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Kinktober 2019

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Alone, empty rooms in an empty apartment. Perhaps he should have stayed at the agency, bothered Reigen to lend him some blankets, food, entertainment. Bold lies for short stories, urban legends for truths, whispers of something hidden under the cracks. At the very least, Reigen would bring him out to ramen, deliver him something to eat.

Teru needs something- more.

“Are you scared?” He jumps, whipping around to see Mob glancing around the apartment. Embarrassing, how empty, how barren, it is. It used to be beautiful, colorful pastels, bright neons, and now it’s bleak greys and empty spaces, filled with nothing but lingering ghosts of regret, resentment, loneliness.

“Are you?” It’s hard, sometimes, to forget that they’re friends. Partners. Something more than enemies, more than acquaintances, even though the words dig under Teru’s skin and drags red lines along his arms, angry dots at his body forming ugly shapes, ugly faces.

Mob looks at his words and sees right through them.

“We don’t have to, Teru.” Friendly, friendly, he knows, he knows. Yet fire still gnaws in his stomach, racing, ravenous, burning up his insides as he wheezes.

“I want to,” he spits, and he does, he does, even as his eyes lower and shame flares furious at his cheeks. Mob’s eyes don’t leave his face, looking, tracing. What does he see? What does he know?

Everything. Everything.

 It’s cold relief that hammers his heart when ice explodes along his limbs, unfeeling, unyielding, pushing him flush against the bed. He grunts, teeth grinding, cheeks hollowing, focusing on the little puffs of air that solidifies at his skin, icy pellets. Try as he might, psychic aura squirming alight around him, he can do little to escape the binds pulling his limbs in, his body close.

A band, physical, small faces printed on a neon yellow back, stuffs into his mouth.

Teru gasps, whines, something, unfamiliar helplessness bursting into his chest. He can’t move, can’t speak, can barely breathe properly with this gag in his mouth, stifling his noises. Mob is there, clearly there, so obviously everywhere with his presence. Loud, overbearing, a monster of a spirit.

Small hands touch his back, and he shivers.

“Teru,” speaking, something, hazing in the fuzz clouding Teru’s brain, colors and noises and smells swirling around him. This, this, feeling of floating, of disappearing, whispering away into nothingness. This, surrendering, resentment, dissolving into Mob. Fading into his aura, wrapped tight around his body. “Teru.”

A hand pulls at his hair and his heart clenches.

 Teru says—something. Something small, frail, remarkably fragile for being one of the strongest espers he knows. He was the strongest, once, and even though he knows it was only months before it feels like a century of solitude, realization, hands and binds covering his mouth and eyes come undone. Then there was Mob, only Mob, always Mob, back remarkably wide for a child Teru’s age. Smiling.

“Teru,” he had said. “won’t you be lonely?”


Darkness slips his eyes shut as intangible forces tug loose his clothes. It’s easier like this, unaware, unfeeling. Just the careful presses of something natural unwinding his shirt, freeing his legs, pulling down his underwear.

He’s hard. It’s ridiculous, embarrassing, shameful—he used to be, to be good at this. He used to sit on other’s backs, send them flying with invisible punches, invisible jabs. He used to smile with vicious victory at their bare behinds, beat red and black and blue. He’s Teru. King, a man worshipped amongst humans, popular by fear and looks alike. The women loved him. The men feared him.

For Teru, they’re one and the same.

Mob’s hand is the one sliding along his bare back, goosebumps coming to light with the ghosting of his fingers. Teru’s eyes slide up to see nothing, hear nothing, and though he knows he’s leaking, should be, must be, he can’t tell. He can’t tell much at all, in this foggy darkness around him. Nothing but Mob’s hand on his back, the other ghosting up his thigh.

“Teru,” Mob’s saying, and his voice unfairly sends shivers to Teru’s core. Mob’s breathing, sighing, something, every vibration of his throat an echo in Teru’s body, a quiver at his dick. His eyes pinch shut, open wide; it doesn’t really matter, not when all he can see, all he can feel, is just the press of Mob against his body, the waver of his voice.

“Teru,” again, please, again, “Teru?” Ritsu would be so mad to discover what his brother’s up to. The thought makes Teru’s throat bob. His hands shake, move, maybe, and then he’s on his side, legs sprayed wide, jaw shaking. His bandanna must be getting wet, useless as a gag tucked into his jaw. Mob’s hands draw upward at his cock and he sighs, dreamy, floating. On a planet outside Earth.

Unable to fight, unable to scream, unable to do much besides register Mob flush to him, hand gripping and sliding along his cock. He’s—not great at this, rhythm off, hands clenched a little too hard, angle weird. But it’s Mob, little Mob, big Kageyama, the one who knocked Teru off his pedestal and sent him into orbit nude, the one who flashed his angry eyes and saved the world three times over, the one who smiled his way and made Teru his friend.




  Teru gasps, screams, shrieks, chilling roars of energy coursing their way along his spine. He wants—he needs, something, something, something. To be worshipped, to be praised, to be sung to the high heavens. To be broken, to be shattered, to be cast across the floor without a second glance. The hands on his cock slide, slippery with precum, nail scratching at the wrong places, thumb only making half a curl. But it’s Mob.

 Mob, who raises his legs around Teru’s, who’s head bumps against his back. Mob, who presses his lips at the raised goosebumps, who’s hands are unsteady and small, who doesn’t know when to start and when to stop. Mob, who could ruin this whole world, who could take Teru and cast him down from the heavens. Mob, who can immobilize him like this, render him absolutely helpless. Mob, who does.

Mob, who kisses his back and whispers his name.


Teru cums like that, in dark, in light, in a kaleidoscope of colors and rhythms. He says, something, murmurs, something, begs, something. Warmth explodes inside his chest, forcing out the black flakes from his eyes, triangular trails of memories that shatter and tear. Summer afternoon bricks smash at the ground, a shout echoing in the air, hands on him. It smells like Mob. It sounds like Mob. It feels like Mob.

It must be Mob, lips against his cheek, hands up his chest.

 Teru comes to, sans gag, voice remarkably wet despite the screaming he was bound to do. His limbs feel—refreshed, loose, easy, as though he hadn’t been bound tight by forces powerful enough to crumple men in its grasp. Try as he might, his ears fail to pick up the sound of footsteps, his eyes stray far and see nothing but the usual. Greys, and blacks, and whites.

Alone. Alone.

A hand grasps at his clenched fingers, pulling them open for the hand to slip inside, fingers entwined. Teru blinks, eyes sliding over. Mob sits at his side, eyes drooping, hand in hand.



They sleep together, just like that.