated gaze, the more Satoru’s skin alights in goosebumps, the more he feels eyes on him, roaming all over him.
It’s not Suguru.
His eyes aren’t the ones dissecting Satoru. Their intensity chills him, especially since he struggles to find the source.
Satoru ignores the curl of fear in favour of kissing Mahito again, biting his bottom lip as the boy herds Satoru onto Suguru’s spread thighs, letting Satoru rock his cunt onto the hard muscle. He lets out little moans when Suguru sucks a bruise onto his neck, his hands groping Satoru’s tits, Mahito’s lips insistent on Satoru’s collarbones before they merge with Suguru’s bruised lips. Their kiss erupts with a newfound passion, as though Satoru isn’t even there as a spectator. It takes him a painfully long time before he realises that he’s getting in between them as opposed to being caught between them.
Mahito might not have intended it that way, but Satoru figures that they’re both starved for each other. Satoru has never seen his friend this lost to someone else. It’s a weird feeling, but he wants to give them space. Satoru extricates himself from the tangle of limbs and mutters out an excuse which goes unregistered, as the two resume as though Satoru was never really there.
He sighs as he stumbles out of the room, bumping into a broad back in his haste to get out. He tries to apologise, but the alcohol leaves his tongue weak. He really shouldn’t have drank when he gets tipsy off wine.
“S-sorry,” Satoru hiccups, “didn’t see you there—”
Curious eyes.
The feeling of being watched.
Not just his imagination.
The man says nothing, but Satoru can feel the same heated eyes on him, pinning him to the spot. Satoru can’t imagine what he must look like, dressed like a whore and looking like he got fucked like one, too. The man remains unresponsive; Satoru sways where he’s standing, slumping against the solid muscle.
“Shit. I shouldn’t have drank so much—”
The man must think the same, too, because a hand sneaks to his waist to steady Satoru, pulling him into another private room. It’s darker than the one Suguru and Mahito took him to, only a hazy red LED lighting it. Satoru feels around for a switch, only to yelp when the room shuts behind him. The sounds from outside get muffled, the music a low hum, and Satoru hurriedly tries to make out the man’s face in the dim lights of the room.
He comes up empty.
The man’s silhouette leaves him filled with envy; he’s broad and bulky, so different from Satoru’s willowy frame. He remains silent as he circles Satoru, predatory in his stance and gait, closing the distance between them in a flash.
This isn’t how Satoru wanted the night to go.
He wanted a nice time away from the constraints of expectations and propriety, not to have a stranger push him down onto the couch cushions, his breath and vision cut off by soft leather. The man’s hot exhale fans across Satoru’s nape almost enticingly, a wet tongue swirling the shell of his ear, and Satoru moans out loud.
“Fuck—” He needs to get out, but the man has a hold around his waist. He struggles to push him off, the man’s bulk keeping him pinned down. Up close, he smells heady and potent—a familiar scent that Satoru can’t figure out. He kisses Satoru’s neck, breathing over the spot that Suguru was sucking on.
“Please,” Satoru tries, “I can’t— Don’t do this. My dad will get mad. Fuck— He’ll find you, and then he’ll kill you.”
The man laughs at that, almost tauntingly.
“Oh god,” Satoru sobs as the man bites and licks at spots that leave Satoru’s eyes fluttering. His mouth is warm and wet as it seeks out all of Satoru’s sensitive spots. His pussy soaks through his panties, legs spreading on their own accord and back arching beautifully, showing off to the man even through the nagging fear.
Satoru’s unwilling submission seems to work because the man pulls his half-undone pants to the side and cups his leaking pussy through the dainty lace, spreading his lips and massaging his stiff cock.
Satoru’s been extra sensitive and shy since he started T; it’s embarrassing how the stranger plays him so well that Satoru only gets wetter. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He should push him away and go to Mahito and get the fuck out. He should—
“Oh fuck—”
A thick finger pushes the flimsy lace aside as it breaches his pussy, another joining just as quick. Satoru jolts from the sudden intrusion, too much for his virgin cunt. He almost screams, and the man pushes two fingers into his mouth to muffle his protests. They press against his throat, Satoru gagging on the thick digits. He must be out of his mind, because his tongue wraps around the insistent fingers, sucking on them like he would a popsicle. He tastes of the same familiar scent that clouds his judgment, and Satoru can’t help but moan.
