Chapter Text
There's a lot of things that Mikoto keeps to himself. There's the safe answers that he can give to people to make them feel like they're getting to know him, and that's usually more than enough to maintain relationships and keep up with the social game of life. But underneath that, there's a whole monstrous pit of desires festering within. Those are for him, and him alone.
Mikoto doesn't look that beast in the eye, but he does. He sees that ugly creature in all its naked filth every time he sees his own reflection. He knows, with a cold clarity, the kinds of things it's capable of. It wants, and wants, and wants, and he's starting to think that perhaps it is insatiable after all. Trying to feed it has only whet its appetite more—a hopeless struggle, but one he must undertake nonetheless.
He'd thought, at first, that to "destroy everything" and fulfill his wish, all he had to do was pile up a few bodies (or several, who's counting?) and call it there. He loved it—the way it felt to crush them underfoot, to draw out their agony, to finally be the one in control. Each death was a balm to his soul, each sin a loving kiss. It pleased him to be free, and it pleased him to be needed.
But it wasn't enough.
He looks down on himself, dreaming peacefully on that familiar sofa. His eyes trace the contours of his face, every perfect imperfection imprinted in his memory. He observes, with careful stillness, the way that his chest moves up and down with each quiet breath. His hands, soft and delicate and completely clean, rest gently on his stomach, where his shirt has ridden up to reveal his skin.
Something stirs within him. There is no name for it, for he has never considered it before, and he has no intention of addressing it now. Even as it compels him to draw nearer, sitting at his side and enveloping him in his shadow, he does not acknowledge it. It lights a fire in the pit of his stomach, and it causes his breath to quicken at the sight of his plush lips, but he does not recognize it. How could he know to do such things when he has never experienced them himself?
To be fair, no one has embraced him before either, but he needs no instruction for that. If there is a name for this particular impulse, it is merely instinct, plain and simple. His arms sneak their way around his sleeping body, clinging onto his warmth as he rests his head against his heart. Badum, badum, it cries out to him, and he lets his eyelids flutter shut, wanting nothing but for this sound to go on and on…
“Mmn… wha…?”
Mikoto shifts beneath him, sending a warm jolt through his skin. He opens his eyes and looks up, chin propped up against his chest. Mikoto looks at him with half-lidded eyes, still vacant from sleep, before they suddenly widen in surprise and a rosy tint fills out his cheeks.
“W-wait, what’s going on? Who are you?”
If he knew how to answer that question, perhaps he wouldn’t need to exist in the first place. But since he doesn’t, and that thing inside him is licking its lips at the sight of his flushed, panicked expression, he responds by doing what he does best—taking action.
Mikoto lets out the beginnings of a surprised yelp, but the sound is quickly swallowed up as he forces their mouths against one another. It’s sloppy and disgusting, much like the work he did when he was first born, with teeth clacking loudly and saliva dripping all over the place. It can’t be helped, really. He’s always had to learn everything by himself—his first steps, his first words, his first kill. His first kiss is no different.
He moans as his tongue presses in deeper. His head feels light—oh, right, you still need to breathe—but he doesn’t know how to stop. All he knows is how to indulge Mikoto’s deepest desires.
And so, he knows that the weak thrashing beneath his iron grip is an act. He knows that when Mikoto bites at his tongue and kicks at his abdomen, it’s just part of his charade. Far be it from him to judge this particular brand of foreplay—no, in fact, he’s starting to realize that he enjoys this fantasy just as much, if the tent forming in his pants is any indication.
“Shhh…” he whispers in his ear, immersing himself in his role. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of you.”
“No, no! Get off of me!” Mikoto continues his useless struggle, bruises beginning to form where his wrists are trapped against the sofa. “Let me go!”
He’s a good listener, always perfectly obedient to Mikoto’s needs, so he ignores his words and listens to his body instead. He grinds down on Mikoto’s budding erection, groaning in tune with his involuntary moaning. He takes quick note of how Mikoto tilts his head away, and lunges toward his exposed neck, lapping at and sucking on him like a dog in heat. Seeing his nipples growing hard beneath his shirt, he releases one hand to snake up his abdomen and rub them in gentle circles.
