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hanayumi · 1 year

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𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭

— matsuno chifuyu x fem!reader

wc. 7.2k

tags/warnings unrequited love, hanahaki au, forced infidelity, noncon, gaslighting, light degradation, jealousy, angst, lowkey yandere, porn w/ plot basically, this is a sad one:(

notes happy late white day!! ^^

he hides a deadly secret for your sake. but as with all secrets when it comes to you, it isn’t long before you find out.

snapshot;

The act is up. The secret has been spilled. He should be relieved. But, truth be told, he regrets being born in the first place when he sees your reaction. All the flowers he’s wrung out of his throat combined can never hold a candle to seeing the pain flash across your eyes and your face — your hands, your warmth, and your figure, all recoil from him as if he were scalding iron.

“What?” you force out. “What… did you just say?” Your voice has become warped in horror and mangled in the cavernous jaws of denial. A crime scene; a mistake written in blood that only humanity could ever commit. He should not be in love with you just as much as you will never be his.

“I’m in love with you.”

He’s not surprised. No, not really.

You’re perfect in every way, so it’s only natural. If you were his girlfriend he’d feel the same — protective, possessive, doting. It’s expected. Chifuyu supposes he should’ve seen something like this coming sooner or later.

But it doesn’t make his blood boil any less.

Smug bastard. He thinks he’s hot shit, doesn’t he? Chifuyu doesn’t know what he’s looking at besides a poor excuse of a man. Ko…Kosuke? Was it? He can’t bring himself to remember — barely two minutes into the conversation and already he wants to leave. And take you with him, of course. But his legs are glued to the scratchy booth as if weighed down with stone cold cement. He can’t move and he can’t take his eyes off of you. Off the two of you.

Damnit… He wants to leave, so bad, but there’s been just a single, detrimental issue and now he’s left with a forced smile plastered on his face, watching this proud fucker flaunt how he’s stolen away the only girl he’s ever fallen in love with.

It hurts.

He’s tried deluding himself into thinking it wasn’t true, tried so hard that at some point he nearly believed it. That the nights you returned past midnight were because you caught up with your highschool friends again; that the rumour he heard of you and him in passing conversations with your colleagues were just that — a rumour. Fake. Fabricated.

What is the meaning of this? he almost wants to shout.

This is the proof, isn’t it — the stone cold evidence right here in the flesh. Presented to him without a shadow of a doubt, in the form of a sharply-dressed gentleman with a handsome grin with the dreamiest green eyes he’s ever fucking seen with his arm around your shoulders:

You have a boyfriend and it isn’t Chifuyu.

It’s Kosuke who’s the CEO of a big-shot business who can give you everything you could ever want.

(Chifuyu would give you everything until his heart stopped beating.)

You’re chatting away, oblivious to the undulating tension right across the table. Kosuke, amused, with just the right amount of teasing and a pinch of tenderness, twirls a strand of your hair around his finger and smiles (as if he owns you, as if it’s his god-given right to touch you in that way), and carries on the conversation like normal — waxing poetic about your meet-cute and how it was love at first sight, about how you’ve already got your future together planned out, about meeting your parents and siblings and how they all welcomed him with open arms. All the things that Chifuyu has experienced before and way earlier too.

“Careful, it’s hot,” says your knight in shining armour, his mouth blowing at the steam rising from your tea. Bile rises in the back of Chifuyu’s throat as he watches you smile at his words.

Kosuke speaks eloquently. Charmingly. Everything he says screams like a page snuck from a romance novel. Everything about him radiates a dangerous charm. So that’s why you’ve fallen for him.

Chifuyu wants nothing more than for him to get his filthy hands off of you.

He watches Kosuke’s eyes, the way they tell him everything — softening, shimmering, catching the light and entirely trained on you when it’s your turn to speak, and shit, holy shit, the guy’s in love isn’t he?

He really, really should’ve stayed home. Bitterness and alcohol is a deadly concoction. Chifuyu can feel the sting of tears biting at his eyeballs so he gulps down sweet, dry sake as if it’d help the pain subside, but there is no escaping this.

A radiant smile is blooming on your face at something your boyfriend says (he can’t hear, it’s hard to hear and breathe and focus). The corners of your eyes crinkle, and for once his heart aches when he sees it — and the hurt is so fresh, so unfamiliar and new and different from the usual joy that your smile brings to him, so he hyper-focuses on anything but your face to keep the tears from falling. Anything, anything at all like— like that tiny ceramic cup containing his sake, or the rain pelting soundlessly against the glass window. Inhale and exhale. Not now. Not yet.

“‘Fuyu? What’s wrong? You’ve gone so pale.”

Don’t. Don’t look at her.

“A lightweight, huh?” Kosuke, in his peripheral, leans back against the booth cushions and there’s a knowing curl on his lips. The light above the bar’s countertop flickers, lending a charismatic sheen over his eyes. “It’s alright. I used to be that way too — but my father built my tolerance from a young age.” He winks, but it doesn’t draw a reaction from you nor Chifuyu.

Chifuyu feels your worried stare burning into him, watches your frown out the corner of his eye, the little downward tug of your lips, and his heart feels like it’s been forced down a paper shredder.

“I’m fine,” he smiles weakly, meeting your eyes for a second before darting away. The half-empty cup of sake swirls in his grip. “Just… a little surprised. You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”

Your eyebrows raise but before you can reply Kosuke takes your hand. Kosuke, Mr. Fucking Perfect, takes your hand — he starts rubbing your palm like a purposeful display of intimacy and like Chifuyu isn’t watching right here.

“Well, it all happened so fast. We weren’t sure when to make it public,” he hums. But it’s clear as day, in his tone hides a subtle slyness, viciousness. He’s looking at Chifuyu, with those narrowed gemstone eyes that captured your precious little heart, not as an equal but as a rival.

No. Not a rival. Something more pretentious. Something as despicable as the lies that he probably fed you to lure you to him.

I don’t like him.

“Kou,” you squirm, tensing in Kosuke’s grip. The man in question frowns as you tug your hand from his, retreating it back to your side. Chifuyu wishes you’d been more forceful, if only to resuscitate his own paperthin delusion.

But — the thought comes rapidly, like pinpricks as he senses your distress — but how could he ruin this for you?

This — him, your childhood friend, your best friend, meeting your boyfriend, or future husband, even — must mean a lot to you. Surely. Chifuyu knows from the way you’re fidgeting in your seat that you’re getting nervous. Antsy.

Years of familiarity have granted him, if not heartbreak, the ability to glean your emotions at a mere glance. And, he supposes, the same can be said likewise. The way he sees it, Kosuke has your heart dancing in his palm and you would sooner get rid of a limb than allow this first, crucial meeting to fall into ruin.

(He is not going to let this meeting fall into ruin.)

He clears his throat, the sharp vibration stifling the tremor deeply ingrained into his nerves. The acrid feeling in his gut dissipates, slowly, evaporating with a firm swallow.

Chifuyu nods a little too sharply.

“Of course, I understand completely. I’m happy for you both, really.”

Why can’t you be mine?

Nighttime. He jolts in bed with a whisper of your name tearing through chapped lips, shirt glued to his back, damp with cold sweat. It’s cold. The first thing he notices is the sharp chill making its presence known in his every vertebrae, rattling his bones and biting at his numb ankles because sometime in the night he kicked off the blanket.

His fingers run through sticky tresses matted to his forehead, groping for his surroundings, for reality. He can hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears. It was a dream, he’s in his room — it was just a dream. A quick glance at the fluffy pile all bunched up on the floor and the pain comes back; seething and aching and tearing up his insides, because even seeing a damn blanket you gifted him a week after moving in makes the memories come flooding back.

Your hesitant smile when you handed it to him. Your shy remark. The way your face lit up when he told you it was just the type he was looking for.

He chokes on a sob.

He should be used to it — he should, fuck — but the harder he tries the more he feels like he’s drowning. His palm massages circles into his forehead as if it’d help the throbbing subside. It hasn’t been a week since that incident but all he sees now is you — more than ever, now that he knows you’ll never be his. At night there is hardly any solace. At night, his dreams taunt him mercilessly with your figure.

Bloodshot eyes scrutinise his hands until they become more than just a blurry outline. Car headlights sweep through the streets, momentarily depositing strips of tangerine into his room through the window, only serving to deceive him. In his dreams you’d been waiting, grinning, tugging him by the hand and wrapping your arms around his neck. He could smell you — he swears he could smell the flowery perfume that you always keep on your upper shelf — but in a fragment of a second your perfect and pretty form was ripped from him.

Waking up to this arctic cold is nothing but disappointing.

(He has to get used to this.)

Chifuyu stumbles blindly out of bed and to the door, hand hovering over the doorknob but it won’t quit shaking.

What time is it? Are you sleeping well?

Salvation lies in the room just beside his — your sleeping form all curled up in fluffy blankets, in all things resplendent and soft and beautiful. In his mind he pictures you, asleep and soft little snores, living out blissful dreams of your boyfriend and all the giddiness and happiness he probably makes you feel.

And his heart aches and aches and aches.

In the bathroom sink there’s darkness swirling down the gutter and he splashes cold water on his face to stop his head from spinning. A blur. Everything’s still a blur. So cold. Where is the fucking light switch? The sound of rushing water blends with his gasping breaths. Something is wrong somehow — like there’s something within him fighting to see the daylight. He reaches for his throat with one hand, and then another when he feels something odd.

Nails dig into the skin; he’s clawing now. It feels tight. Vestiges of your smiling face flash with lurid vividness in his mind — when you brushed a strand of his hair from his forehead to when you fixed him dinner at half-past midnight over a crackling stove to when you smiled as you introduced him to your new boyfriend.

Are you happy?

A strangled whimper — he misses you, you’re in the room down the hall and fuck he misses you — and chokes. He coughs and splutters until his lungs heave with exhaustion and in his mind he screams irrationally for you. Help me, I feel like I’m dying (Name).

