Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3671904.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Neon_Genesis_Evangelion
  Relationship:
      Ikari_Shinji/Nagisa_Kaworu
  Character:
      Nagisa_Kaworu, Ikari_Shinji, Katsuragi_Misato
  Additional Tags:
      fem!kawoshin, Memory_Loss, Fingering, Angst, Blood, Loss_of_Virginity,
      shinji_cries_a_lot.._again, gay_alien_girl, Rutting, Oral_Sex, Possessive
      Behavior, Mental_Breakdown, Mental_Instability, male_asuka, male_rei
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-03 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 2546
****** Rot Me From The Inside ******
by Aquaphobia
Summary
     Kaworu has a mental breakdown and an already mentally decaying Shinji
     has to calm her down, and against her better judgment, they have sex.
     ""Cisswap"" Kawoshin. Possessive Kaworu. Or: no one's happy and they
     never will be so let's just fuck.
Notes
     Kawoshin has ruined my life. These sad, gay babies. I love them. I'm
     really surprised there's not more porn of these two on here! Please
     pardon any spelling errors!! Enjoy, my friends! (Chapter 2 to be
     posted within the month)
There's blood on her teeth the next time you see her. And despite not
witnessing this sight for a while, you can't help but feel like the knotted
ribs and spineless nights would be preferred to the unsettling clash of red on
white.
At least she's eating again. You're confident she's eating again. She has to be
eating again, otherwise why would the blood be-
“I wish you would stop staring.” She giggles lightly. "Or at least, tell me
what exactly you find so interesting, Shinji?"
"Kaworu, I-"
She cuts you off with a delicate wave, "Is it my lips you find so interesting?"
You flinch slightly, dismissing the thought Is that Misato's lipstick? before
your hands clasp together in your lap, shoulders tense. Timidly, you raise your
gaze from her mouth to her eyes and, oh. Oh.
You've forgotten how gorgeous she is.
It's strange, but the way she's looking at you, you're sure no person has given
you anything like the longing gaze before (so sentimental you can almost taste
the bittersweet lingering on your tongue). You swear you can see yourself
reflected in her eyes, and unlike a glance in the mirror you appear almost
pretty. Her red irises melt your brown hair into an auburn colour and your
cheeks are flushed delicately to match the tips of her fingers. You could sit
here for hours with her like this, if you weren't positive that these are the
same eyes you've seen before, although you've just met this girl a week ago.
The same eyes you're sure you will see when you die.
“I feel like we've done this before.” Those words sound so familiar it's
offensive, and you regret saying them immediately.
She smiles halfheartedly and you feel your cheeks turn as hot as the warmth of
her breath. “Of course we have. We've done this many times.”
“I don't rememb-”
She cuts you off with a swift kick to the underside of the table, toppling it
and your hot tea onto the floor. You stare at her in disbelief. She's usually
so calm and collected, she's level-headed and kind, intuitive and
understanding. She's everything you wish you were. She's perfect, she's
perfect.
“You don't remember.” She looks disgusted but more with herself rather than
you. (Though why wouldn't she feel the least bit of disgust sitting across
someone like yourself?)
“I-I'm sorry, I, um, I-” You stand suddenly to pick the pieces of freshly-
broken glass off the floor but she reaches out and grabs your hands lightly.
“No, I am sorry.” Her voice is silky and coats your mind with an easy feeling.
“It's my fault, Shinji.” She twitches somewhat when your hand shakes from the
gentle brush of her own. For once she is not looking at you, but rather the
mess on the floor (and you feel intensely jealous, why does it get more
attention than you, you are no better than shattered glass, spilt tea, you are
garbage – not even in the eyes of this god, you are not in the eyes of this
god). “I'm so sorry,” she repeats faintly, “I'm just so sorr-”
The two of you are crouched on the floor, her hands wrapped around your own
(and what a strange feeling it is to have something so soft and something so
alive touching you. You're sure a hundred years of contact would fail to amount
to even a second of this), glass and rapidly cooling tea spread across your
kitchen seemingly forgotten in the daze of moment. Had this been another person
you would have laughed; would have shouted the joke “perhaps this is a metaphor
for where my life is going, yeah?”, and your voice would have cracked as you
chuckled unhappily, when the other individual did not even give a smile. You
would think that's rude.
