You watch, just outside the door, knowing it’s wrong. It’s wrong morally and wrong in your heart too—for a multitude of different reasons. This is not something you find attractive; you’re certainly not watching this because it arouses you. Actually, it’s pulling at the tears until they’re sliding down your cheek and curling up under your chin—clinging to you like you’re clinging to the chaste, ignorant thoughts you had before.
The door is cracked just a bit and you’ve only come to talk to this man, but things have since changed. Every part of you tingles to step in and shatter the scene unfolding, but you just don’t have the right to do that. This man hates you. He hates the curse on your face, your bleached ‘old-man’ hair that makes you stand out like a freak in a crowd, and probably your smile is what he hates most of all. This man loathes your presence in every way, even if you don’t feel the same for him.
But you wonder, as you watch his black hair splaying across the mattress and spilling off the side; who does he hate more: you or himself?
You cover your mouth so you can’t make noise, because it’s hard to listen to the angry growls and the reverberating sound of an open palm colliding with his fair face. Worst of all, he doesn’t fight back. He isn’t even protesting. He takes it while you watch and you don’t understand why.
It hurts your heart in strange aching ways that you can’t explain and you have no right to feel this way. You’re not chaste either, but you would have never expected this. One proud person that you thought was untouchable; was giving his body to be used like a cheap whore to a complete stranger.
He makes a low moan and you slack against the wall—you can’t watch this anymore. You can’t watch his self loathing, in fear of what you might actually do if you continue. You fear the desire to protect him—because it’s strong—even though he needs no protection and he may hurt you if you try.
So you slide down the wall and wait. Somewhere in this, you’ve lost the ability to move and you know you should; because if he catches you, he’s going to kill you for daring to make this a spectacle. It’s very obvious that he’s hiding this thing he’s doing—judging by the time of night it is. You would too in his position, if you was degrading yourself to this level.
Another body leaves the room and you’re not even acknowledged. The man who’s used the person, that you might have accidentally started to care for, is apathetic. He is just as apathetic as the man who leans out that door just after.
“If you wanted to watch, you sick fuck, you could have had the decency to come in and close the door instead of displaying my privacy.” His voice is cold and cutting, accusing and not wrong about it.
“I didn’t want to watch,” you reply, almost bitterly; but mostly it’s a numb feeling.
“Then what the fuck did you think you we’re doing at my door? You have a problem.”
“I just…” What did you want to say? You almost lose it at the tip of your tongue because you’re choked up here in thoughts. “I just wanted to remember what it was like. To hate myself so much that,” you pause and try to focus on the present, right where you are, “… it could drive me to this sort of self destruction. Then maybe,” you look at him and you’re sure he finds you pathetic, “then maybe I can figure out how…to heal your wounds too.”
The long moments of silence pass between your words and his reaction; and he looks at you with an expression that you don’t think you’ll ever truly grasp, but all you know is the drops rolling off his face are as real as your own.
You find yourself by his door again. Leaning forward, your arms are resting over your bent knees and you’re leaned forward just enough to make it appear like you’re hugging your legs close to you. Truthfully, you are doing just that; but it’s not really registering in your mind that well, because you’re too focused on the things you really don’t want to hear. You’re not here because you want to listen to this person being used again. Your skin actually crawls every time you hear a moan slip off that man’s tongue.
There’s something dark and unsettling with every noise that echoes from the room—muffled by the door you’ve closed. You don’t bring yourself to invade his privacy again, but yet you know you still are to some extent. There’s something about this that’s making you itch. Your fingers twitch and ache to reach out and pull the stranger from him and then maybe even slap him around until he realizes that what he’s doing isn’t going to make it better. He’s not going to heal any wounds and you fear all that will happen is he will leave himself with scars that won’t ever go away.
Maybe there’s a part of you too delusional to see that he’s already damaged and peppered with wounds from the offset of the grenade in his own hands. He’s pulled the pin and you’re probably too late to shield the blast. But that hasn’t made you leave yet. You’re still sitting here, waiting for his user to toss him aside like the last person.
You had no idea.
No idea at all…
…That this was such a frequent thing. The marks on his body always vanish within the hour, so of course the evidence is gone by the time he presents himself before others. His demeanor never changes. Kanda was always Kanda and the only time you’ve ever seen his harsh shell crack was that one time that you’d openly expressed concern, where you are sure no one else had. If only he would actually take what you said to heart
He obviously hasn’t, however, because he’s under some man’s body being smacked into the headboard like his wellbeing doesn’t matter.
To Kanda, it really doesn’t.
But it matters to you. It matters enough to keep you here until the banging of the headboard dies and it sounds like the guest is finishing up with his toy—because that’s all you think of Kanda when you see him go into his room with some random Finder that may not live to see the next day anyway. It’s like you’re watching Kanda being wound up and used until the gears stop and no longer provide any enjoyment to the person turning the pin. It’s cruel.
You wish you could make him stop doing this to himself, but you can only sit by the door and hope that maybe he’ll listen to you one of these times.
It’s been a few instances since you discovered that he’s been doing this—three at least—and every time, it leaves guilty feelings throughout your body; guilty because you’re idly sitting by and letting it happen. But what can you really do that would be justified? You wonder about it more than you should. You have no place in his business and that makes the feeling settle even worse—until you’re feeling ill just sitting by the closed door.
Eventually the door opens, creaky at its hinges, and a pair black boots pass by you. You never look higher than that. You don’t want to see the face of the person leaving temporary bruises in Kanda’s skin and blood in his bed. The person just escapes your vision and you allow it; and as always, the other occupant of the room emerges—clothing barely put back on his body.
“You’re here again, I see. You’re not doing much to convince me that you don’t have some sort of sick fetish for listening to me getting fucked.”
You cringe at the way he practically slaps you in the face with it. “…I wish you wouldn’t say it that way.” It stings for reasons you can’t quite explain. All you can think about is that one moment where his mask dropped and you saw the truth behind this. He has to know you’re staying because of that—but it doesn’t slip again, and you doubt he’ll let it reveal again so easily.
“What? Say it the most truthful way?” Kanda leans closer to you until you can actually see his face and it startles you a bit. There’s hollowness in his face that isn’t apparent during the day—but here, here it’s very strong. The shadows on his face make him look like he haunted and you want to reach out to him and yet, you know you can’t. “I don’t know what you’re here for, beansprout, or why you insist on hovering around my personal business; but you have two choices: you can fucking leave or you can at least not sit outside of my door and make it obvious.”
“What…Are you telling me to actually sit in your room while someone mops up their needs with you?” Your voice is laced with alarm, because that’s exactly what he’s saying to you. That uncomfortable shiver makes you nearly shift your position.
“Those are your options,” he repeats, the words clattering in your brain like they were designed to not make a lick of sense. “You say it like it’s some kind of shock to you, but I’d wager that I’ll find you in my room, in that chair in the corner, at this time tomorrow.”
Your eyes cast down and gloss over with frustration, evident in the way your teeth gnash enough to make your head hurt. It’s giving you grief because this is a bet that you can’t win and gambling was always that one thing you were best at.
The door closes and you remain right where you are. You know he’s already on the other side of the door and for some reason, you can feel the unsettled distress in him. He’s not okay with this anymore than you’re okay with watching it.
But then, you wonder if he’s ever been okay to begin with.
From where you are, you can see just about every detail of what’s taking place within the room. His bed is placed just under the window and there’s enough light pouring in to make this something that’s practically illuminated for you. It’s not the first time you’ve seen this, but it doesn’t leave a bad taste in your mouth any less. From that moment he sneeringly told you not to sit outside his door, you committed yourself to this. Why?
You really have no clue still.
But you’re there; soaking in the details of a person you thought was strong, being devoured by another. It’s distressing because he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it, despite the sounds you hear coming from him. From the noise alone, you think he sounds like he’s sunken into this—that he’s taken everything that satisfies him out of it. But the truth is—as you can see plain as day—that he’s suffering. Maybe there’s no physical pain that can affect Kanda Yu, but the emotional writhing glitters off him just like the pale moonlight pouring through the window.
In the dead silence, the only real sounds are Kanda’s unrestrained grunts and the heavier breathing of his partner of the day. Where he finds these people, you just don’t know and you never want to know. It’s one of those questions that you’ve managed to completely tune out until this point.
All you know is that they don’t care about him anymore than he cares about them. They’re as faceless to him as they are to you. The only difference is that you’re not the one that’s being ruthlessly broken into the mattress. Kanda is face down, completely blind to his abuser this time and just short of screaming into the bloodied sheets. It’s taking you most of this session to determine whether or not these screams are pleasure or despair. It’s also taking everything in you to stay where you are and not tear the stranger off him.