Mikoto’s free hand does not push him away, but rather, it grasps at his disheveled hair, pulling him further into the crook of his neck. He hums in pleasure, nipping at his collarbone with an ardent fervor. The sensation of Mikoto growing harder against him as he bucks his hips fills him with an indescribable ecstasy, and suddenly the layers of fabric between them feel way too thick. There shouldn’t be even a millimeter of space separating them.
Singlemindedly, he releases his grip on Mikoto to reach for his waistband and remove the offending clothes. This quickly proves to be a mistake, however, as Mikoto seizes the opportunity to shove him away and scramble out from beneath him like a stubborn roach.
Hah, alright then. If Mikoto wants to play this game, he’s happy to oblige.
In the blink of an eye, he grabs Mikoto by the ankle and yanks so hard that he falls with bruised knees to the cold, unforgiving ground. He cries out in pain, a shriek that sends daggers through his heart, but he persists in his mission, kneeling down to gather Mikoto’s hair in his fingers and drag him up to meet his gaze.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, his low voice oddly devoid of anger. “We’re not done yet.”
Mikoto winces and struggles, his fruitless attempts to break free from his grip earning him no quarter. Physically, they should be evenly-matched. He’s sure, if he really wanted to, he could throw off this villain and put an end to this perverted scene, but as usual, he likes to play the part of a fool. So, the show continues.
“S-Stop it, please!” He resorts to whiny little pleas, interrupted by gasps of surprise as he’s forced to the ground and his lower garments are shoved down, revealing his stiff, pink cock. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me…”
His eyes soften, and he nuzzles against Mikoto’s jawline, pressing gentle kisses into his flushed skin. “I would never,” he promises, a vow that comes more easily than breathing itself. In this alone, he puts on no airs.
This assurance seems to calm Mikoto down just a little, his body going limp as the fight slowly trickles out of him. Still, he refuses to return his fevered kisses, his lips remaining stiff and unmoving even as he is peppered with love over and over again. Indeed, if not for the way his exposed tip twitches in excitement, precum leaking down his shaft, he’d feel more like he’s making love to a corpse than to a man. Perhaps the best way to describe it is this: Mikoto has finally given up. That’s fine, though. He hasn’t.
“Don’t fight me. Don’t reject me. Just be good, alright?” He returns to the script. “I know you want this. Because you made me this way.”
As if to prove his point, he takes Mikoto in hand, delighted at the way he jerks involuntarily with every stroke of his fingers. He’s new to this, but for Mikoto’s sake, he’s nothing if not an enthusiastic learner. Seeing as he no longer displays any sign of resistance, he decides to take his time experimenting with his body. Circling the tip, spreading the sticky fluids over his smooth skin. Tracing the veins, light touches teasing up and down his length. Grasping the base, gently massaging him in the palm of his hand. With every new variable, he observes the results intently—a sharp inhale here, an arch of the back there—and privately sears them into the back of his mind so that he’ll never, ever forget.
Mikoto looks so beautiful like this. It’s not that he isn’t already a sight to behold, what with his meticulous grooming and careful attention to every inch of his presentation. When he’s not falling apart at the seams (and he’ll ignore how that seems to be the default more often than not these days), his skin glows with health (and not a little bit of concealer), and his eyes sparkle with youth (and not a hint of cynicism). No, he’s always beautiful from head to toe, even if he’s not from the inside out.
It’s just that the way he is now—sprawled out and laid bare for him, with no mask to hide the tears streaming down his cheeks—is unlike anything else he’s ever known. When all is said and done, this is who Mikoto is. Frightened. Pained. Overwhelmed. He’d rather set the whole world ablaze before letting anyone else see him this way. How blessed he is, to be the only one graced with this repulsive sight.
“Doesn’t it feel good?” he coos, settling on a steady rhythm as he pumps with one hand and caresses Mikoto’s face with the other.
“Ahh… ah…”
“You want to keep going, right?” he purrs, leaning down to rest their foreheads together and gently lap at Mikoto’s tears.
“Mnngh…!”
“I’m here for you. Just tell me what you need,” he murmurs, holding Mikoto firmly in place as he starts to tremble with uncontrollable waves of pleasure, continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, relishing in the sensation of being coated in warm spurts of his cum.