But it's not someone else. And this isn't the time for snide one-liners because
she's putting such a forceful pressure on your hand you're sure it's going to
break in two. Wait, when did her delicate grip turn rough? Her hand is turning
red and your knuckles are cracking and twisting with the pressure. What is she
doing, what is she doing, what is she do-
She whispers bits of words you can't quite make out into her pale chest. Over
and over again, like a prayer, until her hands have gone cold from sweat and
her legs quake beneath her, so unstable that you're afraid she'll tip over.
Gradually she grows louder, although by the time the words hit your ears
they've practically lost all meaning between jumbled syllables and unsteady
inhales of breath. Though her sentence does not fail to startle you.
“I am a failure.”
You feel strangely abashed, as if you shouldn't be here, like you're listening
in on something you aren't supposed to know, something private.. something not
meant for you.
“Tell me you remember.” Her voice is barely above a hum (how unusual for her to
murmur, for her to falter in her grace).
“I don't know what you're-”
“Tell me you remember, oh please god,” she buries her face in your thighs,
causing you to fall backward into the lukewarm mess on the ground. You cut your
foot on the pieces of glass. The blood matches the colour of her eyes. “Please,
please, remember something.” The shaking has turned into jactations, with her
arms wrapped around your waist and tears staining the seam of your pants. You
would feel vulgar if not for the sharp sniffling sound of her nose (but the way
her shirt is lifted, long white hair parted to reveal the small of her back
feels nearly pornographic).
“Do you remember. Do you remember. Do you remember. Do you remember.” It comes
as a statement, not a question, as if she's thinking 'when I say this enough it
will surely come true', only instead of being childishly endearing it is
undeniably disturbing.
“Please, I-I don't understand. Please stop, I-I'm-” you catch yourself about to
pull her off, but that feels wrong, and for a quick second you feel filthy
(filthier than you've ever been, more incompetent than before, shameless trash
without even the slightest regard for another person in need. A selfish fool).
She raises her head gradually, as if taking the time to allow the last of her
tears fall onto you. “Oh god, you're,” she lazily reaches out to stroke your
burning cheeks, “you're so perfect. You don't realize it but god, you're so
perfect.”
“K-Kaworu-”
“I'm so scared. I'm so scared. I know you don't understand. You don't remember
everything, you'll never remember everything.” Her eyes are pleading for the
recognition you cannot give. “I-I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm
terrified and I can't tell you why until- until.. Please, please, just tell me
you remember me.” Both her hands are raised to her chest, between her breasts,
as if in pain, or in prayer. Her nails dig in harshly to the floral fabric of
her purple sundress.
You've never seen such a brazen display of weakness. You almost feel sick.
“Do you remember me?”
Her voice is choppy and hoarse from crying, face strained and body unsteady.
For the first time to you, she looks ugly.
You take a deep breath before answering without looking at the girl kneeling
before you, as if you're going to pull the rope at the gallows. “We just met
last week, I don't-”
Her face falls in despair. “Please.”
“Y-you're scaring me.” You attempt to stand but her full weight is on your legs
and you stumble back down. She shakes with your own uneasiness and rests her
hands on the two front pockets of your night shirt to steady herself. You feel
your stomach churn, although the feeling is not entirely unpleasant, there are
sparks of red heat in the muddied fluids of you late-evening dinner alone and
you have to stop yourself from bucking forward into her.
“I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. Please, please, without you
I can't do this, I can't do this at all.” The tears are pooling on your shirt
as she places her chin on your collar bone. Her face is too close. She's too
close, you have no room to move and she's too close.“Shinji, you don't have to
remember anything else, not a single thing, I promise you. We don't ever have
to talk again if you wish not to. Just please say you remember me.”
“Please stop it. I'm- you need to move. I don't want you to be this close to
me, please can you-”
“You must think I'm crazy.”
“N-No Kawor-”
“I'm not crazy. I remember when we sat on the rooftop after school for hours.”
She clenches her fingers in your shirt so hard they might leave holes. “You
told me you hated the winters because your toes would get so cold you'd fear
frostbite.”
“I remember when we went to your house and you played for me. You played cello.
You used to teach me cords and it was so, ah, incredible. We would play
together until Misato would send me home because the sun was setting and you
had training in the morning with the boys and-”
“S-Stop.” You're afraid, this is too much. This is too much for you.
“Your mother bought you the violin for your birthday and you hated playing but
you did it for her.” She sniffles loudly before placing her forehead on yours.
“You learnt for her just like I learnt for you.”