You can hear harsh whispers and Kanda’s growling and your mind travels to places that you really don’t want it to. It’s disgusting because you shouldn’t be wondering…You shouldn’t be curious. There’s nothing about this appealing enough to make you wonder what these people feel when Kanda’s giving himself to them. Do they realize what’s going on in the person beneath them? Or are they just in it for the quick burst of pleasure?
Something tells you that they’re not interested in Kanda’s wellbeing. And then, you wonder why you’re so invested. Kanda has been nothing by crude and unfriendly to you, yet you are just short of desperately reaching out—even to the point where you have no idea what you’re doing. You’re watching him having sex with someone else; as if it’s not completely insane to be playing the part of a voyeur.
To you, it’s nothing strange. You’ve seen your share of people sharing bodies. Your master wasn’t a shy man and brothels weren’t an uncommon place for you to stay when he decided he wanted the feel of a woman on him. You, however, never bothered. There’s something impersonal and empty about this and perhaps this is why what he’s doing bothers you more than you ever want to admit.
A sharp hiss breaks into the room and you almost jump. Almost, because you’ve heard this before. You know that sound because of the last time it happened, when his partner stopped being so gentle. There’s a cold reflection in your silver eyes, hazy and miserable by second hand. He’s letting out frustrations in raspy, dry cries and you realized the last time that his mask is cracked and the wet spots in the sheets under his cheek aren’t from pleasure.
It hurts to watch and it hurts to hear. The selfish part of you wants to put your hands over your ears and just block it out, but you don’t. You don’t because you’re thinking and letting it sink in. You’re observing until you can figure out where to bandage and how to cure. Even as the world around you blurs, you keep your eyes open. You’ll cry with him so that he’s not alone. The very fact that he’s allowed your presence in the very room he’s doing this, has to be a call for help—even if it’s vague and blackened out with the blunt coldness of his personality.
Really, all you want to do is wrap your arms around him and shield him from what’s hurting him most: himself.
You are indescribably upset at the man sitting on the bed—disheveled and staring down at your feet as if he’s ashamed to look up at you. It’s really not fair for you to be this upset, but you are—you are so much that it’s killing you. If anything, he should be the one upset—in fact, you’re fairly certain he’s really infuriated with you. It takes the span of time for that third person to leave the room for Kanda’s senses to snap him into the anger you know he should have.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He spits at you and you resist the urge to recoil. It’s mainly because you know he’s justified in being livid that you have just dismissed his temporary evening partner. It wasn’t the plan. You hadn’t actually actively decided that Kanda wasn’t going to play with some nameless user this particular night. You just stood up and made him leave. No real reason that you can ever logically make sense of—just an impulsive action.
“I…don’t…” You choke up because he’s all but attacking you in his frustration.
“You don’t what? You don’t what? You don’t know do you? I don’t know what your problem is, but you have no right to chase off my—.”
You cut him off so fast it almost makes you ill. “Your…partner? Your…lover? Or maybe he’s your friend?” You can’t help your bitter tone. You know that these men are none of these things and he knows it too. He’s ignoring it because it’s easier than owning up to the fact that none of this means a thing. It’s probably half of what’s driving you to the offensive—shooing a man out of Kanda’s room before he can even start. For a split second, you almost feel for the man you chased away, because he’s been strung along by Kanda. Ultimately, however, you did what your instincts are telling you that you needed to do. “These people are just users, Kanda.”
“What is your goddamned point?” Dark eyes leave you swallowing down an uncomfortable lump in your throat. “You have invaded my business enough and I let you. But I draw the line when your voyeurism becomes a thorn in my side.”
“Why do you insist my reason is because I enjoy watching this? Watching you? I try to understand, I do,” your voice is wavering even as the feelings are strong, “but the more I see, the more I recognize the misery. This isn’t making you happy…so why? Why do you throw yourself on these men every night?”
“It’s my choice to do with my body as I see fit.”
Choice? A choice…Your mind settles on the intensity of Kanda’s heavy gaze and you let it sink in for a moment before you can devise words to counter with. No matter how you try to look at it, you don’t see choice, you see Kanda as even more of a prisoner than before. This man in front of you is chaining himself to his bed of self-contained lies. He can’t see what you can see, when he’s clawing into the sheets while someone’s hands leave imprints that could last for days on normal people.
“If it was a choice, then you wouldn’t be bound to it like this. I don’t think you have the power over it anymore.”
Your words must sting him if they are enough to make the man before you clamor off the bed and curl his fingers threateningly into your shirt. “That’s none of your fucking business regardless. If I want to round up five guys and fuck them all at once, I will. It’s not a matter of whether or not you think I have control. I do.”
“You can’t control your need to do this. If you’re this irate over a man whose name you didn’t even know anyway.” The tone of your voice gets stronger and braver the more you listen to him. “This only proves it, Kanda. You could have called him back if you really knew you wanted it. If you really thought you had control, then I wouldn’t even be in here watching you. Your body is drowning your mind out and you know it.”
“That’s a load of shit. A big load of shit. If you hadn’t decided to run him off, then nothing would have changed.”
“Exactly,” you stare impassively while you wait for Kanda to realize what you’re saying. “You’d still be fucking any person who passed your fancy.”
The silence that follows is deafening and for a moment you’re really worried that you’ve overstepped your place to an unforgiveable point—however, Kanda’s gaze loses the spark and he glares at you unenthusiastically. “And what do you think you can do about it, beansprout?” Are you going to take his place? Do you think you can fix me? Not likely. You’ll leave and I’ll pull someone right back in. Because what do you think you can actually do? Pretend to have moral concerns? I’ll just go along with your drivel until you’re done being a savior. So nothing changes regardless—no matter how you act.”
“Is that what it will take, Kanda? To keep you from servicing the entire Black Order? To keep you from cutting into yourself like you are?” The words you speak are accompanied with intense drums of your heart. You’re saying one thing, but your mind is completely unsure if you can actually go through with it. It’s terrifying. It’s making you quiver and yet at the same time, his expression and body language are making you brave. “If that’s what you want…”
“Like you could. You’re not that dedicated. You can’t fight them off every night. Don’t bullshit me. Your concern is as fake as your personality.”
Something in you snaps uncomfortably within that instant. You are already shoving him back and forcibly pushing him until his body bows and he falls back on to the mattress behind him. There’s a shock in his eyes, but his face is screaming at you with excitement—and you just can’t understand this. “If you want it that bad, then fine Kanda,” your polite disposition vanishes, dropping like you’ve uncurled your fingers from the handle of a shield. “Then I will do my very best to fuck some self worth into you.”
The threatening way you look at Kanda makes him return a feral grin at you and you take no hesitation in spitting in his face—literally. “Remember, this is what you wanted.”
Despite the flash of anger in Kanda’s eyes, he still manages to hiss at you, “my choice, beansprout.”
“You lost your right to make choices as of right now. Speak again and I will smack the next words right out of your face.”
The twisting in your gut tells you how wrong this is, but if you have any hope of breaking through, you have to be this way. You have to inflict more wounds to trigger the healing process.
This very concept reminds you of just how ruined both of you already are.
The churning, twisting and uncomfortable feeling in your gut refuses to back down, even as your body covers his. This is not what you want and this feels so wrong that you almost back down. The only reason you don’t is because that’s what he’s expecting. He anticipates you admitting defeat and letting him go back to a faceless stranger. You can’t do that, because you don’t want to lose to him—and you want to show him exactly what you mean. For this, you need to hurt him and it’s a boiling sensation that nearly takes the air out of your lungs.
Your knuckles crack across his face and you can feel the way your mangled, coarse hand splits the skin of his lip. He didn’t listen when you told him to shut his mouth, so now he gets to feel the repercussions. He goads you and attempts to belittle you; but you aren’t having that, are you? No. You’re not. Angry fingers pull his hair until you can almost feel the strands screaming—ripping—at the roots. It’s just enough to make him let out a strangled yelp. Your goal isn’t to tear his hair out—because you like his hair—however, you need him to take you seriously and nothing sinks it in quite like nearly yanking his hair out to get his attention.
“I told you not to speak,” you remind him after a moment has passed.
His eyes blaze at you and they make you indescribably mad. You don’t want to actually be mad; but for some reason you are and even though he says nothing else, you backhand him once more—drawing a trail of blood across the sheets. He’s fine; he’ll heal. That’s what he does. That makes it okay to dig your fingernails into his arm until he’s actually squirming in your grasp.
It’s fortunate for you that he’s already naked; because at the point you’re at, you just don’t feel like being kind enough to undress him for this. If that had been an obstacle, you’re pretty sure you would have cut them off him and that would have been messier than you plan to get. Your goal isn’t to destroy him. In your strange way, you’re making an attempt to save him.
It just doesn’t make sense to either of you yet why this is necessary.