Something bubbles uncontrollably from his throat and he gags harder, choking on his tears. This time they come naturally, unrelentingly, dripping onto the sink in tiny expanding droplets. Please…

His vision wavers; his body goes rigid.

Is that… blood?

A hand comes to swipe at his lips, but it’s not liquid that he comes into contact with. Fuck. Nonononono. He lurches from the sink, back slamming against the wall. It’s not blood.

He knows what that is.

The lights are off and it’s pitch black and he can barely see shit but he knows. All of a sudden the room permeates with a sickly sweet fragrance, so thick it’s suffocating, and he knows what that feathery-soft texture clenched between his trembling fingers is. Knows the curious little myth that he brushed off months earlier, without so much as batting a single eyelid, well because love is stupid because love is fickle and there’s no way—

There’s flower petals spilling from his throat.

“Not going to bed yet?”

His fingers over the pen freeze. His eyes flicker to the clock hanging on the wall (2am) and then to you — peeking over the doorframe, worry pinching your eyebrows together, hands clutched close to your chest. The oversized sweater clinging to your shoulders doesn’t look like yours — it’s way too big. His throat tightens when he sees it.

“Uhh… no?”

“It’s 2am. You have work tomorrow, don’t you?”

Oh, yes — work.

Things at the pet store are starting to take a back-burner ever since he started coughing up literal flowers.

He releases a sigh, dropping his pen so he can fiddle absently with the thin letter opener. The news article is swept under the pile of envelopes — the one with the headline that makes his hands feel clammy with sweat — and he chuckles nervously, afraid to meet your gaze. “Well, oops.”

“‘Oops’ my ass,” you huff, a hand on your hip. “Care to explain?”

He bites his lip as he thinks of a reply, something that isn’t along the lines of, because I love you, I love you so much that I’m dying.

“Nothing serious. I just felt restless tonight,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair, and it’s half true — he feels restless every night.

“So I figured I’d go through the mail. Those are yours, by the way. I’ll leave them here for you to sort in the morning.” He gestures to the stack shoved to the top of the counter, trying to ignore your deepening frown. To his relief you don’t prod further, but instead of going back to your room you opt to stay — sliding over the cushioned stool wordlessly, taking an envelope out of the dozens to turn it over in your hand.

You never liked going to bed alone.

He resumes his business, fingers working to slice open an envelope that’s addressed to him, but it’s hard to concentrate when your dissatisfaction is palpable from your little sighs across the table. It’s clear you aren’t paying attention to the little scribbles on the envelope spelling out your name and address. Then, as if you had an uncanny ability to read his mind, you speak up.

“‘Fuyu. Do you… dislike Kosuke?”

He chokes. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not stupid. I saw how you reacted that day,” you say, flinging the envelope into a stray pile. Your elbows slide over the counter; you rest your chin on your palms and stare at Chifuyu intently in that way that makes him feel his defences peeling off layer by layer, leaving him feeling exposed, vulnerable, as if you see through him as clear as day — as if you’re searching for something you know for certain exists somewhere.

His nose wrinkles. “Well, now, whatever did I do to make you think that way?”

“It’s just, y-you know, that night I brought you to meet him for the first time, remember? We were out drinking?”

He nods for you to go on, an eyebrow arched. You clear your throat bashfully. “A-and, you seemed as if… as if…” you trail off, face flushed, hands fumbling with the gigantic sleeve of your sweater. “I dunno, when he introduced himself you kinda zoned out for a bit, so I thought maybe you didn’t like him o-or…”

Oh. Of course you would notice. You care about him, after all.

Chifuyu sighs.

“Calm down. I know what you mean.” He sets down an envelope. A hand extends in front of you — an invitation from him — and try as he might he can’t suppress the spark that goes off like a firecracker in his chest when you take it. Without hesitation. Without asking why. Without the ‘I have a boyfriend’ rhetoric.

“Honestly? I think no one is deserving of you,” he says, eyes softening when you return his gaze. He lets his fingers fill in the gaps between yours, and again he’s reminded of how well your hand fits in his. He smiles, but it’s awfully melancholic — you may almost mistake it for sadness. “The thought of a stranger suddenly coming along and, well, stealing my best friend away doesn’t sit right with me.”

“But,” he continues, before you can protest to his choice of words, “I trust you, and it’s not my place to say anything about your relationship. Frankly, you’re too soft. It’s none of my business, you know. Kosuke… he seems like an honest person. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

The silence is quick to claim territory after he finishes speaking. He can’t tell if the look in your eyes is shock or doubt. Your bottom lip trembles a fraction. He holds his breath and waits— for your smile, your dismissive remark, your joking comment, anything.

Nothing. Then the warmth of your hand disappears from his, and you’re getting off the chair, and for a second he thinks you’re going to leave him again — but you don’t. All it takes is a few hurried steps before you’re rounding the corner of the kitchen counter, wordlessly plunging into his arms, burrowing face-first into his shirt. His hand cups the back of your head, stroking lightly, and it feels familiar. Just like how he always used to hold you.

You’re warm, like the tight hug of a kotatsu blanket in the winter.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the softness of the fabric. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.” You smell like peaches and everything he’s ever wanted. His heart is thrumming in his chest and he worries that you hear it too. He listens, faintly, for the sound of petals rumbling in his lower windpipe (…perhaps today it’ll be peonies).

“Is that so?” Chifuyu doesn’t dare move an inch.

You giggle. “Yes,” you affirm, arms winding around his waist as far as you can reach. When you hug, you never fail to do it with all the strength you can muster, and it never fails to make him smile.

“Go to bed soon, okay?” you squeeze harder.

“Mm. I will,” Chifuyu murmurs, strands of your hair draped around his fingers.

There’s no cure for this disease. (Not one in this century and not in the next. At least, according to that goddamn news article.)

It’s not fucking fair, he thinks, because he knows every single thing there is to know about you.

Knows your first crush, your all-time favourite comfort food, how you like your coffee, the area you grew up in, that your hands get ice-fucking-cold in the winters, that you drool in your sleep only to deny it when he teases you. He knows things that you never told a soul besides him, that you swore you would take to your grave.

But most of all?

He knows that he will never love someone as much as he loves you.

But how can he tell you that? When the glint of your engagement ring is as blinding as it’ll ever be, a glinting blue opal sitting proudly atop a sparkling silver band. When that bastard is running his hands along your jaw, whispering something in your ear that makes you blush and tighten your grip around his arm. When all Chifuyu can see is red red red.

Red like blood. Red like the wine swirling in your fiancé’s champagne glass. Red like your cheeks and lips and the camellias clambering up his windpipe. A numbness stabs into his veins and everything feels distant and far away, the only sensation grounding him being the familiar burning like a rapid fire in the back of his throat.

The one with an arm around your waist shouldn’t be Kosuke. The one who gets to key your name into his family register, slide the prettiest engagement ring onto your finger and call you his bride-to-be shouldn’t be Kosuke.

(Who should it be, then? Himself? How pathetic, Chifuyu thinks. He can barely stand straight, let alone muster the strength to tell you.)

Fuck. He reels, stumbles; fingers grasp fruitlessly at empty air, then there’s a brutish warmth drifting close, then suddenly he’s tearing away from someone’s touch in sheer panic — fuckfuckfuck, I’m sorry, I can’t, I have to go.

It’s not fair, his jaw clenches. Teeth gnash on one another.

It’s not fucking fair, his mind repeats. Again and again like a spray of bullets. From his lips more petals tumble — rain onto the cold pavement like autumn downpour. Once it starts there’s no way to stop. Streetlights flicker and dim, mocking his figure hunched over the gutter by the roadside.

Chifuyu’s tongue is spiked with the taste of iron; he must have bitten down too hard when he fled the party. The daffodils that he conjures up are drenched in a reddish syrup, but smell sweet all the same. The fatal stage. He might as well be a dead man walking now. If the flowers weren’t draining his life force petal by petal he’d regard them as beautiful — because of course they are, they were born from you after all.

“Chifuyu?”

He freezes. When the reply doesn’t come, calls of his name echo from down the street. He has to go. Now.

“Chifuyu? W-what happened to you? You didn’t lock the door and your stuff is all over the—ah, I’m just gonna come in, okay?”

No, he rasps. Don’t.

“(Name), no— just, just stay outside alright? I’m fine, I swear, I just—“

“A-are you okay? Shit, you look awful.”

Stay away.

“Don’t… don’t get any closer! You’ll regret i—“

His strained scream, his last-ditch effort to save you from the truth, is cut short by your audible gasp piercing the darkness like a stroke of wondrous lightning.

Oh, fuck. You’re staring straight at him.

“Wh-what…” You back up in horror, a hand hovering over your mouth. Your eyes fly towards every petal, every speck of dark red peppering the floor. A god awful tragedy — and him, the centerpiece. “What the hell is this? What is happening to you?” you swallow. “Who…”

Who is it.

“Who is it.” A handful of petals tremble in the grip of your palm. You know clear as day what they entail. “Chifuyu…”

He does not have an answer for you — not then, not now. It’s too late.

The petals crumple around your tightened fingers as the seconds drag on without a reply; the skin around your knuckles turns white. Your eyebrows furrow together, your head shaking slowly side to side. This can’t be. This isn’t true. He watches his own past self replay inside you in loops.

He’s quiet.

Orangish light from the living room spills in through the half-open door, and all he can think about is how pretty you look even when you’re afraid. You’re on your knees, looking down at him like a saint; a mirage. You shouldn’t be here with him — Kosuke probably didn’t account for your absence when writing his engagement speech. People will talk.

You shouldn’t be here with him.

“Chifuyu,” you plead, but all the anger is gone. All that’s left is a whisper. The light wavers when you lean in close, fingers clutching at his jaw, as if within it encases all the answers that you desire. (Do you think it’ll stop the flowers from coming out again? You’re adorably naive sometimes.)

