Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11464029.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, No_Archive
      Warnings_Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ジョジョの奇妙な冒険_|_JoJo_no_Kimyou_na_Bouken_|_JoJo's_Bizarre_Adventure
  Relationship:
      Kira_Yoshikage/Kishibe_Rohan, Higashikata_Josuke/Kishibe_Rohan,
      Higashikata_Josuke/Nijimura_Okuyasu
  Character:
      Kishibe_Rohan, Kira_Yoshikage_(JoJo:_Diamond_is_Unbreakable), Higashikata
      Josuke_(JoJo:_Diamond_is_Unbreakable), Nijimura_Okuyasu, Hirose_Koichi
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, no_stands,
      Character_Death, BDSM, Hand_&_Finger_Kink, Voyeurism, Breathplay, Vore,
      Bad_BDSM_Etiquette, Murder_Kink
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-10 Updated: 2018-03-09 Chapters: 8/? Words: 11157
****** Meridian ******
by meowstelle
Summary
     June 15, 1999. Kishibe Rohan announces that he will retire come
     August.
     This is a log of his last days.
Notes
     I have far too many little snippets of Kira and Rohan in my head, so
     I figure making 30+ blurbs of them would be fun and interesting.
     Not all the warnings tagged will not apply to each and every chapter.
     The tags that you see above that aren't reflected here are things I
     have planned for the future.
     This chapter CW: breath restriction.
***** June 15 - 18 *****
Chapter Summary
     June 15 - 18
Tuesday, June 15th
The press swarms around the patio of Rengatei, a cafe frequented by almost all
the townspeople of Morioh—Kishibe Rohan not excluded. Here, a grinning Rohan
sits, his cheesecake untouched and his tea only sipped once. The man
interviewing him stumbles on his words. “You mean to say that in August you
will be ending your career as a mangaka?”
Rohan laughs. His is a laugh that causes hairs to stand on end, so practiced
and yet so perfectly earnest. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“But you started your new series, Meridian,just two weeks ago! It’s already a
huge hit. Not to mention you’re only twenty years old! I’m sure we all agree
it’s far too early for you to retire.”
“Meridian will be my last project,” Rohan says. “When I began it, I had
intended it to be.” 
“What will you do after you retire, Kishibe-sensei?”
Rohan pauses. The cheesecake that had been kindly paid for by the news team
finally catches his attention. He cuts for himself a perfectly bite-sized
triangular piece but does not move to eat it, instead contemplating it as it
balanced on the tongs of his fork.
“Kishibe-sensei?”
“Hmm. Let’s just say,” Rohan finally speaks, “that this will not be the last
you see of me in the world of art.” When he puts the fork in his mouth, he
feels the sweet cake melt on his tongue, but mostly savors the dull taste of
iron.
===============================================================================
Wednesday, June 16th 
“That was quite the interview, Rohan.”
“Mm.”
“Everyone wants to know what the young genius Kishibe Rohan will do next.”
“...”
“Tell me, Rohan, what will you do next?”
He cannot speak. His own hand is shoved deep into his throat, muffling
coherency and heightening his helplessness. But nothing he wishes to say is
coherent—he feels Kira thrust deeper into him, hum and hiss happily into his
ear—
“Tell me, Rohan…?”
Rohan’s hand moves from his mouth. Gasping, he starts to say, “I’m going to—”
Whatever was there, the sheets dissolved it. Rohan feels his legs lose strength
as he cums, loudly moaning into a pillow, grabbing at whatever could possibly
stable his trembling.
“Is that it?" 
Rohan is flipped over, revealing his his messy front: his partially unbuttoned
shirt stained with sweat and seed, his mouth soaked with spit, and his eyes
teary, like a—
“Pathetic little boy. I’m not done yet.”
Angered, Rohan wipes his eyes with the back of his hand struggles to sit up.
Finding his arms still too weak, he remains prostrate and reaches for Kira,
motions for him to move closer, onto his face. Kira grins in satisfaction as he
filled Rohan’s mouth with his cock and played with his pretty little fingers,
soon to become prettier, soon to become all his.
===============================================================================
 
Thursday, June 16, 1999
The protagonist of Kishibe-sensei’s new series is a high school boy who can
enter the Meridian, an alternate reality open to a select few. This reality
takes the form of a market—one can buy ‘services’ by bartering off items such
as authentic Edo period antiques, drawings by a toddler, a business man’s tie,
or even human body parts. These services could guarantee a good grade on an
upcoming exam, make a person fall in love, or even topple regimes. The
protagonist navigates this world as a bystander, buyer, and eventually, a
seller.
“That’s too confusing,”  Okuyasu complains. “So you can give someone in this
market a mint or something and they’ll give me a free meal in return?”
“Nah—it’s probably like, you’ll give some weird looking woman the heart of a
rabbit and you’ll get the love of your life to marry you,” Josuke laughs,
taking the magazine from Koichi and flipping through it. “I didn’t peg you as a
manga reader, Koichi.”
Koichi admits, “I’m not really one, I just like Kishibe-sensei’s manga. It’s
weird that he’s retiring soon. With a complicated story like that I feel like
the series can go on for a really long time…”
Across the bookstore, Rohan’s fingers linger on a page of his book, an old
museum catalogue. This section describes a tall wax figure, quite literally a
lit candle man, that remained in exhibit until it burned to the ground. The
museum had sectioned off the area where it stood and prohibited anyone from
touching any fallen pieces of wax. The next page shows a photograph of the room
after the flame had finished its work. In it, there were still tourists and
students and connoisseurs, looking thoughtfully at the empty square cluttered
with hardened wax.
“This Rohan guy lives in Morioh, right? Why don’t you convince him to keep
drawing?” Josuke nudges Koichi encouragingly.
“Huh?” Koichi blinks. “Why me?”
“You’re a big fan, aren’t you? You said you have all his works.”
“I do, but…”
Rohan tucks the catalogue under his arm and walks to the three high schoolers
standing around the manga section. “Thank you for being fans of mine,” he says.
They jump in surprise and begin to spew formalities. Charming kids, Rohan
thinks both earnestly and spitefully. Koichi runs to pay for his magazine and
asks for Rohan’s signature. “I appreciate your words,” Rohan says as he swiftly
signs with a flourish, “However my decision has already been made. I hope you
enjoy the story.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Friday, June 18th
 
“I’m leaving from work early,” Kira had said on the phone that morning. By the
afternoon, however, Rohan had forgotten. He has not left for the Yoshikage
residence yet, and is instead, sitting behind his desk, already beginning
linework for the next installment of Meridian. Here, the protagonist is to meet
with someone from the world of Meridian in the real world—this new character
exists to establish routine, become a guide, perhaps a betrayer?
When he hears his front door slam open, he realizes his mistake.
“Drawing again?” Kira’s voice is not angry. He is drawling, amused. Sighing,
Rohan begins to put his supplies away. “Don’t tell me you forgot about me.”
Rohan glares at him. “When it comes to my manga, you’re not worth remembering.”
Laughing, Kira advances quickly and grabs Rohan’s wrist, fixating with a frown
on the small calluses on Rohan’s fingers. “You say that, but you’re shaking.
Are you afraid of me?”
It is Rohan’s turn to laugh. “You know I’m not afraid.” To prove it, he kisses
Kira and presses his body against his, moving Kira’s hands to his already hard
dick.
“Oh Rohan, I want you to be afraid.”
Helicopters in his head. Or is it the fan on the ceiling? Nevertheless Rohan
cannot breathe—Kira has him down on the desk, choking him as he kisses, licks,
and sucks every inch of him. Rohan claws at Kira’s hand, gasping, eyes rolling
backward as he feels Kira suck his cock methodically. Helicopters, or the hum
of a large vent? Now croaking and on the verge of passing, Rohan feels Kira
release him and slap him hard across his cheek.