You lean back off the bed and you take him with you—dragging him across the mattress and forcing him to stand up. You don’t like the way he’s facing and so you turn him, making him face away from you. That tight feeling hits you strongly when his bare skin is pressed flush against you. It’s probably fortunate that your body is acting separately from your mind, because you have no idea how you’d be able to do this if your mind was in control. The upset emotions and growing anger would have turned you off if you had been more stable at the moment. But with his body so close, you can’t really avoid it.
His arm is mercilessly pulled behind his back and you shove him further toward the bed—making him careen forward until his head turns so his face doesn’t get shoved into the mattress. His legs are bent at the hip and your eyes follow the curve of his body; he’s positioned at a perfect angle for you and there’s nothing you can do to stop your body from wanting what your mind is reeling against. It’s a complicated feeling that’s throwing you in chaos. All you know is that you have no choice but to unbuckle your belt and loosen the front of your pants.
Even as you stare down at him, body waiting to be used, you can’t believe where you’re going with this. It’s not that you’re naïve; you just never went this far under these pretenses and Kanda’s letting you like he’s lost every shred of dignity you thought he had.
There’s a slight chill that crawls up your spine that almost threatens to break your resolve to do this, but you force it down. This is what he wanted.
“Changing your mind, beansprout?” His voice crawls into your ears—strained and breathless—and you lose your patience with a snap. There’s a moment where you honestly feel like breaking him, because he can’t understand why this is a difficult thing for you; and you know it’s because he doesn’t care about what’s happening to himself. He should. You want him to. You want him to look at you as more than something that’s going to use him. You want him to realize that somewhere in all the stupid thoughts and rampant self denials, you care about him more than you really even want to.
This is why your hand reaches around the front of his throat and you pull him back so hard you almost think you might break his spine in the way he bows. You don’t care. You just want him to suffer at the moment. The sparks of fury at how unfair this situation is, is what makes you jam your knee into his calf to keep him in place; there’s no need for him to move or even be comfortable.
It disgusts you, but you spit into your hand and use that slick saliva at the tip of your now aching flesh. You don’t like this, it doesn’t feel right and it certainly has no promise of comfort for Kanda. Hell, the only reason you even did that much was for the sake of entry. Your mind is clouded enough that you don’t care even if you hate it. The trickling anger at this man is making you claw his hip and yank him back while you bury yourself in.
You’re not going to lie; the pleasure that envelopes you is enough to fight down the unsavory feeling in your gut that is begging you to stop this. You’ve already passed the point of no return and all that’s left is to bleed your newly blossomed anger into this man’s body.
If there is ever a situation for you to think it’s appropriate to describe the action as ‘fucking’, then it’s definitely this. The word would have left a sour taste in your mouth if you weren’t lost in forcing yourself up into Kanda’s trembling body. No matter what Kanda says, you can feel it. You can see the way his body almost recoils as if he doesn’t want it. The way his toes curl and his breath hitches with the strong jerk you make forward, prove to you that he’s lost sight of enjoying this. Because this is what every other man did.
You can remember him being bent forward and shoved into until he was screaming into the mattress and it makes you brace yourself. You’ve already sunken deep into his body and there’s no luxury of waiting for him to adjust. It just takes a moment for you to collect yourself and then you slide back.
And then you wrap both of your hands firmly around his neck, craning over him in possibly the most unpleasant position for the bottom ‘partner’. You just don’t care, because you’re already tightening your grip while you thrust yourself into him—relishing in the way he’s so tight around you. It’s how you know it hurts. The feeling of his tight muscles flexing nearly make it feel like you’re tearing him apart just being there. Part of you is curious how it feels this way, with how much he’s done this—but most of you doesn’t care because you’re focusing on his frantic clawing and struggling attempts to breathe.
“This is what you wanted, right?” You whisper to him, voice harsh and cold. Even as Kanda’s shoulder blades pronounce—flexing from the frantic effort—you grab a handful of hair and rip at it until he’s making desperate noises before you go back to choking him. It feels great, you can’t lie. The stimulation of his body protesting is caressing you to the point where you want more. Hurt him more, is the idea that crosses your mind and you comply with your own mental demands. “It feels good doesn’t it,” you breathe at his ear as you manage to regain the ability to make coherent sound.
He can’t answer you because he’s suffocating under your hands. From the way his head is turned, you can see his eyes watering from the dire need for air; but you also know it’s more than that. This doesn’t feel good, but you don’t think Kanda can tell you otherwise. You don’t think he’s capable of making the choice to protest and even if he does, all you’ll do is shoot him down. Your rampant pace is making him writhe beneath you and you know it’s because you’re being crueler to him than anyone else has been. “It feels great, doesn’t it, Kanda?” Your voice comes out in a rumble and your throat feels raw. You’re just short of growling like an animal at him.
“You like this, don’t you?” Fingers nearly claw skin open, but Kanda’s gasp of breath drowns out any pained cry that would have blossomed from it. “Answer me, Kanda, you like this, don’t you?!” More hair pulling and this time it’s so sharp of a motion that Kanda actually lets a strangled shriek come out. “This is what they’re doing to you. This is what these people are doing, don’t you know?” Your voice is switching back and forth from violent to almost mockingly fond. “They’re doing this to your body and you want this so bad.”
He doesn’t want this and his glazed over glare from the corner of his eye tells you he doesn’t. However, he can’t and won’t say it. That would be confirmation that he’s lost control.
“Answer me, Kanda,” your voice is sickening even to your own ears. Deceptively sweet and yet you manage to spit acid in the very next words. “Tell me you want this. Tell me now, you stupid piece of shit.” If you were in your right mind, you may have vomited at the way you’re acting, but you can’t stop now. Your point has to be made. Kanda is trapped between the violent way you’re shoving yourself against him and the cruel demanding nature of your words.
When he doesn’t utter words, you force his head back with your fist—thumb nearly crushing the side of his jaw. He’s going to answer and you want him to answer loudly. Loud enough that he can hear himself. “You’re going to regret your lack of a fucking answer in the worst possible ways if you don’t tell me that you love this. Because I know you do.” To emphasize this point, you let one hand free of Kanda’s shoulders and leave lines in his skin from your nails, trailing from his back to his hip and around. From the moment your hand palms over him, you know that he’s not even the slightest bit aroused. It adds just another bit of cruelty in your actions when your thumb grazes over tender flesh before curling your fist and squeezing hard enough that Kanda’s whole body trembles and his legs threaten to give out. You know it hurts. You’re making it hurt on purpose.
Even still, he’s not talking. Maybe it’s because he can’t, you don’t know; but by now, your pace has already calmed and you’re hovering over him—still in his body. The torture of this slow pace will get you off just the same and Kanda’s body will betray him in the way you want it to. The hard fist opens and you knead his pained flesh. It can’t feel good. Not the way Kanda’s gaze is cast off. From the side, you can see the one eye brimmed and overflowing with liquid.
“Tell me, Kanda. You’re in control, remember. You can tell me, I won’t get mad…” You’re lying, you’re already mad. It’s this madness that makes you change your entire method until you’re stroking him almost fondly—your body moving against his like a calm wave.
He finally makes a noise and it satisfies you to the point where you grin against his skin. Words struggle and finally manage to fall free and you want to bask in the way he sounds like he’s cracking apart in your grasp. “…Stop.”
“Stop what? You wanted this.”
“N….No I…” He can’t keep speaking because your hands are distracting him. It’s tearing him up now, because you’re actually arousing him and it’s filling him with something he can’t handle. “S…top.”
“I don’t think you want me to,” you lick his ear over the coarse breath you take. It’s making you feel like a monster and the trickles of delight that shoot along your spine make you twitch and grind your hips to him. He moans enough for it to be a distinguishable sound, before he cuts it off with a crumbling plead for you to stop. “It’s easier to hurt, isn’t it? It’s easier to suffer under a stranger. I’m a stranger to you, though. Aren’t I?” You pause and he’s silent again. “Answer me, you whore.”
“Y…ee…s,” he answers and bites into his cheek so hard that you can see blood dribbling into the sheet from where it trails from his mouth. He’s lying. You’re no stranger and that’s why he’s reacting like this. Any other person before, the many ones who came here before you, all treated him like shit and he faked pleasure for them.
There’s no pleasure here. His body is betraying him with honesty and you feel like you’ve conquered a kingdom with the army of your own voice. No matter how you physically abuse him, you know it’s your words that are clawing into him and cracking against his truth-deflecting glass. You want to see the pieces that come from when it finally shatters and at that point, you can begin to pick up the pieces.
“You want this.”
