Chapter Text
It was anything but soft, tender, or gentle. Their kissing was violent, frenzied, aggressive—like two predators in heat, entangled in a brawl to the death. Patrick was on top of Kira, a man he despised, straddling his shamefully erect crotch as they clawed at each other's skin. He bit down hard into Kira’s lip; the flesh tasted soft and spicy. It was intoxicating—the taste of Kira, his soft little moans into Patrick’s mouth, his slow, languid tongue contrasting with his violent hands, which squeezed patricks ass so hard he had to clench his jaw to hold back a whimper. His sharp, long fingernails were digging into him, surely to leave a scattering of bruises. And despite the fact that Patrick should've been repulsed by all this, be absolutely disgusted by the thought of a man leaving marks on his body, it was somehow fucking riveting. His cock was rock solid and leaking precum as he rocked into Kira's hips, heat blooming in his chest at the feeling of Kira’s erection hardening too, a tantalizing, delectable bulge rising in his pants. Patrick had done that to him—he was making Kira hard, making him moan like a helpless little bitch as Patrick’s hands shakily roamed his body—rubbing up his smooth, untoned stomach, his sides, his chest, his back.
Patrick’s hands roamed through Kira’s hair, scratching at his scalp and being sure to make it hurt. Kira yelped and shuddered, but the noise was muffled in the cavern of their mouths, softening to a muffled moan. Pat took it as a sign of encouragement, yanking Kira's hair back so he could kiss his neck—another convulsion and a pretty moan, his whole body shook from the sudden pain. Patrick chuckled—as faggoty as it was, Kira was so fucking cute like this: helpless, in pain, letting Patrick hurt him willingly, like a little slut. He sucked on the asian man’s neck, swirling his tongue around and pressing his teeth lightly against skin—a threat. Kira’s Adam's apple jutted out and bobbed, moving with each sharp inhale as patrick ran his hands through disgustingly soft hair, his mouth lapping firmly at his neck like it was his last meal before a fast.
He rolled his hips into Kira’s, and he followed along, rocking their hips roughly into each other; the friction of their cocks rubbing together made Patrick’s mind fog over pleasantly. Holy shit, this guy was better than Evelyn, or even fucking Courtney , had ever been in bed. Before he even realized, desperate, aching moans were leaving his own mouth, distant in his head like they came from someone else. He had half of a mind to snap out of whatever the fuck this was—to push Kira off and choke him to death, then take a long, burning hot shower, scrubbing and scrubbing away at his sullied skin until it was burning and raw, cleansed of this filthy, wretched, disgusting encounter.
However, while they were still present, those impulses felt…duller than usual—numb, perhaps. The thoughts were present , but there was no real physical, emotional response to them—no violent twisting in his guts; no sharp pain in his throat; no chokehold on his lungs, squeezing up the air. He felt… normal . For the first time in a long, long time, he felt…content. He wasn’t miserable, or numb, or burning with rage—-there was a fire in his belly, but it wasn’t hatred or repulsion; it was pure, unbridled lust . He was starving, and all he wanted was Kira.
And he was completely sober, too; it wasn’t some manic, staticky drug high that made him feel like this. He was completely, physically and mentally present —his mind and body and soul were all together, in the same room, drinking in the moment. For once he felt whole, complete, like there wasnt this deep, aching emptiness he had to fill by chasing after mindless fucks and taking drugs to ignore. In this moment, nothing else fucking mattered; everyone else could die for all he cared. He wanted to fuck this pathetic man so badly it ached .
“Mr. Kira… Kira… please…”
Kira was fondling his ass and rutting his hips jaggedly, ungracefully; Patrick could tell he was a virgin by his lack of rhythm and coordination. Fucker had probably never felt the touch of a real woman in his life . As pathetic and laughable as that fact should’ve been, it was exhilarating to patrick—he was a complete and total virgin: fresh, delicate, untainted . Patrick would be his first fuck— he would be the one who got to defile him, who had the honor of tainting and sullying his gorgeous little body. He wanted to mark him—Kira was his mystery, his enigma, and no one else’s . No one else in the world had the unique pleasure of knowing him intimately the way Patrick did—of knowing the real kira.