As Rohan struggles to even his breathing, Kira holds his face roughly with one
hand, unzippering his own pants with the other. “You don’t get to breathe,
boy.” He spat into Rohan’s mouth before forcing his mouth around his cock, his
hands in his hair to keep him from stopping.
When he finally comes, Rohan splutters, unprepared and disoriented. “You shitty
whore. I wouldn’t pay money for you.” Kira drops Rohan to the ground, where he
remains, soaked and coughing, his shirt collar, like many others, stained.
“Hmm, are you crying?”
He is. Rohan looks up at Kira with hazy eyes.
Kira kneels beside him, running his hands across Rohan’s body as if he were
performing a medical procedure. Finally, he takes each of Rohan’s hands and
lovingly kisses every knuckle. “You’re too good for me, Rohan,” he murmurs,
just softly enough that Rohan isn’t sure if he is dreaming it.
As Kira prepares to leave Rohan in the middle of the floor, in the middle of
his own bodily fluids—Rohan asks him to stay.
He looks his watch. He looks at the window, at the sun that has barely begun to
set. He looks at Rohan, who looks away, shivering at intervals. “Tonight I will
stay. But only because you’ve been so good.”
They put a B movie on. Kira makes tea and cups Rohan’s hands as they hold his
mug. Rohan falls asleep on Kira’s chest. When he wakes up, he is alone, but
Kira had placed all the blankets he could find in the house on him.

***** June 19 - 21 *****
Chapter Summary
     June 19 - 21.
Chapter Notes
     This chapter was easy for me to write. I think that means awful
     things about me, but I've accepted my lot in life.
     Content warning for this chapter: vore, some drug use.
 
Saturday, June 19th
It is extremely hot out, but Rohan wears a turtleneck to hide the bruises
around his neck. That morning he woke up sweating profusely, buried in sheets
and blankets and even a towel. The rug on his studio floor was visibly stained
with cum and other bodily fluids. To Rohan, these are signs of love.
Today Rohan wanders Morioh, occasionally settling down on a bench to take in
and draw backgrounds. Admittedly, backgrounds are not his strong suite. He
prefers the quirks of facial expressions, the dynamic movement of the human
figure, and detailed studies of animals. In contrast, he finds plants tedious
and somewhat boring, so to compensate he buys encyclopedias of foliage and
often spends time in Morioh’s parks, looking at the trees and attempting to
find beauty in weeds.
But today is hot, and Rohan’s neck is yelling for air underneath his
turtleneck. He sits in the shade, partly frustrated with his listlessness, a
large fraction upset with the unbearable heat, but otherwise engaged in other
thoughts. It’s the weekend, and Kira is probably at home, the town radio
station playing softly in the background, cooking a hearty lunch. Rohan touches
his neck, contemplating visiting him. But Kira never would allow such a
thing—when Rohan did visit, Kira picked him up from a quiet street corner and
drove him to his villa.
“Why the hell do we have to go to school on Saturdays? The schools in S City
are off.” A teenage voice that held the undeniable gravel of a high school
delinquent complains nearby. Yes, Rohan recognizes the voice as one of the boys
from the bookstore the other day. Morioh is a rather large town—this crossing
of paths, he suddenly thinks, must be a sign of—what, fate?
Laughable.
“The city’s always more progressive or whatever,” the other boy, the one with
the perfectly (almost excessively so) styled pompadour, explains with an air of
indifference. Rohan stares at him, feeling an inexplicably pleasant irritation
at his presence. The boy takes notice and squints back at him. “Hey, Okuyasu,
is that that Rohan dude?”
Okuyasu looks and points rather rudely. “Oh! Yeah, you’re right. Hi, Rohan-
sensei!” He waves. Josuke slaps his hand down, visibly embarrassed. “Come on,
he’s famous!” Okuyasu insists, “We should go talk to him. Maybe he’ll treat us
to dinner.”
“No way. Plus he’s glaring at us,” the pompadour kid says cautiously.
Rohan stands up and picks up his bag, prepared to walk away. Still, his gaze is
locked on that boy.
In line with the high school punk persona, the boy challenges, “What? Do you
have a problem with me?!”
Laughing, Rohan leaves for his air conditioned house. Behind him, the two
delinquents start to bicker about whether or not they should beat him up.
Okuyasu yells, “Josuke, if you have a problem with him I’ll punch him for you!”
The boy, Josuke, says with hesitant restraint, “It’s not worth it, man. He’s
gonna sue you or something if you do.” Within the sound of anger, Rohan hears
something else. Perhaps it is bitterness? Somewhat confused, Rohan chalks it up
to his imagination.  
Back at his studio, Rohan attempts to finish his sketches of the nature in the
park, but winds up fleshing out children in a jungle gym, haphazardly
entangling their limbs in the iron bars and kicking up mulch inside the cage.
To the right, he draws a delinquent walking past, not looking at the playing
kids—just walking home from school, thoughts elsewhere, perhaps on a pretty
girl or a new video game coming out. Just something small. Nothing too special.
===============================================================================
 
Sunday, June 20th
The car ride from Rohan’s house to Kira’s takes twenty minutes and Rohan, who
never outgrew the hypnosis of the lulling comfort of a moving vehicle, fell
asleep. At stoplights Kira looks at him with a curious expression. It is not
one of love or lust, nor is it one of distaste. But there is a smile.
It is an established fact between the two that their relationship is intimate
in an exceedingly violent way. It is also tacitly agreed that they, somehow,
love each other. Neither can put it into words. Instead they resort to blooming
bruises, small cuts on tender skin, the shared taste of Rohan’s blood.
“We’re home.” Kira squeezes Rohan’s hand gently to wake him up.
We’re home?  It is his words, not the touch, that shocks Rohan to alertness.
“Since when do you say things like that?” he asks as they enter the villa.
Kira, as compulsively neat as always, places his shoes perfectly center in its
designated cubby hole. “Things like what?”
“You said ‘We’re home.’” With a grimace, he adds, “That’s disgustingly husband-
like of you.” As a sign of defiance, Rohan stands at the entrance, shoes still
on, as if he is loath to enter the home of a conventionally loving spouse.
“I like the sound of that,” Kira responds with a strangely blank expression.
“Disgustingly husband-like. Come now.” He kneels at Rohan’s feet, slowly takes
off his shoes and socks, stowing them away as neatly as his own, and finally,
kisses his knuckles. This is not an unfamiliar gesture to Rohan—Kira often
swings from rough degradation to loving adoration.
Relenting, Rohan steps inside and teasingly says, “I’m home.”
Before anything, Kira tends to Rohan’s hands. They sit opposite each other,
silent. Rohan watches him examine every bone, frown in displeasure at his
calluses, and dote on their softness and the cleanliness of his nails. Lips
twitching, Kira soaks them and rubs lotion into his skin. Throughout, his
movements become increasingly agitated.
After Kira was done with his left hand and began working on his right, Rohan
touches his lips with his newly cleaned hand. “Why do you like hands so much?”
he asks, tentatively pushing his fingers between Kira’s lips, preventing him
from answering. Kira presses Rohan’s right hand to his cheek and sucks slowly
on his left. Rohan looks at him, lips parted, breathing unevenly.
Admittedly, Rohan finds Kira more frightening when tender. And, admittedly, he
likes it all the more.
On his back, eyes closed, Rohan feels Kira kissing and rubbing his face against
his hands, pressing his hardened dick against his leg slowly. “They’re mine,”
he says in a tinny voice, one that occasionally sounds like desperate whimpers.
“They’re mine, they’re mine.” His hips move faster. Rohan does not move, does
not react—he is corpse-like underneath this strange lover, but his skin is on
fire. Just the wetness of his fingers and the friction of Kira’s movements send
pleasure down his body.