His body shudders and commits the ultimate disloyalty to him. The moment you feel the warm liquid spilling into your hand, you hear Kanda’s untamed scream. It’s full of nothing but harrowing rage. His whole body is coming alive in your hold and you know you’ve truly unsettled him. It’s clear how pissed off he is with himself and how much he wants to shove your own words down your throat, but he knows he can’t. If he does, then he’ll be admitting that this has been wrong all along—admitting that he has no control and never had. And yet, he can’t bring himself to say what you want him to, because then he’s lying.
Silence is his only way to cope with his world being completely dismantled.
So his body slacks and his breaths come ragged—his face flushed and wet from the tears he can’t stop. It’s this moment when that pull in your body comes back and you feel like you could vomit from what you’ve done. A deep inhale draws air into your lungs and you realize the tears on your face have been there since the beginning.
Both of you sit here in silence. What just took place is slowly fading out of prominence and you're waiting out for the moment where one of you will react first. You suspect it will be him, because you're feeling this sick pulling in your gut and it's holding you back from being the one to step forward. It's a combination of guilt and satisfaction that make you feel like a really horrible person.
The worst part is that you have yet to stop letting your mind recall the immediate events and just how your body reacted. You have to stare at the floor from where you are--sitting on the edge of the bed. If you look at him, all you will see is that body giving you pleasure that you really didn't want to feel. Shaking your head, you cradle your face against your hand--trying to figure out how to smooth this restless feeling out.
Behind you, Kanda's taken to leaning up against the wall and his arms are curled around his drawn up legs--as if he's trying to make himself smaller. This is the first time you've seen him this withdrawn. You've seen him angry and bitter, and you've also witnessed the strange delusional high that he loses himself to when he's particularly self loathing. But this time, he's neither. There's no snap that he usually has and there's no amused condescension. It's this that has you feeling as distraught as you do.
"I'm sorry," you blurt when the silence becomes too much.
This is not what he wants to hear and he hisses lowly at you, "No, you're fucking not. Did it feel good, Beansprout?"
You hate the way your brain is making you feel two ways about this; because you can't deny the raw pleasure, but the guilt is like a noose and you're pulling against it. You give him the only answer that you feel would hit him hardest. "Fantastic, Kanda. You're actually stimulatingly tight for someone who fancies himself as a whore."
"Fuck you!" He grits his teeth and he sounds like he wants you to drown; but at the same time, he sounds like he's in a tempest of confused and panicky emotions—a direct result of you forcing him into a release he obviously didn't want. "You got what you wanted. Like anyone else. Now get out."
"Got what I wanted?" You look up, gazing around a dark room before you turn and let your eyes fall over the man that’s very dimly illuminated by scarce light. "If I'd gotten what I wanted then you wouldn't already be thinking about the next man you'll let use and discard you."
"What does it matter to you?"
Cold and dispassionate, he is, and it frustrates you again. You'd taunted him with that one question he never answered--no matter how many times you'd threatened and hurt him to do it. You'd physically abused him and forced the reality of how much he didn't want it on him. You made him confront how much he hated what he was doing and yet he still appears to be slipping back into the thought process before--just shaken and angry.
"I want you to answer me. Do you want this? Do you like this? Is this the life of human contact you want?"
The bed moves and you don't even bother to respond--even as his arms curl around your neck and pull you back forcefully. You can feel the distraught tension in Kanda's grip and there's a pride you have in making him scattered like this. "You have no right to disrupt my life, you little piece of shit. I do what I want. Do you think flapping your mouth while you fuck me is going to change anything. What? Are you going to fight off every man that comes to my room? Are you going to make me your concubine and fuck me in place of all these people? Are you that committed, Beansprout? You want your fucking answer but there's no good in having it if you can't act."
"You said that to me once, Kanda," you choke slightly and breathe with a heavy inhale, "and I ended up plowing you--face down on the bed. If you think I'm going to give it up this early, then you're wrong and you may as well put my name on your schedule.”
“Little…piece of shit…How dare y—.”
You don’t care for more of his anger and name calling and his grip is really weak due to his shaky state, so you easily flip him off you; taking little to no care that you’ve catapulted the man right off the bed. You simply look down at him, watching him scramble to pick himself up. “I hope you enjoyed your time with me, Kanda. It’ll be a frequent thing.”
He just gives you the darkest, meanest and possibly most shaken look he can give you before you decide to stand and collect your bearings to leave. You leave slowly, taking your pace carefully so he can’t see just how shaken you are as well.
Another night, just like the many before it, you sit in his room and watch him bring a person in. This has been an ongoing situation since you laid down your claim; and you’ve complied with it to the best of your abilities. The way he smiles hollowly and runs his fingers over another man’s skin makes your blood pump through your arteries until you’re afraid you’re going to bust a blood vessel. He’s so determined, so hell bent…even though he’s well aware of what will happen next. He’s waiting for you to slip, because he wants to prove you wrong. Not only does he want to prove you wrong, but he wants to nullify your claims of his misery.
Every night you whisper the same things in his ear, while you’re thrusting yourself on him. And every night it finishes with his angry scream and subsequent release that you force him to have. The last thing he wants is the pleasure that you force him to feel. He doesn’t want to enjoy it, because that means he’s separated you from the other faceless people that he loathes. It’s a complicated place he sits in. There is no way for him to admit to one thing without bringing another thing to light, so he says nothing and he just takes it.
If he admits that he hates every moment of every experience with those people, then he’s lost to every tantalizingly cruel whisper you leave buzzing in his brain. If he admits that he likes it, then he’s submitting to having no control over his situation. If he bypasses the face-less stranger and gives in to sleeping with just you—then you have become a special case and he’s adamant that you’re no one and nothing that can stop him.
Even though he says these things, he’s yet to prove that you are nothing; because almost every night you are there waiting and you cut him off before he can seduce another person into his stained bed. It’s strange, you think, because the way he lets you is leading you to think that he’s just going through the motions until you step in and stop the misery that follows—even though he claims you are his misery more than most.
Sure, you hurt him. You pull his hair until it burns and leave bruises on his neck when he won’t stop snapping his mouth off at you. You’ve held him face down and ruined his body. Yet, you seem to feel like he’s biding his time between you and the person you’re prepared to throw out.
His fingers are slender and inviting, tracing lines across this new man’s face and you see the dark glitter in Kanda’s eyes as they flick to you. You hate that look, because it’s mocking you in a way. It’s mocking you because you’ve become a predictable thing, haven’t you? He knows what you feel and your intentions; he’s playing you as much as you’re slowly winding him up and trapping him.
Somewhere, you have to concede defeat first before he crumbles after you. Your choice of timing is hard for you to stomach, because this charade has gone on for a while now and now you’re recoiling from the idea of another man’s body violating his. Along the way, you have become possessive and protective. It was not the intention, but it has happened nonetheless and you want to lock him in the room and refuse to let him leave until he understands the damage he’s doing.
He’s ruining himself and he’s not even aware. You want so badly to make him see. This is not self control. This is not a choice. This has become an addiction he can’t break himself from--even if he loathes it. It’s like he’s become addicted to convincing himself he has no worth otherwise. But he is not one to be spoken to; he’s not one to listen to a lecture and that’s all you have at your disposal—angry words aimed at making him realize. Yet, even with the harsh actions you put on him, he still seems to take it better than with the strangers you’ve saved him from. You finally think you’re starting to see, but it’s still too confusing.
Why would someone like him fall to this level? You’ve seen brothel whores with more self-esteem than this man.
Tonight, you decide as you watch him soliciting a complete stranger for this self destructive act, you will not save him.
You remain silent and you don’t move from your place in the chair. One leg crosses over the other and you lean back on the window sill and watch—painting a mask of unaffected boredom even though you’re dying inside. This is everything your body screams against, but this is what you’ve chosen.
It’s clawing at your morals, because suddenly he’s realized you’re not going to stop him and the way his face contorts makes you see everything he feels that he’s pretending isn’t there. It’s like he’s collapsing and you’re not picking him up because he has to admit he’s falling first.
As the man drops him back on the bed, your fist tightens; but you don’t break your resolve. Even the harrowing glare of those dark eyes boring into you is not enough to shake this. You want him to remember the difference.
And see just how in control he isn’t.
You don’t have to infer or pick apart his mannerisms to see this. It comes at you in the form of his angry fist and you catch it with a bit of recoil. There’s no control in him this time, you notice, and he’s lashing out at both you and himself. The man who just left must be leaving him with the empty desolate feeling he’d bathed in before. The strength in his punch dies and he’s trembling up his arm. You can see the angry howls on his tongue and you’ve already prepared yourself for the screaming match that will follow.
Unknowingly, you’ve let him down and he’s crumbling from all of the realizations that come while you’re watching him scramble to piece himself together in a way that leaves him feeling less vulnerable. He’s steeling himself for when he bites your head off—his viper-like tongue stinging with accusations.
“What the fuck was that?” His words are gritty in your ears; but you smooth it out with a deep breath, because you know what you’re doing now. You’ve already unraveled him so much that he’s actually quivering at the loss of illusion.
