"I love you.”
You tell yourself that it doesn't hurt, that it doesn’t matter when he doesn't answer. You tell yourself the tears welling in your eyes are from dust, a muscle cramp, the brightness of the room, you're tired.
Not him. You shouldn't be crying because of him.
And then he kisses you, and you can't help it. The sob in your chest breaks from your mouth, and it is the sound of the breaking of the promise you made to yourself.
Don't fall for Asami Ryuichi.
Don't fall in love with the man that fell in love with hurting you.
But you did, and you knew he wouldn't care, but it still hurts. He doesn't even acknowledge your words, just keeps toying with your body. You should have expected it. You knew it would happen. He doesn't care about you. He just wants this, this playing. So he takes it. He touched you, kisses you, makes you feel like you're drowning. He grabs your wrists and pins you to the wall. He likes to make you feel helpless, and it always works.
You can't see his eyes; for once, it's not you avoiding his gaze. For once, it's him avoiding yours. You wonder briefly if he feels like you when you do it - frustrated and a little sad - but then you remember he doesn't care like you do. He doesn't feel like you do. You're a body to him, nothing more.
The words are still on your lips, burning a hole in your tongue. You want to touch him, to feel his body under your hands, but his grip on your wrists is bruising, stronger than you can fight against.
It's always stronger than you can fight against.
He likes it when you fight. He likes to watch you struggle, and he likes to hurt you. And you don't know how you fell for this man, but you did. You love him so much it hurts, and you swallow your tears as he ravages you. As he uses you.
He's not gentle. He never is.
He likes when it's too tight, when your stomach constricts, when he leaves bruises. It's the way you always feel around him. It's the way your chest feels, the way your throat squeezes. He likes it when you cry, when you beg. He drinks your sobs like wine, and you hate it because you feel safe with him. As if the world can't touch you when he does.
He always makes you feel like you're on fire. Like you're going to burn up from inside out. And he takes all of it, and you can't hate him because he gives it back to you. His hand touching you is perfectly infuriating, giving you pain and pleasure in equal amounts. But you love both, and he knows that. So he gives it to you.
It's why you love him, you think. And you hate that word, hate the poison it leaves on your tongue. Because it doesn't matter to him. It doesn't matter to who you both are, because this thing between you isn't about love. It's about the friction, the fire. But you can't help it. You want him. You want his eyes, his smile, his pleasure, things he won't give you.
He kisses you again, and you part your lips, letting more of him in. You can't help it. You need him like water, water to quench the burn. You really want to touch him. But he likes to make you beg for it. He likes to withhold what you want, to tease you with it.
You can't help the noises escaping your mouth as he finally begins to undress you - he never lets you do it. He likes to watch you come undone, to watch you fall apart. And you do, you always do. He plays you like an instrument, touching, teasing the way he knows you're defenseless against.
His teeth brush your neck, and you moan at the electricity in your tingling skin. His hand skims your waist, holding you to him. You can't help but struggle against the hold on you, aching to grip his arms. But-
You whine softly when it feels like your bones are going to snap. He doesn't relent, and finally you have to stop. Something is different with him, but he won't show you what. His eyes are hooded, focused on-
His fingers hurts. He squeezes as he strokes you, painfully, roughly. You can't help the way you wince and jerk away, and it makes him angry. Why is he angry? He likes it when you-
You find yourself on the bed, his hands on you. Your wrists are red and throbbing, your fingers white. His hold is bruising, and you flinch at the feel of cold liquid on your-
His fingers are rough, but you love the burn. It's exactly what you get off on. He always makes this part feel good, makes you want more, even if it hurts. You're secretly touched every time he uses lube. Maybe it's because he remembers the time you'd whispered how it scared you, that it felt like you would be ripped apart, when he didn't. Maybe it's because he finds it easier to fuck you into…whatever surface he throws you on or against.
This time it's your bed, which almost never happens. He likes to do it while you're working, mess you up, ruin you, and then send you on your way. It always makes sleep that night harder.
But it's dark outside, and he's adjusting your hips, and oh, any thought of sleep is ripped away with your breath as he snaps his hips forward. It hurts. It always does. But you take it, you have to. It's the only reason he wants you.
He's not gentle. He never it. But it's different. His hips collide with yours harder, it hurts more. A hand fists in your hair, pushing you into the blankets that you grasp for dear life. Something happened, and he's taking it out on you. Really, you should be used to it. But it always hits you in the face that you're not important to him. That you're his outlet for stress. It should stop hurting.
But it doesn’t.