He gasps when Kira bites his forearm,  hard,  gasps and cries. A squirt of
blood. Kira, who typically hates dry humping due to the stains they leave on
his clothes, cums anyway, moaning into his mouthful. Still shaking from the
aftermath, he kisses Rohan, who tastes flesh— raw, wet, warm,  revolting— pass
into his mouth.
“That was a big one,” Rohan laughs weakly, the blood on his lips like remnants
of lipstick. Kira looks at him, his wild eyes finding calm, his own face and
cheeks a mess of liquid. “That hurt a lot.” Any movement near Rohan’s forearm,
now missing a small chunk of flesh, shoots pain up and down his arm. The floor,
Rohan’s clothes, Kira’s clothes—all stained with red.
In a similar fashion as the ‘manicure’ procedure, Kira again tends to Rohan’s
wounds. Immobilized from pain, Rohan stays on the floor with his arm slightly
elevated, hissing as Kira washes and disinfects the bite. “Do you think I need
sutures?” he asks with a smile after Kira wraps his arm neatly with gauze.
“It’s not that bad.” He sounds almost apologetic.
He makes up for it later in the night with a very rare blowjob and his fingers
in Rohan’s ass, pressing very precisely against his prostate to induce a
shuddering orgasm made all the more stronger by the weakness in Rohan’s body.
After days like this, they sleep beside each other. In deep sleep, Kira hugs
Rohan with the strength of rigor mortis, as if he is afraid that he would be
alone.
===============================================================================
 
Monday, June 21st
Rohan plans to finish most of his next chapter today. He is quietly grateful
that Kira was considerate enough to bite into his left arm. As he changes his
bandages for the second time today, he curses loudly at the stinging pain and
resorts to the painkillers Kira gave him for moments such as this.  Why do I
put up with this?
—-unbearably clear images of a young Kira, growling like a feral animal over
slices of Reimi’s body—
Yes. That’s why.


***** June 22 - June 24 *****
Chapter Summary
     June 22 - June 24
Chapter Notes
     I have too much fun writing this and I want to punch myself for it.
     Content warnings for this chapter: vore, whipping, mentions of public
     humiliation / exhibitionism and drug use.
Tuesday, June 22nd
“That looks really bad.”
The voice is Josuke’s, and the finger is pointing at Rohan’s bandaged forearm.
Rohan had walked to the pharmacy to restock on some ‘personal essentials.’ He
did not appreciate this encounter, how his arm stung all the more because of
it, how concerned Josuke’s face was, how he felt like a deer in the headlights,
or more like someone was looking over his shoulder as he sketched.
“How did it happen?”
“No,” Rohan responds curtly.
“Damn. Well. I hope everything’s okay.” Josuke’s frown shows that he knows he
is not welcome. With a casual nod of the head as a farewell, he disappears into
another aisle, presumably looking for something. Rohan eyes him carefully, but
decides not to pursue his irritating curiosity, returning his attention instead
to the different packets of gauze.
However he cannot help but notice how Josuke’s back hunched, how he held his
head lower than usual as he walks to the cashier, a smirking middle aged man.
Rohan shakes his head and smiles, his heart swelling with protective pride and
spiteful laughter.
As he makes his way back home, he wonders who will have the pleasure of
Josuke’s presence tonight.
===============================================================================
Wednesday, June 23rd
In the past, Kira was never one to spend time with his co-workers. His
cautiousness would not allow for it. But after meeting Rohan, he stopped
seeking out new prey.
Kira may already own him, but it doesn’t stop him from playing with his food.
Rohan is reminded of this during his book signing event. As he answers yet
another interviewer’s questions on his career, his series, his personal life,
he notices Kira’s striking blonde hair and distinctly colored suit in the
crowd. Beside him is a pretty young woman in an office suit.
“Kishibe-sensei?”
“What? Yes—sorry, can you repeat the question?” Flushing, Rohan clears his
throat and attempts to focus fully on the interview, to project his usual
haughtiness. The audience laughs good-heartedly at his being flustered. What?
Why?
The interviewer repeats, “Your good looks and your talents have swept the
country lately—I asked, and I’m sure we all want to know—do you have a special
somebody in your life?”
The media never stops asking him this damnable question. Rohan knows he is
attractive (and likes to flaunt it), but dislikes that people would rather ask
him about his personal life than his work. In previous instances, he used a go-
to response to charmingly deflect the question, one that strongly implied, much
to young girls around the country’s joy, that he was single and ready to
mingle. But today, Kira is here. The audience senses his unusual hesitation and
leans in, keen to hear the answer.
Rohan runs through his options. Should he give his usual answer, he’d get hell
from his possessive partner later. Despite his bizarre enjoyment for Kira’s
rough treatment, he did not look forward to how this particular, very public
instance may pan out. Criticizing the interviewer for asking the question is
also an option, but to Rohan it’s a cop-out, and in no circumstance does he
want to half-ass anything. But if he were to say such a person exists, it may
cast suspicion on his actions—people will follow him in Morioh, curious to find
out who Kishibe Rohan is dating.
Of course there’s the ridiculous option of singling out Kira—maybe in response
Kira would publicly humiliate him, give the cameras what they want: the
beautiful mangaka bound up in a bookstore, a crowd of people watching and
cheering on as Kira slams himself inside of him, calling him a whore, a
worthless, shitty slut—
Finally: “If I said there was someone, everyone would want to know who they
are.” Rohan crosses his legs, leaning his head back with his usual arrogance.
“Yes, of course!”
He looks at Kira, his eyelids drooping and his gaze glazed enough to seem as
though he is looking meaningfully into the distance. “Well...I’m very much in
love with someone, but it is impossible for us to be together. You can call it
a forbidden love. It would be trouble if I told you who they are.” His
following laugh is bewitching, mysterious, and the audience eats it up.
For the next hour, Rohan signs magazines, prints, and books, smiling and
gracefully dodging questions regarding his retirement. Near the end of the
event, Kira’s co-worker approaches the table, her eyes lit up with admiration.
As he signs her copy of the manga, she gushes, “I love your work, Kishibe-
sensei!”
“Thank you,” Rohan says, finishing his signature with a flourish. Then, he
looks at Kira, who seems to have come under the guise of accompanying this
woman. “Did you want something signed too?” he asks, his tone instinctively
edging on bratty.
Kira looks at him, his lips slightly parted, betraying himself. “Why not?” he
says, taking a complementary print.
“I’d never expect you to get one!” His co-worker comments, giggling. She is
clearly smitten by him.
Rohan rests his chin on his hand, lazily holding his pen in the other,
shamelessly flirtatious. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Kira Yoshikage. Yoshikage written with luck and shadow.”
“Thank you for coming. Even if your girlfriend dragged you.” Smirking, he hands
Kira the print.
The co-worker blushes, starts spluttering things along the line of—we’re not
dating, I-I mean—and Kira’s jaw locks. He purses his lips, saying nothing, but
bowing slightly before they leave.
After the signing, Rohan leans back in his chair, making small talk with the
bookstore staff as they cleaned up the room. His skin tingles with anxious
excitement, feeling as if ice cubes were sliding across his skin. Kira was
pleased with Rohan’s answer during the interview, but Rohan couldn’t help but
behave badly later.
Tonight, a very unhappy Kira will tie up and gag him, whip him until his back
becomes raw, stick his fingers into his wounds and fuck him while he cries.
===============================================================================
Thursday, June 24th
Understandably, Rohan spends today on his stomach, in bed, slightly woozy from
opiate. He still feels Kira’s lips brush against his ear, hears his voice
saying “You’re going to regret you ever met me.” With the pain he felt at the
time, he almost agreed with him. But no, no, he truly could not regret Kira, or
even try to forget him.
