Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4612098.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      カーストヘヴン_|_Caste_Heaven
  Relationship:
      Kusakabe_Atsumu/Kuze_Natsuki, Karino_Kouhei/Kusakabe_Atsumu
  Character:
      Kusakabe_Atsumu, Kuze_Natsuki, Karino_Kouhei, Azusa_Yuuya
  Additional Tags:
      Bruises, Blood, Death_Threats, Insults, Rape, Rape_Aftermath,
      Psychological_Trauma, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Dom/sub_Undertones,
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Betrayal, Punishment, Vomiting, Shower_Sex,
      Physical_Abuse, Karino_Kouhei/Azusa_Yuuya_-_Freeform, Kusakabe_Atsumu/
      Azusa_Yuuya_-_Freeform, One-Sided_Attraction, Begging, Manga_Spoilers, No
      Aftercare
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-22 Completed: 2015-08-23 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 8686
****** Contact Shot ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It’s enough of a framework, enough of a cage to lock away the doubts
     in Kusakabe’s mind that tell him he’s abusing the system, that he’s
     taking advantage of Azusa the same as Karino is; between his internal
     logic and the heat surging in his blood, he’s jittery with excitement
     far more than nerves by the time they arrive at the staff room."
     Kusakabe finds his interlude with Azusa more intoxicating than Kuze
     or Karino intended. His second punishment is far more effective.
  This work was inspired by
      Man_on_Fire by RubyFiamma
***** Burnt *****
Kusakabe jumps when the classroom door slides open. It’s a habit, learned from
his time as the target and too familiar to easily shed; his position says he’s
higher, Kuze’s pleasant presence at his shoulder reinforces it, but in the end
his body still jerks reflexive terror whenever anyone startles him, his first
response to others’ presence fear rather than curiosity. He has to take a
moment to catch his breath, another to straighten his glasses as he looks up,
and then he sees who it is in the doorway and tension surges back into his
shoulder.
“Kuze,” Karino says, standing off-center in the doorway so Kusakabe can’t see
the full width of his shoulders. “It’s time.”
“Right,” Kuze says, and he’s getting to his feet, unfolding smoothly from where
he has been leaned over Kusakabe’s desk and Kusakabe’s homework for the last
hour. Kusakabe’s chest flutters, his blood unsure whether he should be relieved
or jealous; he’s still fighting through the conflict when a familiar hand lands
at his elbow, fingers curl in under his arm to urge him upright. “Come on,
Atsumu.”
“What?” Kusakabe looks up -- at Kuze, he’s a far safer focus than the
unreadable shadows in Karino’s dark eyes -- some of that instinctive tension
finding its way to old homes along his spine. He remembers Karino’s smirk from
the last time, the manic grin he flashed that never touched his eyes, the
instinctive fear of prey facing its natural predator telling him to cower even
as his body trembled into pleasure inside the impossible radiance of Azusa’s
body. Instinct is enough to override whatever illicit satisfaction he may have
had from the interaction, enough to tilt him in towards Kuze like he’s a wall
to stand between Karino’s eyes and Kusakabe’s existence. “Why, where are we
going?”
“You asked me for more yesterday,” Kuze says. He’s not meeting Kusakabe’s
nervous gaze; he’s watching Karino, or maybe staring out into the empty
hallway, it’s hard to tell from the blank expression on his face. “You didn’t
want to tell Karino yourself, did you?”
Kusakabe’s thoughts are slow to catch up. He has to reach through his memories
yesterday, the unthinking boredom of classes and the slurred-vague heat of his
time with Kuze, the spill of words pouring involuntarily from his lips in time
with the slow-steady thrust of Kuze’s hips. Usually what he says is nonsense,
pleas and gasps and shattered remnants of Kuze’s name, but he remembers, now
that Kuze says it -- after, with him gasping sticky air and staring unseeing at
the ceiling, when he had said I think I liked it, with Azusa, and Kuze had gone
so silent and still beside him Kusakabe was sure he had said something wrong.
“But I thought you said--”
He won’t be okay with it, is what Kuze had said, still and calm like water
droplets falling into a lake. Karino won’t want to share. The memory of those
cold dark eyes was enough to quench any of Kusakabe’s adrenaline at the
prospect of Azusa’s heat again, enough to send him skidding backwards through a
tattered apology and into another slow slide of skin-on-skin over the desk, and
if he hadn’t forgotten his almost-request he’s been trying not to think about
it. For Karino to agree is an impossibility he hadn’t thought to look for, his
pleasure in the moment enough to override his guilty suspicion that Azusa’s
feelings didn’t come into this at all.
“Oh,” he says, and he’s stumbling to his feet, Kuze’s hand at his elbow the
only thing to keep him from falling over the desk in his attempt at moving.
“Right now?”
“Come on,” Karino says, and he’s turning away, moving down the hallway so
quickly Kusakabe has to rush to make it around the corner before he’s lost to
sight. Kuze follows, trailing in his wake with easy-long strides, his bracing
grip at Kusakabe’s elbow replaced with a guiding hand at his shoulder instead.
It’s impossible, Kusakabe’s brain offers, his thoughts running themselves giddy
and sick at the prospect. For Kuze to be so wrong, for Karino to be so willing;
to have Azusa again, to make it last longer, to take control over his own
movements instead of being guided by Kuze’s unbreakable hold. It’s too much,
the intoxication of his imagination enough to veer the straight-line of his
footsteps, and if he thinks of Azusa at all it’s only for a moment, long enough
to remember the bruises at his hip, the bite marks at his shoulder, to tell
himself that he will be far gentler than Karino clearly is. Azusa should be
grateful to that if nothing else, to be spared Karino’s rough treatment at
least once. It’s enough of a framework, enough of a cage to lock away the
doubts in Kusakabe’s mind that tell him he’s abusing the system, that he’s
taking advantage of Azusa the same as Karino is; between his internal logic and
the heat surging in his blood, he’s jittery with excitement far more than
nerves by the time they arrive at the staff room.