“Fuck.” It’s embarrassing: how much of a slut he is when it comes to; all the lessons on etiquette and propriety going down the drain because some stranger is about to mount him like a bitch. “Daddy—”
The man groans against his nape, his teeth nipping at Satoru’s skin. The fingers get unceremoniously pulled out of his mouth, replacing the ones in his pussy, Satoru’s spit and drool making it easier this time around. He seems experienced, if the way he turns Satoru’s pained whines into moans is any indication.
A part of him knows there’s no going back from this. A sensible voice inside Satoru knows that he fucked up. He should have stayed back and not given in to Mahito’s plans. He should have stuck to watching silly movies and telling himself that he doesn’t want to know what most kids his age get up to these days.
His limbs feel too heavy; with the man’s weight pressing down on him, Satoru feels suffocated. He tries to shove him off again, to push against the weight, anything to free himself. It only spurs the stranger on. He pinches Satoru’s stiff cock, the fingers inside his cunt rubbing his G-spot, forcing Satoru’s body to succumb to the orgasm. He tries to fight it, but the man holds him in place, letting him shake through the pleasure, searing and wrong.
It takes him a second to regain his senses, but enough for the sound of a zipper getting undone to register.
Before he can protest, the fingers lodged inside him get replaced by a thick cock, which pushes into his cunt mercilessly, not giving him the time to adjust. It splits his pussy, and Satoru howls, the pain blinding. The man seems to not care as he pulls back out and thrusts back in, setting a punishing rhythm.
Pained moans resound around them as Satoru’s cunt gets filled up in ways he never knew he wanted, the man burying his cock in him with urgency. His hands grip and knead Satoru’s ass, thick hands meeting soft skin roughly, leaving his mark on it. He fucks Satoru as though he were starved for it, treating his pussy like a fleshlight. It hurts. But Satoru doesn’t fight it, especially when the pain gives way to pleasure soon after, and Satoru keens through another orgasm. The man fucks him through the shudders, his grunts animalistic as he chases his own release. His breath ghosts over the bruise Suguru had left on Satoru’s neck, teeth digging over the spot right as he comes, his cock emptying into Satoru’s cunt.
And that’s all Satoru remembers.
He doesn’t remember the man; he doesn’t remember his face or his name. He remembers only the searing pain and numbing pleasure; how he took his virginity so callously and cruelly; how he made him feel so used and violated and whorish.
Satoru’s cunt throbs as he burrows into the mattress, the man’s cum still lodged in his cunt. He remembers Mahito and Suguru curled up around him and the handsy car ride. He remembers bits and pieces about sobering up and trying to make his way to his bed without alerting his dad because he missed the comfort of his home after the hellish night. He remembers crawling into bed; remembers how his fingers had slid into his soiled panties, mussing the cum around, wincing when his fingers tried to push into his sore cunt; he remembers doing it still, getting himself to come to the thought of the man’s perfect cock, how on any other day Satoru might have begged him for it.
He remembers how the orgasm had cleared his head enough to let him sleep.
.
.
.
With morning comes regret.
Satoru’s eyes open to the summer sun creeping in through half-shut curtains. He groans, wanting to burrow into the covers, but from the looks of it, he already slept well into the day, and no one bothered to wake him up, which, in their house, is a rarity.
He’s still wearing the same clothes he wore to Mahito’s house, and the ones he slipped into after, when he decided to follow Mahito’s path of a rebel. It chafes against his skin and overheats him. Satoru shuffles and stretches, wincing when soreness takes over, pain alighting in areas he’s never worried about before.
The slow seep of cum from his cunt answers the question for him, and Satoru has to hold back a scream as the memories flood in, and his head hurts. He pushes himself out of bed, washing up as much as he can, getting himself to not look guilty of everything he actually is guilty of before he makes his way downstairs.
For all his mental preparation, Satoru yelps when he sees Toji’s broad back in the kitchen, guilt rearing its head at having lied to his dad.
The smell of food makes him want to retch, and Satoru worries whether he looks as shitty as he feels. He doesn’t know how he’ll face his dad. How do you even broach this? How do you say: Hey, last night we used fake IDs to sneak into a club, and a stranger might have raped me?
How can he explain anything without losing whatever trust his dad has in him?