His first memory is of Kira, after all. Kira, his mouth bloody, pressing his
face against the window, grinning eerily at a four year old Rohan. Rohan
touched his palm against the glass, now slightly smeared with blood. Kira said
something, but he cannot hear nor guess the words.
His second memory is of Reimi, or what was left of her—a bruised torso and a
face with ruined cheeks. Rohan does not remember if he was afraid, but he knows
he held her, not crying, not quite in denial or in shock.
His third memory is of blood caked between his teeth, police sirens, the harsh
white insides of an ambulance, and adults, murmuring, murmuring, hands shaking,
hands keeping him at a distance.
***** June 25 - 27 *****
Chapter Summary
     June 25 - 27
Chapter Notes
     Hello hello, I've returned with three more days to this log. I
     changed it up bit by looking into Kira's perspective a little more. I
     don't plan on doing it often, but--let me know what you think of it!
     Chapter warnings: vore (...again)
Friday, June 25th
His back, his forearm—these injuries begin to scab or at least feel as if they
are scabbing. Rohan promised Kira he would exercise more regularly (“Your
legs,” he said, “are too thin”), and has, until now, forgotten about it. He had
also promised Kira that he would not go to the gym (“I don’t want you in these
sweaty brutes’ presence,” he rationalized a little too sweetly), and agreed
with him, intensely disliking the idea of anyone witnessing him performing any
strenuous physical activity. So, Rohan lifts weights at home and runs, late at
night in a large dark hoodie.
On this particular night, Rohan is rudely accosted by an exceptionally large
dog who, after enthusiastically barking, pounces on Rohan, leaving him
sprawled, defenseless, on the sidewalk. Its poor owner wails in embarrassment:
“Police! What are you  doing !? I-I’m so sorry, sir—”
“It’s fine,” Rohan responds, though he feels a particularly heavy lash wound on
his back re-open. This sharp pain prevents him from covering his face or
turning away in time.
“Oh! You’re Kishibe-sensei! No,  back , Police!” The dog, Police, stops mid-
lunge as this fairly familiar, unbelievably small boy digs his heel into the
ground to prevent any further misbehavior.
Now belatedly realizing that he has been exposed, Rohan hastily pulls his hood
over his face. “I should be going.”  Humiliating,  he thinks, as he feels sweat
run down his back and wounds, remembers that his hair is less than perfectly
styled, and that he looks gaudy in black.
Nervously, this boy continues, “My name is Hirose Koichi. We met at a bookstore
a while back? I’m just surprised to see you here—” Now noticing that he is
overstepping his bounds, Koichi stammers, “I’m sorry again sensei! Good night!”
He bows into a stiff ninety degrees only to be tugged once more into less than
healthy spinal positions by Police.
“Night,” Rohan says under a low voice before continuing his jog—now a panicked
rush—across his usual route back to his house, where he could take off his
shirt, smell the blood on its back, and furiously scrub the redness down the
sink.
As the water ran, its pressure high, Rohan hears  disgusting, disgusting,
disgusting  echo back and forth between the tiles, the disembodied voice a
tinny morph of his own smug drawl and Kira’s loving growl.
===============================================================================
Saturday, June 26th
Rohan is irritable and Kira knows it—though he may enjoy whipping him into a
weeping submissive, this type of irritable is very familiar. It is not
something that can be dismissed so easily. So thinks the two as they pull into
Kira’s driveway and silently sit across each other, Kira clipping methodically
at Rohan’s nails.
“This one is broken. It’s made a cut on your finger.”
“Oh. I didn’t notice.”
Kira’s lips twitch. It is Rohan’s job to notice, to care, even as his fingers
soak up ink and his knuckles become callused. Instead of pursuing the question,
he continues, and quietly asks, “How is your arm?”
“Not as bad as my back.”
“You deserved the punishment.” Though Kira’s voice is firm, his hands are
tenderly rubbing lotion into Rohan’s skin. He traces up his arms, his touch
soft near Rohan’s arm wound. As gentle as he is, Rohan recoils when his bite
wound is touched, bristling like a cat who forgot about his own shadow.
Instinctively, he holds his wounded arm to his chest and the other arm out, as
if to protect himself.
Kira hates seeing Rohan flinch. He hates seeing Rohan afraid. He hates when
Rohan’s hesitation bubbles to the surface, fogging his view, making him wish
for other things—
With a sigh, he reaches his hand out, palm upward, fingers relaxed, welcoming.
“Come here.” Signs of distrust flash across Rohan’s face: a furrowed brow, an
unsettled jaw, legs prepared to run. Kira knows he must bait Rohan like one
would a hurt animal, must charm him like one would a teenager who only knew
shame and suspicion. He says, “We promised.”
His hand moves closer, bypassing Rohan’s frozen defensive stance. But before
Kira’s fingers even grazes his cheek, Rohan breaks.
He breaks. He breaks apart Kira’s white button up, his fingers humming over his
muscles, finding the juiciest, most red, red apple to fill his mouth, to
overflow and dribble down his chin, to stain the collar of his shirt and his
entire face.
As Rohan shudders against his body, Kira stares at the ceiling. He is thinking,
both irritably and happily, of doing the laundry yet again.
===============================================================================
Sunday, June 27th
Jokingly, Rohan calls himself a surgeon. He knows the human anatomy with
needle-like preciseness and has become quite the expert at suturing. As Kira
sleeps, Rohan examines his night’s work—both the injury and the treatment—with
a sense of pride he can only describe to himself as eerily fitting.
In the years during Kira and Rohan’s strange affair, Rohan will only have five
of these outbursts. Yesterday’s was the fourth.
Upon waking up, Kira shifts under Rohan’s weight. “Rohan, please don’t touch
it.” Despite being only half awake, he is coherent, demanding. With a hint of a
mischievous smile, Rohan obeys and moves to slip out of the bed, but is stopped
by a forceful pull. “You owe me, boy,” Kira says firmly, his hand tightening
around Rohan’s wrist. Without breaking eye contact, he moves Rohan’s hand to
his erection, now fully excited by the half amused, half hesitant look in his
partner’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you think you got what you wanted last night and
you can just bolt out the door. Take care of it.”
So Kira enjoys himself, feeling weak but pleasant, looking and touching Rohan’s
hands as his cock is wonderfully enveloped in Rohan’s soaked lips. Whenever
Rohan tries to come up for air, Kira shoves his head back down —“You don’t have
my permission!” —indulging himself with the anticipation of cutting his pretty,
disgusting little mangaka’s throat and fucking his mouth anyway, warming
himself in the gush of blood and slobbering desperation.
And when Rohan rides Kira, careful to avoid irritating the wound on left
abdomen, he cups Kira’s face with his hands, watching his intense eyes glaze
over until his own could only close. As he rolls his hips, he thinks briefly of
how to rationalize this, to explain the gauze and the stitches and the blissful
taste of iron—he thinks only briefly before his sense of reason is overcome
with Kira’s dick finding its perfect spot in his ass.
There is no reason. After Rohan cums, Kira slaps him across the face and spits
on his shocked body before pouncing on him, prioritizing his desperate need for
tightness around his cock over the pain in his stomach. Rohan, simultaneously
tense and limp, moans helplessly into the pillows. The very idea of
helplessness rocks Kira to his own climax.
 
===============================================================================
 
***** June 28 - 30 *****
Chapter Summary
     June 28 - 30
Chapter Notes
     It's been a while! I've been slacking when it comes to writing things
     for myself, but I hope that that will change. This chapter doesn't
     have any sexy-times, unfortunately. But of course, there will be more
     in the future.