Azusa’s visible as soon as Karino opens the door for them. Kusakabe’s eyes land
on him immediately, drawn to the gold of his hair and the pale expanse of skin
bared by his open shirt and abandoned slacks; the angle of his arms is
striking, like something out of an art book or formed of marble, but he can
only appreciate it for a moment. Azusa is tied to the chair, his arms held
behind him by something Kusakabe can’t see and his feet bound to the legs by
the dark of school ties, and he’s fighting them, all the elegance in his
shoulder brought out by his strain against his restraints.
“Oh no,” he growls, “no fucking way,” and Kusakabe’s stomach drops, guilt
surging to the forefront like it will be sufficient to quench the heat holding
his cock hard with anticipation against the front of his slacks. “Fuck you
Karino--”
“Shut up” and Kusakabe flinches, cringing back and away from the vicious edge
of Karino’s voice. His shoulders hit the resistance of Kuze’s chest, press in
hard like he can hide behind the taller boy if he tries, and Kuze’s hand tips
him forward, pushes him to stand on his own as Kuze sidesteps to move away
across the room. Kusakabe wants to run, can’t make his feet move, doesn’t want
to look up but can’t keep his gaze away; Azusa is shining in the dusty light of
the room, the mundanity of his surroundings making him look ethereal. He looks
furious, too, lips white with anger and eyes snapping heat; those eyes catch
Kusakabe’s, crackle danger at him, and Kusakabe flinches again, cowers back as
he forms the words to an apology he can’t give voice to.
“Don’t just stand there,” Karino snaps. For a brief, horrible moment Kusakabe
thinks the words are meant for him; then Karino goes on and he realizes they
must be intended for Kuze instead. “I told you what you have to do to make this
work. Do you want to do this or not?”
Kusakabe can feel his face burn hot, awareness of what’s about to happen
spilling embarrassment into his veins until even the draw of Azusa’s bright
hair isn’t enough to overcome his urge to duck his head. His hands close at the
hem of his overlarge sweater, drag at the fabric; he speaks towards the cloth
instead of Azusa, forcing the words out of his throat on the force of the
selfish guilt in him. “I’m so sorry, Azusa-kun.” Kuze’s coming near, reaching
out for him; he has to finish speaking before he loses himself to the heat
starting to creep up his spine and dull his senses. “I...I just couldn’t stay
away.”
There’s no forgiveness in Azusa’s face, no suggestion of understanding.
Kusakabe is opening his mouth, ready to try attaching words to the slippery-
dark feelings in his head, when a hand closes on his wrist so suddenly he
startles before realizing it’s Kuze. The relief of recognition is only for a
moment; then Kusakabe sees the weird mirror-blankness of his eyes, and whatever
comfort he attained evaporates in a sudden chill of foreboding.
“Kuze?” There’s no flicker of comprehension in the other’s pale eyes; he’s
stepping behind Kusakabe instead, his arms winding around his waist and
reaching for his belt. Usually this would be ordinary, Kusakabe would be
sliding into melting heat against Kuze’s chest while the other bothered with
stripping him, but this is wrong, this is weirdly mechanical and distant as if
Kuze doesn’t even know him, and something is wrong. “W-what’s going on?”
It’s not Kuze that answers. The voice comes from the other side of the room,
cool and hard as ice and freezing all the anticipation in Kusakabe’s blood to
fear. “We’re teaching you a lesson,” Karino says, and when Kusakabe looks at
him there’s no laughter in his eyes at all.
“Again?” Azusa says, but Kusakabe barely hears him; he’s twisting, trying to
crane his neck up to see Kuze’s face. The angle is bad, the strain on his neck
aching down his spine, and even then there’s nothing to see, just the beautiful
blankness of a mask and eyes fixed on his belt buckle instead of his face.
“But K-Kuze.” The hands are slow against the buckle, like everything is going
in syrupy slow-motion, and Kuze isn’t meeting his gaze, Kuze isn’t looking at
him. “Y-you said--”
“I said that he wouldn’t be okay with it.” There’s no inflection on Kuze’s
voice at all, no flicker in his gaze. Kusakabe’s belt comes loose, the buckle
settling into Kuze’s hold like a strange leash. “Atsumu, I told you how this
was going to end.”
“What?” Kusakabe asks, and Azusa is talking, his voice coming shrill and loud
into the room, but for once Kusakabe doesn’t have the attention to spare for
him. “Kuze?”
“You’ll learn your lesson this time.” Kuze slides his belt free, leather
slipping against the belt loops of Kusakabe’s slacks as the other boy pulls at
it. “I told you.” The belt hits the floor, Kuze’s fingers digging in hard
against Kusakabe’s hip for a moment. “I don’t want to share you with anyone.”
There’s something in his eyes, something lurking in their shadowy corners;
Kusakabe can’t see it, can’t make out the shape of it, but he can feel it
anyway like ice against his spine, horror flooding into his veins for some
reason he can’t quite see, from some source within Kuze he can’t parse. He
doesn’t know why he’s scared, doesn’t know why he’s flinching back when Kuze
isn’t even looking at him, but he can’t get away, can’t push away the hand
against his hip, and then Karino’s voice says “Tie his hands.”
“I’m sorry,” Kusakabe says, not sure what he’s apologizing for but willing to
say anything to flee that unknown shape behind Kuze’s eyes. The other boy is
working his necktie free, slipping the fabric from its knot one-handed; he’s
looking at Kusakabe’s hands, still not his face. “I’m sorry, Kuze, I’m sorry.”
“How is that punishing him?” Azusa demands, his voice a whip crack through the
humid air. “How is that punishing him?”
“Stupid little target,” Karino says. Kuze’s sliding his tie free, lets
Kusakabe’s hip go so he can collect the other boy’s wrists together between the
graceful stretch of his fingers. “That wouldn’t be a punishment, would it?”
