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“I’ve been here the whole time.”
The hand on his back—the cursed energy thrumming through Mahito’s fingertips and all the potential therein—stopped Nanami in his tracks. The sorcerer looked so near collapse that Mahito was surprised to see him standing in the first place, especially after doing away with the sheer mess of humans on the train.
Mahito had approached him on the tail end of his final victory with the sole intent of cutting his satisfaction short. But there was a budding interest in him at his refusal to drop that made him second guess his plan.
“On second thought,” Mahito mused aloud, feeling the ripples of Nanami’s muscles beneath his palm with every ragged breath. “Perhaps there’s a better use for you yet.”
Nanami’s back straightened marginally. It made the breath catch in Mahito’s throat to feel the tendons flex and ligaments shift. He’d never paused long enough to feel a human respond to him before his own power conquered it.
Every movement sung to him. A petal he could pluck if he chose to, a skittering bug he could crush under his boot without a second thought.
“What use would that be?” Nanami asked. He projected every bit of his strength into keeping his voice steady and still he sounded ragged, worn down. Ran through, Mahito’s brain supplied, casting a glance at the gore at their feet. He tittered at the thought.
He leaned in, his hair draping over the sorcerer’s shoulder. The muscles of his back twitched like he was trying to shake it off. But he couldn’t. “Let’s find out together,” Mahito whispered gleefully in his ear.
All it took was a nudge and Nanami fell to the floor.
Mahito had never found humans beautiful before, but there was something beautiful about the way Nanami finally dropped. The sight of him now. Half-dead, skin singed by what had to be Jogo’s hand, joining the pitiful, lost souls that fell to the whims of those far more superior to them. Smeared in blood—his and others—and creating the outline of him in the mess, mirroring his impact and failure back to the world.
And the power he held over this sorcerer who nearly bested him was even more refreshing than the surge of cursed energy that coursed through him at his stolen victory.
Here he was, laying in bastardized prostration before him. Like his body knew he was the inferior one. And no matter what he’d encountered on this hellish night in Shibuya, Mahito was the one he fell before. Like it was destiny. Fate. A better ending to their story.
He pounced onto Nanami’s back, joining him in his rightful place amidst the death and decay.
“C’mon now! Don’t give up so soon.” He shifted just enough to flip Nanami onto his back, straddling his hips and rocking against him in the process. The man allowed himself to be repositioned to Mahito’s liking just like any transfigured human would. “It’s no fun that way.”
“Soon,” Nanami echoed with a cough. He glared up at Mahito, face newly bloodied and raw. The venom in his gaze made a grin stretch across the patchwork face before him. His hand twitched in the puddle of blood it lay in and for a moment Mahito held his breath, expecting him to reach for his sword. Hoping. He craved the fight, the chaos, the next rush of their game.
But when he didn’t move further, the curse realized he was merely gesturing at the work he’d accomplished moments prior. He frowned.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t save any energy for me, 7:3. I thought what we had was special.”
Nanami closed his eyes, but not before Mahito caught sight of the naked defeat in them. He felt a stirring within him, a new and foreign feeling he wanted to chase into the abyss.
His sorcerer hardly reacted to the taunt. “Just finish this already,” he whispered.
But his body was twitching, moving despite its self-recognized defeat. Teaming with energy even still. The human drive for survival, contradicting his own plea, was thrilling. That he was alive even in the midst of death. That he was longing for continuation even at the end.
Mahito felt an answering stirring in the body beneath him, one that matched his own. “Hmm? What’s this?”
He pressed against it, meeting the feeling by melding into it. Holding his own shape and pushing into another. It was so unlike the human clay he normally sculpted with, firm and solid in place of the squishy flesh and syrupy blood sloshing between folds of skin.
Another weapon, perhaps? Revealing his final hand?
But then Nanami groaned, so different from the grunts that came from him during the flee and fight, from the sounds of exertion and pain that left him every time a strike landed its mark.
And then Mahito understood.
“Ahh. You like that, don’t you?”
Nanami’s eye was screwed shut, the socket on his singed side pulled tight. Even tighter than in his presumed defeat. He seemed agonized, but not by the sensation itself.
By his own reaction, then.
“Oh this is too good!” Mahito said, laughter bubbling past his lips.
He repeated the action that drew the agony forth as a bid for more. Rocking his hips, pushing back, sliding down Nanami’s body. And then a shard of pleasure zapped through him that forced a surprised moan from his throat. His eyes went wide and he looked down at the space where their bodies touched to see that his pants were pulling away from his body. The hardness beneath him came from the answering bulge in Nanami’s slacks. A part of him that drew pleasure forward instead.
