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Yoru always gets her way.
It’s to be expected if Asa really thinks about it, because Yoru is Yoru and that’s all the explanation that one really needs. So of course, they’d eventually end up in this position where she’s stiff to the motions of sitting soundly on the couch gazing in some resemblance of watching television - where her chest is locked in a plea to gain more air and expand but the harsh curve of prisoned rib refuses to budge no matter the whine trapped and executed. Face beaten in rouge, perhaps matching the gaze of forever spiral observing her in a cat’s curiosity.
The means that Yoru wears her flesh burns. Unlike anything she herself is capable of, in a sultriness unbefitting to too long of limbs and uneven usage of creaking joints, no sense with flirtation. Nothing alike despite the same sheen of messy hair, jagged white streaking scars scattered from history forgotten to mere skinned trophies. Truly different spirits inhabiting the same vessel, something along those lines.
“You’re trembling,” Yoru whispers, maybe a tease if Asa thinks too harshly about the sentiment though it seems more of an observation than anything true to form - steady hands splayed across her rigid shoulders as Yoru gives a bit of a squeeze. Good distraction, a new sensation from the overwhelming heat enclosing fully around her cock.
So unfamiliar.
So… strange.
She hates it.
But for her to hate means for Yoru to love.
And she must love it, since when Asa’s eyes dip downwards like a hook caught to line Yoru’s slit drools and dribbles down down down without being touched, from the simple fullness that comes with having another deep inside you. Yoru took her without any sense within the realm of hesitation, and how it must’ve ached to do so with such prep but it’s Yoru they’re talking about here, isn’t it? She’s— there’s no rhyme or reason to a devil, there’s no reason to try and make logic from what in itself is a contradiction.
Even so, Asa tries and tries to fit this beast into the confines of an orderly box and comes out with absolutely nothing. It only serves to fuel her hatred.
Hatred in plucked gasps when Yoru shifts herself and Asa catches the sight of what might be unexplored stars.
Every few minutes will Yoru offer the most minute adjustment and it’s unmarked territory for her to be so unopposed to this waiting game of sorts, to stalk and seek out crumbs from Asa’s reactions rather than swallow the entirety of elk when given the chance right on a platter. Again, contradicting, and again, it’s too much. Asa can’t even begin to describe how sensitive she is to the brushes of hot, tight muscle rubbing up against every sensitive inch with these stupid teases, the twitching smiles Yoru can’t help displaying alongside her parted lips. Breathy enjoyment. Who knew War’s crimes included sodomy?
Certainly not in the manner of receiving, anyway.
Asa tries to turn her attention back to the news streaming another senseless tragedy, montone inflection and dull stares caked in heavy makeup and no real regard for what’s being spoken. Another dead, another life snuffed out like a candle, who would’ve thought? Certainly not the reporter. Nothing like that happens in Tokyo. That’s why her eyes are so dry, void of tears, much as Asa’s are wobbling on the tightrope of bursting into a slow descent to show Yoru to just stop.
She won’t.
And, maybe, Asa doesn’t want her to no matter how much it churns her intestines into a forever knot.
Yoru’s nails drag as the limp boots of beaten soldiers do over to caress the side of her jaw, bringing her gaze back to stolen features she won’t ever quite get used to. Asks Asa if that’s how she’ll treat every lover when they eventually must bring themselves as one before she clenches so fucking tightly around Asa that her vision blurs.
(As if. Yoru once told her she was the throne to a new rule before palming her through the uniform in the emperor's possession).
“You’re a strange little human, Asa. Truly, you confuse and intrigue in such equal measure I have to wonder if you play the fool on purpose.”
Yoru rises as if she’s going to grant reprieve—
“Never have I met one who denies herself bliss.”
—before slamming right back down, breath punched out of Asa’s stalled lungs, never to be filled once Yoru finds ample pace to grind and rock her hips in a disjointed flow to the finish line. You’d be forgiven to find the scene as some chase for the high’s release, Yoru’s favor for self-entitlement to use Asa as some makeshift toy to use and abuse so her cum sprays and ruins in an owner’s mark. Yoru loves to take after all, no?
That’s where you’d be mistaken. Because this, this isn’t for her own release, Asa knows that now, this is for— this is for a claim to something else entirely.
This is…
“C’mon, girl. Show me how much you crave to fill me up.” Yoru takes Asa’s hands and sets them on her hips, wanting her to feel involved as if she ever had a choice in the matter, where this is going to end up as it has before. Maybe she does when the stiffness settles in whenever Yoru slowly undoes the buttons to her shirt, allowing the uniform’s skirt to drop to reveal a half-hard need. Maybe, just maybe, being stuffed so deep within Yoru and hearing her moan with every stroke to that sweet spot is an after-school activity she loves, too.
In some demented, Stockholm way. Nothing of true value, of course.
Again, just how Yoru likes it.
Asa’s fingers flex feeling the bony jut of Yoru’s hips, muscles rippling and shifting as her body belongs so naturally on top of Asa’s own - top dog and ground-toothed mutt the way her jaw works itself taking everything in. Never a day passes she fails to mention the size and work needed just to take it, be it her hand or mouth or… Asa can’t help glancing down once more and reaching red to the ears seeing the engorged head of Yoru’s twitch. How Yoru takes any means of delight in such a thing Asa fails to grasp, something about the devil means she salivates over every inch Asa seems to absolutely despise.
She’ll never understand her.
And she’ll never understand how her body eventually betrays her as that familiar build of pleasure reaches the summit, aches and cries to give release and so Asa finally lets herself go. Too much, too hot, too loud with the rush of blood and thumping heart and Yoru’s splintered grin releasing to the demand spelled out as, ‘Asa.’
‘Was that so bad?’ Yoru will soon ask, when Asa’s mind is filled with cotton and white noise, the sheen of sweat going cool and parasitic on both their skin, drying bodily fluids sticky on her stomach from Yoru’s disgusting mess. But she’ll lean down and drag her tongue over so and clean as the kitten does its fur, her own insignificant means to offset Asa’s eventual meltdown when the sensations grow too harsh and at another point in time they’ll repeat themselves.
Asa will hate it while Yoru will love it.