Kusakabe’s lost. He wants to look at Karino to make sense of what he’s saying,
wants to look at the gold glint of light off Azusa’s hair, wants to catch
Kuze’s gaze to gain some sense of what to say to make this better. Something is
coming, he can feel some doom impending in the air, but he can’t make sense of
it even enough to know which way to run. “I don’t understand,” he pleads, still
staring at Kuze as the tie twists into a knot around his wrists. “Kuze, I’m
sorry -- I -- I just thought -- I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear!” It’s a
lie, he knows it is, but right now his panic is saying anything, is ready to
forswear everything he’s ever cared for in all the world if it will get him out
of this room faster.
Kuze’s shoulders lift, shrug away Kusakabe’s pleas, and when he reaches out
it’s to push Kusakabe away from him, to turn him in a stumbling circle to face
the shadows in Karino’s cold face. “I warned you,” he says, the words each cut
separately from ice, and it’s then that Kusakabe starts to shake.
“No,” Azusa spits, fast as an epiphany. Kusakabe looks at him, eyes going wide
as he reaches for understanding, but Azusa isn’t looking at him, he’s glaring
over his head at Kuze standing behind him, hands bracing Kusakabe from running.
“No -- fuck that -- don’t drag us into your pathetic lover’s quarrel.”
“W--” Kusakabe tries, coherency fracturing in his throat. The tie is digging
into his wrists; it hurts when he tugs at the resistance in an instinctive
effort to break free. He keeps pulling, cranes his neck up in another futile
attempt to see Kuze’s face as the other boy starts to pull at the fly of
Kusakabe’s slacks, working the button and zipper open with that same methodical
care he brought to his belt. “What is he talking about?”
It’s not Kuze that answers, but Karino. “What would this world be like if
people were just given what they wanted when they wanted it?”
Kusakabe can feel dark eyes on him, Karino’s attention pinning him in place,
but he doesn’t look at him; he can’t make himself face the threat there, even
the mask of Kuze’s face is better than that. He shakes his head, unvoiced
rejection of whatever this is, starts “I don’t--” without even knowing what it
is he lacks, if it’s desire or understanding or something else entirely that he
can’t yet find space in his frantic thoughts for. He’s pushing at Kuze’s hands,
trying to break free or at least stop their motion, but Kuze doesn’t even seem
to notice; the button gives way, the zipper, and then there’s friction against
Kusakabe’s skin, Kuze’s hands pushing his clothes off his hips with a touch as
cold as he has ever known.
“The floor,” Karino says, his voice coming from what feels like a long way away
as Kusakabe’s panic takes over, shakes his knees strengthless as Kuze forces
his slacks off his body. Azusa is talking but it’s too far away to hear; the
only thing Kusakabe can hear anymore is the friction of his clothing against
itself, the eerily steady pace of Kuze’s breathing.
“No,” he says, and he doesn’t know what he’s rejecting, Kuze’s pushing at his
feet so he stumbles free of his rumpled clothing. “No, please Kuze, stop,
what’s happening?” He’s shaking, grabbing at Kuze’s shoulder to steady himself,
but Kuze’s moving, rising back to his feet to loom with the advantage of height
Kusakabe’s never noticed before, and when a hand comes out it’s to shove at his
shoulder instead of to catch his arm. Kusakabe’s knees buckle, his weight
crashes to the floor, and his eyes prickle with tears of pain.
“Kuze--” and there’s another force, a hand not-Kuze shoving at his shoulders to
force him to the floor. The impact knocks the wind out of Kusakabe’s lungs,
leaves him choking as if the oxygen in the room has vanished, and then Karino’s
hands are at his ankles, bruising against the delicate bones as he drags.
There’s nothing for Kusakabe to do, nothing to grab and no way to stop his
movement; he just slides, his clothing catching as he moves, until it’s his
skin sticking and dragging in a burst of pain over the tile. Kusakabe wails, a
broken note of agony, but the pull doesn’t stop, Karino’s dragging his body
where he wants it instead of Kusakabe.
“Please,” Kusakabe sobs, his glasses caught against the floor and arms twisted
uncomfortably over his head. “Please, Kuze, help me.” But there’s no response,
even when he angles his neck up to look at the other boy there’s not even a
flicker of recognition in his eyes. He’s just staring, blank as if he’s blind,
as if he’s a doll, as if he’s not hearing Kusakabe’s words at all. “Azusa-kun,”
he tries instead, reaching out for someone, anyone, a drowning man struggling
for the support of a few fingers. “Make him stop, I swear I won’t ask again, I
don’t want this, ask him to stop.” The pleas catch on his tongue, crack around
the wet stick of sobs in his throat, but he keeps gasping them, desperation and
words the only thing he has left. “Please,” he says, and fingers push his knee,
drop his legs wide over the floor. “Please.”
And “Don’t you fucking touch him,” comes a voice, Azusa’s, hissing with
unlikely fury. Kusakabe gasps air, relief shocking through him as violent as
pain. “Karino, don’t you--”
“Hey” cracks through the air, slicing through Azusa’s voice and damming
Kusakabe’s tears into panic. He freezes, instinctive response as if Karino’s
voice is the headlights of an oncoming car and he frozen in the face of
oncoming death, fear paralyzing him for the few moments left of existence.
“You’re the chewed up and used, wasted and discarded gum that sticks to the
bottom of my shoe. You aren’t in a position to tell me what to do. Shut up and
watch me fuck this guy like a good little boy.”
Kusakabe doesn’t hear what Azusa says in response. His hearing tunes out for a
moment, the cold certainty of what some part of him suspected but his
consciousness rejected finally gripping the length of his spine like a vice. He
wails, incoherent protest to the very idea on Karino’s lips, his entire body
shuddering to reject the idea; he’s sobbing, choking on his tears, his tied
hands coming up against the back of his neck to protect him from a mortal blow,
and what he’s saying is “No no no no,” a low chant like if he says it enough
this will stop happening, this will cease to be reality, everything will go
away and he’ll be okay again. “No no no.” But it’s not enough, it’s not enough,
there are fingers pushing against the inside of his legs and dipping between
his thighs and it’s too close, it’s really -- and Karino’s fingers slide into
him, stretch his body into the familiar shape of heat, and Kusakabe’s words
invert themselves on friction and turn into a sudden, startled intake of breath
at the burst of pleasure that lances through his veins.