Another repeated motion made Nanami’s hips jump, his fingers curling like they wanted to hold onto something. Or maybe someone, hmm.
“Are all humans this easy, Kento?” Mahito asked, the taunt dripping from his lips. But as he repeated the motion again, then again, he could feel the pressure growing within him too. It was coiling low in his belly with every drag of his hips, a gesture of intent even before he knew his own intentions.
“Get… off…” Nanami uttered, but he didn't remove him. Or make any show of it. The fingers that stretched were only moving closer to Mahito, further from his sword. Resolute even though every inch looked painful, the smell of burnt flesh still ripe in the air.
“Oh, it seems like you want me to stay though. How sweet! You must really like me.”
Nanami groaned, but Mahito didn’t let the groan belong to him.
He palmed the bulge over tattered fabric, marveling at the way the flesh twitched beneath his fingertips. And the groan turned acrid, dirty, transfigured into something beyond simple pain.
His nails dug in, eliciting a sharper jolt from the man at his mercy. He savored the reaction, tucking away the sight and sounds as he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his zipper. He stopped just shy of reaching in to grab his prize from within, desperate to hold the object of his and Nanami’s newfound desire.
He blew out a raspberry. “Well I suppose I don’t want to break you now that you’re finally interesting.”
So he shimmied Nanami’s pants down instead, tugging against the tension, offering a rough yank that had hard flesh springing up once the barrier was removed. Nanami’s body betrayed his proffered disgust, his length throbbing despite the way the rest of him flagged. The tip was glistening, smeared with a foreign fluid that Mahito was overcome with the desire to taste. To see if it was tainted, like the blood kissing the edges of his form, or if it was pure and uniquely human. Uniquely his.
The sorcerer hissed—whether in pain or something else—when his length bobbed in front of Mahito’s eyes, displaying the earthly desire he was so ashamed of. Appalled by. His hands balled into fists, muscles growing taught like a livewire.
Mahito wanted to watch him snap.
He shuffled down further, spreading the sorcerer’s legs to slot himself between them. He refused to withhold the impulse, leaning into his own purity as a curse, and took the tip of Nanami into his mouth.
“Fu—mph,” Nanami groaned, holding back as Mahito let his tongue lave over the sensitive skin.
Nanami was remarkably intact despite his visible injuries, Jogo’s impact only reaching as far as his waist. The worst of the burns receded at his hipbones, leaving the canvas of him largely unscathed. Tt. Shotty work, Mahito internally chastised his fellow curse. But the lack of stress and claim appeased a part of him too.
It was an impressive appendage that skittered even more readily than Nanami’s whole. Every lick made him jump, the firm touches of his tongue bringing out more choked groans than the moans that arose from featherlight flicks of the tip.
The sounds were a melded melody of death rattles and ecstasy.
And he was the perfect conductor.
Nanami—evidently too lost to restrain himself as his desire grew—thrust his hips up as Mahito continued his descent, urging him to take more. The curse widened his throat to accommodate the girth. He could feel the thrumming of humanity against his tongue, the intake of breath and life by his counterpart when he allowed his teeth to sample the skin. He could’ve stretched wider, transfigured himself to allow the heft of him to glide down his throat easily, wrap around him just so, but he craved the displeasure just as equally. The tight squeeze, the clamped jaw that pinched in, keeping the sorcerer on the wrong edge of enjoyment.
The taste of him got deeper and darker the more he consumed, devoured, savored. The veins pulsing and jumping inside him only titillated his senses, like they were speaking back to him. His desire to grip his shaft, transfigure him, make him grow bigger and bigger until he burst in Mahito’s mouth was almost overwhelming.
But then Nanami moaned something broken and wretched when he swallowed around him, sucking down the saliva pooling in his throat, the fluid leaking from the sorcerer, and he chuckled. The tip hit the flesh inside his throat and he pressed into it, nudging it between slats of bone, applying more and more pressure of the foreign, pliable flesh against his own.
The mess inside was even more glorious than the mess their bodies resided in. Possibly even more glorious than the whole of Shibuya right now.
