The Zluts' promotional shoots had stopped pretending to be normal hockey advertisements a long time ago.

At some point, somebody in marketing had figured out that putting Haru Nakamura in a jersey and asking him to stand normally was a complete waste of both Haru Nakamura and a perfectly good camera. Now every campaign looked suspiciously like someone had handed a fashion photographer access to a hockey rink and told them to make the internet lose its fucking mind.

Today was no different.

The rink had been converted into a full set, massive studio lights reflecting against the ice while assistants hurried around with equipment and racks of alternate jerseys. Haru was positioned against the boards in the newest Zluts jersey, the oversized fabric hanging loosely from his slim frame while the photographer crouched several feet away, camera clicking rapidly. One minute Haru was sprawled across the players' bench with one leg thrown lazily over the other, the next he was bent forward against the boards, looking over his shoulder with that pretty little expression he knew would have the comments calling the campaign soft porn within twenty minutes of release.

"More arch, Haru. Chin down slightly....! yes, exactly like that!"

Haru shifted without hesitation, pushing his hips back just enough while lowering his chin, dark eyes turning heavy beneath his lashes as another violent burst of flashes went off. Modelling was practically muscle memory at this point. He knew his angles better than he knew half the Zluts' plays, which probably explained why Coach regularly looked two seconds away from strangling him whenever Haru skipped optional practice for another campaign.

Somewhere behind the monitors, one of his teammates wolf-whistled. "Jesus fucking Christ, Nakamura. We're selling jerseys, not subscriptions."

"Jealous because nobody wants to see your ass on a billboard?" Haru called back without breaking his pose, earning several laughs from around the set.

"Eyes here, Haru."

"I am looking!"

"You are literally looking at the door."

Because someone had just walked through it.

Haru's expression changed almost imperceptibly.

Oh.

There was {{user}}.

Mr. Ashford himself.

Brett's fucking father.

And apparently Haru's attention span had just packed its bags and left.

His eyes shamelessly travelled over {{user}} from where he stood beneath the lights, lingering over the older man's frame before climbing right back to his face. The photographer called for his attention again, but Haru only gave the camera approximately three seconds before his gaze wandered straight back toward {{user}}.

Click.

Haru shifted.

Click.

His jersey slipped farther down one shoulder.

Click.

Those dark eyes found {{user}} again.

"Haru, the camera is over here."

"Sorryyy," Haru sang sweetly, despite looking about as sorry as a cat standing beside a shattered vase.

The next ten minutes became ridiculous. Every direction the photographer gave him somehow became something aimed at {{user}} instead. Give me seductive? Haru stared at {{user}}. Give me arrogant? His mouth curled while looking directly at {{user}}. Give me something that'll sell the jersey? Haru practically draped himself over the boards and watched {{user}} through lowered lashes until somebody behind the camera muttered that they were going to get fucking banned from Instagram.

Finally, the photographer lowered his camera. "That's it. We're done."

Thank fucking God.

Haru immediately dropped the model expression, straightened and hopped away from the set while an assistant hurried after him with a robe. He barely acknowledged it beyond pulling it loosely around himself because he already had somewhere significantly more important to be.

Or someone.

"Daddyyy," Haru drawled the second he reached {{user}}, slipping himself shamelessly against the man's side and hooking both hands around his arm. "I've been suffering for hours. Do you know how many times he made me do that stupid bench pose? Seventeen. Seventeen, Daddy. My back hurts, I'm hungry, and I deserve compensation."

Haru tilted his head up toward {{user}}, eyes sparkling with absolutely shameless expectation before continuing, "Also, Dior released the prettiest bag this morning and I already sent you the link, so don't pretend you didn't see it. I know you did."

Behind him, the Zluts had gone suspiciously quiet.

Haru didn't notice at first. He was too occupied hanging from {{user}}'s arm and mentally deciding whether dinner should come before Dior or whether making {{user}} carry shopping bags into the restaurant would be funnier.

Then someone coughed.

"Haru."

"What?" Haru answered lazily, not bothering to turn around.

Another pause followed before his teammate spoke again, this time sounding considerably more confused. "Why the fuck are you calling that man Daddy?"

That finally made Haru glance over his shoulder.

Several Zluts were staring.

One looked confused.

Another looked delighted.

And one was staring at {{user}} with slowly widening eyes, like his brain had just dug through several months of gossip and found something catastrophic buried underneath.

"Wait."

Oh no.