“Who is it, p-please— I just,” your voice wobbles, caught on a involuntary sob that you swallow down, “I just need to know.”

He takes in a breath. Looks straight into your eyes. Frankly, it’s a dream come true, because you’re finally looking at him and him only.

“You,” he grits out.

The truth, oh so unequivocal and pious, is reluctantly snatched from him in the form of a single hoarse syllable.

“I’m in love with you.”

And how will he begin comprehending the look of utter destruction on your face?

Everything — every word, every ounce of comfort that you could possibly afford him at this moment, all of it has been forcibly snatched away with the magnitude of a hurricane ripping through a forest. Without a shred of mercy, the both of you are made to taste the single bitter fact that nothing can amount to the feeling of seeing a loved one suffering at your own bare hands.

“How could this happen.” Your voice is silent. Yet, somehow, it trembles in a way that’s so fragile that he feels like you’re the one who’s about to die. “How could this happen? It can’t be true… please tell me it isn’t true.”

“It’s you, (Name). In my entire life, I have only ever loved y—”

“Stop, please, don’t say that,” you beg, hands flying up to shield your face, as if it would protect you from the truth. “Please…”

“I told you not to come in.” He feels familiar tears gnawing at the lining of his eyeballs. “I fucking told you.”

A remark, a pitiful look on his deathly pale face saying I told you so — that is all it takes to break the camel’s back. A loud, painful wail rips through your chest, and more follow it; you are crumbling, breaking down before him and he is sitting slumped, deflated, like a ghost watching his lover cry over his own grave. He hates seeing you cry. Always has.

“I’m sorry, they’re making a big mess aren’t they?” he jokes hoarsely, his finger pinching a stray petal. His voice is pained and he’s sure you can tell, because every two words he’s fighting the urge to break out in coughs and splutters. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean them up later.”

“Now,” you hiccup, silvery tracks running down your cheeks, your body tense with agony coursing through every vein. “Now is not a fucking time to joke around!”

You’re scrambling to close the distance between the both of you in a second, crawling towards him to grasp at his hand, squeezing so tight as if any looser and he’d disappear like seafoam right in front of your eyes. You’re too close — he can smell the perfume that Kosuke gifted you. It dances in his nostrils, along with the sweet scent of the flowers, taunting him, daring him to go further than your relationship would allow.

“Listen to me,” you grit. “There has to be some way— ”

“There is no way to save me. You should know this already.” The longer he pierces your resolve with his resigned, dilapidated eyes, the more the feeling of sheer panic seems to well up in you.

“No! Listen to me,” you whimper, your grip on him beginning to falter. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll get my stuff out of here tonight.”

What?

His heart sinks to the floor.

“You can’t be serious.”

What are you trying to do? What are you trying to accomplish by doing this? You can’t… you wouldn’t just abandon him, right?

“T-The disease gets worse the longer you’re near the person, right? So I’ll leave. You have to let me, Chifuyu. You can’t just sit here and let it happen.”

There is not a shred of hesitation in your words. Well done, he almost wants to praise you. You’ve always been quick on the uptake. Sensitive, but rational to a fault. You both know he’s running out of time — it’s amazing how he managed to hold out so long without slipping up. What you’re suggesting now is practical, based on sound logic. The faster you get away, the longer he spends without you, and by default the greater his chances of losing feelings. Of survival.

That is, if love were such a simple beast to tame — but it’s not, and it’s certainly not what Chifuyu wants.

You try to pull away, but he catches your wrist. “It’s no use,” he starts to plead, feeling his heartbeat kicking into overdrive. It feels like he’s losing you all over again. “It’s no use, (Name).”

You pry your fingers from his, one by one. He feels his strength slipping — whether it’s from the shock or pent-up exhaustion, he’s not sure.

“You… you just need time. Time away from me. I’m going to do everything I can to save you, okay? I’ll leave and I won’t come back. Please, please Chifuyu, I need you to stay alive. You can’t— you can’t die like this, god, you can’t—”

No.

“You can’t leave me, (Name), not like this.”

“What the hell are you saying? I’m the one who’s going to kill you.” You look at him in horror, as if this disease has turned him into some unrecognisable creature. As if, inexplicably, a theft took place in his bedroom: his body has been robbed, stolen, and cruelly replaced by a hideous monster. And in that monster’s warped mind a quiet fury starts to grow.

What did time ever mean to you? His childhood, his memories, his bare flesh extended to you in the form of vulnerability; and now, his life. Everything he has, he has given to you. For the first time he thinks, maybe you’d planned to suck him dry from the start.

Because nevermind that he has just let loose years’ worth of feelings, just like that. Just as simple as a drop of a hat. All because you asked, and he gives so easily. Oh, I’m going to die, and it’s because of you — bullshit.

His love means nothing to you.

Chifuyu shakes his head, mind dripping with denial, and continues pleading, starting to sound like a broken record. “You can’t. You can’t. You’re not going to leave me like this.”

“I have to!” you shout, shoving his weak body away. “I have to. I’m so sorry,” you sob. It stings, the fact that you’re pushing him away, but above all it stings that the product of his love is being trampled on, treated with disgust and contempt by you. You.

“Oh god, this is all my fault,” you whisper, scanning his fragile body, your eyes glistening like liquefied glass. You run your fingers over his gaunt jaw, his ghostly skin, his eyelids hovering over bloodshot eyeballs. “How long have you been hiding this? You— this— this is all my fault. I should have noticed.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” he protests softly. His fingers are grasping at air now, until they find you, find your shoulders and tug you close. “It’s never your fault. Why can’t you see? Going away… won’t solve anything.”

Blurry vision melds orange with darkness, distorting your figure, your crying face, into that of an illusion. Except you’re not, except you’re here now — letting him hold you for what feels like the last time.

The thought of never seeing you again fills him with unspeakable dread.

It’s not supposed to be like this, he thinks, as your sobs continue. When he pictured confessing to you in his head, in the middle of the night when he was still so young and his love was still blossoming like an unripe fruit, you were always so happy to receive his feelings.

Again, the sickly feeling rises in his gut.

Kosuke was never supposed to come along. Up until a few months ago, Chifuyu’s world had only consisted of himself and you, the irreplaceable piece. Nobody was ever meant to come between him and his perfect life. He hadn’t anticipated this. Hadn’t factored in any anomalies. Hadn’t wanted this.

At curtain call, he’ll be the only one left suffering.

His anguish, regret, unbridled hatred for the cruelty of this fate — he feels it all rushing to the surface, breaching the cold resignation that he’d long ago poured over the bitter truth. Overtaking even him as it surges like water spilling into a tank, rising above his head with water flooding his lungs.

He takes in a deep breath—

“Fuck. You’d— you’d forgive me if I did something stupid, right?”

Not even death will be able to bury his feelings for you.

“Wha—”

“Please. Just one last thing before you go.”

“O-Of course I would. You know I wou—”

His lips are on yours. He’s kissing you.

It takes a few seconds to register — the sweetness and suppleness of your mouth, the little gasp that you let out, the surrealness of finally, finally getting some relief from the pain —

The hands pushing against his chest, so desperate yet so powerless.

“This is… this is wrong! I have a b-boyfriend and—“

Chifuyu hushes you, threading his fingers through your hair and kissing your cheek. “No. You don’t love him, I know you don’t.”

“W-what are you talking about? Please snap out of it! This isn’t like yo—”

“No. You will never love someone like him. Because he’s only with you to spite me, don’t you see?”

“I don’t—“

“Yes, you don’t love him.”

He pins you to the floor, muttering manic nonsense into your neck. Too close, too painful, too unlike the him merely a week ago — the him who’d so gently caressed your head in a soft embrace. Where is this strength coming from? Where is this cruelty coming from? He’s not sure himself. All he knows is that you’re warm, soft, and so pliable in his arms.

“Chifuyu… stop. Please. I know it’s all my fault. You don’t have to do this… please.”

Again. You’re being cold to him again. His gut constricts, eyes narrowing, feeling anger and indignance dig at his skin.

“Don’t you trust me?” he says, nostrils flaring. “I’ve known you since we were twelve. There’s not a person in this world who knows you better than I do. That’s why—”

You give a cry as he starts to pry away your clothing, large hands reaching between your thighs to probe at your panty-clad slit. He strips you of that hideous red dress that Kosuke picked out for you, undoing its flimsy zipper and throwing it to the side to accompany the wilting flowers. Panicked noises seep out of you, Chifuyu sealing your lips in a slobbery kiss to stifle your cries. He can taste sweetness and bitterness. Is it the flowers? He pulls away, a reassuring smile on his face, but it wavers at the edges when you respond with a whimper.

“I want you to let me show you, okay? Just how much I love you. Just how much you love me back. You’ll see.”

You go pale at his words, shaky breaths wracking your chest as he mouths at your tits. Lacy. Red. Your bra joins the pile of torn clothing, leaving him to nip at your hardening buds with fervor. Some kind of cute, pathetic plea makes its way through your lips, but it all becomes white noise to him, as if none of your words were making it through.

“I’ve known for such a long time, y’know. That I was going to die.” You pause momentarily in your struggle, as if something struck you about the finality in his tone. “No matter what you do, or how far you go, I will still love you.”

Chifuyu reaches down to rub at your pussy, dismayed at the lack of dampness. Tears well up in your eyes and form a dark trail of mascara down your cheeks as they fall. He knows you to be soft-hearted, naive. You probably blame yourself for how your best friend has become like this. So precious.

“Sorry… ‘m sorry, Chifuyu,” you sniffle, “It’s all… m-my fault.”

“Please… please don’t cry. This is not revenge,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock at your pussy lips, forcing a choked gasp out of you. Saliva creeps out from where he forces your jaw open with his fingers. You’re looking at him with so much fear and sadness that it makes his heart ache. It’s okay. It’ll be over soon.

