Work Text:
Kaiser knew his love would be a cancer to whoever had the misfortune of attracting it.
He kind of thought it suited him to fuck this way, or at least his image. He likes watching the faces people make and observing their reactions after he baits one of them. Faces of despair are the most appealing, and though pain is such an intolerable anguish to him even if comfortable in its familiarity, your desperate expressions are always shameless and erotic.
Loves looking down on people and considers his ability to do so a strength, and what’s more demeaning than mocking the person receiving pleasure from their own victimization?
When you’re crying out in a strange mix of pleasure and pain, Kaiser can’t deny that it gives him a thrill. It’s like he’s drawing something out of you, and he’s getting to observe you in all your essence; as if he’s getting to be distant from you, watching you exposed from afar while somehow still participating in the physical act.
There’s also a sort of satisfaction he derives from it, knowing that you’ll feel the sting of his touches for minutes, hours, sometimes even days after, and that you’ll be getting off on pressing the bruises when they’re tender and all that other weird shit you do, due to your being a freak or whatever. You’re going to feel him everywhere afterwards and you’re going to like it. Kaiser makes sure of it, too.
It’s easy to indulge the violence, since you’re keen for it. It’s so easy for him to sink his teeth into your skin, to suck or bite until it’s irritated, when in your day to day life he’s too afraid to express love (something that he knows so well the logistics of in theory but not at all in practice). Easy to hold so tight his fingers indent into your skin, or to slap where you ask him to because the only things he’s done his entire life is either get hurt or hurt others. Exceptionally easy to do all that when he’s so dizzy with want for you, he can’t think straight or deny you.
Degradation seems like an apt punishment. All the insults he’s panted into your neck in between nips and kisses, in breaths and whispers caressing the wet skin, frustrations coated in a tone of passion and reverence despite the disparaging nature of Kaiser’s remarks. Nasty slut (making him fall in love with you). Shitty little nympho (hazing the border between lust and spleen and attachment in his brain). Etc.
The guilt doesn’t ever hit him while it’s happening, either.
Only later does Kaiser tend to regret it, catching sight of a bruise peeking out from under your clothes when you’re doing something innocuous around the apartment. Why does he always find himself behaving like his dad? Even if you ask for it for your own gratification, shouldn’t he know better? Shouldn’t he limit himself and not indulge in it? It makes him sick in the stomach when he thinks too long about how he finds it hot to hurt you.
Well, it’d been exclusively an afterglow clarity thing until right this moment. Because Kaiser is in the middle of thrusting into you, lamenting this problem, mind struggling to rationalize it or turn it into an existential matter as if that’ll absolve him in front of his conscience, usually barely there but now masquerading as a judge. Though it is an inevitable and perhaps depressing truth that the power of thinking when not externalized doesn’t amount to anything.
Kaiser’s train of thought is interrupted by a tap of both of your hands on his face, at first. You squish his cheeks together, bringing his focus back to you. It’s enough of a startle to make him halt. The world in some way comes into view once more.
He blinks, then narrows his eyes. It’s still weird to him to get touched so casually. Beneath his veneer of mild distaste, however, Kaiser is glad he has someone to treat him like this now.
“Are you not feeling it anymore?” you ask, grimacing before you awkwardly lower your legs from his shoulders. You sound concerned about him, which miffs him because it’s wrong. He’s peccant and shitty and a bunch of other expletives, in front of you and in front of everyone else, so why are you worrying over him?
“I don’t know,” says Kaiser before relaxing his arms, choosing to sneak and wrap them around your back instead, settling his face into the crook of your neck. Presses his body against yours like he’s trying to soak in all the affection he can because he’s convinced he’ll lose you as his sentence for all that he’s done. To memorize the sensation of human warmth caressing his skin and how alive the realization you can feel every one of his exhales in this proximity makes him. Hearts beating against one another when you’re so close — yes, he’s a human, you and him both have blood circulating in your veins.
You return his embrace, fingers raking through his hair and stroking the back of his head; you hold him in a way he doesn’t deserve to be held. How natural it is for you to switch after such perversion when it puts such a strain on his sensibilities. “It’s a yes or no question, it’s not that nuanced.”
Regardless of your snarkiness, the point is that there are still bruises all over your body. Kaiser can’t focus on anything else. He rubs a tentative fingertip over one of them, blooming in his line of sight over your chest, after worming a hand out from under your back. “How does it feel?”
“Like a pleasant tingle. Tender but kinda painful too. Sometimes it tickles if you touch it too lightly, though.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No,” you say. Despite turning alarmed, you continue to scratch and massage his scalp, and your surprise doesn’t show besides a momentary lapse in movement. This, too, is something he doesn’t deserve, he realizes.
Kaiser all but tries to burrow under your skin and maybe enter your lymphatic system while he’s at it, nose pressing into your neck. Is it digging, too? Does it hurt again? “Do you feel like I hate you when we fuck and I do that shit?”
“You’re just trying to get me off.” You sound calm and monotone so as to not betray that you’re trying to reassure and placate him, which often makes him feel small and stupid.
Easing him into it, tricking him into it, it weighs on Kaiser that the amount of workarounds you’ve had to come up with on account of his personal deficiencies is unfair. To think there’s someone who’s crass and rude and confident enough not to let him yank them around, yet also patient enough to deal with him, smart enough to work out things that make him tick and how to communicate with him, even with the occasional mishap.
