✦ ݁˖ DANCE, DANCE
HE SAYS HE'S NO GOOD WITH WORDS BUT I'M WORSE . . . ft. Suo Hayato
wc: ~10.1k
cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI; DARK CONTENT—PLEASE READ ALL TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING. this is a work of fantasy and fiction and the author does not condone or excuse any depicted behaviors in a real life context. set post-canon; all characters depicted are 20+. afab!gn!reader, established relationship, smut, graphic rape/non-con, whether this is safe safe and consensual is mostly up to reader interpretation, slight predator/prey dynamic, fear play, stalking, semi/public sex, alleyway sex, penetrative sex, oral sex (m!receiving), face fucking, light bondage, struggling, crying, choking, spit, slapping, nonexplicit depictions of dissociation, violence not typical to canon, slightest tiny bit of very open ended comfort at the end sue me i like that shit too
r: tldr suo is really bad at talking about his kinks. LMAO. born entirely of my desire to be violated by him bye enjoy dont look at me
Scary was the word that started this. The conversation, which took place around the table at Pothos, boiled down to the mysterious exterior, the breezy smile that hid everything, the uncanny ability to fuck up an opponent twice his size without even using his fists—yes, Hayato Suo was regarded as scary, first and foremost by his closest aquaintances.
They had gone quiet when you chuckled—relaxed in your seat with your fingers curled around your cup of tea that matched his—and all turned to you; your lover only regarded the table before him with that smile, maybe a smidgen more pleased than usual, as they looked and you proclaimed casually he was nothing of the sort. Half-chewed omurice hung in the stunned silence.
“Bullshit,” Tsuge chimed in, grinning like he’d finally seen through your shtick, while a few others at the table laughed—hesitantly, to be fair, but relieved to have something to grab onto nonetheless. You refused to defer with a smug sip of your tea.
“No, seriously—have you met him?”
You had set your cup down, unbothered, nodding once, deeply. “Intimately.”
Which got a bit more of a reaction: a few more barks of laughter, some hooting, Tsuge flicking his napkin in your direction, a tired groan from a red-faced Sakura. Whatever Nirei was writing in his little notebook was certainly too silly to be of any concern. Does he have a profile on you, too, you wondered briefly? You should ask to see it, you thought. Maybe you could fill in some gaps on Suo’s, too, while you were at it.
“Congratulations, still doesn’t mean you’re not completely delusional,” Sakura grumbled, visibly unhappy. You’d probably ruined his meal with one simple word. You pursed your lips in mock apology.
You were unsurprised by Suo’s lack of comment. It was in character for him to be humble and averse to any sort of spotlight, despite such renown—but his peers aren’t exactly known to let up, and let up they didn’t.
“Yeah,” Takanashi leaned forward. “Dude’s terrifying.”
“You’re biased,” someone else added; you hummed, considering that maybe worth agreeing with.
“Or,” you said, crossing your arms over yourself, grin crooked. “You’re all just a little dramatic.”
That earned you a chorus of protests—save from Kiryu, who looked thoroughly amused, Sugishita, who, in notorious Sugi fashion, forewent participation in antics such as these, and Suo himself, who was so quiet he could’ve slipped out of the room without anyone noticing; you didn’t need to look to know how he held himself, all calm and just barely beating you out for most smugly unfazed in the room.
“Dramatic?” Kakiuchi and Anzai’s mouths dropped open in sync. “You’ve seen him fight!”
You lifted your cup again, closing your eyes into the warmth of the drink—an oolong the man in question had suggested because he thought you’d like it based on your taste profile, which he keeps vigilant tabs on, by the way.
The clamor lulled so the group could balk at you once more.
“And he’s efficient,” you conceded agreeably. But, as the saying goes, give an inch. “But that’s not the same thing as scary.”
“That’s—”
“You’re—”
“You know—”
An interlude of collective search for footing.
“—he’s dropped absolute trucks of dudes without t—”
“—taking his hands out of his pockets, yeah,” you finished for them, still easygoing. “You’ve said. But, really, he’s rather gentle.” You cast a tentative glance at the subject in question. “I think, anyway.”
He hadn’t interrupted once; as if having sensed your gaze, he looked to you, too, watching you over his mug with that ever-present smile—somewhat warmer than usual, between entertained and begrudged.