“Think of it as me… trying to win you over.”

He starts with the tip. Pushing it in and out, slowly, trying to get you accustomed to the feeling of him. Chifuyu’s free hand holds your thigh down to keep your struggle to a minimum, his other hand giving your tongue one final press, coating it in slick, before it leaves to find your clit. Rubbing slow and cautious circles, he preens when you whimper in pleasure.

“It feels good, right? Don’t struggle. Don’t make this difficult.” He sucks a red mark into your shoulder. When he feels a moistness leak from between your legs, his eyes brighten before he kisses you again. You give a keening cry, hands grabbing onto his hip as his cock infiltrates deeper into your walls. Are you trying to push him away, or encouraging him to go faster? It feels like the latter when you’re squeezing him like a vice, melting away the pain sizzling like hot fire in his throat.

Your back arches when his cock rubs against a particularly soft spot within your cunt, his tongue licking at moistness coming from your eyes. You shake your head and flinch when he caresses your hair.

“Ko… Kosuke, help me, please…” Your head tilts to the side, gaze fastened onto the corridor, and you whimper out that bastard’s name between gasping cries.

Chifuyu’s smile drops.

“STOP SAYING HIS NAME!”

His palm strikes the air next to you, sending electricity jolting through your body. You yelp, feeling his shaft burrow deeper, harder, into your insides. This time, he is unforgiving. Chifuyu’s hot, erratic breath touches your collarbone as he leans in, challenging you with a scornful gleam in his eyes.

“Do you get it? How much do I have to drill it into that empty skull of yours? I will keep loving you until the day I fucking die. I don’t give a damn about what you or that shithead thinks.”

You start shivering at that, your folds quivering around his hardened length, fragments of his name falling from your lips amidst pleas for him to stop.

You’re scared, he realises, shuddering to a halt.

Chifuyu’s fingers find your jaw, tilt your head up so he can meet your eyes. There is just as much pain reflected in your irises as there is reflected in his. His bottom lip trembles; he drops his face to your neck, letting out a sob before apologies begin to spill from his mouth. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I can’t stop.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply — each slap of skin on skin bounces off the walls, both of your moans escalating in tandem. His nose stings with the scent of flowers drenched in depravity. You feel good, of course you do, you can’t help it, can you?— the tip rubs salaciously against your cervix, taking great care to fill you to the brim, coaxing you closer and closer to insanity as his fingers circle your clit with due dilligence.

“I love you, okay? It’s been you all along,” he breathes between moans, hips gyrating against yours like a bull in heat. “Every goddamn day since you made me cough these fucking flowers, I’ve— just been falling—more and more in love with you.”

He thinks back to the dream — the recurring one that made his insides churn with desire — of your figure under him, shivering and helpless, begging him to take you in the sweetest way it made his heart burst.

The words that tumbled from your perfect lips — you, I’ve only ever wanted you — he finds himself echoing them, clinging onto them like a prayer, whispering them like a benediction as he impales you over his cock. Your whines increase in volume, both of your bodies coated in a layer of filth and sweat. It’s working, he quivers in victory. You’ve stopped resisting him.

It’s too good.

“This— this! is what you do to me,” he cries, forcing his face into your neck, gasping out cries and shuddery breaths. More petals begin hurtling from his lips, each one bloody — each one cascading along your skin like snowflakes melting. “This is all your fault, fuck, fuck. I love you.”

“Chi…fuyu,” you reciprocate, hips rising to meet his thrusts, spurring him on with just a call of his name. He wants you to look at him, to stay with him and to never mention Kosuke ever again.

“What’s so good about him, anyway?” he murmurs, biting back a hiss. He probably sounds pathetic, on the verge of tears. He is. “I’ll—fuck—treat you way better. I can please you better. Hey, I want you to do something for me.” He taps your cheek, trying to rouse your attention, but you barely respond and your head lolls and you shudder and tear up when he licks up a stripe up your neck, growling.

“When he fucks you, pushes into that warm cunt just like this… I want you to think of me. Think of my cock pressing right up against your soft, warm pussy. Think about how you’re moaning like my own cockslut. Mine.”

You look like you want to shout at him — like you want to give a reply, to scream, to comfort him and to shove him away, but all that tumbles from your mouth is a jarring mess of frantic pleas and squeals and your eyes roll to the back of your head when his body caves over yours, his hips giving a final thrust as your insides overflow with his seed without warning, the sheer momentum pushing you over the edge and tumbling into the shock of a tearful orgasm.

He’s spent, exhausted, tired. So goddamn tired and his heart hurts like it’s being split open.

His thrusts begin losing their forcefulness, his cum sloshing heavily in your full womb, but his breathing grows heavier and raspier as if his strength were slowly draining away. You’re whimpering, pawing at his chest, half-sobs rippling through your body.

“Chifuyu…”

“You’re mine,” he whispers in your ear. Slowly, his movements grow sluggish, and it’s not long until he collapses, pulling out of you with a gritty sigh. The ringing in the back of your head gains volume as he lies down next to you, an arm caging your numb body against his. You feel a wetness accumulate between your thighs; you feel cold even though he’s still living and breathing beside you.

“Love you,” his voice grates, one last time, before his eyes droop and close and his consciousness gives way. You don’t recognise Chifuyu’s voice anymore; he’s changed beyond recognition, fallen into a hell of his own making, and deep down— deep down you feel like it’s your fault.

You don’t budge. You lie obediently in his arms.

#i am sorry for any typos or grammar mistakes:”c #am running a high fever rn ;o; feel like mush #tw noncon #tw infidelity #matsuno chifuyu x reader #chifuyu smut #yandere tokyo revengers #soft yandere #chiyu; dark #🐝; sweet syrup #tw yandere #hanahaki au

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hanayumi · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝

— bonten!sano manjirou x fem!reader x sanzu haruchiyo 🔞

part 2 of brittle to the bone || prev.

if mikey is harsh, imposing, unyielding, then haruchiyo is just that with playful charisma superimposed over cruelty.

wc. ~9k

tags/warnings noncon, predator/prey dynamics, yandere undertones, knifeplay, mild bloodplay, forced infidelity, self-harm, degradation, overstim, mind break, mentions of gunplay, minor character death(s)

notes he’s very mean

snapshot;

Soft. Soft.

Haruchiyo parrots the word in his mind. Almost as if within it holds the secrets to the universe — and that if he keeps saying it, keeps feeling the weight of this single featherlight syllable on his tongue, that it’ll give him a revelation of sorts.

Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.

∗

Be good.

‘Be good’ — by which Mikey meant, you suppose, no speaking to others in the compound, no leaving the house, no stepping inside anywhere but the bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen… all the places that you’ve been wandering in-between for years without ever going outside. Is there anything else?

Well, you can’t bother yourself to remember. It’s not like you can do anything in here that’ll piss him off anyway. The time you’ve had to spend alone has started to blur into an impalpable being — an amalgamation, of sorts — warping and slowing your perception of reality to a tenth of a millisecond whenever Mikey isn’t around to monopolise your attention.

…I’ll reward you like a good little bitch when I get back. Can you do that for me?

Don’t leave the penthouse. Don’t enter rooms you don’t know. Don’t speak to anyone other than Haruchiyo. It should be pretty simple. Yeah, you can definitely do that for him. You can be good. You can. You’ll show him.

(As long as Haruchiyo doesn’t kill you before you get a chance to.)

You close your eyes, an image of the man with roseate hair floating into your memory. His lilting voice, the rattling of his pills, the way he kissed your hand after introducing himself and the way he smirked when Mikey made his announcement. A prickling chill runs down your spine like cold water.

You clench a bundle of the sheets into your face, burrowing into the lingering scent of Mikey, and decide that you hate the way Haruchiyo speaks. In a slow, condescending drawl, smirk bared, revealing the carious fangs of a seasoned predator, the narrowed slits of his eyes scrutinising (for what, you have no idea) as if he thinks of your life as even more insignificant and disposable as the dirt between his shoes.

There’s another thing, too. Something that fills your little heart with enormous anxiety and forces you on simmering coals within his presence, even now when you’re all safe and sound in this room with its four white walls and thick, locked door.

You can read that grin like an open book.

He thinks that your relationship with his boss has an expiry date. That it’s only a matter of time before you’re disposed of, too. That, without question, you were only there as a form of stress relief, your sole purpose being to tend to his boss’ every need. An emotional outlet, of sorts.

(You hate it because you know he’s right.)

But you don’t tell him that, don’t want to offer him the satisfaction — instead you scamper from his gaze, always slipping out of a room just as he enters it, going as far as to strategically plan out your daily activities to ensure that you wouldn’t be catching any glint nor shadow of that vibrant pink.

And for the most part, it’s working. And even if it didn’t, he has a funny way of looking at everything and anything as if it were leagues beneath him, so much so that you find it easy to simply duck your head and deem yourself unworthy of staying in his presence any longer than you already have. It’s weird, how simple it is to evade him — how predictable, easy, like child’s play. When he has just about given you as much attention as one would to a stray twig obstructing a sidewalk.

So, just like every other nagging worry, you stuff Bonten’s-Number-Two-Sanzu-Haruchiyo away in a cabinet for safe-keeping.

Time without Mikey also means that you’ll at least get a bit more time to yourself (albeit a large portion of it would be spent calculating how to avoid the man he left in his place).

You’re using it wisely, you think — alternating between counting the grooves in the ceiling to toying with the strands of velvet rug in the middle of the too-spacious bedroom, to daydreaming until sprawling scenery of the outside-world blooms behind your eyelids… okay. So you haven’t been able to get anything truly productive done. So what? The word ‘productive’ feels alien in your mind — almost as if there’s something fundamentally cursed about its three syllables, as if it belonged in a realm unattainable to someone like you. You haven’t had to worry about being pro-duc-tive in years. It was always Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.

