He stares at me. Swallows. "You're an asshole."
"Yes. Take off the rest."
He does. His hands shake, anger, want, probably both, and he's standing in nothing but the academy white briefs.
"Sit," I tell him.
He sits on the edge of the desk. I step between his legs, and the sound he makes when I press against him is worth every second that he was mad at me. I take my time with my own shirt, watching his eyes track across my chest, my shoulders. He watches like he can't help it.
"I hate you," he says, but his legs wrap around my waist.
"And I love you."
I kiss him again. Slower this time, one hand braced on the desk beside his hip, the other sliding into his hair, tilting his head back so I can control the angle, the depth, everything. He moans into my mouth. His hips rock forward against mine, and the friction sends a jolt through me that short-circuits whatever restraint I have left.
"I'm going to keep you safe," I murmur against his ear. I feel the shudder, the goosebumps erupting across his skin. "Whether you want me to or not. That's not negotiable."
"You controlling bastard."
"Yes." I pull the briefs down. He lifts his hips to help, which undermines his argument significantly. "And you love it."
His mouth opens to deny it. I wrap my hand around his cock, hard, leaking, and whatever he was going to say dissolves into a sound that's half gasp, half whimper. His head falls back, exposing the line of his throat. I press my mouth there, tasting salt, while I work him slowly.
"Fuck... please..."
"Please what? What do you call me?"
"Please, Daddy," he breathes, and the word does what it always does, snaps something loose in my chest that I keep locked for everyone else.
I take him on the desk. His back against the scattered papers, legs hooked over my hips. I'm careful with his ribs, but I'm not gentle. He doesn't want gentle. He wants to be overwhelmed,taken out of his own head, out of the fear and the anger and the bone-deep exhaustion of being Liam Marsal in a world that keeps finding new ways to hurt him. I can give him that.
I get the lube and start with one finger, circling first, pressing against him, feeling the tight ring of muscle clench and then slowly give way. He sucks air through his teeth.
"Relax," I tell him, my free hand flat against his stomach, feeling the muscles quiver. "Breathe for me, baby."
"I am breathing, asshole."
"Breathe better."
He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and that tiny release is enough. My finger slides in to the second knuckle. His whole body arches off the desk.
I work him open. One finger becomes two, scissoring, curling, searching, and I know the exact moment I find his prostate because his hand shoots up and grabs my forearm, and his mouth falls open in a silent scream.
"There?" I ask. Because I'm a bastard.
"You know... fuck... you know exactly where..."
I press again. His back bows. A thin, desperate noise escapes his throat. His cock twitches against his stomach, leaving a wet streak across the faded bruise below his navel.
"One more," I say, and add a third finger before he can protest. Stretching him, feeling him clamp down and then relax in waves, his body learning to accept what I'm giving it. His eyes are glassy now, that sharp blue gone hazy. His lips move but no sound comes out. He's somewhere else. Somewhere I put him. Somewhere safe.
I withdraw my fingers. He whines at the loss, this high, needy sound he'd be mortified about if he were fully present. I shove my pants down enough, slick myself, line up.
"Look at me," I say.
His eyes find mine. Tears on his lashes, but different ones.Not pain or fear. Just being so overwhelmed with feeling and pleasure that his body doesn't know what else to do.
"I love you," I tell him. Because he needs to hear it, because I need to say it while I push inside him, slow and steady and relentless, watching his face contort through every stage. The resistance. The stretch. The burn. The moment it shifts into something else entirely.