For weeks, you’ve spent your nights in his room, watching him destroy himself as a person. For more weeks, you destroyed him yourself…until he became used to you and used to the way you’ve subtly instilled your routine in him—tracing the patterns of your kind of love into his skin. The pleasure he thinks he hates is actually only loathed because he wants that. He doesn’t want what he just got and it’s very hard not to see that while he’s looming over you with a threatening expression and eyes glassing over with forecasted rain.
“What was what, Kanda?” You play dumb and wait for him to make the first move. He’s already walking on cracked glass and it’s just a process of making him step through before you get around to picking him up and pulling out the shards so he can heal. You hate doing it this way; but it’s proving to be most efficient, because he looks ready to skin you alive. You almost find it funny. He never had a positive feeling toward you, and here he is, showing he wants you in place of what he’s been doing for god knows how long. Truth is plain as the furious storm reflecting in his dark eyes. “You wanted it and to be honest, I was tired, so I thought I would give you a break from me tonight.”
It’s the worst lie you can manage and that’s frightening, because you’re usually very good at lies. Lying is so much harder when it’s literally hammering your heart out of your chest with how bad it’s making you feel. And really, he’s not stupid. He’s not stupid at all and this is accentuated by the swift open palm he smacks into your face before you’re really aware he’s done it.
The sharp sting only lasts long enough for you to get your mind and body to cooperate and tell you what just happened. You’re sure that was enough to leave a mark, yet the mark probably won’t be on your face; but on his pride instead. You think this, because you know he’s so angry that he’s as livid as he is. The reason he’s livid is because you’re right.
What happened in that bed moments ago is entirely his fault and he knows that he could have pushed that man away himself. He could have said no and he could have saved himself the misery of mopping up someone’s needs while slowly shredding his dignity into the mattress.
What he does now is something you weren’t anticipating and it’s literally ripping you apart to see him act this way. The way he turns away from you and slides down the wall just makes you want to reach out and apologize—even if you were proving your point. It’s the scream, however, that makes it haunting and you don’t know what to do now. You just, you feel like you should stop him; but you know he’s justified. He’s being destroyed by himself, by others, and by you in the most conflicting of ways.
This scream, you understand, is the same scream that erupted that first night that you forced yourself on him; that same night that you forced him to feel pleasurable sensations that he really didn’t want. Yet, he wants them now. That’s why he’s screaming now.
“You…I…fucking despise you,” he breaks his horrid shrieking to grunt hateful words at you. You’re expecting them. It’s his only way to express that you’ve splintered his stable environment of self-hate and threw him into a confusion that left him wondering what was what and why he couldn’t simply go through what was normal before.
“I know.” There’s no need to really ask why and there’s no need to defend yourself. You watched him curling under someone’s touch until he was chewing his lip bloody to keep him from expelling the distressed noises he makes when he’s too thrown out of his comfort zone. Of course he’s going to paint you as the enemy for that. “You were the one who said I couldn’t keep it up, didn’t you?”
It’s possibly too unfair of you to say such a thing. Because Kanda is being thrown so many different things that no matter what direction he takes, he’s wrong. That is possibly why he’s losing his mind.
“I hope you fucking die,” he sneers and nearly curls himself into the brick wall.
You stand and force yourself to remain distant like you have been all along. You can’t show the affection you want, because you’ll never get at him like that. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Kanda,” you say as you leave the cold room behind you.
For the last few weeks, the pattern has gone back to the same thing as before. You sit in his room when it’s well into the night and you wait for him to come in later. You’ve gotten to a point where you’re more familiar with his room than your own and you’ve even taken to bringing books and placing them by the window so you can read on those nights where he takes longer than you anticipate.
Tonight is one of those nights. Usually, he’s stumbling through the door with a Finder who hasn’t been tipped off—and these days, they’re plentiful with how many of them die. It’s a sad fate for them and even worse when you think about how you and Kanda are denying them a possible last shot at the pleasures of the flesh. It’s kind of rude, because Kanda knows the outcome even as he strings another victim along. He brings them in, lets them touch him and get him just about to the bed before you stand up and demand they leave. If they have a fit, you simply throw them out physically.
When the door closes, you always turn on him and deliver him to the uncomfortable end that he claims he doesn’t want. It’s been a bit different since you broke the pattern by letting someone take over again. You haven’t done that since; because you don’t think you can stomach it, let alone see him try not to have a mental breakdown. This is the rhythm you’ve both submitted yourselves to and you wonder what you will do if that changes.
A disturbing thought crosses your mind and you realize that you’ve become invested to the point of fault and you might actually have created the deeper connection that you have tried to avoid with people. You didn’t want people to get close to you, but you’ve damned yourself by getting close to one. There’s a difficulty you’re finding in separating yourself from Kanda and you wish you could maintain the professional distance while you try to alleviate his misery.
It only makes you realize that your own happiness depends on him and how he responds to this long project of forcing worth into him. You don’t know if you’re anywhere close to the turning point, but it really seems like he’s teetering on the edge of it and you want to push.
Every time you’re with him—caressing him, whispering to him, and blending yourself into his person—you adopt a softer touch. You’ve learned to subtly change the way you comply to his demands every night. When he’s bowed under you, you’re running your fingers along his skin, just to feel the way your warm fingers send shivers along his flesh. You’re slowly changing it into something that he understands as good and not something he understands as necessary.
Part of you is curious as to how this even began with him. When did he start to let himself slip? When did his skewed version of human contact spiral out of control like it did when you accidentally saw more than you should—or ever wanted to see. Why did Kanda even let you be part of this in any fashion? This man could have long ago banned you from being anywhere near his living space, but he didn’t. In fact, he invited you—like he wanted you to see. Was his situation an assertion of control and want, or was it a cry for help that you openly responded to? With Kanda it was hard to really tell, but from the very beginning you had your heart convinced that this wasn’t just Kanda’s strange fickleness.
Regardless, you wait for him to arrive like he usually does and you pass the time watching the rain fleck colors across the window. There’s nothing you feel like reading and even if you did, you wouldn’t want to get into it when he’s supposed to arrive soon. Any moment he will enter the room, bringing the uncomfortable part of the evening—before you both end up on his bed, making the springs protest.
No longer can you deny that you actually enjoy that part. The heat of Kanda’s body and the way he moves are alluring things and everything about him really draws you to him until you want this for the sake of this. It makes you curse yourself, because that isn’t a reasonable desire. Kanda isn’t a partner to keep; he can’t even make the mental connection that being passed around like currency isn’t good for his mental stability.
These lines of thought are the reason you don’t notice the door click open and the reason why you blink and suddenly there he is. It almost scares you into jumping, but you catch yourself before he gets a chance to really dig into you for it. Within that second, you’re already steeling yourself for the act you two play and you’re on your feet.
Except, something is different this time. Something is wrong. The door is closed and locked, from what you can tell by looking at the handle; and Kanda is there in front of you—giving you an unsettling look. There are no sounds in the room but breathing and your eyes are searching out the missing factor.
Kanda did not bring someone with him this time.
“Kanda?” You speak hesitantly as he moves over to his bed and sits on it. He looks weary and somewhat hollow. You know it’s not a physical exhaustion, but a mental one. Yet his answer is still as denying as ever.
“I’m just tired. I’m taking a break for tonight. That’s all.”
The routine is back to normal and you continue as before, though every night you’ve changed it up. Instead of saving him on the spot, you make him sweat. You make him wonder if you’re going to let it happen, and there are times where it’s so close that you can see the cold submission returning to his eyes. You’ve yet to let that happen again, but you know he’s always going to have that suspicion, because of the one time that you let it. He hadn’t been lying that night, when he told you that he was tired, because you can clearly see that he is.
This game, that he’s become an unwilling participant in, has exhausted him to a point where you’re not sure how long it will be before he collapses or tries to escape from you. What he will do then, you don’t know, and you’re fairly certain he doesn’t know either. He’s just biding him time until it reaches that point.
How many days, you wonder, has it been since this started? How many times has your body been familiar with his? You really can’t tell anymore, because they all blend together and much of your day is spent waiting until that point. Your job, of course, has taken you both away from time to time, but you barely recall those moments—if you recall them at all. They just don’t feel important to you when there’s this man before you. It’s maybe an obsession now. It’s a dire need to see him through to his breaking point.
You’re not a sadist; you’re just more dedicated than you really should be.
So you lean back when you hear the door open. The book you’re holding is no longer interesting—though it really hasn’t been from the beginning. You’ve been too busy thinking about him to even remember a single word on the page. In fact, you’re pretty sure the only word you remember is the one that triggered your thoughts about him again.