At some point, you think dismally, I’ll have to get up. But now is not the time. So you count, and count, until you feel your consciousness slipping away, and your eyelids droop, and you sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sleep that blunts the ache of isolation and the burning of your bruises, tip-toeing featherlight over your skin like a reminder of the person who left them.

(Mikey doesn’t leave sticky notes on the fridge telling you to remember to brush your teeth and comb your hair. Everything he gives you comes from himself: his flesh and bone, his pain, his heart, his bruises.)

When time meanders forward, and inevitably touches upon evening, and you stir from sleep feeling an unbearable feeling of emptiness in your stomach (almost as if a large cavity was drilled into your abdomen), you shake the drowsiness away starting to feel an oncoming panic that Haruchiyo somewhere somehow found a way to sneak something into your breakfa— oh. That’s right.

You didn’t even have breakfast.

Your gut howls in agony. Reluctantly, you unwrap the self-made cocoon of blankets, preparing the mental artillery required to slip out the bedroom.

Haruchiyo seems to be missing from the kitchen, which is a good thing, a pleasant thing — though you aren’t stupid to assume that he is shirking his duties as your ‘guardian’. Living in a sprawling penthouse with just two people, minus the seclusion, leaves you enjoying an overwhelming sense of privacy most of the time. But now? Now it feels like there’s bear traps under every tile in the floor, shuriken blades concealing themselves behind every groove in the ceiling (there were about 200 that you counted before dozing off).

It takes a few furtive glances down the corridor and you (fruitlessly) keep a knife within arm’s reach (‘I don’t know why I’m doing this it’s not like I’m even capable of wielding a knife’), but you get to work quickly, preparing a decent meal the only way you know how. The purple blemishes lining the expanse of your neck and thighs still throb in protest when you move, although now it’s become a dull, persistent, guileless ache. You’re all alone, since it appears that your housekeeper is nowhere to be found — got scared away, maybe?

Come to think of it, staff don’t stay for very long around the Bonten building (either that or the numbers are endless; every day you see a new face), and you were always too busy to pay attention to anything but the hulking man demanding your attention.

Even so, something about that particular woman made the word ‘bold’ pop up in your mind in thick, underlined letters.

She’s been around for a few weeks now, looking to be about the same age as you (maybe a little older?), and always wore her black hair pinned back neatly, revealing youthful and bright eyes. She isn’t permitted to stay long — no longer than when she finishes up cleaning and cooking food that’ll last the next few days — and neither of you know each other’s names. Though she did offer you the most sympathetic of smiles when the smell of good food left you poking your head into the kitchen. You think of it sometimes, when you’re lying in bed sleepless.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this on my own, you frown, wiping sweat from your brow. Not that you haven’t cooked before, you have — you just can’t remember when. Your fingers curl feebly around the vegetable peeler, strips of potato skin falling onto the cutting board like ribbons. How long has it been, since you’ve put so much care into something other than Mikey? Again, you’re reminded of how much of your time that he eats up on the regular, like a blackhole both in his presence and absence; like a mechanical heart that your empty cavity of a ribcage can’t pump blood without. The thought alone should petrify you.

Don’t think about that.

There you go again, fretting over things that can’t be fretted about. You stubbornly follow the woman’s phantom movements from what little you gleaned from watching her from afar, guiding your hands over a boiling stove. The sizzles generating at the bottom of the metal pot reminds you of firecrackers. If your memory serves you well, there should be extra seasoning in the top cabinet. And you have to remember to work fast, too, just in case Haruchiyo decides to stick his head out in curiosity.

One by one, along with those forbidden thoughts, the various base ingredients are banished into the pot. Minutes later, you taste the thick broth with a spoon and damn, you realise, this actually tastes kind of good. This actually feels kind of good.

Yeah… yeah no, maybe you’re starting to get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll actually turn out okay after all — the next two days, your isolation, this makeshift stew. Not as good as the woman’s, but you reckon she’d give you a pass for trying. It’s only been a few days tops, but you cave and sigh; you kinda miss her presence. It gave you something to mull over amidst constant chao—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your blood freezes.

At the doorway, Haruchiyo looks dishevelled, pissed, a single olive eye twitching. Your legs caramelise into a thick hardness, rooting you to the ground. The pot continues to sizzle above the flame. Since when did he…

“C-cooking?” you begin warily, glancing for the nearest exit, trying to keep an impervious look on your face even though every second that slips by a silent fear creeps up on you like a chokehold. You flinch as he stalks closer with the air of a forensic inspector, looking over the mess that is the kitchen, the wildly strewn pots and pans and utensils — all because you panicked and couldn’t find the ones you were looking for.

(Around the counter? No—that will take too much time. What if you shoved your way past him? No, god no—are you stupid? He’d catch you immediately—)

“You’re dumber than I thought,” he snarls, his mouth donning that prized scowl, leaning forward before you can react and jabbing a finger at the cutting board. “You don’t even know how to handle a fucking knife?”

“Wha—huh?”

You blink; the pellets of onion, potato and carrot lie limply on the scuffed wood. Misshapen little pieces, some thick and some way too thin. Your hands lie frozen in time, one grasping at a chunk of orange and the other gradually growing slick around the knife.

He clicks his tongue in disdain.

“At this rate, you’re going to kill yourself before I do.” Haruchiyo and the long tendons of his fingers pry the weighted blade out of the comfort of your hands. Insistently, in a way that tells you he’s mad—oh god he’s mad— but strikingly, without a touch of malice. Is he mad? Is he sober? He won’t turn it—the knife—on you—right? Your breath hitches.

“Mikey would maim me to a pulp if you succeeded in that little stunt,” he arches a brow, as if using Mikey’s name in such a manner left a bitter taste in his mouth. For some reason, blood rushes to your ears as you watch the man in an unbuttoned suit hunch over the cutting board. You give him space to examine the ingredients, biting your tongue in shame. “If you wanted food you could’ve just said so.”

You could’ve just said so.

Something doesn’t feel quite right about his words, but you’re too relieved to dwell on it. You are graced with a sliver of respite, a moment’s peace; at least you know Haruchiyo has no intentions of killing you. He can’t. Probably.

The silky-smooth incisions he makes on the vegetables and meat send a tremor down your spine, each chop bouncing around in your eardrums. He’s helping you and yet, you almost feel bad for wanting to run. You don’t want to know where he learnt to wield a blade like a razorlike extension of his fingers.

“You know a lot,” you whisper, biting your lip afterwards, minutes in when the aimless hovering becomes too much to bear. What the hell are you doing, trying to make small talk?

“I know enough,” he shoots back, long lashes fluttering like large silver fans as he turns around to squint at you. He likes to look at you as if you were some ancient vase excavated from the earth, you realise. Or like a fossil. As if you originated from a completely different time from him.

Nothing much of a conversation passes between the two of you after that; you awkwardly go through the motions, trying your best to stay away. He mutters some weird cantation under his breath as he sections off the potatoes from the carrots, moves them over to a plate as he readies the meat.

It’s almost faelike, how systematic of a man he is. How quick he is to catch on, requiring minimal instructions from you, despite seeming like a person of inferior culinary calibre.

When he’s done, Haruchiyo pats his hands on his thighs, breathing a sigh. His gaze mulls over the piping stew still bubbling with the newly-added ingredients, before plucking itself away and landing on the door to the study just a distance from the kitchen (his hiding place; his deep cavernous den). Just before he saunters to the room, twisting a hand on the door knob, he says, “I don’t cook, so don’t expect me to.”

(You didn’t.)

It was a brief encounter.

In the early dusk, long after your meal, you hear him crawl out of the study like an emerging creature of the night, and when you’re halfway through turning over a page in a novel (a dusty old one that you found hiding inside the drawers of the bedside table) you hear the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic, echoing from where the kitchen must be.

It’s strange, the gladness that washes over you — you hadn’t really expected him to react, let alone try your cooking. Come to think of it, you weren’t even sure that he ate in the first place. (He said he doesn’t cook, but he knows the ‘correct’ way to use a knife? Odd.) You frown, none of the words on the page construing a decipherable meaning to you.

Maybe, just maybe, sharing the same space with Haruchiyo won’t be so bad after all (now that you know he eats and sleeps like a human being, is normal-functioning in most aspects of his physical body).

With this thought in mind, you carry on business as usual in your small corner of the house, lightly pondering which part of Japan Mikey has found himself embroiled in.

At nightfall, your ears unwillingly pick up loud thuds down the hallway, and you triple-check that the door is locked before climbing into the soft covers, stifling a shiver. Regardless of whether he’s been oddly tame or not, it’ll take a while to get used to this — the strange, unexplainable things that go bump in the night.

The bed… feels emptier. Desolate. Something feels odd, like the calm before the storm. It’s just your imagination. You close your eyes, falling asleep imagining Mikey’s arm around your hip. Ironically, you can’t seem to sleep well without him.

∗

What is this?

He’s felt like this before, of that he’s certain. A longass time ago. Judging from the huge blip in his memory when Haruchiyo tries to recall, it must’ve been eons since then. Eons and eons and then some, back when inactive volcanoes still spat real, smouldering lava — he’s sure it’s been that long.

It’s curious, and it amazes him more than it disgusts him. He should be disgusted, the logical part of his brain adds; he should have just minded his business and carried on as usual. He should have let you cut yourself in that dangerous manner (what’s a tiny cut going to do, add another notch to the scar-ridden pole?) — let you experience what it’s like to live life with an impish brain.

He wasn’t intending to interrupt. Ten, fifteen minutes must’ve ticked by, with him standing there in silence (you are quite the careless one). He couldn’t push down the onslaught of annoyance at the way you bent over backwards to reach the top shelf — are you trying to make his job difficult on purpose? Haruchiyo is a lawless beast, sure, but even beasts have their master’s orders to abide by, along with a special place in hell for those who don’t obey orders. Maybe that was your goal — maybe you wanted him gone. Maybe deep down you’re a spy sent to eliminate Bonten from the inside.