He pulled off the shaft, releasing it with a pop that had Nanami shivering. Or perhaps succumbing to his injuries, Mahito mentally noted. But the man had an impressive vigor to him that didn’t seem to exist before. His eye was open, trained on Mahito as he watched the string of spit connecting them snap. The dark hunger in his eye widened, pupil dilating, when Mahito went in to nudge the wet appendage against his face, blinking up at the sorcerer innocently just to make him squirm.
“There’s more to this, isn’t there?” he asked with upturned lips and devilish intent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” Nanami got out around a groan, mangled hands grasping for anything and slipping in the aftereffects of his own glorious mess instead. “It’s—pathetic.”
“Yet you’re the one trying so hard not to touch me.” Mahito let his hands ghost across his slick flesh, teasing the possibility of contact. Namami flinched but his body imbibed the sensation, twitching ever closer. “I’m curious what that makes you?”
“Pitiful,” he answered with contempt. His hips dropped to the floor when he noticed the involuntary movement, the way his skin screamed for relief—of an end to his life or an end to the wrong edge of pleasure. Either, both. “You wouldn’t care to know the difference.”
“True.” Mahito hummed, a new idea rising within him alongside the heat in his core. A look of fire was alight in Nanami’s eye, like he might reach for his sword or Mahito’s throat at any moment. Excitement joined in the sensations coursing through him. “There is another difference I’m curious about though.”
In a flash, he was straddling Nanami again. He did away with his clothes, transfiguring into his nakedness without losing his form. He felt that same exposure to the air that had Nanami hissing and shivering and he let out a moan when the appendage jutting between his legs was free to be felt and seen.
Perhaps one could describe him as beautiful, if anyone cared to. Stitches crisscrossed the length like the rest of his patchwork skin, highlighting the sculpted veins that teamed with something other than lifeforce. He was leaking just as Nanami, a bead of red forming at the tip that only exaggerated the nature of their separate beings.
Mahito giggled. Then he rutted forward and dragged the two against each other, surprised by another moan that tumbled from him and by the resonance from the man he kept trapped in despair. He could feel it between his legs, the vibrations of Nanami’s pleasure.
Just like he could feel the slick of his own spit still coating the sorcerer, wetting his length as they pressed closer together with a more focused thrust. The size of Nanami made him look small in comparison. The girth practically eclipsed him and the thought made him shudder. To see the muscles and strength and energy of the man who’d failed to subdue him and know he had won.
He shifted forward, moving to straddle his hips, and lifted up onto his knees. Then reached behind him only to spread himself wider as he manipulated his own body, allowing himself to open wide enough to match the girth of Nanami that hovered beneath his hole.
Nanami watched him work. Wary like a prey animal trapped in a corner, licking his scorched and bloodied lips like a predator eyeing his catch. He cringed at the sick squelch of transfiguration that sounded in the station. “What are you—”
“Now who’s pretending, hm?”
With only his intuition to guide him, Mahito lowered himself until he felt the leaking head meet his hole. He let out a pleased sigh and eyed the sorcerer, curious of his next move. But there didn’t seem to be one. His breath was caught, chest constricted, practically trembling. Ha!
“Always so stoic,” Mahito tsked. He let the head glance against him, intentionally missing its mark. It trailed behind him, wetting the patchwork skin with some mix of them both. Nanami let out a breath, one so close to the sound of defeat it made Mahito’s toes curl.
“Let’s see if we can get a reaction out of you yet,” he said, and then he rocked his body back, catching the head in a fluid motion and welcoming the length of Nanami into him.
Nanami’s entire body seized, his hips and arms jolting like a tangled marionette. His eye rolled back in his skull and he quickly bit his tongue to stifle any verbal response beyond his sharp intake of breath.
“No fun,” Mahito pouted. But his own fun was only just dawning on him. The feeling of Nanami inside him, the stretch as he sunk down, brought a weight into his limbs unlike anything he’d ever felt as he transfigured. It was like an anchor pulling him into the depths of his body rather than his soul. Even his eyelids felt heavier, the skin of his cheeks swelling with the same rush of heat that sparked hotter in his belly.
He kept his shape but allowed his body to become more fluid, a viscous consistency far more convenient for easing the stretch, accepting the full length that was his for the taking. As soon as his transfiguration manifested, Nanami gasped like a dying man.
Which, he reminded himself, he practically is.
“I take it that’s… nice?” the curse asked, pursing his lips and knitting his brow in mock consideration. He steadily slid further down the shaft, taking another inch and another. But all traces of teasing and taunting disappeared entirely when he reached the hilt, the entire length of Nanami sheathed inside him.