Oh, he loves you so much, if he were a little weaker — or perhaps a bit stronger — he could burst out into tears and hope you reciprocate. Instead he doesn’t even press his lips against the bruises in apology the way he wants to.
“I mean, I know, but doesn’t it ever disturb you that it turns me on as well? Like, when you think about it, it’s off-putting.”
“God, you wanna be sinister and morally gray so bad,” you say in jest as if the notion of your finding him disturbing is laughable in some way, or like the way he’s behaving is amusing to you.
Kaiser doesn’t see anything funny, so he stays silent, but he doesn’t move either despite his irritation, so your caresses continue summoning goosebumps over his skin. It is amazing how much he’s allowed you to manipulate his sympathetic nervous system just by letting you be in proximity of him, elevated heartbeat and sweat and pupil dilations and other sorts of things that are unpleasant within their nature as involuntary alone. Ultimately like any other man obsessed with control, he finds a secret thrill in being deprived of it.
At his lack of response, you continue, “I think it’d be weird to do it if you weren’t into it too. I wouldn’t wanna do it then. It’s just not sexy.”
Kaiser hums because that makes sense.
A few moments of nothingness pass. It’s hard to keep track of reality when it’s peaceful, and often there are moments he spends on edge, lying in wait for what will go wrong. Being with you is something like floating on water to him. While it’s serene and unchallenging, there comes a moment where the person swimming needs to step down and touch the seafloor again.
“I wanna keep going,” he says, but it kind of trails off.
You try to fill in the gap again. “Maybe we should do something different.”
He’s not lightweight enough for you to push him around when he’s wrapped himself around you like this, so it takes some cooperation from his side and gentle nudging and direction from yours before you flip and you have him lying on his back instead. After you line him up and sink back down on him — and Kaiser always loves to be inside you not just because it feels so good, but because it is also the only time when he can pretend your bodies are extensions of one another — he expects you to move.
You don’t, though. You just lean down and pepper his face in kisses, stroking one side of his face.
He startles and freezes, not knowing how to respond when you’re treating him like precious porcelain. If anything, in his imagination, it is often him who takes on this role, though he’s never brave enough to act on it, leaving it as nothing more than maladaptive coping, trying to soothe his subconscious in the face of fear and perceived unworthiness. Things hurt less, generally, when he can anticipate them.
It’s also why it makes him a bit nervous, maybe, to be in this position. He can’t predict what you’re going to do when deep down he believes you shouldn’t have any interest in giving him this sort of attention.
You trail sweet, slow kisses all over his face. The threatening possibility that he might cry looms over him again, but Kaiser holds it in through tensing up even though he shouldn’t, placing one hand on your hip and the other wandering up your spine. You don’t point out his inner turmoil, sparing him of the humiliation, continuing to lavish affection onto him. This is the role switch — he’s now the one who’s being exposed while you pry him open, and yet you’re so gentle when he was cruel. There’s no semblance of distance or forced nonchalance towards the intimacy in your attitude. Your souls are brushing against each other.
Kaiser remains undeserving, and that causes him upset, the likes of which isn’t angry nor righteous nor harrowing, but paradoxically enjoyable. This defenselessness might not suit him, and yet it’s addictive.
You plant your lips over every inch of him you can in this position — his ears, the expanse of his neck, his throat, even his chest…
Lost in a moment of passion, Kaiser pulls you in for a kiss on the mouth. No words are exchanged between the two of you when you kiss again and again, each meeting of your lips growing more feverish. Your spit is mixing together, and the only sounds present are those of moans and ragged breathing, and then of skin slapping against skin when you transition into moving against each other almost seamlessly. The gradation is elusive, incomprehensible even to Kaiser who’s participating, and he can’t deny himself when his whole being craves yours so desperately, body responding on instinct to that consuming desire before he can think some more and put his walls back up. Not when you answer his longing by making yours apparent.
You tear away from the kiss and take a hold of his wrists, pinning his hands by his sides. His eyes widen. Kaiser is so pretty, and you mumble some unintelligible praise his way on that, and his cheeks go red while he looks away with a scowl like he’s above indulging in such things, but the pretense dies when you start to put more effort into riding him. He can’t help the ugly scrunch of his face or fight down all the noises when you’ve dismantled him so thoroughly.
Kaiser comes before you can with a twitch of his abdomen and a squeeze of his eyes, overstimulated almost as you continue riding him and let go of his wrists to touch yourself instead, his brain numb and running wild with endorphins. Fuck, he wants you again, but it was just so intense — more so in an emotional sense than physical — so he remains stuck to the bed like a splatter, unable to be peeled off. His mind is so hazy, a warmth fogging his mind and tickling behind his eyes somehow. You should scoop him up into a pile of goo in your arms.
You rest your weight down on him and cling to him like he’d been clinging to you earlier. At least he has enough sense to embrace you, kissing the top of your head.
This is the most undeserving he’s ever been in his whole life.
And yet for the first time he feels loved and wanted without the external pull of manipulation or sway of imaginary control. That he is safe to exist in this relationship without trying to establish any concrete and constant power imbalance. Maybe it’d be a shame to sully it with such a thing — the thought has even become unappealing.