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The universe works in strange ways – that’s what they all say.
Putting someone like you, a person who rejects any form of romanticism and love wholeheartedly – as if being in its presence would set your skin off in hives – in the path of a die-hard romantic like Yuuta, who loves like it’s breathing, easy and essential to life, would constitute a cruel joke to most. On paper, the two of you appear like fundamental opposites, like oil and water or even two north poles of a magnet, forever forced to repel each other.
He’s seen things no sane person should have. He’s done things no person should be able to come back from. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t even think he deserves to be in your presence. No one does, that’s the problem.
To him, you are divinity incarnate, wrapped in the flesh of nothing short of an angel. And as a mere mortal, or worse – something less than that after everything he’s been through, he knows he’s on borrowed time when it comes to you, so he’s going to savour every moment like it’s his last.
You’re all he craves. Is that such a sin to admit that? He doesn’t think so – he’s not a philosopher, but the fact that he desires you so enormously must be proof that he’s still human underneath it all, because what is it to be human if it is not to want and desire?
“Open.” Your tone seems cold, even aloof, but your fingers tell a different story, the way they grip his jaw like you don’t want him to run away from whatever this is. You don’t have to worry about that, though, he muses to himself, only a fool would do that and a fool he is not. He obeys your command like second nature, jaw slack in your hands as your thumb runs over his soft, swollen lips, pursed in anticipation.
The mattress underneath you creaks slightly as you shift up onto your knees, fingers still tightly pressed against his lower cheeks. From your new position where you’re angled above him, you watch as his tongue slips out to wet his lips – so eager, you think to yourself, just for you.
His hands twitch nervously at his side. You can tell he’s aching to touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin.
When Yuuta starts slowly to trail his hands up your body, they stop just shy of your waist, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his palms, but far enough that he’s not actually touching you, their presence just ghostly lingering in a silent plea; he would never dare to touch you, not without your permission at the very least. You shoot him down with a sharp glare, and he immediately retreats, metaphorical tail between his legs, as his hands drop back down to his side.
It's okay, you can be mean to him; he doesn’t mind; after all, he’s the only one who can take it.
You open your mouth and a globule of spit, shiny in the dim light of the room, falls out of yours and into his. His tongue immediately darts out to gather it into his mouth, like he’s afraid of potentially wasting a single drop and disappointing you. Yuuta stops for a moment, almost as if he’s savouring the taste of it before he swallows dutifully, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the sheer effort of it.
It’s filthy, it’s disgusting, and he loves that; more specifically, the fact that it’s him who’s drawing this degeneracy out of you. If you can’t go up to their level, drag them down to yours.
As a reward for his little show, you slip your thumb in between his lips experimentally, and he devours it like there’s no tomorrow, tongue twisting around it like it’s the latest sweet he’s dying to get a taste of. When you finally remove your thumb from his mouth, his shoulders almost visibly sag at the loss of your digit, and you wouldn’t be surprised if a whine followed suit.
However, you don’t get to linger on that thought for too long, as he surges forward and presses his lips against yours. The sheer force of him almost sends you tumbling back against the bed if it weren’t for your other arm acting as a support in the nick of time.
The kiss isn’t gentle – far from it – it’s the opposite: messy, violent, teeth clashing against each other as lips part in an attempt to wholly consume the other. You think if you stay here long enough, he might actually succeed in that, and the thought of that alone sends a rush of heat downwards. The way he nibbles at your plush lips coaxes an unexpected soft moan out of you, and for that, you punish him with a brutal bite of your own against the juncture of where his neck meets the curve of his shoulder. That earns you a small yelp from him, but whatever hurt or shock he was feeling quickly dies down with a few small kitten licks and sucks against the fresh wound to tide the pain over. When you eventually let go, you notice the beginning stages of a bruise begin to form, and a swell of pride rushes through your body.