Even in his transfigured state, taking Nanami was a feat. His body trembled around him, desperate for movement even as he sat in near-shock at the alien intrusion.
“Ahhh. Oh—hnn.” He blinked, overcome with the strangeness of being full.
He’d never felt full before. No matter what his form or how much cursed energy he wielded or how many transfigured humans he ingested—some of which he still felt nestled inside him—he still felt hollow, apart from his bodily experience, rooted solely in his soul.
But here, connected to Nanami, with the inside of his walls suctioned to the sorcerer and beckoning more, he could feel a completeness that felt perhaps too human. And at once he hated humans for always feeling this. Connected. Present.
His hate was no match for the pleasure coursing through him, though.
He squeezed his thighs together around Namami’s waist and moaned, the need for more, deeper, fuller sinking into his core, disrupting his thoughts. The drive to achieve that, to take that from his inferior, was growing. He needed it unlike anything he’d ever needed before.
Then the voice of Nanami came from below him. “I take it that’s nice?”
The curse’s eyes zeroed in on him, everything in his being prepared to bite back.
He was too slow.
As fast as he’d toppled the man at the start, Mahito was dislodged and flipped onto his stomach. His hands—which he had been so good to avoid using—were pinned above him. Knotted together in that stupid cheetah print tie of his, rippling with a cursed energy that was weak compared to everything the sorcerer could offer. But strong enough that Mahito could feel the tension winding up with every second, begging to be broken.
“It’s like you’re not even trying,” he started to cackle, stomach twisting in knots of excitement and frustration alike. He was facedown in a puddle of blood and gore, his breath blowing ripples across the surface. “All I have to do is—aa!”
Namami plunged back into the depths of Mahito, immediately bottoming out inside him and making that feeling of heady fullness rush forward in a single breath. He couldn’t stop himself from crying out into the ground, the slick of pitiful souls, and he didn’t need to. He didn’t have human motivations holding him back from leaning into what his body craved.
Only his own instinct for survival made him hesitate.
He could hardly track the movements around him as he usually did.
There was the sensation of Nanami’s hand—calloused but otherwise untextured, signaling his non-injured side—gripping both wrists together as the tie held his palms closed in a mock prayer so he couldn’t manifest his technique. There was the sensation of Nanami’s body on top of him, keeping him trapped on the ground by sheer strength and muscle alone, the split texture of his chest as arousing as it was unnatural. And finally the sensation of his singed hand on Mahito’s hip, lifting him so that he was perfectly aligned with the shaft now pulling out of his tight hole and bullying its way back in.
That was the only sensation he could focus on. His instincts abandoned the rest.
A single thrust had him undone, moaning in his own ecstasy and pulling in the scent and taste of blood as he did. Even his own capture of Nanami couldn’t compare to this. The way his will was stripped from him and all he could do was lay there and let his insides be rearranged by the sorcerer with a hand now rougher than anything else he’d aimed at him.
He could feel too much at once—the heat, the weight, the pulsing that stretched him apart like it could transfigure him too.
The only time he was allowed to draw breath was when Nanami pulled out, offering room inside Mahito besides what belonged to him, before driving in and forcing his breath back out. Evidently unwilling to share the space further.
The sounds coming from Mahito were obscene, only a slight step away from the sound humans who fell at his hands made in their final moments. He couldn’t control his body, the way his throat worked to release every vile response Nanami created in him, the way his mouth was helplessly open and kissing the mess of Nanami like the sorcerer intended for him to clean it for him. His forehead was bowed, unable to even deny the implication that he would.
And Nanami, but for the panting that mirrored his sounds during the battle Mahito had been voyeur to before, appeared otherwise uninhibited as he chipped away at Mahito’s core. The pistoning of his hips was remarkably unaffected by whatever injuries and exhaustion afflicted him.
He wanted to ask, to taunt, to fight, but still his throat ceded power to the shaft buried so deep inside him it was touching places Mahito had never considered capable of being touched in his current state.
It went like that for so long that Mahito lost track of how many times his body threatened to unravel even as he stayed rooted in place. The hand at his hip pressed red-blue bruises into him, altering the surface of him too.
Then, just when the abuse started to feel familiar, lulling him into the repetition of push and pull and pain and pleasure, a new sensation rose. A tingling between his legs that spread outward like a spiderweb of shock and urgency and need.
He tipped onto the crown of his head to look between his legs, still being rocked by every unrelenting thrust that sought to bury him in the ground. The red seeping from him was blending into the rest of the mess and it pushed out faster as the pins and needles intensified to the point it could no longer be ignored, matching the ringing in his ears.