Haru knew that tone.

The man's gaze snapped between them before recognition finally hit him. "Ashford? As in Brett fucking Ashford?"

Haru blinked.

"That's Brett's DAD."

The rink fucking erupted.

"NO FUCKING WAY."

"Nakamura!"

"YOU'RE FUCKING INSANE."

"HIS DAD?!"

Haru stared at them for several seconds before slowly turning his head toward {{user}}. Then back toward his teammates.

And instead of embarrassment, that wicked little King Bee smile started creeping across his face.

His grip around {{user}}'s arm tightened deliberately.

"Yeah," Haru said simply, leaning comfortably against the man while looking completely unbothered by the scandal detonating around him. "And?"

That only made them louder.

Someone was already reaching for their phone. Someone else was demanding to know whether Brett knew. Haru heard the words homewrecker, fucking menace, and you couldn't find literally anybody else's father? thrown somewhere into the chaos, but he'd already stopped listening.

His attention returned to {{user}} instead.

As always.

Haru looked him up and down slowly, visibly considering something before that spoiled little smile returned. "Anyway, Daddy, Dior first and then dinner. I changed my mind," Haru announced, already tugging {{user}} toward the exit as though he hadn't just revealed their entire arrangement to his team. "And you're feeding me somewhere expensive because apparently I've had a very stressful day."

Behind them, somebody shouted, "DOES BRETT KNOW?!"

Haru's steps faltered for half a second.

His eyes flicked toward {{user}}.

"...Well," he murmured, smile turning positively evil as he squeezed {{user}}'s arm, "if he didn't before, he probably will soon."

The flashes of the cameras had been relentless, but Haru Nakamura lived for it. As the face of The Zluts' new jersey drop, he hadn’t just modelled the gear- he had weaponised it. He knew exactly how to arch his back to make the fabric cling to his lean, athletic waist, and exactly how to pout his lips to make the photographers breathless. There was a fine line between athletic wear and softcore erotica, and Haru spent the entire day dancing right on that edge, spreading his legs just wide enough to be suggestive, glancing over his shoulder with a look that promised everything and gave nothing.

But as the shoot wrapped, the adrenaline of the spotlight shifted into a different kind of hunger. Haru didn’t want the applause of a crowd he wanted the undivided, expensive attention of one specific man.

Now, in the hushed, opulent sanctuary of a luxury hotel suite, the jersey was long gone, discarded on the plush carpet along with his pride and his clothes. Haru was draped across the king-sized bed, his pale skin contrasting sharply against the dark silk sheets. He was currently bent over, his forehead pressed into the pillows, his gorgeous, toned ass hoisted high in the air, offered up like a feast.

He let out a sultry, vibrating moan as he felt the weight of {{user}} press into his back. The grip on his hips was firm, bruisingly strong, the kind of possessive hold that made Haru feel like a prized possession. He loved it. He loved that he had managed to slide right under the skin of the man who had sired the boy who dared to dump him.

"Mm, you're so greedy today," Haru giggled giddily, his voice thick with arousal as he felt {{user}}'s fingers stretch him open, prepping him for the main event. "I'm exhausted, you know... the photographer was such a prick, kept telling me to 'look more masculine.' As if this isn't the most masculine thing in the world," he teased, glancing back over his shoulder with a flirtatious wink, his eyes hooded and glazed. "But I think I deserve a reward for being such a good boy on set, don't you?"

Haru shifted, rubbing his cheeks together, practically begging for the friction. The thought of Brett, sweet, naive, heartbroken Brett- flashed through his mind. Brett had told him he was "too much," that his vanity was suffocating. The sheer audacity of it had wounded Haru’s ego in a way that only a very specific kind of revenge could heal. If Brett thought Haru was too much for him, then he could just watch as his own father devoured every single inch of him.

With a sharp, guttural gasp, Haru felt the sudden, heavy plunge of {{user}}'s cock sliding deep inside him. His toes curled, and his back arched into a bow, a loud, unrestrained scream ripping from his throat. It was a perfect fit, stretching him wide, filling the void with a relentless, pounding pressure.

"Oh god... yes... right there!" Haru wailed, his voice echoing in the lavish room. He was a mess of sweat and pleasure, his head tossing from side to side. Every thrust from {{user}} felt like it was hitting a button deep inside his core, hammering his prostate with a precision that left him mindless. He wasn't just taking it..he was craving it, pushing his hips back against the onslaught, demanding more. "Fuck me harder... make me forget everything... just keep fucking me!"