“Don’t you dare enjoy this,” Azusa spits, and Kusakabe is trying to resist but
he can’t, Karino’s fingers are sliding deep into him and his back is arching
all on its own, it’s like his body and his mind are entirely disconnected
things. “Don’t you fucking dare” and he sounds furious, he sounds livid,
Kusakabe has to turn away to hide from the rage audible in Azusa’s voice.
Kuze. Kuze is still here, is standing over Kusakabe; when he cranes his neck up
he can see the other boy’s eyes, can try to blink away the tears clouding his
vision and reach for the honesty that the heat in his blood makes sound a lie.
“I d-didn’t want t-this,” he stutters, his nose running and eyes wet and throat
tensing against every slick thrust of Karino’s fingers inside him. Kuze is
watching him but Kusakabe can’t make out the details of his expression; he can
just see that it’s unchanging, can see the slack passivity of his hands at his
sides. “P-please, make it stop.”
Kuze moves, but it’s not to reach out, not to push Karino away or urge Kusakabe
forward; it’s a shrug, the surrender clear even to Kusakabe’s blurred gaze.
“It’s out of my hands,” he says. Kusakabe can barely even recognize the sound
of his voice, it’s so entirely stripped of emotion. “Karino is King.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t have any say in this,” Azusa bites off, and he
still sounds angry, he sounds like he’s as miserable about this as Kusakabe is,
as Kusakabe wants to be were it not for the betrayal of heat fitting itself
under his skin in response to the slide of Karino’s fingers.
“I don’t,” Kuze is saying, but Kusakabe can’t understand the words, can’t make
sense of the syllables at the other’s mouth. The heat is drowning him, the
conversation happening over his head at an impossible distance; the only thing
he can focus on is the pressure, the stretch of fingers pushing him open and
dragging over his too-sensitive insides. It’s too much, the sensation
overwhelming to the point of pain as Kuze’s touch never is, but he’s still hard
against the floor, his body still convulsing against the tiles with each stroke
of Karino’s hand. He can’t see straight, isn’t sure how he’s breathing, and
then the pressure inside him digs in against the soft spot Kuze always finds
and Kusakabe is groaning, wailing “Karino” in a tone that he can feel hum
vibration against the inside of his ribs.
“Shut up!” Azusa shrieks, and Kusakabe startles, the oncoming wave of orgasm
broken apart by the jagged edges of Azusa’s voice. His eyes come open of their
own accord, wide and staring and terrified, and Azusa is spitting at him,
flinging curses towards him as if they are knives. “Don’t you say his fucking
name, shut up!” His eyes are wild, his mouth wet; the beauty Kusakabe usually
thinks of as ethereal has turned violent, an angel set to vengeance and death.
“I’ll kill you, I swear to god I’ll kill you” and Kusakabe believes him, is
cringing back as far as he can go from the mania in Azusa’s eyes and the hate
at his mouth.
“I’m s-sorry,” he chokes out, but Karino is still stroking inside him, still
drawing heat over him, and even the sudden terror of Azusa’s threats isn’t
enough to scatter the pleasure entirely. It’s reforming, bigger than before,
until it’s stealing up over Kusakabe’s throat and ruining the sincerity of his
apology. “So s-sorry” and his vision is going, slurring away into drugged heat
and he means the apology, he knows he does, but he can’t remember how to make
words work in his throat, can barely remember how to breathe. His knees are
sliding wider, pushed apart or just losing their strength he’s not sure which,
and Karino’s touch is going deeper, harder, firing every one of Kusakabe’s
nerve endings at once until he’s white-blind, until any rational part of
himself is lost to the drive of Karino’s fingers. He’s arching, he’s thrumming
hot, and then he’s coming, his cock pulsing sticky over the tile made slick
with the catch of sweat off his overheated body. It feels more like heat than
pleasure, a fire burning under his skin to ruin his rationality; he’s still
struggling for coherency when Karino’s fingers slide out of him, set him free
from the heat that melts him into an animal, that peels away any sense of
desire or want from the reactions of his body.
Everything is sticky. Kusakabe’s stomach is sticking to the floor, his cock
gone limp with satisfaction catching when he tries to move; he can’t get any
traction, can barely find the strength to reach for Kuze, for the familiar
edges of his clean slacks, for his last hope of salvation from his own body’s
instinctive reaction.
“P-please,” he chokes, and there’s fabric under his fingertips, cloth catching
what he hopes is Kuze’s attention though he can’t look up to verify. “Kuze.” He
can hear Karino unfastening his belt behind him, knows this isn’t nearly over
yet; this is his last chance, the last moment of coherency he’ll have left to
him. “Help me, please.”
“This is all your fault,” Azusa hisses, and it’s no comfort but it’s startling
to be acknowledged, odd to have anyone even recognize Kusakabe is there. He
twists without thinking, looking back over his shoulder, and Azusa is leaning
forward, tilted as far off his chair as he can go to seethe at Kusakabe. “This
is all your fucking fault,” he says, and he’s spitting again, his lips whetting
the words to knives. “When I get out of these things, you better run far away,
you pathetic piece of shit, because I swear to god I will find you and kill
you.” It’s sincerity in his voice, vivid honesty behind his eyes, and the fear
Karino instills in Kusakabe and the dark foreboding he had when he came into
the room is nothing compared to the bone-deep horror that strikes him now.
“No,” he says, cringing back over the floor and shaking his head in desperate
denial. “No, Azusa, I don’t want this, I didn’t ask for this, I don’t, it’s not
my fault, it’s not my fault.” But Azusa isn’t looking at him; he’s staring at
Karino again, his attention gone from Kusakabe to leave him as forgotten as he
was before.
“Karino, it’s enough,” he says, sounding exhausted, sounding defeated. It’s a
strange shift, from the viciousness he turned on Kusakabe to the almost-
gentleness in his voice now, like he’s having a conversation with Karino, like
he’s not tied to a chair and spitting death at Kusakabe with every other
breath. “It’s enough, stop it.”