You know that he doesn’t love you. He doesn’t love at all. And you know it’s useless to want him, that you couldn’t want him. You’re not supposed to. He doesn’t care. It’s not about caring. It’s not about how you feel, you’re supposed to be a man. But you can’t help it.
You can’t help any of it.
You’re helpless, exactly the way he wants you.
It's going to be longer than a quickie. You’re already close, and he’s nowhere near stopping. You don’t know how you can do it, the fire twisting in your belly, but you feel it. The tightness in your gut. The heat spreading in your body. You can’t help but clench on him, the fullness of him. His hand in your hair releases, and somehow, he goes faster, harder, and it hurts to the point that you can’t muffle a cry, a small sob.
Instantly, he halts inside you, and it sends you reeling as he pulls out. You feel empty, the fire in your belly gone. You shiver, and roll over on your back, and there he is. Looking down at you, his eyes unreadable. You reach for him, and he grabs your hand, looking at the bruises already forming on your wrist. You’re used to it. He likes to leave his mark on you.
And then he’s kissing you again, twining his hand with yours above your head. You run your free hand through his hair, latching onto him as he buries himself inside you again. You moan helplessly, because this man knows your body better than you do, knows how to pull pleasure from you like no one else. So you moan and cry out in pleasure and gasp and whimper. You hide nothing, because why would you? He’ll just take it from you anyway. If you give him your pleasure, he gives you more. And you're addicted to the flavor of him, and some small part of you hopes he's just as addicted. Because why else would he keep coming back to you?
You love him. You love his fire, because you've always been an adrenaline junkie, and he is your dealer, and you can't get enough. He's dangerous, he's possessive, he's cruel, but he's perfect. Perfect for you. You love to fight him, and you love the way he can pin you down and thoroughly ruin you.
He doesn't pull out in the end. He hasn't from the beginning, and definitely not after you admitted you liked it.
Tell me, I want to give it to you.
And he always does. He gives you what you said you like, and knows your limits. He always pushes you to them, because that's who the both of you are, because that's what you like.
He doesn't get up as soon as you're both finished, like he usually does. No, he settles beside you, and you'd question it if you weren't so satisfied. If you body wasn't tingling with pleasure. Your wrists ache, but that would go away. You manage to turn and look at him and, gods, he's beautiful. He's propped up on his elbow, looking at you, his fingers trailing lazily down your side. He likes touching you, and you like it when he touches you. He smirks, and it shows how long you’ve been studying him when you notice it looks strained.
“I’m going away,” he says, and his voice seems to bury itself in your skin. “I should be back by the New Year.”
The words take you a second to process. After all, you’ve just had your brains fucked out, and he’s perfect at it, so being slow is normal. But when they do, it’s like a bucket of ice has been dunked over your head.
New Year? You’d only just celebrated Shōwa Day. That's most of a year, and he'll be away, and…
A smaller part of you is hurt. Ever since you started playing with his fire, he’s never missed your birthday. He’s always shown up, has always made your night hell, but the thought of not seeing him makes you uneasy. You don’t ask him why. It’s a mutual, silent agreement you two have: don’t talk about work.
“Oh,” you murmur, because, really, what can you say? What can you do? He’s leaving, and by the time he comes back…
You swallow the bile in your mouth. You can’t help but feel uneasy as he continues to stroke your skin. You don’t want him to go, you never do, but you can’t admit you want him to stay. So you lower your eyes like a coward and swallow again. It doesn't get rid of the taste.
You love him.
And he’s leaving.
You shiver at the way he calls your name, and then fingers are tilting your chin up because he hates when you don’t look at him. He’s a bastard like that. But then he’s kissing you, and his lips are soft and warm and you can’t help but lean into it. You can’t help the way you love him, and it hurts when you stop to think.
This is going to go away. He is going away, and you can’t do anything about it. So you open your mouth to him, you press up against him, and you surrender. You give up, and the feeling hurts and tastes so bitter, but you don’t care. You need him like an addict needs their dealer, their drug. How can he just walk away?
“Akihito,” he repeats, and you hate the way you love the sound. But you drink it like water anyway as his words trickle down your throat. “I'll be going around the world for this trip."
“Okay,” you say, even though you really don't want to hear it. You don't want to know.
“Come with me.”
You don't have the time to think, because then he's on top of you, and, oh, his teeth are on you and you're helpless.
He doesn't say it again, and you can almost imagine he never said it at all, except he's looking at you like that. Waiting for you to say something. But what are you supposed to say? So you kiss him again, and he tastes like whiskey and spice, and you can imagine that, just for a minute, he's yours as much as you're his.