Because, god, you know that’s what your problem is. It’s taken a while for you to plainly admit to it, but there’s no other way to describe this feeling that you have when you’re with him—in any capacity, really.
He ushers the new man in the room—a face you haven’t seen, much like the rest of them. This boy is still clear eyed and probably expectant and you feel that momentary spot of apology for the way you’re going to shut him down like all of the others. It’s Kanda who chooses these people, not you, so you feel you have no real need to be polite. Your ‘companion’ can deal with the irritated and denied male afterward.
The click of the door signals the safety zone for their actions and you feel a pair of eyes on you. The Finder is not expecting you here, like a few of the others—who had actually noticed you—but it never seems to stop them. You’ve been Kanda’s ‘roommate’ for quite a while now—according to the whispers he gives them to sate their curiosity. You’re fine with that. It’s not like you’re going to let it go anywhere.
The Finder’s hands are all over Kanda’s body and you take it in with the patience of a god. You’re allowing it, because you are well aware that it’s only going so far…That’s what you tell yourself while you’re silently itching to throw the man out now. It’s awful the way it grinds your gears to see Kanda’s head turn so another person can kiss and bite his neck. It’s even worse to see Kanda’s teeth pulling his lip and his eyes staring off at anything else. This isn’t a new thing, but it never gets easier to see.
His hands claw and pull Kanda to him and your fingers curl up into fists. Despite the way your heart races, you hold out. It’s necessary to elongate the time between them entering the room and you throwing him out. Mainly because Kanda’s temper is touchy and you need him to reach the point where you’re necessary. Sometimes, you watch him and you almost can see how he’s trying to want it, but somewhere the attempt fails and you’ve saved him from that once again.
Kanda is a complicated creature and it baffles you at times. You’re really in awe of his perseverance in oppressing himself in every way he can. It’s almost admirable to see someone who disregards himself so much, put so much effort into proving it.
The first pull of clothes and you’re already shifting, because you’re about to get up. This time, you’re not going to be cruel and let the man undress him and get him almost at the point, because you’re not feeling benevolent to the Finder—or malicious to Kanda, depending on how someone could look at it. You’re thinking about the ways you could touch him and make it better—and the ways you want to touch him that he won’t allow.
You pause, however, because the silence of the stuffy room is broken by Kanda’s voice. It fills the small space like a loud bang in your ears—because it’s shocking. It’s leaving you staring at him like you have no idea what to think—and really, you don’t. Kanda’s tongue brought the strong consonants to life when he hesitantly mutters one word.
It’s definitely not directed at you—you’re not even part of the equation at the moment. Maybe that’s why it’s got you so on the edge of your seat and amazed. With his hand on the man’s chest, he pushes him away and drops his gaze to the floor between them. Despite the awkward situation of denying this man, he sticks to it and his hand never drops from where it is—keeping the stranger back. Kanda is pushing him away and insistently at that.
Certainly, the other man isn’t too pleased by it, but his hands go up in a motion of defeat. No one in their right mind would actually fight Kanda if he asserted himself in any way. The ones who had no trouble beating him were the ones who had been ‘allowed’ to do so. You emphasize ‘allowed’ in your mind, because you know he’s never allowed anything. He’s never disallowed anything either. Kanda’s lack of respect for himself had taken away that privilege.
Until this very moment, Kanda’s never been able to make a choice, because he’s been deluding and convincing himself of things he’s distorted over time. He had warped his own view until he’d lost sight of himself.
As the third man exits the room and the two of you remain, alone, you understand the magnitude of what just took place.
He said no without being forced and without outside interference.
Kanda had made a choice.
He drops back on the bed and stares at the door and you know why he’s exhaling like he’s been holding his breath. Turning away that person probably surprised even him at that moment and now he’s finally submitting to it and rationalizing it for what it means to him. It’s the Kanda way of doing things. For a man so stubborn, you’ve noticed that once he’s defeated, he reaches for a solution to lift the weight from his crushed ego.
Dark eyes finally seek you out and you make no attempt to back down from them. This time, there’s no overwhelming anger, because you had nothing to do with it. This time it’s just his resolve and you as the witness. As such, it feels like his gaze is analytical and you feel like you’re being dissected. A vulnerable feeling settles across you, before you turn and open yourself for him to see—expressions loose and body language exact.
“Why did you tell him to leave?” You ask, being the brave one to speak first; not letting his eyes throw you off like they normally could. This, you feel, is something big.
Of course, he doesn’t reply. It’s just not in his nature to reply to a direct question, but you’re alright with that. He is a man dictated by actions and words never seem to get to the point quite right. All it manages to do here is settle another long stretch of silence between you while both of us fish for the right way to go about this topic.
Another question is simply not the answer, because he’ll be even less likely to respond if you repeat your initial attempt. Kanda is fickle if you ever saw and this makes you careful when you’re slowly walking him in circles. The circles you lead are slowly getting tighter and tighter until you’ve drawn him to the center and kept him there. He’s stuck and you’re waiting to release him.
“It’s your fault,” he whispers and rolls away to face the wall, his cheek burying into the sheets that are clean tonight. Even though he’s accusing you, you’re more than aware that the accusation is actually closer to that of an appreciation. Because of you, he had the power to push away what had been a curse for a long time.
“My fault, huh…” You say it like it’s not a surprise and that’s mostly because it’s really not. You keep the tone light on purpose though, because you know if you have any hope of him speaking more, you have to draw it out of him slowly.
“Yes. It’s because of you.” He doesn’t clarify, but he really doesn’t need to. You know that it’s the resonance of your body that’s spoiled him. You can feel it in the way you both move together now. The weeks spent pushing other men away have made you aware of the subtle changes in him and how he almost seems to respond to you—instead of taking it like a worthless whore. His body learned to arch into yours and you can feel his heart evening out to yours now.
His screaming had died into softer, disgruntled noises that almost seemed like were being made out of obligation. Since your one instance of letting him go, you’ve been persistent and you’ve drawn him in closer with every time. It’s at the point, where you honestly believe he’s ready to realize the disillusioned belief he’s been living with.
He’s not ready to speak though and you’re not surprised. Just like anticipated, Kanda’s only capable of actions and when he rolls back over and climbs out of the bed, you’re ready for it. Remaining where you are is easy, because he’s sliding toward you and looming over—staring down at you with a very insistent intent. There a glittering in his eyes that almost make you break the dull look you’re giving him. It’s because of this spark in Kanda that you feel so elated at the moment.
That elated feeling quickly shifts into something else once you’ve realized that he’s taken the initiative and crawled into your lap—a knee on each side of your body while he comfortably rests across your front. It’s not like you’ve never been so close—you’ve been way closer than this and many times at that—but this is an entirely new experience. This is something surreal, because this is Kanda taking control of the situation to this point. It’s Kanda who has moved to you, snaking his arms around you until he’s flush from hips to face with his cheek to yours.
“I hate you for doing this to me,” he whispers, but it’s weak and filled with hundreds of other meanings in between what appears to be unpleasant words. “I… told you…I was in control.”
He wasn’t, you both know, but you say nothing and let him make his claims. All you can really think about is this moment where you’ve got him. He’s absolutely unable to deny the faults in his mindset and how wrong all of this was. That’s why he doesn’t even try; he just blames you for making it apparent. He’s still a work in progress and you’re not willing to give it up. Squeezing him tightly in your arms, you move your cheek against his and neither of you bother to try and guess whose face is wetter.
Kanda won’t be an easy one to guide all the way home, but you’re skilled in being patient and the end result is worth the wait. When you’re frustrated and ready to smack the sense into him, you’ll think about this moment right here where you watched a lost man find a bit of himself, even if just for this moment.
Warnings for M-Rated Content.
It’s been awhile since his first break through and as you expected, he’s trying your patience. It’s the Kanda way of operating, but you’re not budging. He’s bounced back from the one moment that he simply couldn’t do it. Not that he’s actually managed to get any further with any other male that he brings along, but he hasn’t stopped making the effort. You begin to wonder why there isn’t a chart in the Finder’s quarters that simply details all of the reasons to avoid Kanda like the plague—one of which being for sexually devious reasons. It’s got to be a record number of men for any one person to have seduced; but then, looking at Kanda, you can really see why they were successfully entranced.
After all, you’re practically a second occupant of his room for a similar reason. It’s easy to say, also, that you’ve had sex with him more than any one other person would hope to. You’re not sure at the moment if this is a good thing or not, given the nature of your usual unions. Those times aren’t exactly under most fond of circumstances, but you can’t deny how much you drink it in anyway. You’d be stupid to say you didn’t enjoy the raw pleasure you get from him.