He doesn’t want Toji to know what he was doing last night. He doesn’t want Toji to be mad that Satoru was out doing stupid shit when he promised Toji that he was going to study with Mahito. He swallows, but slowly makes his way down, takes a cup and fills it up with coffee.
“You’re up,” Toji says.
“And you’re still here. What about work?”
“You looked tired when I came to wake you up, and I thought you needed to sleep, angel. Wanted to make sure you were okay before I went to work.”
“I’m fine,” Satoru yawns. “Just a bit sleep deprived. The calculus paper has been messing up all my plans. Why do I need to learn calculus if I want to do Japanese Literature?”
Toji nods sympathetically. “So, how was last night? When did you get back? You didn’t run into any trouble on your way home?”
“Around midnight. Mahito dropped me. It was fun.”
“Was it? What did you do?”
“Oh, we met up with one of his friends. We had dinner and went out. Played a few games. You know, fun stuff.”
“That’s good to know,” Toji hums. “And, Satoru?”
“Yeah, daddy?”
“You should get that rash checked out.”
“What rash?”
“The one on your neck.”
“Oh.” Satoru reddens. Well, fuck. “It’s—”
“Something must’ve bitten you, baby. It’s summer. You should be careful. There are nasty bugs out there.”
.
.
.
A week passes, and the mystery man continues to occupy Satoru’s thoughts.
He hates not knowing who he is. He hates knowing that he will never get fucked like that ever again. The only thing he knows is that he’s got a divine build, with a lethal weapon for a cock, and smelling like sex itself—and that’s not enough to put a “Have you seen this man?” poster out.
All he knows is that he doesn’t give a shit about consent or comfort, but still managed to make Satoru cum harder than he has in his seventeen years on earth. He doesn’t even bother to ask Mahito, who could actually point him in the right direction to help him. But the last thing he wants is for the older teen to make another joke about Satoru’s daddy issues, which he’s very well aware he has.
When another Friday rolls around, Satoru only grows more determined.
He wants to know who the man is. He doesn’t even want to press charges. He just wants the man to press him down and mount him; he needs him to put Satoru in place and make him cum like a bitch again.
Satoru’s horny, okay?
Anyone would be if they were born into the Gojou clan to the Zen’in reject and ended up with their entire life being made part of a dick measuring competition.
He tells Mahito that he’s going to spend the night watching manzai reruns with Toji, knowing that Suguru won’t be there, if Mahito’s words are to be believed. He tells Toji that he’ll be spending the night with Mahito again, making sure to keep his tone apologetic as he cancels on movie night the second time in a row.
Satoru hates lying to Toji; sure, he’s lying to Mahito, too, but that doesn’t hurt as much. He waits for Toji’s reaction, but all he gets is a hum in response. To make it worse, Toji barely glances at Satoru, checking his phone and saying that he’ll head out for dinner with a client if Satoru’s busy—which, despite being the one to cancel the plans, makes Satoru seethe. Maybe the blame falls on Toji. If his dad were more present in his life, Satoru wouldn’t be trying to get with a man who he’s 99.9% sure raped him and took his v-card as though he was stealing ice cream from a kid.
The spite fuels him this time.
Satoru wears the same outfit from last time, styles himself to be skimpier, and gets himself to look every bit the slut he was that day. He wants the man to seek him out, even if he isn’t at the club today. He wants him to hunt Satoru down and ruin him.
Without Mahito to set the rhythm, Satoru’s free to do what he wants. His movements are awkward, but the strangers who feel him up seem to not care, moulding him to their liking.
Time passes slowly, molasses and honey, trickling down leisurely as Satoru sways, dancing for the one person he wants to watch him. He feels eyes on him, the same heated gaze, but when there’s no indication of him approaching him, Satoru scoffs. Maybe he’s shy; maybe he only wants Satoru as long as he can take him by surprise, in the shadows, fucking him like a dirty secret.
He pulls away from his partner and makes his way to the counter, waving at the bartender again, his order at the ready. Before he can ask for what he wants, he slides Satoru a glass, and Satoru can’t help the smile that splits his lips.
The same dance as last time: Yamazaki sent his way discreetly, no trace of his benefactor until Satoru’s too out of it. Satoru hums a tune, downing the glass without question. He wonders whether he’s watching him, how obedient Satoru is being, even when he’s not there to tell him to behave. He sips on the expensive liquor that comes his way and turns down everyone who bothers to ask him for a dance, knowing the man wouldn’t dare to show his face with his affinity for accosting Satoru when he least expects it.