He allows himself a moment to gather his bearings. When his nerves begin to calm and his vision comes back into focus, he finds his other self still gazing deep into his eyes. It scares him, the lengths that he’s willing to go to indulge himself. Suddenly, he feels as if the floor’s fallen out from beneath him. Shame bursts out from the depths and takes hold of his being, strangling his breath.
…What in the world is he doing? This sick performance can’t really be what he wants, is it?
Oh, enough. It was never a performance at all. Can you be fucking honest with yourself for once?
Mikoto mumbles something under his breath. His voice is suppressed, his tone despondent.
“What was that?” He cradles his head in his sticky hands, smears of his own cum on his chin. “Speak up.”
“...lone.” He peels one hand off of him. Rejection.
“I can’t hear you, love.” His hand returns to its rightful place. Persistence.
“I need you to leave me alone.”
(Cut, cut, cut! Time out! That’s not how this is supposed to go. The client asked for a rape scene with warm and happy aftercare to show that it’s actually consensual non-consent! And now you’re taking the script and running off with it to some other ending? Leave me alone? What are you talking about, Mikoto? You wanted me to do this, didn’t you? So why the hell are you mad at me now? I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.)
…Oh, alright. This is just the second act. He can improvise.
“Don’t be like that.” He lets out a weak chuckle and leans in to peck Mikoto on the nose. However, he’s stopped short by a hand on his face, roughly pushing him away.
“I told you to leave me alone. I’ve had enough of this.”
His cold tone of voice is scathing. The indignation that rises from within him is automatic. This sensation is much more familiar—hands curling up into fists, nails digging into his skin, heat rising to his cheeks, teeth clenching in anger. His instinct is to direct these unacceptable emotions through a blunt weapon straight into somebody’s skull, but there’s nobody else in sight, and he’s made a promise to the one person lying beneath him.
“This won’t hurt,” he breathes out raggedly, trying to assure himself. He swats Mikoto’s hand out of the way, pinning it back to the hard ground with a crack. Mikoto starts kicking at his abdomen again—he puts his lower body out of commission with a swift knee to the balls. After forcing Mikoto’s legs open around his body, he shimmies his pants down far enough for his dick to be freed, allowing it to dangle over Mikoto’s own. With both Mikoto’s ankles flung over his shoulders, he leans back down to lay sloppy kisses all over his bruised lips, crushing him underneath his weight. When Mikoto bites at him in protest, he receives a sharp thwack to the jaw.
None of it hurts, of course. He said so.
“It’s going to feel so much better if you just behave. I’m going to make you feel better.” He shifts Mikoto’s arms so that they’re pinned above his head by one hand; the other, now free, reaches back down to rub soothingly against his injured balls.
Mikoto responds with a shrill yelp, sobbing uncontrollably as he squeezes at his painfully hard member. It’s a wonder, really, that he’s still turned on throughout all of this. He feels unbelievably sick.
“Why…” he whimpers, sniveling like a baby. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” He laughs. “Because you like this. You’re a sick, twisted bastard who gets off on rape fantasies with yourself.”
“T-That’s—!! No, I…”
“It’s okay, Mikoto. If you want it so bad, I can do it for you.”
His fingers travel further down, prodding insistently at his entrance. With some difficulty, he slides in one finger, followed by another, and pumps repeatedly against his walls, Mikoto’s lewd noises filling him with pure bliss. At last, he finds the spot that has him screaming with pleasure at every touch.
“I can do anything for you. No matter how filthy—” One thrust. “—or despicable—” Two thrusts. “—or shameful.” Three thrusts. Mikoto lets out an obscene wail, shaking in uneven pulses and squirming uselessly around his fingers. His own body shivers in excitement, the sight of Mikoto falling apart for him sending a chill up his spine. “Because I was born for this. For you.”
Ever persistent, he dares to kiss Mikoto once more, biting at his lips until his tongue finally gains entry. He wants to drink all of him—heart and mind, body and soul. To swallow down all of his fears and regrets, to drown in the depths of his being. He’ll accept it all; he’s the only one who can. He wishes there was some way he could convey this all-consuming desire to him. If he could, would Mikoto be able to spare the slightest shred of love in return?
