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like we're always in the dark

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Loath as Bishamon is to admit it, drinking with Yato is often quite enjoyable.

He is still juvenile, of course, and obnoxious, and it's always a chore to be in his presence for too long - but just for a while, there's something nice about having the companionship of another god, a kindred spirit of sorts. As the two of them find excuses to get together, even outside of special events and holidays, the term "drinking buddies" becomes more of an actual descriptor of their relationship than a convenient way to avoid the word "friends." Nights in together opening a few bottles and trading some gentle barbs are a commonplace occurrence, almost a tradition by now.

What isn't a commonplace occurrence for Bishamon is finding herself pressed up against the wall, Yato's arms pinning her in place and his lips pressed against hers. 

The kiss is rough, deliberate, and unexpected, and yet... not entirely unwelcome. At any other time, maybe; if they weren't alone tonight, certainly. But now, on the heels of a surprisingly frank (if vague) conversation about unfulfilled love lives, it leaves a gnawing feeling in Bishamon's chest.

Several cans still sit unopened nearby, next to one or two empty ones toppled by Yato's sudden movement. Drunken confessions are one thing, and regret, loathing, and pining aren't unfamiliar when the alcohol starts to run low. There's still plenty of it left, though, and little regret in Yato's movements when he slowly pulls away and eyes Bishamon as if watching a dangerous animal.

"You're not going to hit me again, are you?" he asks.

There's more distaste than fear in his eyes, like he's expecting something unpleasant and inevitable. For a brief moment Bishamon does want to hit him - but more of her wants that warmth back, so instead she grabs him by the stupid fluffy fabric around his neck and pulls him back in, staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of her head that screams this is a terrible idea.

The twist of Yato's lips against hers is somehow smug, and Bishamon grazes her teeth over his lower lip before she leans back again.

"I should have known your depravity would know no bounds, Yatogami."

"You're not exactly one to talk, skank," Yato replies, leaning closer. With her heels still on they're almost the same height, and Bishamon straightens her back a little. When their mouths meet again he has no leverage over her.

This time he's almost panting when they stop. "Don't get the wrong idea now," he says. "I wouldn't call you my first choice."

Bishamon almost snorts; that much is obvious. It's always Hiyori this, Hiyori that with him - what if Hiyori decides to go to a medical school somewhere else, what if Hiyori doesn't have time for him anymore as a college student, what if Hiyori finally grows up and forgets him. Bishamon puts up with it because, to be honest, she likes hearing about what's going on in Iki's life nowadays. But for her part she doesn't understand why the two of them don't just confess their feelings and get on with it, if they're going to keep pining like this.

And in any case, it's not like she doesn't know the feeling.

"Trust me," she says, "that sentiment is mutual."

"Glad we're on the same page," Yato pants. For a moment their eyes meet, devoid of any taunting or teasing, and an understanding passes between them. It scares Bishamon that sometimes she feels more of a kinship with this god of calamity than with anyone else, that she sees echoes of her own pain in the very eyes that haunted her for so long.

The idea is distasteful; in one smooth motion she maneuvers Yato aside and pushes him back so that his shoulders are against the wall and her body traps him in place. He resists slightly, tensing and pushing back as if preparing for a fight, and yet his hands and mouth have no trouble finding their places again.

The kiss is on her terms now, and she tilts his chin up higher to lean over him. Yato doesn't seem to mind; he responds eagerly and forcefully, matching each of her advances, until the motions become automatic. Like this, the only thing she's aware of is the sweet feeling of his tongue against hers, and it's all too easy to imagine different hands tangled in her hair, a more familiar face under her palm, a deeper voice moaning into her mouth.

At some point their bodies seem to meld together, and Bishamon almost doesn't notice the slow movement of Yato's hips against hers. Perhaps she was responding in kind before she even realized; either way, she neither censures him nor tries to stop herself from reciprocating.

Yato pushes her mouth away to drag in a ragged breath. "Wow, you must be pretty damn desperate."

"You started this."

"You're not stopping it."

Bishamon only grunts at that, thrusting forward a little more aggressively. Yato gasps.

When he regains his composure, he complains, "Not that I want to stop or anything, but you know, you're a pretty poor substitute." His voice is already almost breathless. "Shrink a bit, will ya?"

Bishamon narrows her eyes. Yato flips a lock of her hair off her shoulder.

"You're too damn tall, and your hair's too long, and you're too..." Yato gestures vaguely at where their chests are pressed together. "And can you try bein' a little less aggressive, for once in your life?"

