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Now that Natsume thinks of it, there's a kind of indescribable dimmer vibrating in the snowflakes that gently dance on this first December evening.
Steaming cappuccino still on his tongue, it certainly made for a nice contrast. He'd long anticipated this of course—such trivial manners were but one of the little strands of fate already woven in time, long-foretold, arcane knowledge laid out bare before his waking eye.
His slender fingers turn around another card, revealing no other but the hanged man.
"Ah....〜"
However, it's not the only thing laid out bare and choking.
Mao moans beneath him, causing Natsume to squeeze his thighs just a bit more on reflex, a shaky gasp escaping his throat. It's for the better this way: Mao writhing underneath his legs, fighting for air while Natsume doesn't dare to grace him with a glance.
It's pitiable how easy Mao is. Surely, if he'd order him to jump out of the window, he'd do so without any particular question; Mao would crawl forward on all fours and waggle his hypothetical good boy tail whilst straight up begging with those Smaragd eyes of his—outright plead, really. Ugh. The thought alone is enough to turn the coffee kiss from before into a bitter aftertaste as he instead fantasizes about clawing Mao's eyes out. It would be so laughably fulfilling to do. Oh, how he'd love to rip them out of his eye-sockets and turn them into a necklace to wear for everyone else to see.
The next card to appear before him is the fool.
Mao is good. Even Natsume can't sugarcoat that. He's good and eager and all too obsessed with pleasing, exploring every inch of Natsume as his tongue dances over Natsume's folds, suckling on his clit. It makes rocking down on him feel natural, an instinct just as it was Mao's to be needed. There's a reason they're both throbbing already, his orgasm dangerously close. And yet, and yet. As much as Natsume may be a sadist, (something he prides himself in) he's certainly no outright murderer, which is why he sneaks in little pauses that allow Mao to inhale as much oxygen as possible. And isn't it just exhilarating—the way that Mao is overwhelmed by the kindness of air flooding his lungs? The way he is left shaking, yet welcomes Natsume's warmth again and again like an obedient puppy?
It's pleasing enough for his tormentor to feel generous.
"Good boy," Natsume purrs, and Mao whimpers in return. Mao gives and breaks, Natsume takes, takes, takes and that's exactly how it’s meant to be.
He and Mao are a holiday fairytale gone wrong.
Natsume himself had chosen it that way, had violently ripped out the 'happy ending' and rewritten it into a story of never-ending doom. Mao is just as much of a magician as he is the self-proclaimed prince of this fairytale, and Natsume had surged into his life as his star-crossed nemesis and locked him up in captivity.
They weren’t destined to meet in the first place. It had been wrong on every level—no, wrong doesn't even begin to cover it. Fucked, yes, way more appropriate, they're so fucked (in literally any sense of the word) it's almost laughable.
And Ritsu? He'd always been there, practically purring in Mao's arms like the devious feline he was born as—waiting, readily holding out for his makeshift hero as a sleeping beauty, twisting the means of reality if he needed to. Yet, all it had brought him—brought them—were droplets of blood, a claim carved in the skin but not in the heart, and a hero turning away to run headfirst into the villain's lair. Scared, bitter and afraid but too weak to resist all the same.
Some things happen to be above morality. In the end, intrigue curses us all.
Whether it be a striking hero, an arcane expert or a cheap, good-for-nothing copycat—strip Mao out of his good-boy essence and that's all you get.
And If Natsume's sole purpose revolves around the concept of reminding Isara of this very thing? Then so be it.
Fucktoys don't deserve speaking rights anyway.
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"I—It burns... !”
Mao's back is facing him. Nevertheless, Natsume can sense the desperation and need. 'It burns,' Mao says—yet still, he rocks back against the strap with the urge and conviction of a cheap whore.
It's storming outside now, the wind howling restlessly as the fireplace hisses and grumbles beside them, illuminating the both of them in a golden hue; the kind of cosy atmosphere that leads Natsume to smile.
"But you like it, don't you? The only one you're trying to fool here is yourself. How pathetic."
Mao's fingers claw uselessly against the couch's rest. He's suffering. It's a fact so obvious Natsume can't help but chuckle.
If only he could, Mao would love to switch their positions, to carve kisses into Natsume's sensitive skin and let his hands caress him in the most addicting manner, squeeze him just right to make a map out of his canvas body. Except that this would be a kind of reward Mao hadn't earned whatsoever, as much as Natsume himself does hunger for it on some level. Instead, he denies him this very wish. Mao would rather die than voice his desire out loud anyway, and who would Natsume be not to exploit that, especially when Mao is practically serving himself on a silver platter?
Natsume would also appreciate it if Mao could stop the revolting habit of making love to him while he's trying to fuck him.
In the end, I have to do everything myself, don't I?
Without further warning, Natsume begins to set a terribly slow, outright agonizing pace. Every thrust sends an electric shock up Mao's spine, one that lures out low moans and gasps of varying intensities. However, as expected— and perfectly calculated— it was nearly not enough to be pleasurable. Of course not. Such is the sweet kind of punishment Natsume had mastered like no one else.
"Ngh... Natsume—!"
"Yes? You will have to speak up, I am not well versed in that filthy gibberish of yours."
One may be tempted to call it a special kind of malice, to deprive Mao of the ability to actually voice his thoughts—but Natsume used this method regardless of morality. He knows, he always does. Mao for one certainly appreciates the fingers hooked inside his mouth, swallows them up and sucks at them as if his life depends on it. One should give him a medal for how generous Natsume's feeling today.