Mikoto reciprocates by drawing blood. He reels back, the taste of iron filling his mouth, specks of red scattering over Mikoto’s face as he coughs and spits in reflex. His fury reprises, despite himself. Anger is an intimate companion, Mikoto less so, though he continues to pretend otherwise. But what gain is there from this coddling? All this pleasure he’s serving for him so patiently, and this is the thanks he gets. Perhaps he should take, for once.
It’s a lie to say that he takes no joy in hearing Mikoto’s desperate pleas for mercy as he retrieves his fingers and presses the head of his cock in their place. This is his duty, sure, a burden thrust upon him with no room for complaint, but he can’t help but love the noose around his neck, because it’s the one shackle that binds them together.
Together… Yes, they should be together.
“You want this,” he reminds Mikoto before kindly forcing himself inside. The relief is instant, the feeling of Mikoto’s warmth encompassing him sending his vision to the stars. So, too, is the pain—his head is thrown back with a bloodcurdling screech, the intrusion splitting his body apart.
He comforts him, of course. Gently tucks his head into its perfect place in the crook of his neck, soft little kisses separated by sweet whispers of assurance. “There, there,” he croons as he begins with slow movements, testing the waters. “You’re doing so well, dear…”
Mikoto babbles incoherently in return. Littered throughout are tiny cries of “no”, “it hurts”, “stop it”, but the words pass by his ears and dissipate soundlessly into the air—Mikoto’s always full of meaningless shit, after all. He prefers to pay heed to the way Mikoto loosens up for him, and he delights in the way his puckered hole keeps sucking him in, greedy to consume his full length over and over. The ecstasy coursing through his veins is not unlike the rush of adrenaline after a solid beating, but he likes this high even better for Mikoto being present to share the experience.
His pace quickens and slows, an ebb and flow as he attempts to keep this perfect bliss going for as long as possible. For every time he feels himself approaching his limit, he draws back, pausing to admire Mikoto’s shuddering body, flawless and defiled. His own body grows weary from continuing to quash Mikoto’s futile attempts to break free from his grasp, but it’s alright. He’s tough, he can take it. If there’s anything Mikoto is good at, it’s enduring through self-inflicted suffering.
“Look at you, you dirty little pervert,” he praises, a delirious grin plastered to his face. “Having fun, aren’t we?”
“I hate this,” he lies.
“We should do this more often,” he suggests. “You’re so tense all the time. A good fucking is what you need.”
“Shut the hell up.”
“All those partners we’ve had before were so boring. Bet it’d scare them shitless if they knew we were like this.”
“...I’m not like you.”
“Maybe so, but I like you more than enough to make up for it.”
He tears Mikoto’s shirt aside and rolls one nipple in the curve of his bloodied tongue, happily resting his cheek against the layer of sweat on his chest. Here, he can hear Mikoto’s vigorous heartbeat again, pounding viciously against its cage as he nears climax once more. This time, he’ll join him.
Taking Mikoto’s sensitive cock back in hand, he begins to pump him in time with each of his fervent thrusts, steadily increasing in tempo. At the end of this accelerando, a perfect release awaits.
“Come with me, Mikoto,” he begs, unable to stop himself from moaning in excitement. This joy—an emotion reserved for the other—is new to him, and he has no framework for how to deal with it. To keep it at bay, or to let it explode? He chooses the latter.
With a startled gasp followed by a low groan, he comes at last, emptying himself fully in Mikoto’s embrace. He, in turn, releases with a high-pitched cry, soiling his hand once more with rope after rope of cum. Completely in tune, a perfect harmony. The curtains close.
He comes to with a heavy weight on his chest. Glancing down, he finds himself lying there peacefully with closed eyes, as if he’s lost in a lovely dream. Listening to his heart, tracing little circles on his skin, humming snippets of a love song.
Maybe there’s a part of him that’s still innocent, after all.
Can he really accept things like this? The mere thought of it repulses him. That thing festering within him—it’s vile. If he continues to feed it like this, there’s no telling how greedy it will become. He ought to cut out the disease while he still can.
He… still can, right? Tentatively, he reaches a hand toward the beast, petting shyly at the top of his head. His eyes flutter open, seemingly surprised by his gentle touch. The faintest hint of a smile can be seen—not on his lips, but in the way he looks at him, sees him crystal clear. So cold to others, but for him alone, he melts.
…
Mikoto shoves him aside and stands up. He needs to make himself clean and get to work.