Given how you feel, you can imagine how another would react, knowing what someone like Kanda was about to give them. From what you gather, these men don’t know that Kanda’s probably slept with as many men as a brothel girl. That should actually disturb you to think about, but you’re far too used to it, given how much you were around your master. Cross had no quandary taking a woman or two at any moment—even with you in the room, no less. So Kanda’s actions aren’t much different than those girls, perhaps, except Kanda has more liberty with whether or not he has to. Those girls are bound by debt, slavery or contract of other sorts. Kanda is doing it because he lacks any self worth and has turned it into a mentally debilitating addiction.
This addiction isn’t anywhere close to fixed, it’s just redirected to a better place—at least that’s how you like to think of it. If he has to be addicted to sex, then you don’t mind being the one to sate his needs. At least you know you’ll take care of him where others won’t. Once you’ve gotten him to a less feral state, you’ll keep him at a comfortable place where he can slowly bring himself down from the cruelty he’s put on himself.
These thoughts keep you from thinking about the time, and when you’re wrapped up in your thoughts, it seems like a shorter wait. The door clicks and you blink away the things running rampant in your mind in order to focus on the actual owner of the room. This becomes another moment where you note lack of another person. It’s just you and him again—like that one time where you saw the earliest crack begin in him.
“Tired tonight?” You muse and lean your head on your hand and make yourself obvious in your comfort. It’s come to the point where his room isn’t a danger zone like once upon a time. It’s now an extension of your own space—given that you spend so much time here.
Waiting for his answer brings you to a startling revelation and Kanda’s so close to you that you can feel the warmth of his skin. When had he gotten so close? You hadn’t been paying that much attention, because this is not usually what happens. The way his knee slides between yours and finds the cushion of your chair, is also not a common happening within these four walls. His weight shifts and he leans, drawing himself nearer to you and you turn your head back in order to meet his eyes with your own.
There a bit of leverage he has over you and his movements dictate everything that’s taking place between you two in this barren room. The brush of his lips against yours is entirely his choice and it’s leaving you curling your toes because of the strange excitement this is giving you. When his mouth moves more firmly against your own, you part your lips and tilt your face. The way his face meshes with yours doesn’t seem awkward or uncomfortable. It feels pleasant and leaves a hum in your body that craves for more of him. With one light kiss, he’s electrified you and made you need him.
That feeling is possibly the best in the world, you decide. All because of one person, you feel so right with the world right now and—for once—this person isn’t making it difficult. This person is actually beckoning you. He’s leaning back and breaking his face from yours and his hand is held for you to take it. Of course, you do. You take his hand because there’s no other option. Your body and mind are both in agreement that you need this man right now and he needs you as well.
When both of you are standing, he moves up against you and his form molds to yours as much as you can both feasibly manage. A leg bends at your thigh and Kanda’s hips roll until you can’t remain still—leaving enough of an opening for the man to slide his knee between your legs. His knee is unapologetically shifting against you and you breathe between your teeth because the pressure of his close caressing is making it difficult to think straight. He knows that you’re weak to this; he has to.
If there was any doubt about it, you’re almost positive that it’s been washed away by the stiff evidence that his knee is currently stroking against. You really can’t help it and part of you blames it on him. You never had a problem dealing with your ‘teenaged hormones’, but you apparently do now. You’re going to say it’s just because it’s him and you doubt he’d contest you. He probably likes to know that he’s the one who’s made you this responsive to an act you never cared to participate in before.
A small part of you, buried away at the moment, still burns with regret that it’s taken this long to arrive at this point. Maybe it would have been nice to have this from the get-go, but there’s also something sweeter about getting to this point the hard way. The eagerness trickling through your limbs triggers you to bring your arms around him, holding his hips to yours and sliding your hands down the curves of his body.
He’s always been attractive, but right now, you’re ready to utterly devour him and you think you will. No, you know you will, because he’s making the choice to advance on you and who are you to deny his choice? You are his choice and that alone has impacted you all the way to your heart, where Kanda has managed to grab on and hold. Even though he claims to hate your personality and the way your face has a haunting disfigured curse across it, he’s entrusting this intimacy to you.
This isn’t just an obligatory submission to sate an unwanted need. This is just a little bit more, you believe.
You push him back, putting enough force on him to take him back to the edge of his bed. There’s not much more of this man’s exposure that you can take before you need to collide with him.
Instead of dropping him back on his bed like you have done many times, you push him down and make him sit. This is something you want to impact him, because he’s finally opening the door so you can pull him in and it will take one perfect experience to keep him in; you will make sure of it. You’re still close to him, but you’re now changing your position and sliding down his body—leaving kisses through the cloth of his clothing. Your hands are kneading the skin along his hips and you have to bring them in closer for what you want to do.
He’s already shifting in place, because his mind is already well adjusted to what this means and you don’t have to draw it out. Drawing it out works on some, but not on Kanda and that’s perfectly fine. You’ve touched him before, so when your hands work to free the clasps on his belt and draw his pants from his body, he’s actually as aroused as you from anticipation.
His pants drop to the floor beside you and you let him settle back straighter after you’ve nearly pulled him off the bed to release his body from the prison of those slacks. His skin is already flushed and you find it attractive and absently wonder how much more flushed he can get while you’re moving your tongue up his thigh and drawing a line until you come in contact with your actual target—engorged and twitching from anticipation and Kanda’s muscles contracting.
You draw him in, stretching your lips until you’re filling your mouth with his presence. It’s not something you’ve done before, but you’ve seen this more times than your mind would like to recount and you’re partially mimicking that—but also doing what you feel is most natural and pleasurable, taking physical cues from him. When he arches his hips against you, you hold him in place, but you know it’s doing insane things to his head. When all the pleasure he’s known is what you’ve forced on him, this has got to be something truly electrifying.
For a brief moment, as your slick tongue strokes over the tip, you consider your fear of choking; but you’re so wrapped up in him that you brave it and purse your lips over him tightly and draw down until your throat is screaming at you and threatening to make you gag. A time or two, you even have to pull back and cough, because you’re just not accustomed to it; but all it takes it the short groan that slips from his lips and you’re forcing your mind to ignore it. When you’ve got him buried almost completely, you swallow thickly against him and his reaction makes your own arousal intensify.
He can’t stop himself from moving a hand into your hair. It’s probably taking every bit of self control not to jam his hips against you and you’re thankful he’s less impulsive than most.
What you don’t understand is how much you’re beginning to enjoy this. His thick, aroused flesh buried in your face and pushing into your throat is nothing less than stimulating. You pull air into your lungs over him and you follow it up with a nice drawn back suck. The sound of your mouth like a vacuum over him is filling the silence along side his heavier panting and the more he pants the more you pull up and then descend again. This rhythm slowly adjusts you to the presence of his arousal and even the movement of his hips doesn’t throw you anymore—so you let him do it, thrusting lightly up as you come down.
This alternating pattern is drawing your mind along until you’re thinking about just how badly you want to be claiming him—how badly you want to drop him back and bury yourself in his pulsing heat until he’s writhing under you. You want him to understand that pleasure he can have from that. You want to feel him in pleasure and be there right with him.
In order to alleviate the pressure, you brush your hands over yourself and massage the hardened part of you that needs to dig into Kanda. Even through cloth it feels better and eventually you work your pants open as you drop your head all the way in his lap. He’s straining against this and you withdraw, trailing saliva and his slowly building essence until it’s thick and sliding down your chin. You wipe your mouth and bring your hands back to him, fingers trailing along skin and stroking until they’re sticky and wet too.
He knows where you’re going with this and he’s compliant. He never offered argument anyway, but this time it’s filled with less dread and more eagerness. His heels dig into your sides and draw you up, those legs pulling you while you reposition yourself and work him back into the bed more—scooting him across the mattress.
You brush your hands down the top of his thighs and draw them around until they’re under his knees. With a bit of shifting, you move yourself up close to him, your knees sliding to each side of him while his legs arch over your hips. You’re pressed close to him and he’s squirming against you. It feels good to both of you and you can’t resist the need to slide your hand between you and rub several digits over where you’re aching to be. It’s a light tease and you enjoy the soft grunt he gives you when he’s moving his pelvis to be closer to you. You want it and he wants it, and there’s really no point in skirting around it when you’re both coming unglued.
Leaning off to the side just a bit, you press your fingers in. It’s no secret that he doesn’t need this anymore. As many times as he’s been through the harsh shove, he’s probably apathetic toward unprepared entry; but you want to do it this way. You want to caress him in every way you feasibly can and this is just a phase to the goal you both share. With your palm up, you dig in a little more and press the tips of your fingers in a wave like motion until he’s making noises you don’t think you’ve heard before.
In all the times you’ve had his body, you’ve never had him like this. You’ve never had him facing you and you’ve never had him this open. It’s amazing to watch him and the way his face contorts. This is different. This is something unique to both him and you. You’re ready to give him the love he’s not been shown and he’s prepared to accept it.