"I'll go as fast as I have to, understood? Call it my special kind of charm. Ah, but let me lift the burden of speaking for you: do you really want me to go faster that badly, Sari ?" His grin widens. "₮ⱨɇ₦ ɏøʉ ฿ɇ₮₮ɇɽ ฿ɇ ₳฿ⱡɇ ₮ø ₮₳₭ɇ ₳ⱡⱡ ø₣ ł₮"
A heartfelt grip of loose hair here, a self-assured dig of his nails there and he's forcing Mao's head back abruptly without a warning, leading him to wail in surprise. Mao's hands press against the window frame, his needy and frantic breath fogging on the glass.
The pace Natsume sets is outright ruthless.
One should never underestimate a magician's ability to enchant one purposely—or rather curse. If Mao was dying before from not enough, he surely must be dying from overstimulation now: Natsume on the verge of ripping his heart out, Natsume clawing and tearing his flesh apart, Natsume rearranging him from the inside out until any form of thought turns into a delirious scream that even Mao can't hide anymore. It's so graphic, it's so unfair but Natsume revels in the torture he inflicts.
Mao wouldn't object either as he was proving himself with the way he was all but straining his throat right now. Even if he wasn't sure, Natsume could be for him. Take the burden of responsibility away. Be his biggest fear and pleasure at once.
But as always, one could always try to break one's boundaries just a tad bit more than they already were. If anything, that had always been Natsume's favourite part.
"Mh, what a shame … if only the other students could see you like this." Natsume chuckles darkly. If he wasn't before, Mao is definitely crying now. "Your precious and cherished student council members, the teachers too—what do you think they’d say if they saw you sobbing because of a silly piece of silicone, bent over the student council’s desk, cheeks flushed and legs spread wide for me〜?" Natsume licks his tears away, enjoying how the salty aftertaste spreads over his palate. "No, I think I get it now: there is a part of you that wants that, or am I wrong?" It’s probably not the case, but Natsume can probably gaslight him into it with some luck. He could at least try. " For me to remind you of your claim, how good you are to me. Wouldn't you want to show off? Make me proud? Wouldn't you want to finally belong?"
Apparently, that's enough to finally drag Mao over the edge.
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To Natsume, the following silence is almost certainly the most complicated part.
With cinnamon and sweat invading his nose, and the cushions on their couch a tad bit too soft to the touch, there's definitely solace to be found in experiencing the weightless void all around. Not a single word exchanged. Thank the higher powers at play for the quietness. If only he could sway in this vacuum forever.
Natsume closes his eyes briefly, indulging in the now retreating storm with a hum as the fire crumbles on itself as it turns to ash. The part where he could pretend that he was finally alone and not burdened by another physical presence. But as always, reality sure had her wicked ways of reminding him that it was indeed the case.
A sob. Then another.
Natsume makes the mistake of letting his gaze wander downwards until it settles on Mao's face.
The boy’s whole body is trembling. Eyes devoid of their liveliness, lips vibrating, staring straight ahead at the ceiling, brain clearly disassociating. Hiccups buzz through his sore throat, threatening to tear through any second now. Natsume fears for a second that he'd finally broken him apart.
Natsume can only stare, utterly perplexed and confused. There's something he wants to say, but the sudden lump in his throat prevents him from doing so, as does the numbness taking a hold of his own body. Dread slowly begins to creep into Natsume's psyche.
Once Mao catches onto his gaze, both of their realities collide into a nightmarish frenzy.
Mao screams and shuffles away from Natsume's raised hand still suspended in the air. He's crying again, without any regard for volume, his nose running with snot, his face red and hair damp from sweat. He's squirming in fear as if he weren't looking at Natsume but at a ghost instead. The one that festers, tramples on your hopes and dreams, bites itself into your soul without any kind of regard for innocence, the one whose teeth sink into your throat with fatal precision.
As if that weren't already enough, Mao chokes on his attempts at breathing normally, chest combusting under its sheer weight. It makes Natsume feel sick just from watching the scene. There’s the subtle moment, the way he shakes his head, how he curls onto himself and the very faint hint of him murmuring an apology over and over again, eyes squeezed shut. That idiot was apologizing for burdening Natsume with the current panic attack unfolding before his eyes, the one that Natsume had caused himself. As it sinks in, his guts wrench painfully.
But wallowing in self-pity wouldn't help him whatsoever, so Natsume does the only thing that he should do in this situation: act.
Despite the internal warning that this may not be the wisest solution, Natsume reaches out nonetheless. His arms wrap around Mao and hold him close, he draws gentle circles into Mao's naked back whilst stroking through his dishevelled hair and encouraging him to take deep breaths. All throughout this comforting gesture, Natsume hums gentle melodies, praises Mao for so much as trying to take frequent breaths and coos like one would a child.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to see his face or look him in the eyes.
To be more precise, Natsume doesn't get to see it even after Mao thankfully falls into a deep state of slumber, exhausted from his own turmoil of emotions. As he does, Natsume can only stare at the ceiling above, muscles tense and paralyzed. He could throw up. He's honestly considering it, until he realizes that accidentally disrupting Mao’s current rest wouldn't be favourable.
So, instead, he grapples with his own demons—or well, only the ones that Mao had managed to reflect back at him with those desperate gazes from before. Those eyes had captured his own terror in such details that even so much as thinking about it leaves Natsume in an ineffable sense of morbid helplessness.
Heroes aren't supposed to fall for the wicked charm of villains. Natsume is pretty sure villains aren't meant to choke on their own guilt for finally corrupting that which they had always chased after either.
If Mao's eyes were a sword, he'd have already managed to strike down Natsume effortlessly.
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About an hour or so later, Mao stirs awake against him.
"...Hey, it really isn’t your fault. I—I don't hate you or anything, okay?"
If only I could.