Kusakabe has no idea if Karino is listening. He’s hoping for a miracle, praying
for a moment’s respite, but it’s Kuze he’s looking to, stretching out his
fingers over the impossible gap, dragging his fingertips across unresponsive
fabric. He can’t even see Kuze’s skin from his angle; there’s just the hem of
his pants, the neutrality of his shoes, no movement even to speak to his
continued existence.
“K-Kuze,” he chokes, desperation tearing through his throat and leaving him
breathless. “I -- I d-don’t want this,” like he has to prove himself, like if
he says it enough he can undo the betrayal of his body still sticky on the
floor under him. “Make it stop, please.” Azusa’s still talking, words directed
at Karino and not Kusakabe, and Karino’s voice is there too, insults cut into
the outline of tenderness as his hands shove Kusakabe’s legs wide and bear him
to the floor, but that’s not important, that’s not what can help Kusakabe. He’s
reaching, he’s so close, he almost has his fingers around Kuze’s ankle, if he
can just--
And there is a shriek, an ungodly sound fracturing through the air and blowing
all Kusakabe’s awareness away in a single shudder of crippling fright.
Something’s banging at the floor, terrifyingly close to Kusakabe’s head, and
he’s wailing, an inhuman sound of raw fear as he tries to manage the impossible
task of covering his ears with his bound hands. It’s not until Kusakabe’s
shattered attention picks out Karino’s name from the sound that he recognizes
it as Azusa, the other boy’s voice made raw on the viciousness of his shouting.
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare; even Kuze is out of his reach now. He’s just
splayed over the floor, pinned down like a butterfly by the hold against his
legs, until he can’t even retreat from the sound of wood breaking, a chair leg
giving way near the vulnerable skin of his bare legs. There’s an impact, a
sharp burst of pain against his side as Azusa’s freed foot connects with his
ribs, and he recoils instinctively just as Karino’s cock sinks into him.
Kusakabe doesn’t know what sound he makes. It’s not human, not deliberate, that
much he is certain of; it’s pain, or pleasure, sensation turning itself to
sound without any stop-off at what little is left of his rationality. His ribs
are aching, his body clenching panic-tight against the intrusion of Karino
inside him, and then something wet hits his face and Azusa is shrieking at him,
spraying words at him to match the spit sliding across Kusakabe’s cheek and
blurring his glasses.
“You think I care about this scum?!” He’s too close, his teeth are too white,
and Kusakabe has the sudden horrified idea that Azusa will sink his teeth into
his skin, tear his cheek or his shoulder or his throat open with the sharp
edges. “I’ll slit his fucking throat, I’ll tear this shitty little doormat to
fucking shreds, you hear me?! You hear me, Kusakabe?!”
Kusakabe doesn’t get a chance to answer, even if he knew what to say. Karino
moves before he can think straight, drawing back and thrusting in again, and
anything he might have clung to vanishes in the tremor of sensation that jolts
through him. It feels like being electrocuted, all the muscles of his body
trying to cramp at the same time, but his instinctive attempt at rejection does
no good; Karino’s cock is still pushing him wide, the shape of him unfamiliar
and so heavy Kusakabe can feel it knot into nausea in his stomach, tighten the
back of his throat with heat like he’s going to be sick. It’s different than
Kuze, Karino feels all wrong inside him, and then Karino thrusts hard into him
and what jolts out of Kusakabe’s mouth is a groan instead of vomit, that same
involuntary heat stealing his control of his body and aching into his cock.
There’s still voices, someone speaking over him, but Kusakabe can’t track their
meaning, can’t pull apart Karino’s words from Azusa’s; what matters is that
Kuze is still silent, still standing over him watching with implacable eyes,
and Karino is still moving, the weight of his body jolting Kusakabe forward
against the bracing hold at his hips with every thrust. Kusakabe is sobbing,
broken noises like pleas can save him now; every backwards slide of Karino’s
hips curdles his stomach, rationality seizing control of his throat for a
moment for a sob before the forward thrust drives unwanted pleasure into his
veins and pulsing through his cock.
“Please,” he attempts, but the word’s too long, Karino’s thrusts turn it into a
moan before Kusakabe can force it out. “Please, Kuze, Kuze” and even that is
broken, the sound of the other boy’s name breaking into a parody of true
pleasure, an echo of the untainted satisfaction Kusakabe can barely even
remember now. “Help me, Kuze, help me.” It’s like a nightmare, the motion
inside him he can’t escape from, the unformed sound of threats he’s too afraid
to remember, the edge of Kuze’s pants not quite close enough to reach, and his
body going tense, spine crackling with anticipation and cock dragging hard
against the floor with the pleasure as inevitable as the movement of Karino
over him.
“Please,” he says, one last desperate attempt, like Kuze can somehow stop his
own body’s reaction. There’s no answer, no movement and no word, and then
Karino’s cock pushes into him and Kusakabe chokes on his moan, his throat
fighting the involuntary shudder of heat that tears through him. His cock
twitches against the floor, his body quivering helpless over the sticky tile;
his thoughts go hazy, the relief of unconsciousness finally coming for him on
the wave of too-much heat drowning him. But Karino is still moving, the tilt of
his hips driving him impossibly deeper with every thrust, and Kusakabe can feel
him swelling, the heat of the other’s orgasm pressing his shape against
Kusakabe’s insides.
“No,” he says, sobs it against the floor, but it’s too faint, he’s not even
sure that he’s spoken aloud. Karino shoves into him again, one more thrust to
smack his skin hard against Kusakabe’s, and then he’s groaning, a low growl of
sound as his cock tightens and spurts heat into Kusakabe’s body. It spills into
him, forcing space inside him where there is none, and Kusakabe’s stomach
twists, his throat works, and when he opens his mouth it’s bile on his tongue
as he vomits acid onto the floor. It’s not enough to help; his stomach
convulses again, again, until he’s choking on the reflex, his body trying to
turn itself inside-out in a long-since futile attempt to purge himself clean
again.
It’s only after Karino’s slid out of him, when he’s coughing and gasping and
sobbing helplessly onto the cool of the floor, that he’s finally able to
retreat to unconsciousness.