When too much time has passed and he feels the telltale pressure on his bladder, Satoru slinks away, stumbling towards the bathroom. All his efforts to be sexy kinda stopped him from getting up and doing what’s good for his body.
He’s close to bursting; his steps are hurried, heartbeat rising as he pushes the door to the bathroom open. It’s empty, and that should set him off, but Satoru ignores it. Instead of heading to the stalls, he walks to the cubicles. He doesn’t know why he did it; curiosity is a strong contender, and so is recklessness. His decision seems to have paid off when someone presses up against his back, their cock hard and hot through his slacks, dwarfing Satoru in their hold.
Even through the insistent throbbing in his bladder, Satoru moans, sagging against the broad chest. He wants to turn around, but he figures half the fun is not knowing who’s fucking his brains out—no matter how much he wants to know.
“Fuck, Daddy,” Satoru mewls as the man thumbs at his chubbed-out cock, heated up from the need to let go. “I didn’t think I’d see you today, but I needed you so bad.” His cunt throbs, the familiar shiver warning him that he’s about to burst, but Satoru can’t hold his mouth back. “Nothing gets me off like your cock does. My dad will kill you if he finds out what you did to me, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Maybe you can take him in a fight. You look almost as big as him—”
The man plays with his clit in response, rubbing him just right, undoing Satoru’s inhibitions, and Satoru whines from the pleasure on his bladder.
“Don’t do that—” He slurs, knowing that he doesn’t want to stop. “I’ll make a mess.”
The man doesn’t relent, pulling Satoru closer and pushing his pants down, exposing him. His fingers slip inside Satoru’s panties, smearing the slick around until he’s all sticky; his fingers slowly slide into Satoru’s cunt, massaging his g-spot, daring him to make a mess. Satoru giggles, delirious from holding back, but the man maintains the pressure on his g-spot, his free hands slowly cupping Satoru’s pussy, pressing down right over his bladder.
Satoru doesn’t fight it this time, letting his body succumb to it, his bladder emptying as the man’s fingers slide in and out of him. His eyes roll back, cunt hot and wet as he makes a mess, half the liquid spilling onto his clothes. He’s so dirty—and that only gets him wetter. The fingers inside his cunt spread his sloppy cunt apart, loosening him up, and Satoru whines in protest when the man pulls them out. He chuckles, a low and deep sound, bringing the soiled digits to Satoru’s mouth, and Satoru, being the excellent student he is, doesn’t need any prompting to lick them clean.
He giggles at the taste, hips pushing back against the man’s obvious hard on as he sucks and slurps on the thick fingers, moaning when he feels the man’s hard cock slide between his bare thighs.
He’s so big. Satoru needs to see it; he needs to commit it to his memory. He knows it’s a pretty dick: thick and veiny and curved; big enough to bully his womb open.
“You won’t let me see your face, but at least I’ll get to see your cock—”
He moans when the length peeks out between his thighs. The bathroom lights are dim, but they’re bright enough to catch on the metal adorning the shaft. The glint of the piercings that had gone unnoticed when Satoru was drunk out of his mind makes him melt against the man as he drags the heated length across Satoru’s lips, letting his sopping pussy wet it for him.
“Fuck— You’re so big. I missed it. Missed your thick cock,” Satoru slurs, the haze of lust making everything in him strung out, pulled taut. He’ll snap any second if the man doesn’t fuck him. The cool metal kisses his clit on every upstroke, and Satoru moans, not caring who hears or sees them; not caring what spills from his lips. “Do you think my dad’s cock’s as big as yours? Shit— That’s messed up, right? Can’t have my dad’s cock, so I’m here letting you feel me up?”
The man stills behind him, but Satoru doesn’t stop. “Not that you’re a paragon of virtue. You did rape me, ya know? But I love my daddy. He won’t ever fuck me, though. He’s too good for that. But you’ll do it, right? You’ll be my daddy for tonight, right?”
The man growls, biting Satoru’s neck, teeth digging in and bruising pale skin up until Satoru winces. “You should mark me up some more. Do you think if I look like a whore, he’ll stick his dick in me?”