His hand at the back of your neck makes you lean closer over him and minimize the space between you. You’re ready and so is he, if his expressions and subtle motions tell you anything. You swallow down the lump in your throat, because suddenly this means things and you’re a little intimidated by this side of both of you. It’s the way his fingers claw at your hair and bring you back to his face that make it all wash away. The taste of his lips against your rough tongue is a pleasure you hope you’ll enjoy more than just once.
With a warm hum, you brace yourself over him and arch your pelvis to his—using a hand to lift him just enough to ease you in. The sound of your appreciative sigh vibrates against his lips and he parts them to trail his tongue along your own lip, biting it between his teeth lightly while you’re lightly jerking your hips against him. He continues to make the sounds he was making before and you think of them like a low purring, but not quite because you could never compare Kanda to a cat that simply. The sound though, is something guttural, yet it’s like a low tumbling breath being blended with a moan.
All you can say for sure, is that it’s a sound that you want to hear again and many times at that. His eyes slip closed and you’re breathing against his cheek, with both elbows supporting you over him and letting you be close. His legs tighten around you and he hikes himself up a bit to increase the access you have to him. There are small tremors that you feel in his legs and it’s like a jolt of adrenaline to you, because it’s just too much to have him like this. It’s so intoxicating and perfect. You realize that you are experiencing a new world of feelings yourself.
After a moment of clumsy thrusts and awkward rhythms, you both hit that perfect push and pull against each other and he’s rolling his hips right into yours at just the right timing. The pleasure you feel pooling in you is making your skin burn and you breathe just to keep yourself from overheating. Another kiss drowns a groan out of him and you can feel it against your tongue at about the time you arch yourself up in your motions—trying to replicate the way your fingers had caressed just the right spots.
His arms are wrapped around you and his fingers are digging into your back through your shirt. It’s not painful, but it’s forceful and you really like it. It feels like he really wants you and it’s making your heart flutter around like you can’t control it. This responsive body under you sends adrenaline all through you, until you’re inching up to him with feverous jerks, eliciting strangled noises that sound delightful to you.
There’s no part of you that feels the need to speak or whisper fluttery things at him like lovers tend to do. You honestly believe that the things unsaid are more than any words you could come up with at the moment—and that isn’t really much, considering how lost in him you are. His world is yours for right now and he’s letting you share it. Everything outside of you both is gone and all the outside traumas are pushed out and filled to the brim with every euphoric sensation you can grip.
You can feel his back arch and lift from the mattress and you turn your head to devour his neck, with a hand slipping down his torso and massaging the sensitive skin pressing at your belly. He’s twitching in your grip and you tug lightly until you’ve matched a rhythm with the rest of your bodies. This causes your partner to hitch his breath and croak back the groans that want to fly free.
Your fist squeezes enough to really draw the sounds out of Kanda and he’s already gone, even as you continue to slide back and forth. The liquid across your fingers doesn’t bother you in the least and you’re glad you made him melt against you. He’s a mess in your care at the moment; eyes closed and breathing hard while his face is contorted in pleasure. There’s a long shiver down his body and he slacks just a bit, still gripping you while you move—drawing the orgasmic remnants from your actions.
With this playing out under you, you know you can’t last much longer and you submit yourself to the same place Kanda went, sinking your head into his shoulder and burying yourself flush against him, drawing it out and dropping off the edge harder than you’ve felt before.
The moment lasts forever to you and you feel suspended there in the hazy glow of whatever you and he had become for those moments. No matter what he says, you both had become something more than that you were—not that you really knew what to call yourselves before. Regardless, you and he have become something more and you are going to let yourself bask in it for a little while before you collect yourself and leave like any other night.
With the little strength you can bring yourself to want to have, you pull your spent body from his, still trying to focus outside of the distortion your body created in its heightened moments. The man beneath you is blinking wearily at you, his eyes half closed like he’s struggling to keep himself awake—similar to how you are doing the same.
You roll off to his side and you face him, drawing your heavy arm to his neck. The warm pads of your fingertips at his throat are feeling the pulse of blood in his body slowing as he comes down and he turns on his side to face you.
The last thing you remember before you slip into oblivion is wiping back the only bead of liquid to slide down his cheek.
This time you know, though, that it’s not an unhappy response.
And this gives you hope.
You wake up from a warm comfortable sleep with your white hair tossed around your face, mingling with the contrasting black of your partner’s. As far as you can tell, he’s still asleep—curled against you, bare skin flush against yours after you’d both stripped yourselves down from your soiled clothes. This is the first time you’ve stayed so late into the night and it’s leaving a pleasant hum in your body that seems to negate any feelings other than positive ones. For the first time since you both dove off the deep end, you are able to draw him back to the shore so he can breathe. Hours before—before yesterday became today—you were able to truly love him and it felt right.
For weeks you had both been struggling—him to maintain whatever façade he had been determined to show you and you to keep your distance so that he could come around and accept this change to be a permanent one. He didn’t like to admit that you are the one that his body has finally decided it wants. But last night, he has finally succumbed and when you looked up, expecting the routine to be unchanged, he had kissed you—a fact that still makes your heart beat faster to think about.
It’s because Kanda Yuu had never kissed anyone that you saw. In fact, that was the most distinctive detail you remember. Many times he’s moved his head away, or found other reasons to keep his partner’s mouth from touching his. But he…kissed you. Despite all of the people he’d shared his body with, you—Allen Walker—had been the only one to receive an unprovoked and unforced kiss from him.
It wasn’t just a kiss either. The entire body language between you had shifted from that moment and there was a resonance that connected him to you no matter what happens between you after this.
The sun has yet to rise and you’re already more than aware that you should leave. You don’t really want to, but this is the unspoken agreement between you two; that no matter how many times you both collide, you would vanish by the time the light poured into the room. Most of the time, you were gone the moment you were finished, just on the fact that you couldn’t stand to look at him after what you’d done to him. Now, it’s slightly different. You really don’t want to leave, because you’re both content and he’s still sleeping peacefully against you. However, you know it’s what you need to do and you have to really shake yourself from this comfortable haven you’re in.
Getting out from under him is a bit of a challenge, because you honestly think Kanda could wake at the sound of a leaf falling. The only reprieve is that he’s probably still wiped from your previous activities—stacked on top of all the emotional turmoil you’ve let him boil in over these weeks. With these things at your advantage, you manage to at least turn him back into the bed and leave him by himself at the center of the bed.
The cool air hits you and instantly you want to turn back and forget you even woke up to remember to leave. With a big, muffled yawn, you stretch your limbs and glance around for the clothes you’d woken up to shed not much longer after you’d both worn yourselves out. You mused at the fact that you couldn’t sleep with your clothes on when you’d shared that moment with him nearly fully clothed. How uncouth, you thought as you absently reached for the first article of clothing that even remotely looked like yours in the dim light.
Maybe next time you can be less hasty about it—that is assuming there is a next time and you really hope you’re assuming right. The two of you have come a long way in a relatively short time, since you’ve first walked in on his degrading act of submission. It’s hard to remember the exact feelings you’d had at that moment, given the feelings that have overtaken you now.
Now you know you’re doomed. Now you know you’re hopelessly enraptured with this man and it’s nothing else but love that you feel for him. It’s a dangerous feeling too and one that you know you may never hear returned, but you never have to hear things from Kanda. So you still have hope that one day you may find that he has the same feelings swelling up in him that you have in you.
With a heavy exhale, you managed to get your pants on enough to justify standing up and working them back on until you’re probably suitable to just bee-line it to your room without the rest of your attire. It’s still dark and there aren’t many people that would notice you if you took the best paths. Fortunately for both you and the man in the bed, Kanda’s room is considerably out of the way and there aren’t many people who travel this side if they don’t have to. That had been a special request of his—to stay in a low populated area in order to appease his distaste for other people. A typical Kanda excuse, even if it was just a cover for what he really wanted the privacy for.
At least now it was for a more positive situation—you like to think so, anyway.
You stand straight and then a sudden movement alerts you to the awakening of your partner. Actually, it’s his hand around your wrist that makes you realize he’s awake. You know better than to think he wouldn’t notice you moving when you were so close, but it still startles you at how precise he is—fingers curled tightly around your wrist, even while he’s still somewhat faced into the pillow.
He doesn’t let go, but rather pulls and you stare back at him. There’s not a word that could come out of Kanda that could speak louder than this action of his and you wordlessly slack in your stance. A smile traces across your lips and you watch him continue to pretend he’s not actively holding you there. If not for his hand and one cracked open eye, you might think he was asleep—but he’s not.
He’s awake and he wants you to stay.
So you do.
Please forgive me for the long delay in posting this here, as it has been available at my writing blog on tumblr. This part of the trilogy is complete and I will begin working on posting the next. It's been a long time, but I've been a bit busy with life.