That is how he almost relished in pure excitement, at the promise of bloodshed regardless of how minor.

And yet, and yet, when he saw the flat silver falling just millimeters short of slicing into your soft digits, something compelled him to step in. (To help? Or to finish the job? No, he knows why. It was to chase this surreal, abstract feeling.)

Soft. Soft.

Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.

He wonders how you had the time to teach yourself how to cook. Or if you’d already known before you were brought here (in any case you didn’t look very experienced). If the flavourful explosion in his mouth attests to his boss’ favourite dish. Comfort food, his brain supplies. What is that? He never understood the little nuances that people sprinkled in their vocabulary, though the terms lingered in his head like pesky flies. (If it’s shit, it’s just shit, right?)

He’d been so used to the staleness served at dilapidated bars that he’d forgotten almost completely what it means to have a proper meal. If it wasn’t stale or nasty it was too fancy for him to stuff down his throat — he has always been a picky eater, wanted things to be just right, but somehow the smell alone was enough to entice him out of the study.

And when he took the first bite, something strange happened. A feeling akin to warmth flooded his veins. (It’s amazing, isn’t it? It was like poison. His head started spinning and his mind morphed into a jumbled maze of thoughts; so deeply entrenched in its twists and turns he was, left palm slowly running across hedged walls, groping for an exit. Or trying to find whatever treasure, salvation, lied in the middle.) It never ever struck Haruchiyo that you might’ve snuck something extra into the food to incite this wild reaction in him. No— you’re too innocent for that. Kind. Warm. Trusting. Soft…

Not once did you knock on the door. Not that he expected you to. Not that he wanted you to. (You’re stupid but not that stupid.)

He must’ve been in there for hours, oscillating between the fabric of time and space, consciousness and unconsciousness blurring into one.

Flashes — funny things, like trusting someone, like cutting his fingers by accident as a kid, sitting outside the doctor’s office (“What are they going to do to me?” a young boy with flaxen hair whispered. “They will put you in stitches. It will not hurt. Just a few pricks, nothing more,” someone whispered back… who?) — materialise before his consciousness often. Uninvited. Unwarranted.

When he is awake they come to him like blessings, like offerings to a long-forgotten deity. When he is asleep they take on the sparkle and sheen of a fairytale — so blurry and blinding that he could never hope to brush his fingertips across such an ethereal feeling in his mortal life.

Because a common thread was that these recollections (or fairytales, or glimpses into the ether, or as he personally likes to call them, fever dreams) never lasted long.

The feeling always, always chose to leave last — that silent poking and prodding going on without his consent, shady dealings happening at the edges of his conscience that scream at him to mourn for a past innocence, something that he has no chance of ever recovering. Memory, in this way, comes like slippery eels in the palm of his hand: if he’s lucky, he’ll catch one. If he isn’t, oh well.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts, plastering his spine to the back of chair in hopes of relieving the pain throbbing behind his eyelids. Defeat tastes acrid, bitter, on Haruchiyo’s tongue; it’s no use fighting the waves of agony strobing like a heat wave.

His arm adeptly loses feeling and the metal spoon crashes down onto the plate. It’s empty now, and his stomach is somewhat filled. Yet this shitty-ass migraine chooses to latch onto his brain like a leech. God. Can’t you just—I don’t know—let me off? This one, goddamn time, Haruchiyo curses. He’s pissed. He’s sure he left an extra stockpile of that good stuff somewhere…

Old habits die hard, but it’s difficult to dwell on it when all he can feel is gratefulness for his own foresight. Mikey finds ways to avoid him a lot when he doesn’t feel like entertaining his highs, kinda like throwing a bone to stave off a dog’s abundant energy. But for the most part, he lets Haruchiyo do his own thing — lets him chew on the proverbial bone to his heart’s desire. Thus, once again, Haruchiyo finds himself with a fistful of pills. (It’s the only way he knows to curb the pain.)

He’d really meant to pounce on you by now, he thinks, as he swallows another. Gulp. He meant to already sink his claws into your neck, the same way Mikey does. Gulp.

But he can’t. Right now he can’t even stand straight his head hurts so bad. As if something from within him wanted to turn his body inside out, displaying his innards.

And, fuck, when the itch resurfaces again like an old friend, there’s little he can do to stop it. (When has he ever been the type to argue with instinct, after all? If anything… he is a slave to it. It’s understandable. Mikey’ll forgive him. He’s too used to running free, veins pulsing at the first whiff of prey. It doesn’t do anyone good to cage a wild animal.)

Haruchiyo and his dimmed gemstone eyes, clouded over with a drug-filled haze — a comfortable, fitted collar around his neck and the leash held firmly within his grasp. A slave. A weapon to his own instinct. Nature proclaims that it’s law for predators to hunt prey. How many girls has he killed? How many that look like you and how many just to satisfy this instinct of purging prey.

Haruchiyo has lost count at this point. Everything blurs and twists into one: pill-shaped candy, the boy with pale hair, the warmth of the food that felt like a paperweight on his tongue… you clutching the tip of your finger, thick blood gushing out. (The ‘what-if’ that would’ve happened if he hadn’t interfered.)

Deeper and deeper, he starts to feel dizzy, as if he were plummeting down a rabbit hole. He stumbles from the kitchen and into the living room, heads towards the noise that made his ears prick up like a predator groping for blood. Thirst. He’s unbearably thirsty.

It’s not you— is that you? He goes rigid; blinks away hysteria. It’s you.

All he can think of is you— all he can think is, Mikey will forgive him.

∗

At an abandoned dock two cities away a figure sits patiently, embroiled in a decrepit darkness. Moonlight creeps across his hunched back like vines over a wall. Dark bangs fall messily across his face with some strands still matted in a sticky substance. Sweat, or blood. Mikey scrunches up his nose. If you were here, he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning himself up.

But you aren’t. And the thought is enough to wind a bunch of thorns around his chest.

The cylindrical shape feels strange as heck against the insides of his mouth. He’s poked his tongue through the barrel a few times before, out of pure curiosity, like a cat toying with a ball of yarn trapped in its mitts. But the taste? Well, it’s just as he expected it to be — bland. Flavourless. Unappealing. Just as unappealing as life without you.

(The fuck? Takeomi called me all the way here just to deal with this?)

Then again, he did take a longer time than usual to exterminate the local pest populace. Mikey doesn’t know if this particular thorn in his side is exceptionally formidable, or if he is exceptionally off his game today. (Huh — no, that can’t be it. It’s not as if he saw hostile figures blurring into two then three then four like a cheap ninja trick, even as he struck them down unfazed; not as if, after the tenth one the blood got too heavy for him to focus, and everywhere he turned, intrusive images of your skin plagued his psyche like a disease… no, that can’t be it.)

(…Right? Right. No way.)

He’s miserable. He wants to go home. He wants to hold you and he wants to make you taste the barrel of the gun as he is now — make you run your tongue along its concave shape and ask if you can taste the gunmetal on your teeth and call you pathetic when you start trembling like you always do. Would you let him? (Of course you would. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.) You are obedient, Mikey likes that about you, and you’re always willing to go along with his whims — though, he frowns, it’s mostly because you’re scared. Probably.

Somewhere in the dark a rat squeaks, scuttles into a crack, leaving the timid cry resonating within jagged walls. It reminds him of yo— he throws his head back and gives a long, hard groan, one that spirals in the stillness.

Okay that’s it. He clutches his head. I’m getting out of here.

“Oi. Come, Senju,” he calls monotonously, not waiting up before hopping down, setting his course deeper towards the direction of darkness. A barely audible pair of footsteps follow close behind. But Mikey’s thoughts are occupied; he thinks about the flat surface of the gun and what colour it’d make your skin turn, and he thinks about Haruchiyo sitting faithfully in the penthouse, doing his job. (He’s a little worried, and that’s an understatement.)

Mikey sighs, nose breathing in the musty, oppressive smell of the sea.

One more day and he’ll be back where he was with you; one more day and he’ll be home. But at the very least, he thinks, this little business venture has turned out to be the tiniest bit amusing. His first time exploring Japan in months and he’s already got himself a souvenir to take home.

∗

It’s… raining.

A fine, feathery, bountiful rain that’s only noticeable from ripples of water cascading soundlessly on the full-length window, and floating umbrellas shielding commuters from the downpour hundreds and hundreds of floors below.

From your bird’s-eye view, they all but resemble dewdrops of microscopic colour, so far away that you can barely tell they’re alive. You press your palm flat against the glass, feeling the heat of your own skin absorb the cool surface, feeling the tiny vibration brought forth by the morning raindrops on the other side.

How long has it been? Since you’ve been on that other side?

A backdrop of grey paints the city. A familiar view, but one that you’ve never quite gotten used to. It’s quiet. Way too quiet, at that.

Where is Haruchiyo?

The chill spreads to the tip of your toes when they meet the marbled flooring. You slip off the couch, contemplating the merit in searching for a man you would otherwise do triple somersaults to avoid. Is this a good idea? You chew on your lip. It’s not. But where is he?

You’ve been feeling uneasy for the whole morning. Earlier there’d been a crash (multiple) coming from the hallway, and besides making you drop your book it also brought with it a nauseating wave of anxiety. Not that you expected Haruchiyo to be quiet at all times, goodness no (last night was a test of your patience), but there was a certain instinct imbued into you that made the hairs on your forearms stand on end whenever things were a hint out of the ordinary.

A certain intuition that came part and parcel with living with dangerous, scheming people.

Why is he grunting like that?

(That was a grunt, right? No… no, it definitely was.)

There was the sound of something sharp, like metal, grating against the floor — what was that? You scurry over to press your ear to the door, listening hard for anomalies, trying to conjure up hypotheses in your brain that don’t equal to Haruchiyo throwing a messy fit or getting ready to jump you or — well, kill you.