The man doesn’t warn him before he bullies his pulsing length into Satoru’s cunt. His actions feel almost frenzied, but he fucks Satoru the same as last time, urgent and starved, as if Satoru’s nothing more than a toy to get him off. Satoru doesn’t complain either. He loves this. He wants to feel used, to be treated with no respect or care. He lets the man rearrange him until he’s nothing but a warm and wet hole for him to stick his dick into.
Maybe Mahito was right about him having daddy issues; maybe Satoru’s always been fucked in the head. He arches his back as the man fucks into him. His grip on Satoru’s waist will surely leave bruises. But Satoru doesn’t care. He wants to be fucked like a whore, wants the proof that he’s a needy slut carved into him, and he says as much, and the man grunts, a garbled Satoru, as he empties his cum into Satoru’s cunt.
His fingers make quick work of Satoru, not giving him time to process, and Satoru follows right after, cunt leaking everywhere as the orgasm wreaks through him.
.
.
.
Satoru wonders how long he can continue this.
He almost got caught the night before when he got back home at the same time as Toji. They both were stuck by the door, enacting a scene out of a comedy movie because Satoru’s brain stops working whenever he sees Toji dressed in his slacks. Satoru had to fight off the blush that threatened to paint him red, squeaking out a good night before he took off running to his room and burrowing under his covers, because how will he ever face Toji after tonight?
His poor dad still has no idea that Satoru’s been lying about study sessions with Mahito and cancelling their movie nights to get his cunt ruined by a stranger. Satoru can imagine the disappointment on Toji’s face when he finds out why Satoru’s been baiting older men into fucking him. He won’t survive it. It’s the last thing he wants.
The guilt rears its head again when they’re having breakfast the next day, Satoru scarfing down dishes that serve as the perfect remedy for his hangover and fucked out body. He tries to ignore it, but he can’t help but worry about how long he can continue this without his father catching on; how long until Satoru can no longer satiate himself with just Friday nights; how long he can continue to pretend he’s normal.
“You okay?” Toji looks at him, all concerned, his breakfast forgotten as he examines Satoru’s tired demeanour. Satoru yelps, almost choking on his food at the intensity of Toji’s gaze. “Be careful, baby.”
“I’m fine,” Satoru mumbles. The longer he stares at Toji, the more vivid his confession from the night before comes back to him. “Just a bit tired.”
“Is it college prep?” Satoru nods, and Toji sighs, “There are other universities, you know? It doesn’t have to be Tōdai. Hell, you can even take a year off. You don’t need to run yourself ragged—”
“No—” Satoru hurries to say, “No, I can handle it.”
“Are you sure, Satoru? You look sick. I’m worried you’ll fall apart any second.”
“I’m fine—” He’s not. His cunt is too sore. His head throbs. His entire body feels ruined for the better. He can’t miss out on his one chance to ascend to heaven. “The Friday sessions are helping. Sorry about movie nights, though.”
“That’s alright.”
“Sorry, I made you late today, too.”
“You didn’t. I took the day off. We haven’t exactly had time for each other, baby. I thought that we could do something.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you want. It’s summer break for you, and you’ve been spending all of it on cram school and preparing for the Common Test.”
“Oh.” Satoru thinks it over. Toji never takes a day off. In all his years of knowing him—which is pretty much his entire life—Satoru has never seen him put anything over his work, especially after his mother passed away. The offer he makes to Satoru is a cheat code for anything he wants. A part of him wants to ask him what he shouldn’t—what he never could. Satoru banishes the thoughts, knowing that it’s not a line he should cross. It won’t work out in his favour. He swallows. “Uh, we haven’t used the pool in a bit? We can lounge around? The weather seems nice today.”
“We can do that. And, if you promise not to snitch, you can finally share a drink with your old man.”
The summer sun beats down on them mercilessly.
The idea is simple: get the floaties out, lounge around, sipping on whatever Toji whips up for them, and be a normal father-son duo. Satoru has no ulterior motives as he slips into a swimsuit and joins Toji by the pool. Their property is secluded from others, so no one will be there to blame them for being too loud or rowdy.
Satoru sighs and melts into the lounge chair, already too tired to put on sunscreen. He contemplates going inside and lounging in the AC, but footsteps next to him alert him to Toji’s presence. He’s already changed; his shorts hang low, and Satoru’s eyes roam all over the exposed skin, his tongue peeking out. His muscles glisten, the combed-back hair and sunglasses making him look better than usual. He settles down next to Satoru, eyebrows raised quizzically.