“Gentle,” Sakura bit, irked again, this time by what he’d long ago termed your googly eyes.
“Gentle,” Niriei repeated, as if he wanted to agree but had to really try; pairs on pairs of eyes looked between each other and you and Suo, and you just shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“He’s just careful with what he touches.”
Anzai scoffed for the third? fourth? time. “In a fight, maybe.”
You nodded. “Especially then.”
“Careful,” Suo piped up, finally, and in good humor. “You’re ruining my reputation.”
In an impenetrable moment of secrecy, you tossed your eyes toward him again, still smiling but in a way that indicated you were speaking only to him, now. “Was it that fragile?”
Altogether defeated, a weak, final attempt squeaked out from the far end of the group. “Trying to tell me that guy isn’t scary,” pffts, whatevers, and rolled eyes following. They already knew it was Sisyphean with you. You didn’t entirely catch it as the conversation mercied into something else, inevitably, because when it comes to you and Suo, it can’t hold its ground for long. There’s a way about you two that makes the whole thing feel already decided, like circling a maze with no entrance; there was no rebuttal or continuation as you slipped into your own world at your end of the table. Relentless as class 1-1 is, you wouldn’t be yourself, nor would you be the other half of Suo, if you were unable to shut them down every now and then.
Sakura had tied it off with an utterance like fucking ridiculous or something. Nirei’s equally fascinated and alarmed demeanor that accompanied his frantic scribbling smoothed to a halt, and that was the end of it. Dinner carried on as usual, and everyone parted after just the same. You walked home with Suo as you always did, inviting him in to stay under the same pretense as you do every time—the way to his place from yours is relatively long after an already lengthy trek to yours, so he might as well just crash here. Notably, not that he ever minded making his way to his own abode—but you always insist. He takes no issue with inhabiting your space, anyway. He might prefer it, you think, even if he doesn’t say it.
Which brings you to the way he’s been peering at you since you settled in. You’re on one end of the couch, head against the armrest and your feet in his lap, flicking across your television noncommittally while he reads—or, pretends to. He’s mostly just been looking at you over his book, inquisitive little expression on his features.
“What?” you ask finally, curious grin on your face. He’s obviously wanted you to notice, because he’d be subtler about it if he didn’t.
“You don’t think I’m scary?” Suo asks, joviality mirroring yours, albeit quieter, more calculated. Feigning disappointment—like he wishes you would, just the smallest bit. “Not even a little?”
You laugh, short and dry. “No, not really. Not even after you bullied everyone into silence,” you tease, nudging his middle with your foot.
“Hey, I didn’t bully anyone.”
“You loomed,” you correct with accusational certainty, uncrossing your ankles and crossing them again just to make him work a little for comfort. “But either way—”
Five slender fingers close around your ankle, soft and sudden; the pause you inhabit is a beat too long to pretend it doesn’t exist, and Suo just holds, book still in his line of sight, posture still relaxed.
“That’s what it felt like?” he asks, thumb shifting against your skin, all at once thoughtful and absent. “Looming?”
You shrug loosely, glancing back to the TV, keeping it airy. He knows touch is a weak point for you, and it’s not novel for him to use it against you. Still, you stumble momentarily—but your grin doesn’t. You tell yourself it’s more to appease him than anything. “To them, I’m sure.”
“And what about to you?” he inquires, light but direct—not unlike a therapist.
His attention is fully on you now, no disguises or subterfuge. Your foot flexes slightly in his grip as your pulse ticks, faint and inconvenient, but you know him—he’ll take every bit of leverage he can get, even if he already holds plenty of control. You even have his mind games predicted and down to a science. Suo might make you stutter, but your trick is this: you already know he’ll use it against you, and exactly how. It renders a lot of his menacing ineffective—something he yielded to long ago with you, or so you thought.
You regard him owlishly and shrug again, head swaying side to side deliberately. You’re unsure what he wants from you. “Still nothing in particular.”
He hums, nods a little, and his thumb picks a honey-slow pace at which to trace against you. “You sound so certain about that.”