Monday, June 28th
Very rarely does Rohan experience conflicting feelings towards work. But after
this afternoon’s conversation with his editor, he feels just that—unsure,
maybe? Too many things? Too little? Whatever it is, it is unknown, imprecise,
and all he wants to do is stab it with his nib pen, mark the previously
undiscovered emotion like an icon on a map that ought to be complete.
“Meridian is receiving rave reviews,” his editor had said, “The last chapter,
especially. Well—you know I debated with the magazine about keeping that sort
of content in—it hasn’t been your style at all in the past, so I was quite
surprised to receive those pages—but you’re a genius, Rohan, and it worked out.
You really shouldn’t retire! What am I going to do without you?”
Rohan has no special feelings for his editor besides appreciation for his
never-ending barrage of compliments and his quick turnaround and response time.
On some days the flattering comments concerning his retirement does give him
reason to pause, think, and ultimately reassert his decisions. Today, however,
it is not either of those things. So he leafs through the pages of his
previously submitted chapters, chewing on the side of his cheek (a sign of
anxiety that not even Kira knows about), trying to pinpoint what, exactly, is
bothering him.
Well. He cannot lie to himself for long, cannot avoid the obvious. Rohan
finally turns to the two-pager he knows to be the most pivotal moment of his
short series thus far. The content: the protagonist meeting someone he trusts,
bent over, peeling the skin methodically off a corpse. The protagonist,
shocked, asks what his friend is doing. The friend lays down the neatly cut
strips of flesh as he answers in irrelevant quotes from Silence of the Lambs.
The perfect irony of nonsensical babbling to steady work.
“Who is that? Who did you do that to!?”
There is no answer. The protagonist sidles around the room, avoiding the rows
of little rectangles of skin. Finally, he sees that the corpse wears his own
face.
Rohan will never admit it out loud, but elements of this scene has played over
and over again in his sleep. He is too numb to it to call it a nightmare and he
is loath to stick a stuffy label such as “prophecy” on it. But now it is out
there, drawn, for the world to see.
Two years ago, when he was only three days into a trip to Paris, he stopped
having that dream. And, as his obsessive gnawing at last ruptures the tissue of
the inside of his cheek, he remembers why.
===============================================================================
Tuesday, June 29th
Aside from Kira’s occasional unannounced visits and his editor’s very sparse
check-ins, Rohan has never had company at his Morioh house. This is due in part
to his preference for privacy and quiet, but is mostly because Rohan is awful
at making friends. When a student, his teachers called his snobbish superiority
complex and penchant for unnecessary teasing a “defense mechanism to hide his
low self-esteem.” To this day, Rohan despises that logic and prefers to think
that most people are not worth his presence.
(“With that same mouth you ask me to call you a worthless piece of shit,” Kira
once pointed out.
“That’s completely irrelevant,” Rohan responded, scowling.)
These thoughts and others run through Rohan’s mind as he stares at his tea
kettle and listens to the banter of the three high school boys who invited
themselves into his house under the pretense of “apologizing for Police’s bad
behavior on that walk.” The owner of the dog—the short one named Koichi—has a
kind, heroic face and personality that Rohan immediately finds himself growing
fond of. But the other two...
Them, the delinquents, that pompadour-head Josuke and his right hand, Okuyasu.
“Hey, are you sure it’s okay that we came in, too?” Rohan overhears Josuke ask
Koichi.
“You said you wanted to ask him an important question!”
Stammering, Josuke starts, “Yeah, but, this is awkward...”
“You wanted to ask me something?” Rohan walks to the patio, wearing a knowing
smile. The three teenagers jump in their seats, visibly intimidated. “Well?”
Okuyasu violently nudges Josuke, the apparent leader of the group, who then
pipes up, “It’s about your injuries. I saw you with a bad wound in your arm at
the pharmacy, and Koichi here said he saw blood on your clothes when you guys
bumped into each other the other night.”
Panicked, Koichi jumps in, “Th-that wasn’t Police’s doing, was it? If it is,
then I apologize—”
“No. The dog didn’t hurt me.” Rohan distributes the teacups and places the
kettle on the table, but does not move to sit. Instead he chooses to tower
above them, glare at them, show them that these questions are not welcome.
“Hey, we’re trying to say that we’re worried about you,” Josuke blurts out,
evidently unamused by their host’s attitude. “Is someone hurting you? I want to
know.” He stands up, stands taller than Rohan, his earnest anger clashing
against passive aggressive dismissiveness.
Some of his pride must be swallowed to walk this minefield, Rohan reminds
himself. “I got into a car accident at S city,” he lies, lowering his voice to
project a sense of honesty, “It was bad, but I didn’t want the publicity, so I
paid off the person who hit me and tended to my own wounds myself. Since I’m
retiring soon, I want to spend my time drawing manga, not sitting in a
hospital.”
“That’s a relief! We thought it was something really bad,” Koichi sighs.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Like you were getting beat up for money! Or something,” Okuyasu joins in, his
uncertainty speaking for all three of them.
Josuke stares Rohan down, scanning him with his intensely blue eyes. His lips
contort ever so slightly before he relents and sits down, mumbling some half
apology along the lines of “You should have just said so in the first place.”
After tea, as the boys prepare to leave, Rohan offers, “You can come back.
Anytime you want. Many of my characters are your age, after all. I need write
their personalities accurately.”
Koichi agrees, Josuke pauses and gives his cautious consent, and Okuyasu
declares that he can tag along for a while. As they shuffle out the door,
Josuke shoots Rohan a look—one of mixed concern and distrust, yet
overwhelmingly gentle. “We’ll be back soon, then.”
===============================================================================
Wednesday, June 30th
“Clear your schedule for this weekend.”
“...What?” The phone had roused Rohan from his sleep—as it is still morning,
the only caller can be Kira, right before he leaves for work.
“From Friday to Tuesday. I’m taking you to Tokyo.”
“...Excuse me?”
Kira pauses. Perhaps he is embarrassed? “Don’t be cheeky. Just do as I say.” He
hangs up.

There’s a happy type of irritation that occasionally occurs when a lover does
something inconvenient. When Rohan chooses to brew himself a cup of coffee and
work on Meridian, he acknowledges this feeling, mentally puts it into a box now
overflowing of reasons why his skin prickles at the thought of August, at the
thought Kira lovingly pushing him across that border line, at the thought of
being bled out like an animal bred for consumption.
***** July 1 - July 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     July 1 - July 3
Chapter Notes
     I'm hoping to get this project rolling on a more consistent pace!
     Also I like vore.
     Content warnings for this chapter: vore (no surprise) and drug use.
Thursday, July 1st
1997, Paris
Arm pulling her up by the breast. Rohan had seen this embrace in pictures
before. The half awake Psyche and how Cupid cradled her, the roundness of their
white asses, the curves of skin as they moved to curl around each other. Now,
seeing it person, he expected to obsess over the marvelously precise textures
of three-dimensional art, to be unable to resist running his fingers against
the cool marble. Instead, he was stunned by the drapery, sheets, clinging to
Psyche’s leg.
Just a few months ago, he saw sheets like this. That time, there was another
boy, cursing at him, running to the bathroom. His shoulder was bleeding—not
horribly, but just enough to cause a scare. He returned after inspecting the
deep bite in the mirror and glared at Rohan.
“You got off on this? What the fuck. You’re fucked up.”
Disgusted, he rushed out of the dorm room, his shirt over his arm, pants still
unzippered. Rohan was too tired—too out of breath, too ecstatic to care. He
should probably blot his cum off his sheets before they stain. He should
probably wipe his bloody mouth. But he stayed there, the rest of the day, naked
and full in those sheets.
Now, at the Louvre, Rohan’s vision seemed to be swaying. He came here to assess
the art and architecture, take what he could and incorporate it into his
budding manga recently signed to a publisher. But even as he passed masterpiece
after masterpiece  he couldn’t stop thinking about the white, marble, soft-hard
sheets.Even the disappointingly small Mona Lisa did not stir him from this
dream-like state.