Your hands intertwine with his again, and then he's pinning you to the bed, his mouth on your neck, and it's heaven.
“Come with me,” he repeats, his breath hot and wet on your ear.
“I don't want to be your pet,” you find the courage to say. He stills above you, and you'd panic if he didn't kiss your neck again.
“Then don't be.”
Of course he would say it's that easy. But you can't respond because his tongue is in your ear and his free hand is touching your stomach, teasing the muscle.
“Come with me.”
“I…” Your throat tightens. Why is it so hard for you? You know what you want to say...right? You want to say-
“Come with me.”
“I… I don't want to.”
It doesn't work. He doesn't stop, and you're rapidly crumbling under his persuasion.
“I know you'll be lonely without me.”
Bastard. He's a godsdamned bastard and-
“I want you to come.”
You're putty in his hands now, and he grabs ahold of you, and it feels so good you can't hide a groan. You latch onto his arm, your breath falling shakily from your lips. You want him. You want him so bad you feel like you're going to combust, and he wants to take you around the world. But it's poison in your chest. You're not worth that much to him. At least, not as a person. He told you as much.
“I’m not a portable sex shop,” you say, and the words hurt as you realize how true they are.
But then he's laughing at you. You take the sound like a slap to the face, and then he's biting your neck and you can't help it as he starts stroking you. The pain and pleasure mingle together until you can't tell them apart, and you try to push him off of you. But he doesn't let you up, doesn't let you go.
He never lets you go, even though, one day, he will, and you won't want to leave.
“I know," he says into your skin. “That's not why I'm asking.”
And you feel yourself falling apart as you dare to hope. As you dare to dream of being with him. But it's not love. He doesn't love you, and you know it, and your eyes fill with tears again.
It's not love in his eyes as he stares down at you. Waiting, expecting. It's not love that makes you answer.
“Come with me.” Not love.
“Okay.” Not love.
He wants your body. He doesn't want your heart. But you give him both as he kisses you again.
Showa Day - April 29th
Akihito's Birthday - May 5th
Chapter 2: Birthday
It's your birthday, and he's there.
Second installment. Not sure how often I'll update, school isn't out yet.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
He waits. Your birthday is soon, and somehow he knows your plans. He knows everything about you, apparently. And you know nothing about him.
But what's new?
You get drunk on your birthday. Really drunk. And of course he comes for you, because you celebrated in his club. It's not because you feel safe, you firmly tell yourself. It's because it's a good club. The food won't make you sick, and the booze is good. You ignore the people staring at you and your friends. It's not nearly as bad when they see you with him. Because you're not really anything, are you? You're an amusement, a distraction.
And he's taking you around the world.
His smirk is too cocky when he slides into the booth near yours. But not next to. Not in the same booth. You try to ignore him, but you're drunk, and he's impossible to ignore. So you finally give up, and meet his eyes. He's swimming, and you're sure if you stand, you'll fall over, but you don't care. He's here.
And then he's on you, touching you, burning your skin. You're somewhere with a desk, and then he's lifting you on it, pinning you to it. His mouth is on you, and you dig your fingers in his hair. It's hot, and you're so fucking dizzy, and you're falling apart with every tug of his mouth.
You had a list of reasons. Reasons not to go, reasons to stay, to end it. But you forget everything when he licks your skin, when he's kissing you like he's starved. All you can think to say is his name, his godsdamned name. And then you're on your back, and he's in you, and it's perfect. He's so fucking gorgeous, his eyes wild, his hair messy. And you almost say it again.
You almost ruin it.
But you don't. You don't say anything but his name. And he's looking at you like he knows, but then you're reaching your peak, and your eyes close as you cry out.
And then you're on the couch, your head in his lap, and he's looking down at you like that. You don't say anything. Your head hurts too much, but you don't tell him that. You're just glad he's here.
“Come with me.”
He's cruel. He's a bastard. He's a killer.
And he's not even yours.
You turn away, letting your eyes close. You can't look at him. He rejected you last time. Just keep your mouth shut and you can stay his. Just be good for him. Make him want you.
Fucking hell, why does your name have to sound like that in his voice? He's not fair. He chuckles, and you know you said that last part out loud. You'd blush if you could, but you've been blushing ever since you first saw him. He ruins you. He rips away your every defense, but you still fight.
It's your only protection.
He lets you keep your walls.
And once, just once, you let those walls down. Because you wanted to.
“I love you.”
He ignored them. He ignored you. And the thought hurts you deep in your chest, but you push it away. Asami’s hand is in your hair, petting you, soothing your headache. You focus on it, on the way the strands catch in the soft touch. On the way the sensitive nerves shift with every move.