You huff another laugh, trying to wave it into obscurity. Another reason why you work so well together—one of you pushes where the other holds fast to resistance. Between the two of you, anyway. You make a great team against others, for other reasons. “Oh, please, Haya, we’ve been over this.” It’s true, you have—many times. You’re not exactly a stranger to the multiple facets of your boyfriend; part of that, of course, is the awareness that there are facets you have yet to fully see, but still, you don’t have any reason not to trust him, his restraint, his self-control. You’ve watched him fight—hell, you’ve fought alongside him; you’ve seen him steer and shut down investigations into his character and when looked to for comment, you’ve resigned in similar fashion, happy not to put his stealth in jeopardy, and he’s rewarded you handsomely with knowledge no one else in the universe possesses—like how he doesn’t prefer to sleep around others because it would entail his eyepath undoubtedly being compromised, or what he does eat when he does so in secrecy (he likes agedashi tofu, but you can’t tell anyone).
“I know,” he agrees with a tilt of his chin, studying you thoroughly. “In front of other people, at least,” he reminds you. “Like today.”
Your brow shoots up. “Oh,” you say slowly, more like a question—with the curiosity from before just a little reserved. If a new facet is about to emerge, you’re nothing if not attentive, after all.
He closes the book, tosses it mindlessly onto the coffee table. “We don’t have an audience right now, is all I mean,” and although his tone is casual and his movements unsuspecting—like he’s ready to move on from here—you feel aware of the air in the room, and of his hand, still firm around your ankle.
You could pull away, easily, but you haven’t. He would let you, if you wanted to.
“That doesn’t change your answer?” he asks.
You tilt your head, hesitating before you question, “Should it?”
“No.” And he just looks at his hands, now unoccupied other grasping your opposite ankle. “Why?”
“Because you’re acting like it should. Or something.” Your grin rises back to your cheeks, a little uneasily now—you hadn’t realized that it’d fallen in the first place.
Your sweet Hayato, ever the trickster. He shifts. He’s abrupt, but not aggressive, just so your legs slide further across his lap as he sits forward, his grip adjusting; he’s trained in on you like a sniper, leaning over you, scooting to you, uncrossing your ankles with his hold.
“It just…” he begins, with genuine earnest, single wine-colored eye glimmering in the low light of your living room.
For a moment he looks almost bashful, like he’s about it say never mind and let it go. You know it’s for show when it flickers away immediately, when he doesn’t blink and his jaw sets back into place with a jolt of what looks like irritation.
“It makes me wonder if you know me as well as you think you do, is all.”
As well as you think you do? You’ve known Suo for most of your conscious life; you’ve loved him for almost as long, and you’re perfectly comfortable acknowledging that he can be intimidating or dangerously charismatic when a situation calls for it—even manipulative to a certain extent—but only when it serves the greater good, or is really funny, though. Right? But his voice is so low and smooth and he looks at you with such expectation that you wonder for a second if you need to be digging beyond such moments. Suo’s a great actor, is something you’ve always joked about, because his friends scarcely see how considerate and compassionate he can be, but the inverse and the fact that it could be true, too, occurs to you, quick, like a bolt of lightning.
But he’s messing with you, like he does. “What are you talking about?” Right? “You’re being weird.”
He leans back slightly like he’s suddenly remembered where he is. The intensity is gone in a blink as he knits his brow together. “Sorry. That probably sounded bad.”
You don’t know if bad is the right word, but your heart is racing dully despite the apology on his face. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him better; you don’t entirely know what your face looks like right now, but you’re trying to let it be an honest mix of confusion, adoration, and slight apprehension at the tone he was taking on a mere few seconds ago. You scan him for a brief second and find nothing out of the ordinary. Just your Suo, your Hayato, a mystery, an oddball, the light of your life who thrives on doing as little as possible for maximum reaction. Creep, you’ve jokingly accused him before—and he agreed, guilty as charged.
“You know, it’s just… well.”
“What?” you press now that he’s withdrawn, sitting up. Suo has ways of keeping people guessing without mincing words, and you don’t know what it is yet, so you know there’s more.
“Trust can be misplaced, you know?” He looks contemplative as he says it, eyes wandering about the room, shoulders shrugging the slightest bit. His fingers, still on you, break into a tender rhythm, slow and placating. “And the guys are always talking about how I could be anyone. But you trust me completely. Which is special to me, it is. But just think about it.”
And then he bends your knees up toward you; you rest your elbows on them and look at him thoughtfully.