He takes this as a cue to move down to where you really want him, leaving a trail of kisses that feel like they’re burning brands into your body as he works his way downwards. Reaching your hips, he presses two fleeting kisses against your hips, one for each side, before eventually stopping at your knees. From this position, midnight blue eyes framed by long lashes and ghostly shadows stare back at you expectantly, like two little voids boring into your soul, and you have to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine as you fight the urge to drown in their sheer intensity.
A part of you wonders if you should drag this out any longer, make him work for it until he’s on the verge of tears, but the throbbing from between your legs wins, so you part your knees and sink into the mattress beneath you.
You’re already in your underwear, so there’s not much for him to remove. It’s cute, he thinks to himself, the fact that you still keep up this veneer of detachment even when it's just the two of you and no one else. You still feel the need to perform even when no one is looking. Just like how you try to pretend like your breath doesn't hitch when his deft fingers reach the place where you’ve been aching for so long at last.
By now, you’re soaked through; thus, when he runs down his fingers in a long stripe, your puffy folds suck in the wet fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination. A soft gasp escapes him, and the hot puff of air that follows, the flimsy cotton gusset does little to shield you from him and the salvation you’ve been craving for what feels like ages at this point.
One thing about Yuuta that people don’t know is that he’s mean, meaner than you would expect someone who’s so publicly timid to be. He’s mean in the way that he’ll trail kisses up the insides of your thighs, starting all the way at your ankle at one side and slowly making their way up right to where you want him to most, but are too ashamed ever to say out loud, before only pressing a fleeting kiss against your neglected clit with the sensation fading faster than your mind can process as he makes his way down the other side to begin this painful cycle all over again.
You don’t know if it's your own impatience or his, but soon he tires of this routine, and his fingers loop around the waistband and roll them down your thighs to fully expose you to him. You half-expect him to throw them somewhere across the room to be forgotten about in a corner until you eventually leave and need to search for them, but instead, he brings them up to his nose and inhales, letting the sweet scent of you fill his lungs. It’s downright obscene, the sight in front of you from the way his chest physically heaves with the sheer effort of breathing you in, to how he moves the fabric into his mouth so he can taste you on his tongue.
The worst part of it all is the fact that if you weren’t before, you’re sure dripping now.
After he’s done savouring his appetiser with a satisfied moan, he places the ruined fabric into his back pocket and returns his attention back to the main course in front of him. A beat passes, and you wonder if anything was going to happen, if that show was all for nothing, before you fight off a yelp as you’re suddenly dragged onto his mouth. Long, lewd licks against your core already have you squirming in his hold with his teeth grazing you just right where you need him the most, and you pitifully wonder how long you’re going to last under his touch.
When his tongue finally makes it past your puffy folds and inside, he laps at you like a man starved, practically suffocating himself in an effort to chase the nectar in between your legs. Involuntarily, your thighs wrap around his head like a vice, and you would be worried about his ability to breathe, given his current situation, if only the newfound pressure didn’t seem to slow him down – on the contrary, it seemed to have spurred him on, tongue bullying its way deeper into your quivering hole as he moans open-mouth and unabashedly at the novel sensation.
He thinks that if he died here in this moment, it would be a good life lived by any standards. Maybe he is a depraved man after all.
His eyes make sure to never leave yours as he does so. That’s the problem, he’s always watching. It used to scare you when you caught him staring at you; there was no malice or anything like that, but something else instead. You want to call it curiosity, the same way someone would dissect a frog in a lab, watching its still-beating heart pump out its final breaths under the glare of a scapel, but that feels incomplete – like you’re missing an integral part of whatever story makes up the man that is Okkotsu Yuuta.
Sometimes, an inkling of whatever remains of your self-preservation by now nudges at your brain, and you try to pull back in an attempt to get a moment of respite away from him and his starved tongue, but unfortunately for you, his grip is so iron-clad you wouldn’t be surprised if you woke up with fresh scars on your hips in the shape of 10 crescent moons. At times like that, you wonder if this is the fear his opponents feel when they face him on the battlefield. It’s like you’re staring down the barrel of the gun, just waiting for the bullet to come for good. However, it never does, and you’re not sure if this is a blessing or a curse in disguise.