***** Exit Wound *****
Kusakabe comes back to consciousness with Kuze’s arms around him. There’s
motion, a steady sway as of footsteps, although Kusakabe’s not walking, not
moving except to hiccup breaths through his aching-raw throat. But there’s arms
around him, pressing against his shoulders and hooked under his knees, and when
he blinks the salt of tears from his lashes he can see the white of Kuze’s
shirt pressed against his cheek and realizes he’s being carried.
“Kuze,” he says, the name tearing itself open and bloody in his throat. He
wants to reach up, wants to loop his arms around the other boy’s neck and cling
to the security he offers, but he can’t move his arms, can’t make up his mind
to reach for what he’s not sure he’s allowed anymore. He lifts a hand to a
button instead, curls the tips of his fingers around the plastic shape of it
like it’s something secure to hold on to. His wrists are untied; there’s
bruises around them, lines from the tie that bound him, but the dark tie in
question is nowhere to be seen against the unsullied white of Kuze’s shirt.
“Kuze.”
“Atsumu,” Kuze’s voice sounds from over him, his lips touching the syllables of
the name with far more gentleness than Kusakabe dared to hope for. “It’s okay.”
“Kuze,” Kusakabe says again, his throat caught on some endless loop, and his
head drops forward, his forehead presses to the pocket of Kuze’s shirt. He can
feel the steady thump of the other boy’s heartbeat as his own speeds frantic.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want--I’m sorry.”
“Ssh,” Kuze says, his voice calm and soothing like he’s stepped out of some
higher plane untouched by pain or filth or tears. “I know you didn’t. I’m here,
it’s okay.”
“Sorry,” Kusakabe wails, and that’s when the crying starts, choking agony into
his throat in a vague shadow of the acid that burned his esophagus raw minutes
earlier. There’s the sound of a door creaking, Kuze’s steps stuttering as he
fits them through an entryway, but Kusakabe doesn’t look up; he can’t see,
can’t breathe, can only choke huge wracking sobs against Kuze’s shirt and cling
to that one button. The sound of his tears goes louder as Kuze moves, the walls
throwing his misery back at him until he feels like he’s drowning, until it
sounds like there’s a thousand of him all trying to give vent to an unbearable
weight of pain.
Then Kuze kneels, the warm support of his arms giving way to the cold of an
unfeeling floor, and Kusakabe gasps, chokes, stammers out a “Wait” as Kuze’s
touch draws away. “No, w-wait, Kuze please I--”
“Ssh,” Kuze says again, but he’s still moving, he’s getting to his feet with an
elegance grasp of his own body that Kusakabe can’t hope to emulate, he’s
drawing out of reach. Kusakabe reaches up, out, stretching his fingers for
anything he can cling to, but there’s just the dark of Kuze’s slacks sliding
under his fingers, the white of the other’s shirt too blinding for him to look
up towards. The arm at Kusakabe’s shoulders goes, warmth evaporating instantly,
and Kusakabe starts to shake as Kuze’s fingers trail up his shoulder and tangle
into his hair.
“No,” he says, breathless with the need to sob, to scream, to do both at once.
“Kuze, no, don’t go, I’ll be g-good, don’t leave me.”
There’s a screech of sound, a faucet turning open, and then suddenly water,
drenching and chill against the back of Kusakabe’s neck and splashing over
Kuze’s fingers in his hair. He gasps, inhales water, chokes and coughs and
spits, and then Kuze’s in front of him again, kneeling next to him on the tile
while the splash of water off Kusakabe’s hair wets the pristine white of Kuze’s
shirt.
“K-Kuze,” Kusakabe says as hands reach out to grip the bottom of his sweater,
as Kuze starts to push the damp weight of it up off his skin towards his
shoulders. “St-stop, you’re--” he chokes on a hiccup, has to gasp for air as
water collects on his glasses to ruin what little clarity is left of his
vision. “You’re getting wet.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Kuze soothes, his voice gentle as the touch urging
Kusakabe’s sweater up, pushing his arms up over his head so the weight of the
fabric can come free. The cloth catches Kusakabe’s glasses, wraps over his
face, and for a moment his vision is eclipsed entirely by the action. “I’m
going to take care of you.”
“No,” Kusakabe says against the inside of the sweater; the collar twists
against his chin, drags up over his face. His glasses get knocked off his nose,
skew awkward across his cheekbones, but he’s hiccuping through tears and he
doesn’t reach to straighten them as he shakes his head in weak resistance. “You
should stay dry, you shouldn’t touch me.”
“It’s okay,” Kuze says again. His shirt is clinging to his shoulders, now, the
fabric going translucent with the weight of water catching it, and he’s working
open the fly of the slacks Kusakabe doesn’t remember putting back on. “I like
taking care of you, Atsumu.”
“No,” Kusakabe sobs again, lifts his bruised hands to push uselessly at Kuze’s
elegant fingers working his pants open, dragging the fabric down off his hips
and towards his knees. “I’m dirty, Kuze.”
“Mm.” Kuze sounds unperturbed; his smile is soft, sweet and warm and tender as
it has ever been. “I’m going to make you clean again.”
“You can’t,” Kusakabe wails, and his slacks are off his legs now but it’s no
comfort; he can feel his thighs sticking together, now, proof of his
contamination slick across his skin. “Inside, I’m--it’s dirty inside me” and
he’s feeling sick again just at the sound of the words, his body throbbing with
sensation as if to remind him of the grip of Karino’s hands, the heat of
Karino’s cock burning an indelible brand into his skin.
“I know.” Kuze’s fingers are easing against his hip, settling at his shoulder;
Kusakabe tries to push them off but he can’t find any strength, his fingers
just slide in the water splashing over Kuze’s clean skin. “It’s okay.”
“Don’t,” Kusakabe begs, one last desperate attempt to keep Kuze away from him,
away from the toxic friction clinging to his skin, and then Kuze pulls him up,
urges his weight over his knees, and he’s moving until the warming water is
hitting between his shoulderblades instead of the top of his head. It hurts his
knees, to take his weight against the tile, and in the first shiver of pain he
rocks forward without thinking, reaches to brace himself against Kuze’s
shoulder.