“Even if what you, just you, know about me is all true—if it’s all real, and I love you and you love me,” he continues, reflective and utterly serious, and you’re unsure where exactly this is turning from finding him scary or not or trusting him or whatever, but the sharpness in the cherry of his iris returns again—a shift you don’t know how to pinpoint, it’s just there. His face sharpens with it and you try to study it and determine if it’s the scrunch of his nose or the angle of his gaze, but you don’t know. You don’t know and the air grows heavy all over again with it, and you really don’t like the way your stomach sinks when he lifts his eyes you once more.
But you stay still, like a prey animal with hope. You’ve outsmarted this predator before. Granted, you’ve never quite been so unsure if he’s doing a bit or if something is wholly, truly troubling him. For what it’s worth, the lack of regret—of anything—on his face for what his next words could invite into the room sets you back on edge.
“What if I snapped?”
But still, you stay, unmoving.
And what if he did? You try, under his magnifying glass-stare, to imagine what that might look like; your Hayato, who you do believe is gentle at his core of cores, doing something to shake you horribly. To terrify you. What would he have to do, reveal about himself, to irreparably damage the way you cherish him?
“It depends.” You pick your words like stepping across slick stones above water.
The way he looks at you is the way you imagine the accused must look at their jury. All at once ready to resign and yet peel back each layer of the complex individual to do any number of things but be found guilty.
“I could be scared of you and still love you,” you concede.
And this is the truth. He is too deeply ingrained in your soul, after all. Despite his monologuing and what-iffing and the stark emptiness in his eye and the beginnings of a hurricane in your gut, trust wins.
“Can I reframe the question?”
He pulls you out of your reverie where you could love him even if he was something monstrous. Like a serial killer, or if he had lied, and the Suo that sat beside you was not Suo at all but a fabrication, an elaborate lie meant to trap you in such a place.
“Yeah,” you permit. Please, reframe it, actually.
He smiles the Suo smile you only get in your room or his—not the charming, pacifying one his friends know or the conspiratorial, fake-upbeat one the dickheads on the business end of his kicks get, but a smile a little lopsided and proud, like he never doubted anything, like it was a silly little test and you passed with flying colors. And you have, so far.
“Would you take a walk?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“Go for a walk. Just down the street.”
“Right now?” It’s late—past midnight now, but it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve walked with him to his place at later hours before, and if whatever’s on his mind could be solved by fresh air, you guess you’re not opposed.
He nods. “Yes.”
You consider him for a moment—really look at him again, searching for anything off balance. But he’s at ease, waiting only for your permission.
“Sure,” you say, pushing yourself up, unfolding yourself and padding toward the door. You can sense him in your wake like a warm ghost. “Let’s go.”
“Oh, no, not both of us.” He clarifies it like it should’ve been obvious, a careless detail to leave out and yet a given. “Just you.”
Your feet are halfway in your sandals when you shoot him a glare. He might actually be losing it, you think this time.
You gesture vaguely to yourself, eyes wide. “Just me.”
“Mhm.”
“Hayato,” you say, deflating. “It’s dark, and I—”
“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, golden tassels swaying as he cocks his head.
Ugh. You did just try to make a distinguished little spectacle about trusting him—even if he goaded it out of you. You’d want to prove it to him either way. And it is kind of an absurd ask, but your area isn’t too terribly rough, and violent crime has all but disappeared in Makochi ever since Umemiya’s generation of Bofurin graduated and dedicated themselves and their successors to the town’s welfare full-time. Plus, you have friends close enough by where you could hole up for the night—or, you’d be happy to walk him home and back if that was what he wanted. Maybe he really is processing something he hasn’t totally let you in on yet.
“Haya, if you wanna be alone, I can crash at Ren’s or walk you ba—”
But Suo waves this away immediately. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. And don’t wear those,” he admonishes playfully, actually bending down to tug your slides off. He fits one of your sneakers on and laces it up for you before doing the other. Then he stands again, same smile still pasted on.
You look up from your sneakers and the smile brightens in his eye so much that it closes—an affectionate blink not unlike a cat’s that lets you know he’s pleased because you’re following directions. You should keep doing that—he trusts you to keep doing that, it says.
Lithe fingers cup your face and a soft, doting kiss is pressed to your forehead. “I’ll come get you, okay? Just a quick walk. Then we’ll come back.”