But a man did. He was dressed in a summery-thin purple button-down, and his
slicked back golden hair revealed a haughtily handsome face, one that, in the
presence of the Mona Lisa (and the thick glass that kept them apart), looked
absolutely astounded.
Rohan immediately recognized him. This man was the unforgettable one. The one
who looked at him through the window. The one who tore Reimi apart with his
teeth.
He couldn’t restrain himself. He grabbed his arm to make sure that this figure
was real—and to make sure he would not leave his sight.
The man did not yell or retaliate. He did, however, turn and look at him with
undisguised annoyance, disgust (“Who was this kid who dared to touch me?”Years
later in Morioh, Kira recounted the memory as he nuzzled, kissed, nibbled at
Rohan’s neck). There was a long pause before Rohan released him, hastily, as if
electricity shot through him.
“What do you want?” said the man, clearly loathe to take his eyes off the Mona
Lisa.
Rohan set his jaw. He did not like to be talked down to like that. “What do you
see in that overrated painting?” he challenged, venturing, grasping, needing
his attention.
“Nothing I can explain to you, boy.”
Pressing, insisting, behaving very much like a child who cried to get his needs
met, Rohan stepped between the man and the painting, between the monster of a
human being and the woman with a so-called enigmatic smile and the delicately
folded hands. “I can do better.”
“What, are you some full-of-it aspiring painter?”
Rohan’s voice dipped in what he thought to be seductive (“It was naive, so
naive,”Kira crooned as he pushed his cock deep into him). “I can treat you
better,” he said.
Maybe Kira just saw him as someone who could keep him company during his trip
to the city of romance. Maybe he only wanted to entertain this young boy’s
fancy. Maybe he sought to kill him, like he invariably did with all the people
he bedded.
Either way, they were both bored of the Louvre. They left together, sat next to
each other on the metro, thighs pressing against one another.
===============================================================================
Friday, July 2nd
A bag with spare clothes, a sketchpad and pens (cannot leave without those), a
toothbrush and toothpaste, gauze, bandages, pills. Other miscellaneous
necessities for a weekend trip. Rohan shoulders the messenger bag and closes
the door behind him, pushing against it to make sure it locked. The next train
to Tokyo leaves in thirty minutes—so he can take his time walking to the
station.
“Rohan-sensei!”
Immediately waylaid?Must be a fan, Rohan thinks, exasperated. He lowers his
head and walks away, fast. Usually fans are gracious enough to not follow manga
artists across town (they weren’t idols, after all) but this person turns out
to be insistent. And, as the unknown person runs quickly enough to block his
path, Rohan recognizes why.
“You’re going to tell me the truth,” Josuke says, heaving slightly from his
sprint. It takes a split second for him to register that Rohan is not wearing
his usual band wrapped around his forehead. This way, his hair looks slightly
messy: stray strands sweep in front of his eyes and his face appears much less
angular. His entire being, it seems, becomes more boyish. Josuke and Rohan both
blush at this development. Rohan, because he never likes to go out without his
headband, because he really only takes it off when he going out in public with
Kira; and Josuke—because, “Well, he looked kind of cute?”
After a moment of pointedly looking away, Rohan steels himself and walks past
him. “I’m in a rush,” he said sternly. “I don’t have time for your teenage
antics.”
“No,” Josuke yells, too loudly. “You’re going to tell me why you keep getting
hurt. That shit definitely wasn’t caused by an accident. And then there was
that time I saw your arm.”
“What do you care?”
Josuke followed him, determined to keep up. “I dunno. Because I know a liar
when I see one. It’s natural to get worried about someone who is that banged
up.”
“You’ll gain nothing from this.” Rohan stops. Fabricating more lies will be too
troublesome. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop pestering me.”
Determined, Josuke says, “You know, I’m an idiot who always does exactly the
opposite of what he’s told. So you’re gonna talk, even if I have to make you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Josuke doesn’t follow him after this. Instead he stupidly grins at him, hyped
by the challenge. “I’ll get you to talk. You’ll see.” Rohan laughs, waves his
hand in farewell. For a moment, he is reminded of himself, barring Kira from
viewing his obsession and insisting he look at him and only at him.
The image is troubling, and, as he does with many troubling things, he ignores
it.
===============================================================================
Saturday, July 3rd
Smoke and dim blue lights. A still-full shot glass at his lips, Kira watches
Rohan from the bar who is now somewhere in the mass of male bodies in the thick
of the club. When Rohan tumbles out, sweating through his thin white shirt and
laughing at some other man asking him to come back, Kira puts a glass to his
lover’s lips and tips the whiskey in. In a low voice: “What are you doing, you
whore?”
“You’re condoning me.” Rohan rests his warm head on Kira’s shoulder. He is
still laughing, at what, Kira doesn’t know—must be the E he told Rohan to take
before going out—
Rohan knows Kira’s plan. He bathes him in alcohol, slips drugs into his drinks,
watches from afar as other men grind their dicks against Rohan’s tight ass and
Rohan (such a sluttydrunk) plays back, kissing and touching and then returning
to Kira like a misbehaving student on a field trip running back to his
chaperone. And Kira shoves him back in again, into the spinning, bumping
center. With sober, but ferocious eagle eyes, he follows his prey.
Because by the end of the night Kira will be furious, too furious to wait to
get to a hotel, too furious and horny to care about the propriety he obsesses
over back in Morioh. It is a fucked up way to let loose, but Rohan didn’t
mind—he knows he isn’t one to talk, and goddamn it it feels so good. His cheek
scratches against the brick that Kira pushed him up against. He whimpers
pathetically as Kira crushes him against the wall in a seedy alleyway, holds
Rohan’s impossibly hard dick in one hand and his wrists in the other and shoves
himself deep and fast inside of him.
“Fuck—me—harder—”
“You’re so pathetic, disgusting—”
“I just want—”
Kira’s teeth close in on his shoulder, but even before he can draw blood, Rohan
shudders, climaxes, and says something along the lines of “I love you.”
***** July 4th - July 6th *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter warnings: vore vore vore
Sunday, July 4th
Buying some wine.
The note is written on a napkin in red pen. Suddenly Rohan wants to laugh at
the absurdity of it all. He just woke up around noon, his lover left him a note
that might as well had a lipstick-red kiss branded on it, a note written
because room service is never an option for the two, not when Rohan’s body is
red from rough love and blades wrapped in black cloth line the couch. He slowly
places the napkin back on the bedside table and curls up in the (slightly
stained from various things) blankets again. Sleep sounds lovely, and his head
is still pounding from a hangover…
It is an hour and a half later and, much to Rohan’s chagrin, he is getting
worried. There is no way Kira, sensible as he is, can get lost or distracted
during a small task. He stumbles out of bed, takes a very quick shower, and
pulls on a light button down and jeans. Where and how can he find Kira?
It’s silly, but Rohan entertains the idea that because they are so much inside
each other, he can sense his lover’s presence. There’s a tickle underneath his
skin; the hairs on his arms seem to whoosh as if they are trees in a storm; his
throat becomes dry and of course he feels so so very hungry. Is it a sense of
smell? Is it that thing called telepathy that comes from love?
Today is one of those days he must force himself to think that he does not,
most certainly does not love Kira.
Naturally, there are consequences for these thoughts. Kira hangs over Rohan
like a velvety curtain hangs over a four poster bed, watching him, catching his
dreams and twisting them in his soft, despicable hands. And thus when Rohan
strays—
—There he is. He is standing at the cash register in a near-empty liquor store.