“No sunscreen?”
“Too tired. Maybe this was a bad idea—”
“You won’t say that when you get into the water, baby. Gimme the bottle, I’ll do it for you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to, Satoru. The last thing I want is for you to get sunburn.”
“Fine,” Satoru huffs, handing him the bottle of sunscreen. It only hits him much later that his neck is covered in hickeys, but by then, Toji is tugging his shirt over his head. “Wait, I’ll do it myself—”
“Lie down, Satoru.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Satoru obeys, lying down and preparing himself to feel Toji’s hands on him. He shivers as thick hands massage the cool gel into his skin, careful not to leave any spot untouched. Satoru has to hold back a whimper when Toji’s fingers brush over the purpling bruises the stranger left, but he doesn’t prod or ask questions. Maybe he’s planning to grill Satoru once he’s sufficiently protected from UV rays. Who knows?
Toji’s quiet as he turns Satoru around, applying the gel onto his exposed shoulders and collarbones, slipping underneath the thin band of his swimsuit, gliding down his chest, cupping Satoru’s tits like it’s a normal thing for fathers to do. Satoru bites his lips when Toji pulls them out, applying a copious amount to the mounds on his chest, fingers brushing against his pebbled nipples.
“‘s cold,” he manages to say. Toji hums, kneading them in his hands, not letting go even as Satoru squirms.
“Need me to stop?”
“No—”
“Good boy. You should never skip out on skincare, especially if you’re going to dress up like a slut.”
“You’re being too mean, Daddy.”
“Am I?” Toji asks, squirting out some more sunscreen onto his hands, pulling Satoru’s legs apart to spread it all over Satoru’s pale thighs, massaging the soft skin. Satoru feels the slick seeping out of him; Toji’s hands are so dangerously close to where he’s leaking, but Satoru can’t find it in himself to push him off. His fingers dig into Satoru’s inner thigh, and Satoru squirms, trying to squeeze them together, whining when Toji’s body holds him open. “Look at you, baby. Panting like a bitch in heat just because your daddy’s touching you. No one’s going to think twice before labelling you a whore, you know?”
“‘m sorry,” Satoru says, “I didn’t mean to— I’m not—”
“Are you really sorry, Satoru? Isn’t that what you wanted, baby?”
“What?”
“You wanna make it up to me? For missing out on all our movie nights so you could whore around?” He presses up against the hickeys, and Satoru nods, his eyes watering. He’s not sure where this is going, but he knows he wants to be a part of it. “Get up then, angel. You don’t want to leave your old man hanging, do you?”
Toji pulls him up onto his lap with ease, and Satoru moans when he feels it. He’s hard. His dad’s hard while Satoru’s sitting on his lap. Satoru’s eyes widen, and Toji chuckles, grabbing Satoru’s hand and bringing it to cup the length. “Take it out, baby. C’mon, Satoru. You’re not that shy, are you?”
His mouth feels dry, and Satoru swallows, tugging Toji’s waistband down, his thick cock slapping against his belly, hard and leaking.
“Oh.”
Satoru doesn’t remember much from last night, but he remembers the man’s cock. He remembers how it curved upwards, the piercings embedded into the sensitive skin, leaving ridges that massaged Satoru’s walls so deliciously. He remembers how he refused to let Satoru catch a glimpse of his face. He remembers the scent: the one that felt so familiar and heady, but one he could never place because it’s always been around him, always surrounding him like a warm hug.
The puzzle pieces itself together. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Satoru thinks. What made the stranger so enticing was how much he echoed Toji; how easily he could superimpose his father’s face onto the stranger. How he kept going back to him, even when the man treated Satoru like a whore because all he ever wanted was to get a taste of what it would be like to fuck his dad.
His hands wrap around the length, tugging it once, experimentally, feeling the piercings out, marvelling at how they’re embedded into his dad’s cock. Satoru wants to know why he got it and who made him get it. He wants to know how long Toji’s known and why he decided to give in; why he chose to hide it. He wants many things, but right now, all he wants is to feel his father’s cock deep inside him, fucking him like he’s been dreaming about.
“What’s the matter, Satoru?” Toji smirks, “I thought you loved your daddy.”