You stand, arms at your sides, eyes flitting.
He’s being so strange. But that’s your Hayato—cryptic, always playing games. And you do trust him enough to participate. You do.
His lips linger in your hair and you find yourself nodding. “Okay, love.”
He still looks proud when he pulls away from you, past you, to open the door for you. His hand finds the small of your back and turns you in a half-circle to nudge you through it. “Don’t stop walking ‘til I find you,” he instructs softly. “I won’t be long, promise.”
And you cross the threshold, “Okay,” on your lips again. But when you turn to face him again, he’s already disappeared behind your closed door.
You hear the lock click.
You scoff.
And you turn on your heel and make your way down the hallway to the stairs, which you descend with purpose. He wants you to walk? Fine. You push the front door open into the black night and start off, heading west without looking back. It’s a little chillier than you would’ve anticipated, but you’ll be fine once you get moving.
He said he wouldn’t be long, after all. So, you figure, your baggy tee and sweatpants will do just fine. Worst comes to worst, you text him and tell him to hurry his ass up.
Actually… the thought has you patting your pockets. Fuck—your phone’s on the coffee table. You know he won’t forget keys, but it would be nice to have your cell. You can imagine it, though: the scene that just played out, you standing by the door, his face so sincere and pleased, and you move to retrieve it—he would’ve just held you in place, brushed it off and reminded you you’d only be gone for a short while.
You cross your arms and scoff again, through your nose. Suo’s not what you’d call a proponent of phones, after all. But it is dark, and it is late, and as the breeze snakes between the silent buildings and circles around you, you think it would be good to have a light, or a way to keep the time, or a method of contact, just in case.
But it’s too late now. You’re already playing the game, so you just keep your pace, brisk but not too brisk.
And eventually, you make your way past Kaji’s apartment building—which marks you at about eight minutes, give or take. You’d have no way to get in, anyway. He’d have to buzz you up, and you have no means to tell him you’re around. Besides, there’s no light in his window, either, so he must be either out or asleep.
Still, you glance up. Waiting for movement, maybe.
But nothing moves. You feel silly as you tear yourself away from it and keep going.
There’s no light in any of the windows, except for one in the complex across the way, where someone’s cherry-colored LED lights remain on.
And Hayato should be around soon. Maybe you should’ve cleared up exactly what kind of numbers comprised quick and won’t be long—but again, you can only envision such an inquiry being shaken away as if it was comical, silly to wonder about. The absurdity strikes you again—what the hell are you doing?—but you try not to invest yourself too much in the inevitable. You remind yourself to glance around, stay aware of your surroundings. But, god, the longer you walk—the further you get from Hayato—the more this feels like maybe not the best idea.
You could call out for him; the only noise about is the wind, thin and restless. And your voice would carry. But too far, maybe—further than you’d like it to.
You walk ten, then twenty steps with your voice in your mouth before you decide it’s probably better to not.
You tune into your footsteps—are those louder than they should be, you wonder? You’re relatively quiet—going out of your way to be—but the vibration up through your bones from the ground is a stark reminder of how little else is around. No cars passing, no windows open, no chatter or music or life. Just the dull rhythm of your feet, the wind, and the occasional rattle of something loose in the distance—a street sign, a fence.
You turn to look over your shoulder.
And there’s nothing, of course. You’re just being smart, cautious.
So you keep on your path.
And the minutes pass; you try to keep counting them—you’re maybe at ten more past Kaji’s, which you tell yourself is reasonable and normal. Hayato should be any moment, now. But this stretch of quiet, empty block with too many dark windows has the unmistakable feeling of something you should’ve thought through better.
When you come to a corner, you stop to survey this time. The narrow cuts between buildings that you don’t pay any mind to during the day loom deep and dark. A single streetlight buzzes above, on the verge of failing; you can hear it, the way it strains, and as you stare. It blinks once, twice, like a dying star taking its final breaths; the moon is there, too, unwavering. Though you can’t see the stars, their largest companion hangs nearly full in the sky, promising to light your way when the lamps die.
And then you hear it, or maybe sense it, because nothing really prompts you to look other than the fact that you do—a quick crane of your neck toward the way you came from, where you see… nothing, again.
And it’ll keep being nothing until it’s your Hayato—hopefully with a jacket.