On the counter stands a bottle of pinot noir. His hands curl around the
clerk’s, slowly now, as her thin fingers drop change into his palm. Kira is
smiling at her, slyly. She, too, is smiling—how could she not? The moment is
quick but Rohan sees it in slow motion, dizzily rewinds and replays it multiple
times. And each time he assures himself, no, it doesn’t matter, no, I do not,
no, he does not, no.
The train ride back to Morioh is lonely. Though he hasn’t eaten, Rohan’s has no
appetite.
Monday, July 5th
“You’re shaking. Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not. No.”
Josuke frowns but does not push the issue. He holds his bag under his arm and
his lips pucker as he begins to whistle some off-tune Disney song from a movie
that just made it overseas. It’s his way of being nonchalant. It also makes him
look suspicious, as if he just pickpocketed a wallet and is walking away before
he counts the goods. As they walk, Rohan realizes that he can’t take his eyes
off of him. What is it? His eyes are too bright. The amount of work he puts
into his stupid-looking hair makes it even more stupid. He slouches when he
walks, probably because he wants to project the image of a dumb thug.
He’s not a dumb thug, though. Rohan sees that he is kind. And because he is
kind, Rohan sought him out today.
“This is my place. I dunno why you wanted to see it so bad though. It’s
normal,” Josuke says, gesturing towards the modestly sized white house. “Ah
shit, I have to mow the lawn again, don’t I?” Josuke mumbles, kneeling down and
squinting vengefully at the growing grass. He notices Rohan staring,
straightens himself, and offers, “You can come inside. My mom doesn’t read
manga but she totally knows you. It doesn’t look like she’s home right now,
though…”
Inside, Rohan sits on a kitchen chair and absentmindedly sketches (that is,
after all, what he said he’s going to do here), not focusing on details or
perfecting perspectives, just drawing as he thinks, watches Josuke boil water,
hears him turn on the radio only to scowl and turn it off again, feels him as
he walks behind him to pour him a cup of tea. Rohan turns his head as Josuke
pours the tea, bringing their faces close together.
“I have to be honest with you, Higashikata Josuke.”
“H-huh?” Josuke flinches, but doesn’t move away. His eyebrows furrow.
“I don’t like you at all.”
Rohan eagerly closes the distance, his starving lips pressing, hard, against
Josuke’s. He feels the boy’s body stiffen, his jaw set, but as Rohan insists,
refuses to let go of his school uniform, Josuke softens. He pushes back, a
little roughly now, as if accepting a challenge. But Rohan can feel his
confusion by the way he breathes, tastes it on his tongue. Suddenly Josuke’s
hands are in Rohan’s hair, holding him in, cradling him—and all Rohan can think
of, can want, is to bury his body inside this boy’s chest and feel warm, hot,
and maybe to feel him inside of his own tightness. Maybe he can come to love
this person he dislikes very much.
Abruptly, Josuke releases him. He pivots, does not look at him, holds his hand
over his mouth in shock. Rohan’s own mouth is wet, and he licks his lips for
more. As he approaches, Josuke interrupts.
“I can’t do this, whatever this is.”
His voice is hard, but Rohan hears that it stands on a shaky foundation. After
a stiff silence, Josuke picks up the teapot, and continues to pour him tea.
Rohan leaves with his cup half empty.
Tuesday, July 6th
1997, Paris
When Rohan requested his steak be medium rare, Kira smiled in approval (he had
ordered his rare). Paris was warm that night and the two sat outside at a
slightly cramped restaurant, ordering their food in piecemeal French and
pointed fingers. Rohan’s fingers lingered on the rim of his wine glass as they
waited for their food.
“This is far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Kira said minutes
into the meal. Pink juices squirted from his sirloin as he methodically cut
into it. Rohan nodded, chewing slowly, his eyes on the redness of his wine, the
slight red flush of alcohol on Kira’s cheeks, the delicate red of the steak.
“Two people from Morioh-cho, meeting in Paris for no better reason than to look
at art…”
“It’s not that strange,” Rohan insisted, though he himself was reeling. This
man, Yoshikage Kira, was a little over a decade older than him. During their
metro ride he gathered that he was a salaryman, lived alone in a high-class,
quiet life. A handsome bachelor. And of course, he was a murderer, the one who
killed his babysitter all those years ago. “As an artist, I have good reason
for being here. You, on the other hand…”
The very slight sound of canines ripping through flesh.
“Why are you here?”
Kira put his fork and knife down and leaned back. He looked thoughtful, then,
but in retrospect perhaps he was just scheming. “Maybe I’m here to see you.”
Despite knowing Kira’s past, Rohan was naive and didn’t fully comprehend his
violent aura. He only saw amusement, flirting, a need to dominate—enough to put
him on edge and make him delightfully hard. But from the instant the young
artist spoke to Kira at the Louvre, Kira planned on fucking him, killing him,
sucking on his fingers as he fucked him again—
Yes, this boy was irresistible, Kira thought as he watched Rohan rest his chin
on his left hand, spin the knife in his right hand, look daintily down at his
half-finished meal, occasionally sipping on his wine and wiping the red from
his mouth. Did Rohan notice how he stared?
Nevertheless, there was a tacit agreement when Kira paid the bill that he paid
for Rohan’s presence that night. The instant the hotel door closed behind Rohan
he was on him, kissing him and forcing pretty hands to press against his cock.
And Rohan was so pleasantly obedient, his thin and supple body eager to grind
and writhe. “You’re so adorable,” Kira hissed, tossing Rohan into the bed and
brandishing a knife, this one also made for cutting flesh, for squirting red.
Rohan did not scream or yell. He looked at him carefully, fully aware that his
own erection did not die down from the prospect of dying at the hands of a
stranger’s fetish. He thought of the boy who ran out of his dorm room in
school. No, he would not do that to Kira. He would not shame him.
Kira frowned at Rohan’s calm demeanor. “Are you not afraid?” He stabbed the
side of the bed, right by Rohan’s cheek, and pressed his forehead against his.
Breath hot, Rohan only said, “I want you to fuck me.”
Why bother with buttons and zippers if seams can be broken? Why tie down your
prey when he begged to be naked, vulnerable, eaten? Kira ran his hands across
Rohan’s exposed body, splayed like a Louvre nude on his sheets. “This turns you
on,” he said, half a question, half a statement. Now behind him, spooning him
and grinding his clothed dick against Rohan’s ass, he muffled him with one
hand, fingers in his mouth, and wrapped his other around his fully hard cock.
Rohan squirmed at his touch, let out tentative sighs, then heaving breaths.
It soon came to Kira’s attention that Rohan had bit down hard enough on his
fingers to draw blood. He did not stop at the stinging pain—in fact he barely
felt it. Instead he felt Rohan suckling at his fingers, his tongue happily
taking in the taste of his blood.
“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” With the hand that jacked Rohan off, Kira
found his knife and brought it to his neck. “I’m interested. What makes you
tick? Hmm?”
He did not remove his fingers from Rohan’s mouth. In response Rohan bit down
again, hard, drawing more blood, enough that he began sucking again, swallowing
and moaning. At this, Kira swiftly pulled away, pushed him down, arms above his
head, to get a good look his face. He glared, his gaze penetrative, lustful,
curious. “It was you. You were that child who watched me that night.”
Rohan’s own gaze daring, innocent, wanting. “What of it?”
“I’ve heard of you.” Kira grasped his cheeks, turning his head left and right.
“The boy who was locked up because he gobbled down what was left of a murdered
girl’s corpse. You outshined me that night. What did she do, forget to feed
you?”
Nothing, just tense breathing.
“Or were you copying me?”
Rohan swallowed.
With a taunting laugh, Kira took off his shirt and brought his face into the
crook of Rohan’s neck. “Come on. You want a taste of my shoulder, don’t you?
You had some all those years ago and never forgot how good flesh felt in your
mouth...Look at you, you’re so hard.”