A clunk. Several thumps. A knife, maybe? Or he could be moving furniture, or, or—he could be practicing with his rumoured katana (you’ve never seen it but heard people talk about it in hushed whispers) — there’s no way to know for sure. All these unidentified sounds send seismic fear rippling through you.

With Mikey there was no need to question anything, because it was only a matter of time until you found out. But now that you’re alone — alone and defenceless and the most vulnerable you’ve ever been since you were fresh out the womb — it strikes a waning courage in your steps as you venture into the unknown, sweaty palms encircling the cool metal door knob, trying your hardest to stifle the click it makes when it unlocks.

Slowly, you tiptoe over to the source of the sound. Because it couldn’t hurt to just take a peek. Right? Just to check in. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he isn’t putting funny stuff inside your cupboards.

And. Well. If you were being honest, being Mikey’s little pet must’ve changed you a lot.

Complacency that thickened your skin, artificial layers of cosmetics over baby-smooth doll fabric. The false sense of protection under Mikey’s invisible iron fist comes with its own, hefty price. It must have gotten to you somehow. It must have done something to build up that liquid courage in your veins, in its own twisted way, surely, because—because no sooner than when you poke your head through the doorway into the living room do you see it.

See them.

You stare at the pile of grisly red organs splattering the cold hard floor; stare at death itself.

And, on top of it, as if crowned the victor, no one but Haruchiyo hunches leisurely over the grisly mound of flesh. Cleaning the mess behind his fingertips with his tongue. Eyeing his handiwork. The glinting edge of the tiny scalpel in his hand still dripping with scarlet, sharp edge pointed towards god knows what’s left of that person ohgod—

Your gut drops to the floor in horror. That uniform. That’s her. That’s the woman. Shit—fuck. What was once a sweet young woman is now a mangled corpse by the hands of Haruchiyo. Something… something is terribly wrong. She doesn’t look like she’s been dead for minutes. No, her eyes are far too cold. Like gaping holes. There is blood from her mouth, no, there is blood everywhere —

Haruchiyo hums, his rosier-than-cotton-candy hair dip-dyed in scarlet. Drip, drip. “Looks like… ah, I’ve roused the attention of our reclusive little rabbit.”

It’s the same man who’d grasped your hand in a courteous gesture just the day before, who’d saved you from slicing your fingers, the same goddamn murderer who’s just got his hands on the only person in years to address you like a regular human being. Idiot. You’ve done it this time. You’re a fucking dumbass. He’s a murderer, murderer — he’s going to kill you.

You’re next.

“What’s wrong, little bunny?” His grin only widens at your stupor, your slow, petrified jaw hanging agape. “You look scared. Do I make you feel scared?”

Your legs won’t budge; you whimper.

Run. Runrunrun — your body is screaming at you, imploring you to hurry the fuck up and run for your goddamn life, but you don’t. Pleas fall on deaf ears. Your body is caught in a bear trap, forcing you to take in the gruesome scene before you. There is so, so much blood. More than you’ve ever seen in your life. And all of it, all of it, is hers.

Just the other day she greeted you with her usual warm smile. Just the other day she was a living, breathing human, who ate and slept and radiated heat.

“Your face tells me you want to run,” he trills, eyes narrowing into slits. “Gonna run away?”

His tone is shrill as a sharpened blade, deranged, with every word mounting into maniacal glee. “Run with your little tail tucked between your cute thighs, back to your big, strong Mikey?”

Bloodshot and unfocused eyes zero in on your face and his body convulses like a zombie erecting from the dead, joints creaking like bars of scaffold. Slowly, assuredly, he rises to one knee, he points the scalpel at his own collarbone, and wait, wait, why is he—

“Look here, little bunny,” he coos, a big wide smile twisting the scars on his mouth; his wrist twitches, yanks, the blade following suit, dipping obediently into his own flesh. His own skin. His own blood that leaks pure sparkling scarlet from a thin crevice.

A scream tears through the room, one you can only feel is yours from the vibrations ringing in your hollow throat — he doesn’t wince. Sheer horror sends your body flying back, hands clasped tight in front of your face to shield you from the deep dark red. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real. Red is matted to pink strands of hair, red is glittering across his mouth like the snout of a beast, red is slowly advancing across the carpet. Wake up. You tremble, whimper. This is bad this is bad this is bad.

A cackle rips into the air, one with a chilling, blood-curdling echo bouncing off the walls, and no sooner than when he takes a step forward does the impenetrable cement in your veins crack.

Fight or flight.

You turn and bolt, feeling the weight of your numb appendages carrying you as far as possible, away from that—that sickening blood, that red crawling ever so closely towards you like hot, molten lava—

You race, stumble, dive into Mikey’s room (Idiot! Mikey isn’t even here! The exit — you have to get to the exit!), managing to grab a spare key off the counter before fleeing like a bat out of hell towards the front door, salvation, the only way out.

“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you yet.”

But then your back’s hitting the wall as you scramble to flee, jolts of the impact swelling up your spine as you hurtle into a dodge when Haruchiyo lunges, bloodied fingertips snatching your wrist and pulling pulling yanking, until the keys crash to the ground with a deafening clatter, until you’ve been sucked into the floor with a scream clawing at your throat, until you’re submerged limb by limb into that deep deep red that you hate.

“NO no no no no, letmego, letmeg—”

“Shh, shh!”

The cool tip of the blade drags along your cheek, thinly scraping against the surface, slicing into half the wet tracks that tears have left on your face so that slivered carmine wells up through the broken skin. His body has no right being this warm, pressed up against you, your knees and arms already going slick with blood. It’s over. He’s caught you.

Your eyes stay screwed shut amidst the barrage of hot tears bursting behind your eyelids. He has you pinned down for good, you realise, a strained whimper fighting its way in the back of your throat. There is no escape. The pain is real. You can feel the slim thread of blood rolling down your cheek, mixing with the tears — only for him to lean closer, lapping up the traces of it with a satisfied chuckle.

His saliva leaves a slimy, wet sensation on your skin. It’s the worst feeling you’ve ever felt in your life.

“Please… I won’t tell anyone… I won’t tell Mikey— please, just let me go…”

“Ah ah ah.” The man — Sanzu Haruchiyo — hushes you again, a finger on your lip, his shuddering breath fanning erratically on your face, his voice fading into yet another hysterical chuckle. But it’s deep, breathy, and taunting, thrumming loudly in his chest, and sending a tremor through your very soul. “I think you’re forgetting a teensy, tiny fact, little bunny— Mikey’s not here.”

Your nose fills with iron when he is this close. Haruchiyo’s eyes — those bulging, green masses of insanity — shift and convulse as if you were faced with the mouth of an abyss. His grip on your wrists tightens to an agonising degree the more you plead and squirm, leaving you with no choice but to hold your breath, hoping desperately that someone will come to your rescue.

Where is Mikey?

You’re going to die here. You’re going to die here… and there’s nothing you can do about it. Pushed up against this psycho killer, who’s just murdered a person innocent of all crime, an outsider who shouldn’t even have been here. Is this how you find closure? From someone other than Mikey?

Manjiro… the thought is enough to shoot a terrible pain in your heart, something unwarranted like denial, like indescribable terror, like—like regret.

I never told him I love him.

Twin dilated pupils absorb the sight of your writhing, suffering form, shuddering in their sockets from unmatched euphoria.

“Why don’t we play a little?”

∗

Truth be told, Haruchiyo doesn’t know what time of day it is, what day it is, and all he remembers is feeling fatigued with an indescribable, insatiable hunger. He thinks he’s never felt so dissatisfied in his entire life.

But this… this is nothing short of a feast, isn’t it?

“You…” he begins, seething through his ultra-wide grin. “You’re a huge slut!”

His hands, not knowing where to touch, land greedily on every inch of your traitorous skin. Groping, taking, as if the gates to heaven inexplicably opened; a creature of hell, he is — a pitch-black entity descending upon a fine-feathered angel. He can’t stop himself, not when you’re so helpless to fend him off.

“If I had known… that you would be going around getting wet at every man touching your little pussy like this…” He bites back a laugh, the scarred edges of his mouth contorting.

You look confused — terrified, but mainly confused. And scared as to why he hasn’t ripped apart your insides yet and god you’re fucking delicious. Your nightdress has long been torn to shreds. Blood — not yours — is splattered everywhere on the marble flooring. Haruchiyo’s obscene groans come like second nature at this point. It’s good, it’s too good — your cries, your shivering, your scent, the way that he can taste how salty your tears are and hear the wetness gathering at his fingers.

“You’re a damned whore, aren’t you?”

You look stunned, stupefied, as if your little brain can’t comprehend what Haruchiyo wants to do to you, as if the squelching noises coming from between your thighs are a mechanism separate to your conscious body — as if they don’t tell him all he needs to know.

“S-stop,” you snivel, wrists straining in his grip, though he thinks it couldn’t possibly hurt from the way you can’t help your half-moans, so delicate and frantic, flitting about in his ears like a pair of small butterfly wings. “Stop, please, a-ah, don’t touch me there—”

“Here? Oh, but what if I want to?”

Frankly, this is the most fun that he’s had in ages — your kitten-like mewls and crystalline tears, soft hips twisting fruitlessly and the friction only serving to make his blood rush south, adrenaline sizzling in his veins even more so than when he was in the midst of mutilating that dumb placeholder, that fake…

“You feel so nice and soft inside, little bunny.”

Haruchiyo shoves his fingers past the lips of your cute slit, prodding and poking like it’s his first time touching a virgin. Warm, tender, and suckling on him like a fawn to its mother’s breast… the gentle clasp of your pussy against his fingers feels like nothing short of heaven. God almighty, no wonder Mikey couldn’t keep his hands off of you. His cock becomes erect, the tip becoming sensitive as it strains against precum-soaked fabric.