“Good,” Kuze says, like he doesn’t care about the fingerprints of wet on his
shoulder. “Just hold onto me, Atsumu.”
“K-Kuze,” Kusakabe chokes, not sure what he’s asking for or what mercy it is he
wants. His whole body is shaking, trembling so violently he has to reach out
another hand, has to cling around Kuze’s neck to keep his balance as the other
boy reaches between his legs and drags his fingers over the sticky skin of
Kusakabe’s thighs. “No, Kuze, don’t, you’ll--”
“I’m going to clean you,” Kuze repeats, and his touch is pushing over friction-
sensitive skin, pressing against Kusakabe’s entrance with a gentleness that
allows no room for resistance. “I’ve got you, I’m going to take care of you.”
“No,” Kusakabe wails, but Kuze’s fingers are pushing inside him, two of them
together moving easy after the stretch of Karino’s cock. The slide feels slick
and weird, Kuze’s touch sticking against the come still inside Kusakabe, and he
can feel the liquid spill out of him, drip over Kuze’s fingers and trickle down
against his leg. Kusakabe’s burning, his face hot with shame and his body
starting to respond in spite of himself to the familiar gentleness of Kuze’s
fingers, and Kuze is reaching in farther, spreading his fingers wide as
Karino’s come slides slick to splash against the wet tiles under them.
“Stop,” Kusakabe sobs, shaking against Kuze’s shoulder; he can’t watch the
other’s face, can’t stand even to be inside his own body as Kuze touches him
with the tenderness he doesn’t deserve, as the wet from his body stains Kuze’s
fingers dirty. “No, Kuze, don’t.”
“Ssh,” Kuze says, his mouth startlingly near to Kusakabe’s ear. Kusakabe can
feel the warmth of his exhale, the contentment in the way he sighs against his
skin. “I’ll make it better.” He slides his fingers free, lifts them up to catch
water from the shower; Kusakabe gasps against the damp of the other’s shoulder,
tries to stop the way his body is trembling against Kuze’s support. His throat
is raw, his eyes aching from too-many tears, and then Kuze’s touching him
again, sliding rinsed-clean fingers up into him and stretching him wider than
Kusakabe’s ever been before. It hurts, the lack of lubrication and the raw ache
from Karino’s thrusts enough to tense along Kusakabe’s spine and jolt him into
a whimper, but Kuze is still humming at him, cooing comfort against his ear
until Kusakabe relaxes, lets the pain ease into a dull throb instead of the
sharp edge of agony it was originally.
“Breathe, Atsumu,” Kuze says, easing the stretch of his fingers and drawing
them almost entirely out before he slides back in, as far as he can reach,
farther than Kusakabe remembers him going before. “Relax, just breathe, I’ve
got you.”
“Kuze,” Kusakabe gasps. The pain is receding, leaving just the heat of once-
familiar friction made strange by the memory of Karino’s harsher movements.
“Stop, it feels--”
“It feels good?” Kuze suggests, and Kusakabe wasn’t going to say that but he
can’t remember now what he was going to say, with Kuze’s fingers pressing into
him and sliding heat into his blood. He tenses anyway, tries to push off the
incoherence threatening his thoughts, and when he speaks the strain is audible
in his voice.
“It s-shouldn’t,” he manages, fingers curling against the back of Kuze’s neck,
back arching as if to push back the touch dipping inside him. “I don’t...I
don’t deserve it.”
“Atsumu,” Kuze breathes. “I want you to feel good.”
Kusakabe shakes his head without lifting it from Kuze’s shoulder; his glasses
catch against his nose, dig uncomfortably against his skin. “B-but I came,” he
insists, forcing the words out as Kuze’s fingers work over him, lingering deep
while the other boy presses his fingertips against his insides, grinds against
the spot that always makes Kusakabe’s vision go white. “With Karino, I d-didn’t
want to and I--”
“I know,” Kuze says, and there’s something in his voice, now, a hint of
darkness that shivers fear along Kusakabe’s spine. “But you want this.”
Kusakabe doesn’t answer right away -- he’s still fighting through the sensation
of his body and the desires of his mind -- and Kuze shoves hard against him
with enough force to tear a groan from his throat and jolt his cock to rigidity
against Kuze’s shirt. “You want this, Atsumu. Don’t you?”
“I do,” Kusakabe sobs, and some tension gives way in his shoulders, lets him
sag exhausted against Kuze like he’s received permission to touch him. “I want
to come with you.”
“I know,” Kuze says, the words soft again. When he draws back and thrusts in
again it’s slower, so gentle it almost doesn’t hurt at all. “Just with me,
right, Atsumu?”
“Just with you,” Kusakabe agrees, immediately, his words slurring to heat as
the fingers inside him stroke against him, curl in against the spot that tenses
in his thighs and surges in his cock. “Ah.”
“You don’t want me to share you,” Kuze purrs. Kusakabe can barely hear the
words for the splash of the water and the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.
“Tell me.”
“I d-don’t want you to share me,” Kusakabe repeats obediently. His eyes are
open but his glasses are too close, Kuze’s shoulder too near; all he can see is
wet white cloth and the faint suggestion of skin underneath.
“That’s right.” Kuze sighs, sounding satisfied like he sometimes does when he’s
inside Kusakabe; then he shifts his wrist, angles his fingers in deep, and when
he grinds his touch in Kusakabe’s vision flashes white, his body spasming in a
jolt of heat. The friction is electric, the pressure is unbearable, and Kuze
doesn’t pull away, just keeps touching as all Kusakabe’s body draws tense as
the friction becomes too much to bear.