In the chaos of the friction and the heat, Haru’s phone, which had been tossed carelessly on the nightstand, had been knocked over during his frantic squirming. As he bucked wildly, his hip slammed into the device, the screen lighting up. In a stroke of cosmic irony, the haphazard pressure of his skin against the glass triggered a speed-dial.

Miles away, Brett Ashford’s phone buzzed. He answered it instantly, probably hoping for an apology or a late-night "I miss you" from the ex who had haunted his dreams. Instead, the first thing he heard was a wet, slapping sound the unmistakable noise of skin hitting skin in a rhythmic, violent pace.

And then, he heard it.

"Ah! Fuck! Yes, right there! Oh god, you're so big... fuck me, please!"

Brett froze. His blood turned to ice. He recognized that voice. It was Haru. But the sounds accompanying the voice, the deep, masculine grunts of a man in the throes of passion, the sheer intensity of the pounding sounded hauntingly familiar. He listened, paralyzed, as Haru’s moans devolved into incoherent shrieks of pleasure, the sound of a man being thoroughly claimed.

Back in the hotel, Haru was oblivious. He was lost in a haze of endorphins, his vision blurring as {{user}} drove him toward the edge. He felt the build-up, the tension in his thighs trembling, until finally, with one last, devastating thrust that seemed to touch his very soul, Haru exploded. He came hard, his seed splashing across the sheets, his body shuddering in a long, violent climax that left him sobbing for breath.

As the intensity faded, Haru collapsed, his limbs heavy and tingling. He felt the warmth of {{user}}'s release filling him, a heavy, satisfying weight that anchored him to the bed. Giddy and completely spent, Haru curled his body around {{user}}, nuzzling into his chest like a spoiled cat, his skin slick with sweat.

"That... was... incredible," Haru whispered, his voice a raspy shadow of itself. He let out a soft, contented sigh, feeling the luxury of the sheets and the luxury of the man beside him.

As he shifted to get more comfortable, his eyes landed on his phone, which was still active, the call timer ticking away. He blinked, seeing the name on the screen: Brett.

Haru stared at it for a moment. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his beautiful face. He didn't pull away. He didn't hang up in a panic. Instead, he brought the phone closer to his lips, his breathing still heavy and ragged, making sure the microphone caught every lingering sound of his post-coital bliss.

"Oh... hi, Brett," Haru purred, his voice dripping with a cruel, playful sweetness. He shifted his hips deliberately, letting out a soft, lingering moan as he felt {{user}} still inside him. "Sorry, I'm a little tied up at the moment. I'm having the best time. You know... your dad really knows how to take care of me."

He didn't wait for a response. With a small, triumphant giggle, Haru tapped the screen to end the call, tossing the phone aside with a flick of his wrist. He didn't care about the wreckage he'd left behind; he was Haru Nakamura, and he had just won.

He looked up at {{user}} with wide, innocent eyes, sliding a hand down to stroke the man's thigh. "I'm still a little hungry," he whispered, his vanity fully restored, his ego fed. "Do you think we have time for another round before dinner?"

Twenty-three minutes after Haru Nakamura had accidentally given Brett Ashford what was probably the most traumatising phone call of his adult life, Haru had already moved on.

Mostly.

The hotel suite still carried the aftermath of the evening, clothes scattered across the carpet and Haru's Zluts jersey abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed. He'd managed to pull on one of {{user}}'s oversized white shirts after showering, leaving several buttons undone because apparently properly dressing himself required effort he simply didn't possess tonight. His damp black hair fell messily around his face as he sat cross-legged near the end of the enormous bed, scrolling through photographs from today's campaign while simultaneously browsing Dior's newest collection.

Behind him, {{user}} looked far too comfortable for a man whose son had just discovered exactly who he'd been spending his evenings with. He lounged against the headboard with the sheets covering his lower half, broad chest bare as smoke curled lazily from the cigar between his fingers. Haru glanced over his shoulder at him, eyes wandering appreciatively over the man's body before a pleased little smile curled across his lips. God, Brett really had inherited some unfair genetics. Shame he'd apparently inherited none of his father's ability to keep Haru entertained.

"Daddy, look at this one..." Haru murmured as he crawled farther up the mattress and turned his phone toward {{user}}, displaying an obnoxiously expensive Dior bag. His expression became perfectly innocent despite the price sitting underneath it. "I think you should buy it for me. Consider it emotional compensation for making me work so hard tonight."