He's talking, but you don't really hear. You're warm and comfortable, and it doesn't matter. He's talking to himself anyway. So you turn and doze.
Isn't it funny? You used to keep your guard up. You used to refuse to take your eyes off him. But here you are, falling asleep in his lap.
But his feelings haven't changed.
You wake up on a plane. Of course you do. You're still on a couch, but this one's not cold or made of leather. There's a blanket over you, and a ringing in your ears.
And the headache. The godsdamned headache.
You see him sitting across from you in a chair, a computer in his lap and a glass of …something… in his hand. He's watching you, and you vaguely see his smirk. Bastard.
He stands, and then he's in front of you, holding a glass. You take it, and you're blushing like a godsdamned school girl when your fingers brush.
He's kissing you again. Gently. On your temple, and you feel your headache melt away. He takes the glass after you finish the cold water, and then he's kissing your forehead. You sigh at the heat on your skin, and let his breathing lull you back to sleep.
Just once. But you have to be careful. He can't know. You can't let him know. Not again.
Thank you for reading. Any comment is appreciated.
Also, any suggestions for places you want to see, be sure to let me know. If you support a certain place, DEFINITELY let me know. I'd love y'all's input on this.
Chapter 3: Sleepy Minds
A new perspective, and sleepy sex.
You let him sleep, because, really, he's going to need it when the plane lands. He's curled up on the couch and, even though there's a comfortable bed in the back of the plane, you want him there. You can't see him behind a closed door, can't watch his face for lurking demons.
Because you know they're in his mind, hurting him. He's been through far too much to sleep easy all the time. He stirs, and you see the flicker of a shadow.
Your fingers ache to touch him, and that's how you find yourself crouched by his head, brushing the hair from his face. You don't speak, because he might wake up, and...well. It's because he needs rest, you tell yourself. It's not because you can't explain why you feel the need to protect him from everything. You wouldn't anyway. You don't do that.
It's not part of the game.
He grimaces in his sleep, so you press your lips to his temple.
Then again, it stopped being a game a long time ago. Didn't it?
When he relaxes, you're back on your side of the plane, as if it had never happened. As if your lips don't taste his skin, and your nose doesn't smell his scent, and your fingers don't feel his hair. But he's resting, finally. You allow yourself a small smirk at your power but quickly wipe it away. Best not to look too far into that. It's better to leave things where they are.
You've already let too many things from your world scar him.
So what if you’ve never taken him on your trips before? Who’s going to stop you, or tell you can’t? You can convince him it’s a surprise; he’ll believe you. It’s not an evasive maneuver. So what? The less he knows, the safer you can keep him.
Because you have to keep him safe. You owe him that much.
You owe him lifetimes. But he doesn't need to know that.
You glance at your laptop and sigh. Spreadsheets, and a full inbox that can wait until the plane lands. So you close the computer and fill your glass and just watch him. Because that's what it takes to protect him. You can't turn away, or he'll get hurt, beaten, taken, shot. He is yours, and you have to keep him safe. You have to make sure he's warm and dry and comfortable and close because if you ever lost him-
Never again, you tell yourself firmly. You never want to see his blood again. You don't want to see it spilling, to see his skin ripped from his body, to see him covered in crimson and pale and-
There's not enough of him in your hands. You down your whiskey, and don't even notice the burn as you move back to his side. You reach out to touch, to taste, to take, to claim-
And then you see them. The bruises on his wrists, from when you were frustrated and took it out on him. You remember the tears, the cries of pain drowning out pleasure, the way he'd seemed to give up under your brutal touch.
You hurt him, and still, he's here with you. He can still sleep soundly around you. And it's a heady feeling that knocks the wind from your lungs and the snarling hunger from your mind. Instead of fisting handfuls of skin, you toy with his hair. You brush a kiss along his temple. He stirs, and you take advantage of it by kissing down to his now exposed neck. You secretly love the way he bends to you. Even on instinct, he is yours.
And you know what he likes.
You can feel his breath shudder through his body as you graze your teeth along the tendon connecting his neck and shoulder. His hand finds its way in your hair, the fingers flexing with each move of your mouth. It's an amazing feeling, the way he reacts as he wakes under your touch. Submissive and pliant and warm and vocal. He hides none of the little gasps and whimpers as you slowly, tenderly wake him up. You crave his scent, his taste, the feel of his skin on yours. He moans, and the sound goes right through you, and you must have him. He's light in your arms as you pick him up, but you forget anything about weight when you feel him press a sloppy kiss to your throat.
