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This was Keeho. His Keeho.
His warmth, the man who'd treated him like a son since day one. The person he cuddled with when he was feeling home sick and hopeless.
So why was he doing this. Why did he have to do this.
Wasn't this crossing the line they had so carefully crafted over the years? When did the innocent gestures towards someone Shota consider a father figure turn sour. When had he ever given Keeho a reason to feel like he could do this.
What had Shota done?
Everything was too stuffy.
Too much.
Everything all at once. An overwhelming abundance of feelings.
It hurt.
His lungs burned, noises reduced to a string of cut off sobs mixed with labored, tizzy breathing. The need to suck in any amount of air outweighed the need to put an end to the now searing pain in his lower half.
His eyes kept finding their way to the cracked door, silently praying Intak would walk in, silently hoping he wouldn't.
How embarrassing it would be—Shameful.
What would he think.
Would he stop this? Would he shut the door and choose the blissful unawareness while letting what he knew brew under the surface like a current under still water.
Then the most important question. The one that Shota was trying his hardest not to linger on.
What is he going to do?
What is he going to do when Keeho eventually stills. Comes to and realizes what he's done—What he's ruined. The trust he'd broken and burned to ashes the minute he stuck his dick in his "son"
Suddenly, everything felt amplified. The pain beginning to thump in his back, the firm hand around his throat that refused to let up even as he clawed to Keeho's biceps.
The man just stared at him. Stared right through him like he was a feeble pane of glass who's secrets and deepest woes sat ripped at and opened on display.
He kept speaking as his hips
snapped against the back of Shota's thighs in a painful, uncoordinated, alcohol induced mess.
"It'll all feel better once I'm done, Sho." A grunt interrupted his speech, low and raw enough to make Shota's stomach curl uncomfortably, "You just have to stop fighting me."
A lie stated as a fact. Clarification that Keeho exactly what he was doing, that he was coherent enough to know it hurt, that he was gone enough not to care.
The hand around Shota's throat tightened. A threat. A promise. His airways stuttered and so did Keeho's hips.
Shota went rigid, feeling the constriction, the warning. His whole body seized up and his toes curled in that stiff way only copious amounts of pain and terror could cause–
Then he let go.
Slumping against the pillows in a pile of used limbs and body racking sobs, Shota finally went limp. Still the way Keeho wanted.
Shota gave one last desperate flick to the door, the barely cracked door that sat tauntingly on its hinges, before surrendering what little amount of strength he had left to the man above him.
No longer his Keeho.