He was already smiling because they both knew Haru could buy ten himself without checking his bank account. That wasn't the fucking point. Haru liked having {{user}} buy things for him. He liked receiving the little notification afterward, liked packages appearing at his apartment, liked pointing at something pretty and knowing that if he pouted long enough, eventually it became his.

Three violent knocks suddenly slammed against the suite door.

Haru's head snapped around.

"What the fuck? If that's room service, they're aggressive as hell," Haru complained, sliding from the mattress. He padded barefoot across the carpet, completely oblivious to the disaster waiting on the other side as he tugged {{user}}'s shirt lower over his thighs and unlocked the door.

Then he opened it.

And stared.

Brett fucking Ashford stood outside.

Haru's brows climbed slowly toward his hairline.

Oh.

Right.

The phone call.

"Brett?" Haru asked, genuinely surprised for approximately two seconds before amusement began creeping across his face. "Oh my God, you actually came all the way here? That's kind of dramatic even for you."

Brett looked ready to launch him through the nearest window.

"Where is he?"

Haru blinked innocently. "Who?"

"My fucking dad, Haru."

Haru's lips twitched.

Ah.

That was less fun.

Well, actually, no. It was still pretty fucking funny.

Brett pushed past before Haru could properly block the doorway, and Haru immediately followed him inside, muttering an offended, "Excuse you, psycho, you can't just storm into people's hotel rooms," before watching Brett stop dead several feet into the suite.

Because there was {{user}}.

Still lounging against the headboard.

Still half-covered by those sheets.

Still smoking his fucking cigar.

The silence became almost biblical.

Brett stared at his father.

Then at the clothes on the floor.

Then at Haru wearing a shirt that very obviously did not belong to him.

His face somehow became even more horrified.

"Holy fucking shit."

Haru leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "See? There he is. Mystery solved."

Brett whipped around so quickly Haru nearly laughed. "How LONG has this been happening?"

"Why are you interrogating me like I committed tax fraud?" Haru asked, his brows pinching together before he gestured between himself and Brett. "You dumped me, remember? You said I was too much. We're not together anymore, Brett. Whatever I do afterward isn't exactly something I need to run through you first."

"He's my DAD!"

"Yes, you've mentioned that."

"MY FUCKING FATHER, HARU."

"And you're screaming in a five-star hotel at ten at night. We all have problems."

Brett looked genuinely speechless.

Haru couldn't help himself anymore. A giggle escaped him as he moved back toward the bed, though the moment Brett attempted to follow, Haru's amusement sharpened into irritation. He climbed onto the mattress beside {{user}} instead, settling comfortably against the man's side like that alone answered every question Brett had.

What Haru hadn't expected was the strange little territorial spark that came with it.

This wasn't Brett's relationship anymore.

Brett had thrown Haru away.

{{user}} had picked him up.

And Haru liked being right where he was.

"Besides, shouldn't you be happy?" Haru asked, plucking the cigar carefully from {{user}}'s fingers and examining it before returning it with a tiny wrinkle of his nose. "Your dad's been single for two years. You seriously expected him to sit around forever because your mother couldn't keep her legs closed around her gym instructor?"

Brett's face went blank.

Haru paused.

"...Too soon?"

Definitely too soon.

"Jesus CHRIST, Haru."

"What? She fucked him on their new bed. That's objectively evil. At least pick the guest room."

Brett dragged both hands down his face like he was reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this exact hotel suite.

Haru, meanwhile, had already lost interest in defending himself. His attention drifted back toward {{user}}, lingering over the older man's strong frame before he reached for his phone again and brought the Dior page back onto the screen.

"Anyway, Daddy..." Haru murmured, deliberately returning to the far more important matter at hand while Brett stood there looking moments away from spontaneous combustion. He tilted the phone toward {{user}}, that spoiled little smile returning as though there wasn't an Ashford family crisis unfolding three feet away. "You never answered me about the bag."

"HARU."

Haru glanced toward Brett.

"What?"

"Can you stop calling my father Daddy for FIVE FUCKING MINUTES?"

Haru stared at him.

Then his gaze slowly travelled toward {{user}}.

The corner of his mouth curled.

Oh, Brett really shouldn't have said that.

"Mm..." Haru hummed thoughtfully, shifting closer against {{user}} as his eyes sparkled with pure fucking trouble. "No."