“Kira… Kira! ”
“Hmm?” Kira mumbled, their lips still gently locked, and Kira’s mouth felt criminally, vulgarly soft on his own— jesus, what a fucking faggot, having lips like that; bet he uses a fucking lip scrub or something —
“Kira…can we… ugh…! ” Patrick barely managed to quell a moan at another sudden thrust on his cock, the friction on such a sensitive spot overwhelming his body.
“Speak up to me, Pattyboy…use your words …I know you can,” he teased, his voice irritatingly sly and ticklish, rumbling in patricks ears. Kira knew how much he fucking hated nicknames—they were infantile and stupid, and Patrick briefly thought of biting into the fucker’s lip and ripping it clean off, then sitting on top of his chest and strangling him, kicking and screaming, until he stopped fighting. However, he quickly recovered from the anger in favor of continuing this…admittedly fruity encounter.
“Kira…let me fuck you …now…”
Kira stared him deep in his eyes, and Patrick’s chest cinched painfully —fucking christ , since when were his eyes so fucking blue? ----and for a second, it felt like something was holding his lungs in a deathgrip, making him forget how to breathe. For a man, Kira was fucking breathtaking. His lips were small but round and pink, with a pronounced cupid’s bow. He was clean shaven, barely a mark of stubble tainting his supple, soft skin. His eyes were monolidded and much smaller than an American’s, but God, they could hold Patrick’s mind in a fucking chokehold with their beauty.
It felt like eons passed to Patrick, of them just sitting, staring, with their bodies dangerously, irrevocably close—Patrick was aware of every limb and section of skin that touched, aware of that small but vigorous bulge pressing up hungrily against his own, stiffly straining against those eyesore-purple pants of his. Finally, Kira broke the silence.
“Well, that’s not a polite way to ask, now is it?” he cooed, a tint of his asian accent melding to the edge of his sentence. He cupped a soft hand under Patrick’s chin, his other tracing the side of his face, dragging fingertips over his high cheekbones and slight stubble. Patrick swallowed, his throat desert dry. Suddenly he felt unbearably sweaty, acutely aware of moisture pooling in the fabric of his suit.
“What’s the magic word?”
His voice was like a toxin, making Patrick’s stomach swirl violently. He felt like he wanted to vomit and cum at the same time.
“Cut the shit , Kira.”
His grip on Patrick’s face tightened, squeezing his chin and cheek in a death grip. His eyes darkened, and Patrick felt a sudden rush of heat swelter in his belly.
“Call me Yoshikage ,” he demanded, his tone hard and cold. The way his voice slipped effortlessly into that grating accent, pronouncing his name with a foreign elegance, made Patrick struggle to form words.
“I…Ki…Yoshi…”
His tongue was like leather, stiff and heavy, unable to form words. His hand ran down Kira’s supple waist, observing just how slender it was; he was almost petite, compared to most of the men he worked with. So delicate, effeminate…so easy to overpower. He could choke him to death, bash his head into a wall—he was strong enough, and Kira’s body, while sturdy, wasn’t nearly as strong or trained as Patrick’s.
One of Kira’s hands stroked up Patrick’s neck, combing through his hair so gently and slowly it felt almost cruel.
“Now, Patrick…what is it that you want?”
Patrick felt both high beyond belief and yet completely sober. Kira’s touch was so unbearably gentle —there was so much caution in the way he touched him.
Why are you being so kind to me? You should be hurting me! You should scratch me and knee me in the chest and beat me bloody. Why? Why are you doing this?
His mouth swam desperately, trying to form a coherent sentence.
“Um…Kira is…I want…the…I…”
The blonde bastard grinned at his flailing and chuckled —-fucking laughed —at Patrick’s helplessness.
He swallowed, nearly choking on his own spit.
“I want to fuck you. Please .”
His voice faltered, weak and cracking in a desperate whisper. He felt a pang of embarrassment as soon as the words came out, so pathetically, an unidentifiable shame twisting in his chest. Kira smiled at him, honest to god fucking smiled, and Patrick’s stomach twisted pleasantly as Kira caressed his cheek, his hand gentle.
“Well, then…we’re gonna need some lube for that, aren’t we?”