“Please stop!” It takes a second to realize you have struck her, right arm in
the air and red hand print dirtying the pale tone of her skin. You have soiled
her.
She looks taken aback, mouth ajar and tears drying on her chin. You fear she
might run off, leave you like your father (she is no better than your father,
they are all like your father, and your father is just like all of them) but
she stills.
When she finally speaks it's with a smile you have never seen before and eyes
so half-lidded you begin again to feel hot like those night alone in your room
when you'd think of her as you touched yourself, whispering her name and
picturing her above you encoura- no, not like this. Not like this.
She speaks quietly, “I had a dream you kissed me so softly and held me in your
arms until your grip was immortal and my fingertips grazed heaven.”
You are speechless. The girl you hold in such high regards believes you to be
better.
“Shinji..” Kaworu whispers quietly to herself, her tone makes you think of the
when your professors would read over your sloppily written essays and mutter
what you swear (you know it, you know it, you know it) was a sharp jab in your
direction – a sharp jab with proper grammar and plenty of adjectives and
correct citation and just the right amount of spice that could make you go home
and contemplate killing yourself for the nth time that week. But there was
something sweet placed somewhere within that slow exhale of warm, tempting
breath, like a sour strawberry coated in that rich milk chocolate Misato bought
after a hard day. And that's exactly what it was: a treat after a long day.
Kaworu was your treat after a long day.
“Nagisa.” Your mouth is moving, and although your words are far less than
refined, you feel as though the position of power has shifted to your favor.
Her arms shake a bit from your tone (too authoritative, too rough, too rude,
too fatherly) and stills when she moves her hands to your chest and slowly,
carefully, begins to guide you to the floor. You're laying on you back against
the tile, brown hair mixing in with the tea from earlier that's so cold it
causes goosebumps to burst over your body. Kaworu is on her knees, one on
either side of you (and if you just moved your head back a bit you're positive
you could see her panties from beneath the tiny green dress). She stays like
this for a moment, staring at you with big, velvet eyes that have seemed to get
more vibrate when disaster strikes between the two of you.
“Shin-” she sighs, eyes slipping closed as she places her body on yours,
straddling your waist. Her thighs are resting on either side of your hips, a
slight pressure that seems to be almost comforting (if not only for the fact
that you're sure, perhaps only for a moment, she's seeing your father in you).
It's then you realize.“-ji... ooh.”
You can feel the dampness on your shirt.
Despite Asuka's many provocations, and mild sexual advances (to you, or anyone
else he comes across) you've yet to do anything other than kiss- if you could
call it a kiss, more like a suffocation attempt. So this, a beautiful girl with
eyes puffy and red, nose dribbling, and breath dancing over her full, bitten
lips.. she's leaning forward on your waist, rocking slowly, moving her lower
body across your stomach.. This, perhaps, was temptation in the flesh. You feel
a pang of realization-is this what Misato sees, is this what Misato does?
Misato has seen these same things, multiple times, she's done more than this-
she'd do this with you too. She'd do anything with anyone, you know. She'd-
before Kaworu's voice draws you out of your endless thoughts.
"Shinji... C-can we?" She shakes her head, letting her lead lull down like a
rag doll. "Mmm, can I lift your shirt? Please?"
You freeze. How far is she willing to go?
“Oh Shinji,” her pace slows, “we don't have to do anything more if it's not
pleasing to you.. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” Nagisa leans
forward, pressing her wet panties hard onto your stomach and you inhale
sharply. She grins, teeth white unlike before, blood washed off from the tea.
You close your eyes for a moment, the stimulation from Kaworu's movements
making you hot in your pajamas. Why do you still sleep in clothes again?
Suddenly, you feel her hair tickle beneath your nose, her lips lining up with
your ear. Her breath is warm, comforting, unlike the situation she's put you
in. Her hips jar forward harshly, then back with the same strength. Her mouth
opens, tongue tracing the outside of your ear.
"Ahhh.. you feel so nice. You make me feel so nice." She purrs.
You try to catch yourself before the words escape but she knows you're in the
midst of puberty and she knows you're not one to deny her from anything.
"Kaworu take off your clothes." You try to sound demanding but your voice
wavers into a low moan. "Nh, P-please."
Nagisa leans back slowly, straightening her body out on top of yours. Her
silver hair is messy, long strands sliding down her neck and pooling around
your stomach. Her eyelashes flutter when she smiles, wide and full of victory.
Her teeth are red again, blood dripping down her lip. Against your better
judgement, you smile back.
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