Takaba Akihito is an absolute treasure, and you know you have to savor him properly. You gently lay him on the oversized bed, watching as his eyes flicker open and his skin flushes under your gaze. Beautiful. You run your hand under his shirt, feeling the soft skin of his back.
It's barely a whisper, but it's perfect, so you kiss him. Your mouth fits perfectly on his, and you're not sure how you managed this long without his taste in your mouth. You hate sweets, but you'll take his sweetness over whiskey any day. You crave the way he melts under you, and his hands are warm as they slowly begin to touch you.
Your adorable little kitten.
He's just awake enough to suck on two of your fingers as you pull away his layers. His skin is beautiful, and for once, the idea of putting bruises on it doesn't excite you. That's not what this is about. You just need to feel him.
He gasps sweetly as you push your fingers inside him, his head thrown back. His lips are swollen from a mixture of biting them and kissing. Perfection. You kiss his neck, feeling the way his soft insides clench and swallow your fingers. He feels exquisite, and you would touch him there all day if it didn’t drive both of you insane. His fingers are already fisted in your hair, his breathing already harsh in his lungs.
And he's still only half awake.
The feeling of him opening up under you always makes your ego multiply. When you finally, finally, push inside if him, he arches into you, and you hold him close. You know the stretch doesn't hurt, not anymore, but after a week of nothing, it doesn't surprise you that he's still tight.
You keep it smooth and slow, letting him feel all of you as you wring pleasure from his body. He looks up at you with a feeling that you know you’re going to have to become well acquainted with. The shine of love in those eyes, almost accusing you.
“‘Sami,” he gasps, fisting your clothes. You kiss him again, savoring the clenching of his insides around you. His legs are wrapped around your waist, holding you close, tightening with every thrust. You can tell by his liquifying eyes how close he is, by the tremble in his limbs. You can taste it in his skin as you kiss his sweat-soaked neck, again and again. He's gasping, holding you close, calling for you.
“I love you.”
The words ring in your mind as you push him over the edge, his eyes going blank with pleasure. And then you're groaning in surprise as he tightens like a vice, milking you for what you have.
As you both come down from your high, his breath ghosting across your face, he presses another kiss to your neck. But it's not enough, and you can't help the growl in your throat as you wind a fist in his hair. You tug his head back, just enough to bare his throat to you, and you're kissing him as if you'll die if you don't. He's gasping into your mouth, arching into your touch. You love the feel - the taste - of his sex. You're addicted.
“I love you.”
Something pulls at you as the words ring, hollow and desperate, and you break the kiss, watching him gasp for breath, his lips swollen and tantalizing. His eyes are unfocused, glazed with pleasure, and you can see the ghost of his face as it had contorted with unspoken hurt.
So you kiss him again, and he’s holding you tight, his arms strong bands around you.
Mine. You see the word with such clarity, marked with everything you have. Does he even know?
You love this look on him, love the way he trusts you, despite everything you've done, everything that you've put him through, everything that you are.
He's falling asleep again, every blink lasting longer and longer. He's smiling up at you, that sexy sweet tug of lips as his body falls lax under you. You kiss him again, one last time, and you feel him slip away, his breath a gentle caress on your skin.
He doesn't rouse as you wash the two of you with washcloths dipped in warm water. His skin is soft and smooth under your fingertips, and you have to resist the urge to kiss every patch you clean. And then you take him in your arms, and you hold him close, closer than anyone. And even though you're not tired, you let your eyes slip closed and drift off to the sound of his breathing.
You wake up to him drooling on your arm, an adorable wrinkle in his nose. You watch him, gentle fingertips caressing a cheek. There are bags under his eyes, so deep it looks like he's been punched. You rub at the bags stubbornly, willing them away. It's a testament to his trust when he doesn't even grimace. You kiss his head before removing your arm from under him. He groans as you pull away and reaches for you and you almost, almost, lay back down. But you have work, and if he wakes-
You don’t know what time it is and don’t care. Time could halt in its tracks, and you would still be too busy watching him curl up under the blanket. He has your pillow captive before you know it, and something tugs at your lips.
Your phone beeps then, and the tugging ceases, your mouth falling back to its professional, unaffected frown. When you check the screen, it’s only been a couple of hours, yet you have far too many notifications. Already, a headache is threatening to spoil the moment, the absolute peace in-
Another notification: a text from Kirishima. There’s no keeping the sigh from filtering into the air, but Akihito is too far gone to notice your growing annoyance. So you resist the urge to kiss his forehead as you stand and fix your suit. Duty calls.
You don’t spare a final glance behind as you leave, not trusting yourself to continue walking if you did.