He was just about to open his mouth and compel his speech when Nanami grunted and stuttered above and behind and inside him.
“What happens,” Namami forced through clenched teeth, restraint petering out, “if I cum inside you?”
A half-choked laugh peeled out of him, harsh around the edges and nearly delirious. His traitorous vocal chords only cooperated for a moment. “Your guess is as good as mine!”
But even the barest hint that Namami didn’t want to do something as vulgar and human as that due to some unknown consequence strengthened Mahito’s otherwise nonexistent resolve to make it happen.
He transfigured such that his insides clamped down on Nanami, swallowing him, keeping him trapped in his body, disallowing retreat. He coaxed him through the final flickers of pleasure with every ripple from his core until the sorcerer’s orgasm crested.
Nanami groaned—that defeat so deliciously highlighted in it—but oh the feeling of him emptying himself in Mahito made the curse shudder, spread his legs wider, flex around him harder. He wanted every drop of it without even understanding the urge himself and it was that pure, unadulterated want that led him to the crest of his own wave.
Namani leaned over his shoulder, a willing closeness Mahito was far from expecting, and bit out, “Cum for me, you piece of filth.”
“Haa—nggh,” was all Mahito managed when it hit. His thighs trembled from the force of his own body rocking through the unfamiliar process. It felt like levitating and plummeting off the side of a mountain at the same time. He felt time suspend, every cell in his body rearranging itself, as his shaft spurted between his body and the gore. His release rushed out without slowing and he felt dizzy with the intensity of it.
He was completely incapacitated. He may as well be in the Infinite Void. But instead of taking the moment to reach for his sword and end the curse who only sought to end him, Namami stayed buried deep, twitching inside him in a way that only heightened Mahito’s senses.
He was speaking at him, past him, like he was nothing. His harsh words swam in and out of Mahito’s awareness—“worthless” and “make a mess of yourself” and “like the bitch you are.”
His form quivered, growing indistinct around the edges, liquidating as if to join the mess of his fluid and Nanami’s and the blood his knees glided in as he shook. He could feel Nanami thrust into him still, forcing out the mess now dripping down Mahito’s thighs, hitting a point of pleasure inside the curse that made him keen and jerk away even though the second he created the hint of distance, he wanted more.
It was far too sensitive to be true pleasure as it had been moments prior. He rocked into it just to explore the sensation and found another whine on the tip of his tongue.
That’s when Nanami righted himself. He released his grip on Mahito’s wrists—and even with the cursed energy involved in his restraint still, Mahito had the wherewithal to feel offended by his lack of care—and planted both hands on his waist.
Then he understood. Because Nanami jerked his body back to meet his pelvis, slamming into him with a force that made every bone in Mahito’s body ricochet inside him.
The repetition with such force, such life and vigor that twisted into something so evil, was as sharp as his sword. Nanami used Mahito like a transfigured human, hardly moving his own hips anymore and only forcing Mahito’s body back and forth, on and off, like he really was as worthless as the souls he toyed with.
He cried out with every slap of their hips against each other, too alight with pain to exist on the right side of pleasure. The sound of their coupling was nearly akin to the sound of human flesh yielding and squelching as he morphed it and it was coming from him, where they joined together.
Nanami was rigid and solid inside him, as if carving out a space for himself within the curse. He was panting heavily but didn’t waver in his single-minded focus. To ruin me, Mahito theorized.
The next particularly brutal thrust brought tears to his eyes, another fluid welling at the brim. “Ah—n-no more,” his voice trembled. He reached for something to grab hold of, fingers transfiguring into snakes that slithered beyond their prison as they traversed the grime in search of escape.
Nanami grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing him into an arch that triggered another harsh jolt of electric pleasure deep inside, snapping his body back to itself at once. “You’re not getting away from me this time,” he growled, so low and deep that Mahito’s body yielded of its own accord.
Nanami kept him taut like a bow, his back curved at an angle he’d normally twist into as a tactic. But he was too present in his body, in the sensations, to ease the pressure on his manufactured muscles and limbs. And Nanami pounded into him relentlessly, anchoring the hold in his hair that had tears flowing freely down Mahito’s cheeks.
In this angle, he hit that spot over and over, forcing icy hot pleasure-pain to course through his veins. He couldn’t stop the assault or stop his body from responding to it so obediently. His hole was molded to the perfect shape that snapped and released, obeying what Nanami wanted, the sorcerer dictating the pace and pleasure Mahito was allowed.