He watches you squirm, watches as your tits heave with every breath you take. For the first time Haruchiyo is close to you, closer than ever before, to the point where if he brandished the scalpel now there’s no telling whether he’ll lose control and gouge your pretty eyeballs out in a fit of blind lust. Just like he did to so many others before you — just like those other porcelain, fragile, counterfeit dolls. (Except there’s really nothing that comes so close to perfection as the real thing.)

“What do you think is stopping me from killing you, hm?”

He poses this question in the midst of circling your shining pearl, bringing you closer and closer to climax, coaxing panicked moans out of you as if the realisation just hit you that maybe he will rip apart your insides after all.

Then, when you whine out instead of replying, Haruchiyo pauses, pressing his weight against your soft body for good measure, keening at your smell. He sighs—

“It’s because torturing you fucking turns me on.”

You used to smell like roses — like Mikey. But the you in this moment smells like sex, sweat, and potent iron, blood from his fresh killing and blood from his own flesh and bone; he has never felt such uncontrollable desire in his life. This is it, he thinks, this is the treasure waiting for him at the end of the maze.

His lips latch on and suckle on your exposed nipple, tongue circling and biting and lapping hard until it draws cries of pain. His face returns to your neck, a slimy tongue sticking out and coating you with saliva, feeling himself quiver with desire when your entire body convulses. His hard length grinds against your inner thigh like a mad dog, eager to insert itself into your warm and inviting hole.

But not yet. Just a little more.

He releases your wrists. Sharp nails latch themselves onto your scalp, straining against the roots of your hair to tug you eye-to-eye with his gaze. People like to say that Haruchiyo gets a spine-chilling, deranged gleam in his eyes when he’s in the middle of torturing someone — what do you see this time?

A monster? The devil himself? Or something more divine? Otherworldly? Something like a god?

His teeth sink into his bottom lip; not bad, he credits his brain, eyeing the tremble of your lip and the way tears cascade down your cheeks and jaw and drip onto your breasts, he might just crave to make you worship him. More than anyone else. More than his King; make you become his own private devotee.

“Does Mikey also do this?” Haruchiyo’s gravelly voice whispers filthy vice in your ear. “Does he? Tell me.”

Your back hits the floor. He sticks another finger, two, then three, inside your cunt, wriggling and feeling for the one spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch. Your non-stop whining, your incoherency, your lack of capacity for full sentences, all of it is starting to unravel his control — spilling out like a spool of thread underwater, dispersing never to be reeled in again.

“Tell. Me.”

“N-no!” you rasp, hips quaking.

“Liar,” he smiles. You’re a liar. You’re a filthy liar. He saw you. “What does he do to your little clit, huh? Rub, rub. Oh, you feel so soft and slippery here.”

“Stop, please, a-ah! It’s too much, it’s too much…”

“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” he is quick to comfort, fingers speeding up, abusing your tiny nub, as if his ears were blotting out your frantic cries and tearful struggle. So, so sensitive. He almost feels like you’ll break. “Cum all you want. Again and again. We’ve got all day.”

He attaches his lips like a parasite to your cheek, licking at the small cut, sucking every drop of blood that leaks out, all while his fingertips never cease their momentum. You resist and jerk away from his face, only for him to wrench your jaw tightly in place.

“No, I don’t want to cum, I don’t—” You struggle like a rabbit with its hind legs bound, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in a feeble effort to mute your cries of pleasure. “I-I’m gonna—”

You cum without warning; a spray of liquid pools at your entrance, your thighs spasming under him as if charged with electricity. He coos as if to cheer you on. Fuuuck. He’s not done. There’s no way. Droplets of your juices taste like dews on his tongue; so much he wants to do, but he only has two hands.

As you reel, incapacitated with the afterglow of your orgasm, his palm lets go of your face to wrap around the flushed tip of his cock, giving a few sharp pumps, imagining what it feels like to be buried in your warmth. Well, he won’t have to imagine much longer.

“So pretty, you’d put every other girl to shame,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and another to your lips, silencing your whimpers. “I hated you, god, but turns out you’re good for at least one thing.”

“Let me… let me go…”

“Nah. But did it feel good?” He wants to break you. He wants to see you drowning in so much pleasure that you collapse and black out and crave nothing but his cock.

Your face scrunches up. You’re looking at him, he thinks. Though your expression looks weird, and you’ve stopped struggling.

“Mikey… Mikey’s gonna… he’s gonna be so mad,” you start to hiccup, tears dripping silently onto the marble, bottom lip trembling. Haruchiyo goes still, watching you cry at a loss for words.

He’s confused.

Mikey? Really? At a time like this? And he sees it again. That blatant softness that filters over your eyes — that ickiness. You’re so in love with his King that it’s pathetic.

It hadn’t been obvious before, but it is now. It’s thickening the skin between your heart and the outside world: it’s still there, the veins permeating the layer of visibility just barely, but the pulsing is faint.

And he sneers. Who do you think you are?

“You came because you’re a disloyal whore and you know it. Looks like you didn’t really love him after all, huh?”

At his words, you let out a hurt-filled gasp, as if they made their way into your heart and deposited lashes of agony there. Your mouth hangs open with tears still streaking down your face. The sight makes him want to coo at you.

“Look — you’re all messy and slick down here.”

Before you can tell him to stop, his fingernail scratches your abused clit, hard and fast as if trying to coax another orgasm out of you. Just one more. You can endure it, right? He’s watched Mikey do worse to you. He’s watched Mikey splay your legs open at his mercy and threaten to let every man in the room have their way with you.

Your body thrashes in retaliation but it’s no match for Haruchiyo’s strength, helpless to fight back as he pushes you further and further until you splutter and give a keening cry.

“What would Mikey think if he saw you like this?” he laughs, tuning out your pleas to slow down. “He’d fucking kill you.”

Another spray of your juices — another sharp scream of pleasure. By the third, fourth, your body starts trembling in overstimulation.

“I’m going to make you cum, again and again. Until you regret ever coming here. Make you regret trying to tempt my King.”

Haruchiyo mindlessly nibbles at your ear, before brutish hands reach down to force your legs wider. It’s about time, isn’t it? His cock throbs painfully at the wait.

“No, no, no… you can’t—”

He ignores you, rearranging his hips so they align with yours, gripping your abdomen like a vice as if trying to bruise. More, more, more. All his filthy fantasies start to spill out of the crevices in his brain. All he can do is watch the lavish black rush out in an endless downpour, and he, wrought with an incurable thirst, helps himself to your body, spellbound by the adrenaline you incite in him and the softness and warmth that you—

Ouch. He feels a prick.

From his shoulder, a tiny cut. A warm drop of blood beads at the broken skin. Ah. you’ve got your puny, trembling fingers on the handle of the scalpel.

How clever. A laugh bubbles from his throat.

“Oh, little bunny. Are you sure you want to do that?”

His hand removes itself from your body, snatching the blade out of your grip. You panic and try to retrieve it, but in your moment of desperation he chuckles and slides his cock in, stuffing you with inches of his length at one go, stretching you out like a cushy sleeve.

You yelp, foal legs kicking at air. Haruchiyo takes the time to tuck the blade away.

“Stupid, stupid,” he clicks his tongue as you wail in defeat, tiny paws padding at his chest like you want him to pin you down harder — like you crave for him to abuse your little hole until you can’t walk for the rest of the year. “You’re just a little stupid, aren’t you? Gone all mush-brained from me teasing you?”

He wastes no time in bottoming out, leaving the tip brushing against your womb, beating on the squishy walls again and again. His pace is manic, uncaring, straight from the get-go. Nothing can compare to you. Your tight, slick walls accommodate him so lasciviously, so perfectly, that he swears you know what you’re doing.

“You know what? I’m not even mad. Not when you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.” His King has an eye for quality, he thinks, adjusting his grip so he can thrust deeper in you.

A mess of blood, cum, tears — a mess that he has made you, forced onto you like ink on a canvas, and he bled a bottomless black. You’re coming around slowly, letting the ink sink into your putty flesh and submitting yourself to the sensation, hips unknowingly rising to meet the timing of his thrusts. That’s more like it, he licks his lips. You’re cute. Obedient. He wouldn’t mind taking you home.

“Hey, hey. Here's—uh—an idea. Why don’t you become my own cocksleeve? I’ll tell Mikey that you—hah—fought real hard, but you just couldn’t resist putting a thick, hard cock inside you. I’ll tell him you couldn’t help it.”

Haruchiyo chuckles mid-pant, having grown rather fond of you and your insides. He’s heaving like a beast, sweat gathering at his forehead, eyes squeezing shut to ride out this pure bliss. It’s a first for him. Has he been doing sex wrong his whole life?

“After my King disowns you… after he throws you out on the streets… I'll pick you up and give you a home. this little pussy… I’m going to make it my own.”

“Ah, ah— sto— ah…”

You’ve gone stupid for good, now. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, mindless babbling spilling from your lips (he can barely make out Mikey’s name in poor, broken syllables), your breasts bouncing and pussy twitching as it overflows with juices. All words are lost to you in this state.

And yet you’re still hugging his thickness diligently, just like a custom-made cocksleeve. He really ought to reward you. Haruchiyo reaches down to stimulate your clit and shudders at the feeling of you clenching tighter.

That far-off look in your eyes, your thighs periodically convulsing with spurts of cum spraying out pathetically between your folds — it’s almost too good to be true. You’re spent, brainless, mouth agape and tongue lolling out with drool overflowing from the sides when Haruchiyo finishes in you. He can make out broken parts of your speech: feeble efforts of voicing his name.

Not Mikey’s. His.

“You’re mine to play with now,” he says, throwing his head back in laughter at your pitiful mewls. “What do you think? You don’t have any objections, do you?”

Without thinking, with a heightened lust that betrays all logical thought, he sheathes himself again, all the way to the brim with a heady groan. The cum still potent and thick inside your hole spills out and paints his cock in a hot mess of liquid.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes glazed over with so much pleasure that you look as if you were far, far above the clouds.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

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