“Kuze” Kusakabe intends to say, but what comes out is a broken sound like a sob
and a groan at once, dragging itself out of his throat like it has a life of
its own, and then Kuze hums and Kusakabe comes, jolting and shaking and moaning
his way through the white-out heat that swamps his mind as well as his body
with satisfaction. Kuze’s fingers work him through the heat, through the
boneless aftershocks, until by the time he finally slides his touch free
Kusakabe is trembling helplessly into his shoulder, every other breath sticking
weird and out-of-time in his chest. It feels better, like this, to have the
exhaustion of pleasure without any of the mental resistance of before, the
satisfaction so intense it feels like relief. Kusakabe breathes against the wet
of Kuze’s shoulder, his inhales stammering with each shiver of after-sensation
that ripples through him, and it’s not until Kuze is shifting to cross his legs
and open the front of his own slacks that Kusakabe thinks of the other horror
of the last scene, the fear so raw and deep it’s enough to shudder through even
his exhausted body.
He must make some sound, a whimper or a whine, or maybe it’s just that Kuze
feels him shake, with how close they’re pressed together. A hand comes out
against his spine, rubs comfort up the curve of his back, and when Kuze speaks
his voice is gentle. “What’s wrong, Atsumu.”
“He’s going to kill me,” Kusakabe says, weak and shaky and certain as Kuze’s
other hand urges his knee open, parts his legs and brings him in until he’s
straddling the other boy’s lap. Kuze’s hard, Kusakabe notes dimly as he tips
his weight up obediently when Kuze’s touch pushes him, but he’s thrumming with
fear and not arousal, the recollection of Azusa’s voice -- the sincerity in his
tone -- enough to utterly persuade him as to the other’s intentions. “Azusa’s
going to kill me.”
“No,” Kuze purrs, fitting his mouth to Kusakabe’s shoulder and letting his lips
linger into a kiss. “No, he won’t.”
“He said,” Kusakabe shudders, clinging to Kuze’s shoulders as a hand slides to
his hip, fingers tighten to urge him down. He moves without thinking, so
blindly compliant that the press of Kuze’s cock against him makes him startle
and gasp.
“No,” Kuze says again, drawling the vowel into comfort, his hold on Kusakabe’s
hip pulling him down, easing him onto the press and stretch of the other
sliding into him. “I’m going to protect you, Atsumu.”
Kusakabe can feel heat rising in his blood again, the fit of Kuze inside him
drawing pleasure irresistible even if he wanted to fight it. “Hh,” he chokes,
the last traces of tears in his throat breaks the sound to pieces. “You will?”
“Mm,” Kuze hums, sounding low and hot and pleased as Kusakabe’s weight settles
onto his lap. His knees are pressed against Kusakabe’s hips, their shape making
a curve to catch the other’s body. “I won’t let him kill you,” he says, turning
his head in to kiss against Kusakabe’s jawline and under his ear, catching
droplets of water from the shower at his lips. “I’m going to keep my little
rabbit safe this time.”
“Okay,” Kusakabe says, because Kuze sounds sure, Kuze sounds steady, and it’s
hard to think when Kuze tips his hips up like that, when the hold against
Kusakabe’s side is urging him up so he can slide back down onto Kuze’s cock in
a slick slide of heat. Kusakabe’s head dips forward, the weight of the support
falling to Kuze’s shoulder, and Kuze is humming at him, a soft spill of noise
too vague and gentle to require attention. It’s just soothing, reassurance
puddling warm in the air like the heat of the water washing along Kusakabe’s
spine, and when Kuze’s hand slides up against his back Kusakabe moves without
needing to be told.
“Atsumu,” Kuze says, lips dragging against Kusakabe’s ear. Kusakabe’s glasses
are fogging with the heat of the water, the frames knocked askew on his face;
when he breathes it feels like he’s underwater, like everything has to filter
to him through the haze of water and heat around him. “Atsumu, tell me what you
want.”
“I want,” Kusakabe repeats, reaching for meaning as much as obeying the
command. “K-Kuze, I want.”
“Mm,” Kuze says, rocks up so his cock presses deep into Kusakabe, overwrites
the feeling of Karino’s too-rough thrusts with gentle friction. “Atsumu?”
“I want to come,” Kusakabe says, and he does but it tastes like a lie on his
tongue, it feels wrong as it vibrates against the tension in his tipped throat.
“No, I want…”
“You don’t want to come?” Kuze asks, and Kusakabe thinks he might be moving
faster now but it’s hard to tell when everything is so slow and heavy and hot.
“I want...Kuze…” Closer, closer, like crawling towards a finish line of
coherency. “I want Kuze to come. Inside me.”
“I just got you clean,” Kuze points out against Kusakabe’s throat. His teeth
drag careful against the skin, down to the line of Kusakabe’s shoulder. “You
want to be dirty again?”
“No,” Kusakabe slurs, sincerity overflowing the bounds of coherency, each slide
of Kuze’s cock dragging sound from his throat. “Not...Kuze, you’re not...not
dirty.” He takes a breath, chokes on tension; everything is humming, his body
taut and aching and so hot it’s nearly painful. “Kuze, I want…”
“Yeah,” Kuze says. Kusakabe can feel teeth at his skin, can’t see anything but
the wet white of fabric in front of his steam-blurred eyes. “Good.” Kuze’s hips
rock up, Kusakabe’s body jerks involuntarily; he clutches at Kuze’s hair, gasps
air that feels half-liquid in his throat, and Kuze fucks into him again, a
motion so heavy with force that Kusakabe’s weight rocks up an inch without his
intention. Everything’s blurry, past and present and future bleeding into one,
and Kuze’s breathing harder as Kusakabe’s awareness starts to melt at the
corners, threatens another round of darkness to his mind. One more thrust,
Kuze’s fingers tightening at his hip and pressing against his spine; then:
“Atsumu,” sighed like a benediction, and Kusakabe can feel Kuze pulsing into
him, filling his body with heat greater even than the water splashing over his
shoulders. It feels like purification, like being claimed, and Kusakabe is
coming all at once, shaking and wailing and sobbing through jolts of sensation
so strong his vision fades out to black for a moment, leaves him blind and
breathless as his skin flushes impossibly warm with sensation. His balance is
gone, he can’t even tell which way is up, but Kuze’s arms are around him to
brace him in place, and with their support keeping him upright he can let the
trembling take him into a darkness more a comfort than an escape.
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