You always scold him for leaving those marks, but he knows as well as you do that they’re nothing more than empty threats; a dog that only bears its teeth to bark but never to bite. In fact, the opposite is true – you enjoy it. Perhaps if he bites down hard enough, he can carve a place for himself in your soul – something so permanent that it’ll allow him to follow into the next life or whatever great beyond awaits the two of you.
When your fingers find their way into his raven locks, tugging at their roots in a frail attempt to get back at him for the torture he’s put you through, the pain seemingly has the opposite effect in the sense that it spurs him on even further to fall deeper into his frenzied hunger. Unlike you, he doesn’t fight off the loud groan that effortlessly tumbles out of his mouth, the vibrations sending you into a new high.
You’re already so close to seeing stars by now, so when a thumb starts rubbing gentle circles against your throbbing clit on top of everything else, you feel yourself ascend to a higher plane of consciousness, building up like a crescendo, before it all comes crashing down over you.
You knew it would have been too good for you to have gotten a moment of respite because as soon as you make your way back into your body, riding out the final waves of the orgasm on his tongue, his lips are back against yours again. It’s absolutely vile, the way you taste yourself on him, and it’s truly horrific how it only encourages you to dive deeper into the kiss.
A strange sense of emptiness pools in your lower half, but you barely have any time to even mourn the loss of anything as two of his deft fingers slide down and back into your cunt like second nature – almost as if he’s read your mind.
“Tell me I’m yours.” He huffs pathetically against your bitten lips, hips rutting against your thigh in an attempt to find any form of relief. A third finger soon joins the fray, and god, you feel so full as you clench tightly around them.
“Yuu, please–” You stutter out, your mind is splintered by this point as it tries to pull itself together to form a coherent sentence, when the band in your lower stomach is getting tighter and tighter by the minute.
He doesn’t give up. “Tell me I’m yours. Lie to me if you have to, I don’t care.” He repeats, breaking the kiss to do so with a string of saliva still connecting the two of you.
“Please.”
His fingers speed up their ministrations, twisting and curling just right where you want them, and you think about how you’re about to fall apart for the second time on his hand this time. When you don’t respond, his thumb returns to where it once was on your clit, but instead of the gentle circles of before, his touch is now downright violent from the way it pinches and pulls at the bundle of nerves.
It’s all just too much.
“Y-you’re mine.” Your whisper is barely above a sigh; hell, you’re not even sure he heard it, but that seems like it's enough for him as his mouth finds its way back to yours, and the band that’s been building in your lower half finally snaps, the force of it alone causing your vision to turn white momentarily.
As you come down from your high, his other hand rests against the valley between your breasts. To some, this touch might appear to be sexual, but that would be a shallow reading of the situation, and Yuuta hates shallowness. With his palm pressed flat against your ribcage, he can feel the way your heart pounds within its confines, and whether consciously or not, he starts to mirror your stuttered breaths, letting your hearts beat in sync with one another.
Sometimes, he finds himself having the urge to crack open your ribcage and his to let your hearts meet each other at long last, like they were meant to be in his mind – and he quietly asks himself if you would hate him if he ever did so one day.
When you leave, and it’s always a when, he lets himself linger like a ghost in the room, too afraid to move on to the proverbial afterlife, as he sinks back into the sheets in a desperate attempt to soak up whatever remains of you. Nose pressed so hard into the mattress, he’s sure that when he gets up, there’s going to be an imprint in the shape of his face. However, much like everything else, it, too, will fade with time – gone much too soon for his liking.
You never tell him when, you always try to make every encounter seem like the last, but both of you know that you’ll come back, you’re just as addicted as he is, except the only difference between the two of you is that you’ll never say it – too prideful ever to admit you might want something more than just his temporary touch and flesh.
But it’s okay, he’ll wait. That’s what he’s good at, right? He’ll wait, kneeling until he bleeds – or perhaps on all fours if that’s how you prefer him – at the shrine of your love as its most devout follower.