Work Text:
You rarely indulge. In the matter of bodily function, yours is perfectly in order—only one piece of you is less than ideal, and you would step in front of that knife willingly each time. You can live without an eye. You cannot live without Subaru.
But your cock works. It worked too well when you were younger and you’re grateful, in a remote way, to be long past that part of life. About once each week, as routine, you masturbate. It is a perfunctory act and so you do it in the bathroom before washing, releasing into a piece of toilet tissue so as not to clog the bath drain. You floss, as well, and exercise four days each week, and eat a balanced diet of lean protein and green vegetables. Your smoking, then, is an indulgence; you plan to be dead long before it catches up with you.
You saw him again.
Subaru passed through Shinjuku Station this week. You’ve been observing a target and thus spending long hours there as you learn habits and behaviors. So many people pass through each day—but you don’t know many people, do you? You know only one person whose face you seek in a crowd. It’s no wonder you keep finding him.
His clothes have been the same every time you’ve seen him for… years. Plural; many. You did not watch for Sumeragi Subaru in the first year after you left him. As your marked prey, you could find him whenever you wished. However, just as a man does not consider the glassware in his cupboards when he’s out of his apartment, you did not think Subaru would require minding. What is there for him in this world, now that you’ve taken his sister and his joy?
Other men, apparently. Once, you felt the tug of intense emotion from Subaru’s marks, and you were nearby. You went to look. You found—
Recalling it stirs your blood, and all you can do when you see Subaru now is recall this moment, overlaid on top of his current face and your memories of an intimate year. That’s why you’re at home and on your sofa instead of following a target; the sakura tree shivers with restlessness but you find it easy to ignore. In your mind, Subaru shines with embarrassment at his attraction to you. His hair is short. He wears nothing but a fitted black top which leaves his arms bare and he looks back over one pale shoulder as you, as you…
You touch yourself through your trousers. Your cock works and so it’s hard, it’s damned hard and a nuisance. You shouldn’t indulge. Why not? The sakura tree rustles in your thoughts, demanding blood—perhaps Subaru’s blood.
Not tonight. You own him and you will take him on your time. Then you think about taking him and you remember another man taking him, a grey-suited nobody with broad shoulders and dark brown eyes, which is the wrong shade. Was that why Subaru faced away? Subaru wouldn’t be able to face away from you. He would turn his head to look back and then you would grab it, force his chin where you like so that you could thrust your tongue into his mouth like you would thrust your cock into his ass.
Your hand closes around your dick through the fly of your boxers. Your trousers are undone.
Subaru didn’t take that man’s cock like it was his first, which is an impossible thing to quantify except that you know Subaru and you saw what came before the fucking. The man put his tongue in Subaru’s ass before he fucked him. He put—you grip your sack, looking for pain—his filthy fucking tongue in Subaru’s hole, right between the cheeks as though Subaru were not already owned. Like a guest taking his cup with him as he leaves your home. Not his ass to lick, not his ass to taste—your balls hurt; you let them go.
You know Subaru’s ass would taste sweet. Every part of him is saccharine-sweet in the slightly off way of modern candy: artificially flavored to hide the mechanisms behind its making. Subaru is empty sugar. He is bad for you and so you crave him. If you’d been the man kneeling between his cheeks as he leaned against that hotel room wall, you wouldn’t have stuck your tongue in once and called him wet enough; you would have dug your fingers into his thighs and held them apart, perhaps held him up so that he had to strain and reach for the floor with his toes. You would have licked Subaru’s rim until his hips started moving or his hole began to loosen, and only then would you flick the tip of your tongue into his waiting body.
The Subaru in your mind turns red when you do.
He stammers and stutters and draws his hips away, as though seeing your saliva stretch and break and drip from his ass wouldn’t be far more obscene than letting you finish the rimjob. He says your name, “Seishirou-san!,” and means it as both censure and plea for more. Your Subaru gets you hard, both in the fantasy and in your hand now, by mixing his old modesty with his current edge, his sharp hair and shuttered eyes. With your mouth, you could bring light back to them. You could put the pink in his skin again.
The man who was with Subaru did none of that. Subaru lowered his forehead against the wall, between his braced arms, and bit his lip against the pain of the first thrust. He allowed himself to be fucked badly. He settled for an inattentive reach-around and still finished himself with his own hand. The only reason you would let him touch himself would be to see your marks light up when he rubbed his cock. The delicate, pin-prick lines of the pentagrams would glow silver and look like lacework laid atop his skin. They would burn—you dig a nail into your shaft and hold it, making yourself burn—but by then Subaru would be split open on your cock. You would be pounding his ass and he would be on the edge of coming, by your hand or his, and so his defiance would win out. He would slap your hand away and deny you the pleasure of making him finish, all the while missing that you win either way: your hands or your marks on his hands. He cannot escape you.
Your cock throbs. You let it go. More gently, you stroke it and think that Subaru might be gentle like this. That stuttering, modest Subaru of your year together had delicate hands and touched people tenderly. You hope that hasn’t changed even as you know that it has, because your Subaru wouldn’t fuck strangers in hotel rooms. But no—he is still your Subaru, as he has been since you marked him. Your fist tightens. Your palm slips through the slick mess you’re making. You want it to be a mouth, red and choking—no, an ass, pale and narrow—no, a hand, wearing ethereal lace. The mouth could tell you off. The ass could be denied to you. If only it were his hand—
You come into your hand. Your body is healthy. Your body functions. Your semen is a normal viscosity and neither especially plentiful nor particularly scant. This makes a mess of your palm and your boxers, but you are experienced enough to know how to avoid dripping on your trousers. You are aware of all of this, as you are aware of the sakura tree’s sharp branches prodding you back to your work. Your apartment is dark and you haven’t eaten dinner, which sits pre-prepared in your fridge.
But the fantasy still lives in your trembling blood. It keeps your heart racing and your vision, in your one remaining eye, softly blurred. You killed the man who you watched Subaru fuck. That did not make his experiences yours. You think of this each time you see Subaru.