"Why, so you can fantasize about your shy, docile schoolgirl? I don't think so, creep."

"Oh, please," Yato scoffs, but in his current position the words are breathy and not as sarcastic as he probably would have liked, and a shiver shoots up Bishamon's spine. "What was Kazuma when he died? Nineteen, twenty? That's hardly any older than Hiyori, you cougar."

Bishamon grits her teeth and kisses him again, snarling against his mouth and feeling his lips twist into a smug grin. Like hell she's going to argue and prove what she's really thinking about. It's hard enough not to breathe his name against Yato's neck when all she can imagine is Kazuma - Kazuma's firm hands on her hips, his warm lips traveling over her skin, his voice, husky and low, murmuring endless devotion straight into her ears until her entire body resounds with it...

She groans and pushes Yato harder against the wall. If only Kazuma could shed just a little of his shame. She's all but certain he would kill to be in Yato's place right now, but the mere thought of such a thing would still fill him with enough guilt to sting her right out of bed. It's not often that she wishes her guide would be more like the idiot god in front of her, but why can't he be just a little less proper?

"Just say it," Yato teases, panting against her neck. "Scream his name, I don't care."

Bishamon ignores him. Her teeth clench on her tongue until it hurts, but the sensation is nothing compared to the pleasure washing over the rest of her body.

She's not sure how many minutes pass like that, the pants and small noises they both make overpowering the sounds of late evening drifting in from outside. Their drinks sit forgotten and ignored, occasionally rippling slightly with the reverberations of a particularly harsh movement.

Eventually Yato groans, his motions turning rapid and desperate. "Hey, skank, I... I think I'm..."

"Don't you dare," Bishamon hisses, deliberately slowing down. Yato tilts his head back further, whining, and then suddenly pushes himself forward to lean into her neck.

"Then hurry the hell up," he says, breath warming her skin before his teeth graze her shoulder. "You're always so damn hard to please."

Bishamon's breath hitches as he bites down, and she closes her eyes, shivering at the feel of Yato latching on to her neck. His hands are roughly pushing aside the collar of her shirt to reveal more smooth skin, a clean canvas for him to wreak havoc on.

She's not likely to admit that he had the exact right idea, but with his teeth against her neck, it doesn't take much longer. For the first time in her life, she gladly lets the god of calamity tear her apart.

It was nearly simultaneous, she thinks afterward, or at least close enough. Bishamon wasn't really paying attention to Yato, lost in her own numbing pleasure and a different voice inside her head. By the time she comes back down, Yato isn't moving, except for his heart thudding against Bishamon's chest, still pressed into him.

Once they've both caught their breath, silence washes over the room. A cicada chirps somewhere outside; everything is still.

Bishamon averts her eyes and pushes away, releasing Yato. As she leans her shoulder against the wall next to him, he sinks to the floor with a deep breath.

Something should happen now, Bishamon thinks. Regret, probably, or shame. Awkwardly trying to forget about this. Guilt, both for fantasizing about Kazuma (over Yato's body, no less) and for letting this happen at all. But in the wake of the afterglow, nothing really captures her but warmth, lingering pleasure, and longing for Kazuma's arms to hold her up.

Yato doesn't seem to mind either. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back as if savoring the moment. Slowly, their hearts stop racing.

When Yato finally opens his eyes again, he finds Bishamon still staring down at him. They watch each other wordlessly for several seconds.

Then Bishamon shoves herself away from the wall, scoffing. Her legs quiver for only a moment; maybe (hopefully) Yato won't notice.

"I can't believe you never did it," Yato says. "Damn."

"Did what?"

"Say his name."

Bishamon's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you're talking about."

To her mingled surprise and annoyance, Yato laughs. "Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that."

"I will, thank you."

Sighing, Yato drags himself back to his feet, bracing himself against the wall. "Mind if we call it quits early tonight?" he asks. "I should go clean myself up. You can keep the rest of the beer."

"How generous of you," Bishamon says flatly. It's not as if Yato ever really pays for his share anyway. "But I suppose I will retire as well. I don't feel much like drinking anymore."

"Yeah, I get ya." As Yato staggers past, he claps a hand to Bishamon's shoulder. Their eyes meet for a second. Then he slides the door open and steps down into the night air.

"Later," he says, and the door slides shut behind him.

The room is quiet once he's gone; the cicadas outside have stopped, for the moment. Bishamon looks at the empty cans and unopened bottles littering the table.

No, she's not going to admit it. But growing closer to Yato hasn't been such a bad thing.