It was too sensitive. Too raw. Mahito felt he might be torn to pieces and without even allowing the blade to take the blame.
Before he could stop himself, he cried out, “I’m s-sorry!” It wasn’t true, but he couldn’t keep from invoking the desperate plea either. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
That only earned him a sharper thrust, one that made his body go limp to the torture, cracking under the strain. “You think sorry changes anything?”
His reasoning was far too diluted in his current state to respond with any real thought. All he whined back was, “Please, 7:3. I-I can’t.”
“How inconvenient.”
The constant force, the twisting and reshaping inside him, didn’t stop or ease. Trapping him in something liminal and visceral at once.
His physical body had never been forced to endure before. Every continued thrust came with a poison that sapped his strength and will, yielding more than just the shape of his body to Nanami.
Worse yet, he was hard again, a now recognizable ache that hurt where enjoyment existed before. At this angle, his shaft slapped against his stomach with every directed attack inside him. It was uncomfortable, a horrid betrayal that he was leaking again, unwillingly savoring the abuse.
“Again,” Nanami grunted. And at first he didn’t understand what he was referring to. But then he noticed his own trembling thighs, the way his hole clenched and unclenched and clenched down on the girth stretching him wide, the way his chest was heaving and his moans were growing higher, a call to something greater rising once more.
Nanami yanked him by the hair until his arched back was pressed to Nanami’s chest, his head cradled in the crook of his shoulder. The shifted angle that brought him inches from Nanami’s mangled face, close enough to feel every breath puff against his cheek, also brought a depth with it that seated him so deep Mahito was shocked he didn’t come out the other end.
“I—” he cried, babbling pitifully, yes, unsure what he was even attempting to utter.
“Again.”
And he did without another pause.
The second orgasm wracked through him even more violently than the first, red fluid shooting upward in slender ropes. Splatting against his stomach, raining to the floor, soaking him in whatever defeat Nanami hoped and succeeded in facilitating.
Every thought was wiped from his brain as he gaped, hilted on a final forceful push where Nanami stayed, grinding into him like he intended for Mahito to never forget how far he’d gotten, how deep he’d carved himself into his static form.
A small part of the curse was disappointed that he wasn’t rewarded with a second orgasm of Nanami’s to savor. But he was too weak to feel much of anything else.
His whole body was numb, disconnected in yet another new and unexpected way. The tremor that kept his muscles twitching ran uninterrupted along with the tears streaking down his face.
Whatever instinct to run that always existed in him as a back-up strategy was gone. There was no escape in his current state, not even with Nanami’s hold loosening and the tie unwinding from his wrists.
For the first time, he accepted what it would mean to surrender.
Nanami, in whatever congruous space he existed, must’ve understood. All he did was push Mahito off of him, uncaring where he fell. Then he collapsed to the floor himself.
Mahito lay with his face squished to the ground for some time, soaking in too many fluids to name. His whole body ached, but the ache returning him to himself was delicious in its own right. He could feel the high washing over him, the satisfaction settling somewhere bone deep.
Once his breathing finally returned to baseline, he sat up. Glanced over to see that Nanami hadn’t moved, flat on his back, once again a beautiful sight in the mess of his own creation.
Mahito crawled closer, curious to note any signs of life that might remain. The man still looked like a corpse. Their activities had agitated the burns, cracking the already sensitive skin and causing it to weep. His shaft was softened, but coated still with the results of all that they’d done. Mahito could feel the urge to suck it into his mouth mount within him again.
To his surprise, the sorcerer’s chest rose under his scrutiny. Fell a moment later.
He almost wanted to laugh at the sheer stubbornness of this man, to stay alive when succumbing to his injuries and exhaustion would be far easier. But it stirred up an ugly, sentimental idea he felt compelled to voice.
“What if I kept you, Kento? Just like this. Just for me.” Mahito licked the blood off the corner of his mouth and grinned, only half invested in his own proposal. Toying with another petal, tracking the skittering bug with hungry eyes.
The corner of Nanami’s mouth twitched to greet him, so subtle it may have been another involuntary movement wrought from nothing more than exertion and pain. Mahito savored the ambiguity in the gesture, projecting misery onto the minutia.
Then the sorcerer's cracked lips parted, gravel imbued in every word of his tired response.
“I hear Malaysia is beautiful this time of year.”