At this, Rohan was frozen. That night haunted him—not in his nightmares, per
se. As he stared at the muscles in Kira’s shoulder, he finally accepted why in
his youth he would dream of fresh corpses and wake up with his sheets in white
ruin.
“If you’re not going to eat, I will.”
The very slight sound of canines ripping through flesh. Rohan whimpered, biting
his tongue, determined not to scream as Kira dug into his neck. The man groaned
into him as warm blood ran between his teeth and into his mouth. And though he
was in pain—perhaps because he was in pain—Rohan finally threw all reservations
out the window. He seized Kira’s arm and bit down and with a twist of his neck
(and a small cry as he did so) he ripped off a chunk of flesh. He hastily
shoved the raw meat into his mouth, like a guilty child who was almost caught
with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Good boy.”
And Kira kissed him as they bled all over the sheets, into each other’s mouths,
across each other’s bodies.
***** July 7 - 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     FINALLY, an update! Sorry for the lack of existence; I had some
     extreme writer's block and had to ease myself back into the swing of
     things. If you leave a comment I'd be grateful!
     Warnings for this chapter: None, really! It's quite the vanilla
     chapter (sorry)!
JULY 7 - 9
Wednesday, July 7 th
The morning drags. Drags like a half-dead animal drags its carcass across the
road to safety. Rohan feels as though the taste of eraser is all he has known
in life. The dust in the air dances, distracts. The thought of Josuke
distracts. The thought of Kira startles him, as usual. As if electrified,
started by an outside force, he picks up his pen and draws, only for his hand
to shake. Trembling hands are among his worst fears. Rohan puts down his pen
and chews his cheek until blood seeps into his mouth. No longer the taste of
dull erasers.
He looks at the phone expectantly, though logically, he expects nothing. He had
cheated, broken a promise over a handful of change. Kira probably returned to
the hotel room, undid his tie in frustration at the empty bed, drank the wine,
fucked (up) someone else. Rohan was a disappointment after all. Just something
to get excited about for a temporary period of time.
No, it’s all wrong. Rohan remembers how much he has prepared for this.
Mentally—he is prepared for the best, the worst, whatever the hell they had
planned—and for godssake, he wants to finish Meridian the right way. He still
has a few weeks before August. He still has a chance to turn himself into a
work of art.
And to do that, he needed Kira.
Hands steadier than before, Rohan dials Kira’s number and holds his breath. He
already knows what Kira will say, what he’ll do to him. And, like a good boy,
he’ll accept his punishment.
“Hello.” It is not the tone of one answering the phone. It is a low purr. It is
Kira’s boiling boredom, the sound of his nails growing. Kira waits for Rohan to
say something, but Rohan simply takes the greeting in, almost inhales it. After
an extended silence, an exasperated sigh, Kira asks, “You plan on making me
wait even longer for you?”
Rohan clears his throat and re-adopts his typical haughtiness. That tone of
voice will grant him a higher punishment later, but as usual, Rohan cannot
resist playing and being played with—even at the current stakes. “You missed
me, then?”
A short pause. “Of course I did,” Kira says.
It is a sudden confession; it shocks every hair on Rohan’s body, dilates his
eyes and stops his breathing. Kira’s voice teetered on frightened,
desperate—romantic. It is disgusting to him. It surprises him. It arouses him.
Rohan stammers into the receiver. “D-did you? It didn’t look that way when—”
“How long do you insist on being a brat?”
Rohan hesitates.
“Tomorrow. After work I’m picking you up.”
Kira hangs up. Rohan is stunned enough to dip his pen into ink and start
drawing again.
Thursday, July 8 th
The car ride is awkward. When Kira picked Rohan up they’d simply nodded at each
other. Now Rohan is fighting every urge to bite his cheek, tear up his tongue,
to spit blood onto the windshield to make Kira look at him.Nothing, not even at
the long stop lights. The houses turn to villas.
They pull up to Kira’s house. As they climb out of the car, Kira asks, so
abruptly that Rohan nearly jumps out of his skin: “What do you want for
dinner?”
Rohan turns and looks Kira cautiously in the eye. The irony of it all. A smirk
fights its way to his face. Kira too, is smiling, smiling earnestly, his eyes
twinkling in almost-laughter. The sight is so strange to Rohan that he
splutters into laughter—a handsome man, one so straight-laced yet so morally
strange that his only sense of humor emerges like this—“Don’t fucking start
with that,” Rohan snickers, holding his stomach.  
Kira’s face turns comically stony. “I wasn’t joking,” he says.
“Don’t lie to me,” Rohan says, shutting the car door and bouncing, as though
the laughter dissolved all his anxiety, to the door.
“Don’t lie to me, either.” Kira grabs his hand before he can open the door.
Rohan freezes, caught in the headlights. “Don’t lie to me, Rohan.”
Rohan solves this predicament the only way he knows how. He kisses Kira,
closed-lipped but full, and clutches Kira’s hand tightly, puts it to his chest.
“We made a promise,” he whispers when they part.
They do not part fully. They tumble into the house instead, kissing, kicking
off shoes. Between kisses, Rohan and Kira struggle to take off their clothes,
frantically yearning for heat and friction. Once Kira’s chest is exposed, Rohan
licks his neck, teases his nipples with his tongue. “Don’t you dare,” Kira
laughs as Rohan nibbles gently on his nipple. Rohan giggles in return,
kneeling, extending his trail of saliva down Kira’s stomach. He licks circles
across his abdomen as he unbuckles Kira’s belt and, with a smirk, dexterously
unzips his fly with his teeth. “Show-off,” Kira murmurs, his hands now gently
grabbing fistfuls of Rohan’s hair.
Rohan looks at Kira, his boxers and pants pooled around his ankles, his adoring
eyes glued on his lips. Rohan always loved being in the center of
attention—even more so he loves being the object of Kira’s affection, even if
it literally reduces him to an object. After spitting in his hand, Rohan begins
to stroke Kira’s cock, guiding it into full hardness. Kira moves his hips
impatiently but does not move further, instead clutching at Rohan’s hair,
holding onto the doorknob to keep steady—which he finds he desperately needs,
as when Rohan kisses, takes in Kira’s dick, he almost stumbles.
“Don’t fall,” Rohan says teasingly before licking his cock again, drawing his
tongue up Kira’s length before wrapping his lips around his head. Kira quietly
groans; Rohan can tell by the opening and closing of Kira’s fingers in his hair
that he is resisting the urge to violently pull Rohan’s face closer to his
crotch.  “You can be rough with me, you know.” Rohan looks up at his lover,
unsure of how to proceed.
Kira shoots back, “I didn’t tell you to stop, now did I?”
“Fair.” Empowered, Rohan grins and continues to kiss and lick Kira’s cock,
eventually massaging his balls while bobbing his head up and down, finding the
same intense rhythm even without Kira’s guidance. Kira lets out a significantly
louder moan as Rohan takes his full length down his throat and choked on his
cock. When Rohan lets himself up for air, he says, as he wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand, “You’re not normally like this.”
“What?”
Rohan runs his enclosed palm across Kira’s dick as he contemplates warily, “You
normally can’t get off without…some sort of other stimulus.”
“Don’t ruin the moment,” Kira pulls Rohan up to kiss him, to whisk him away to
the bedroom.
No need to do laundry today.
Friday, July 9 th
“And so the main character goes missing.”
“Yes.”
“And it will lead them there?”
“Mm.”
The dainty screech of a spoon against a coffee mug, the scream of summer
cicadas, the rustle of clothing as they reach towards each other to kiss. Last
night was a shock. This morning even more so.
But they know it is temporary. As Kira prepares for work, Rohan absentmindedly
draws in his sketchbook an image of a young man cut perfectly in two.
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