Unless it isn’t nothing; the thought supplies itself, unhelpful and immediate, but you swallow it down.
You’re not far from home at all, and you know these streets well. It wouldn’t be strange to turn around, either, you think—not at this point. Just say you changed your mind, that it was colder than you expected—you walked for long enough that you no longer felt like it.
But then you think of all the wild goose chases Hayato has sent you on throughout your relationship—and there’s been no shortage of them, for sure, whether they’ve been physical or mental. He’s dropped out of the realm of virtual communication for days at a time on a couple occasions; he’s told you he has a secret to tell you but you must wait a few days, insisted upon the return of a jacket or a notebook being forgotten at your residence that you swore never existed but was somehow there anyway, instructed you to meet him at bus stops that didn’t exist. But you’ve never backed down from them; it’s not in your nature, nor is it your MO when it comes to him, because you care about him so much. More than he realizes, maybe.
Every time, you recall there’s been the same feeling at the start of it—confusion, irritation, the faintest edge of doubt, and then something else braided through it. Anticipation. The sense that something about him was just out of reach, out of conceivable sights, just watching how far you’d go before you turned back. You’ve always been good about choosing forward, even when it led you somewhere inconvenient or strange or faintly humiliating to admit out loud, like stomping frazzled between two stops while he doesn’t answer his phone. But it always ends good and well—with him embracing you, thanking you, telling you you do so good for him.
You’re good for him. You smile in spite of yourself at the notion.
This is no different; just another game, test of patience, of how well you can sit with not knowing. You can’t turn back because it would mean admitting that this ordinary bit of sidewalk in the dark is getting to you and you don’t trust him to come get you. You do. You do trust him. You’d perform a task this mundane a thousand times over to prove it to him.
You keep walking.
Still, you think it would be nice if you had a text to reread, a vague hint to return to—something to clue you in other than the shape of his hand at your back and his voice at the door, assuring. Don’t stop walking ‘til I find you.
Find you.
Your chest flutters—a small, tight nothing that you disregard as a trick of breathing in the chilly air. Reading too far into it is always at least half the point with him, and god, do you. It doesn’t dull your awareness, anyway, of the way every step you take starts to feel less and less deliberate, like you’re a rat heading toward the wall of your cage.
But you still don’t stop, because, again, you’ve never stopped before. Even if this time you’re not entirely sure who’s supposed to be chasing who.
You hope he doesn’t think a walk is going to break you, because he’d be sorely mistaken.
But then you do hear something, from behind you.
Footsteps, approaching rapidly; something you never thought you’d feel relieved to hear, alone on the street in the shadow of the night, but you do.
“Hayato,” your voice decides before the rest of you does, and there is annoyance and peace of mind in it all at once. You loosen, almost laugh. Look at you, the very word you threw around so casually earlier—dramatic.
It’s strange he caught up without you hearing until now, but still, he’s sly like that. You load up a complaint—for making you walk so far, of course—and the world rights itself for a moment, the shadows realigning, the metallic swinging in the distance unassuming, your fingers unfurling.
Until you turn around, fully, to see the figure speedwalking toward you.
You squint, huddled in on yourself; this figure strides at a pace you’ve never seen him take, wide and determined. The hood, outlined and obvious beneath the dimness of the street, doesn’t help. You can’t see a face.
And he doesn’t call back.
“Hayato?” you think you mumble—maybe you shout, as you shuffle backward despite yourself and the steps you’ve walked already.
And he should answer, always does. Always lets you know you’re going to fall safely into his arms.
But the figure takes its hands out of its pockets, picks up into a run.
And you stumble into a sprint.
You don’t feel you have the luxury of sticking around and finding out if it’s him. You just run and you don’t look back.
You shriek his name this time—if it’s him he knows you’re on edge; if it’s not, please, please, let him hear you and come to your rescue from whatever’s encroaching on you. Your legs go and go, the thought of the trek back perished as you fasten your eyelids open and tear down the sidewalk. You need somewhere. You need somewhere to be. A door to bang down. A side street that’ll let you wind and loop around and disappear.
But you make it about fifty yards before you hear the footsteps catching up to you. Again, you yell for him—among other things—shrill and high.
“No, no, no!”
It’s no competition. His legs are longer. He’s more agile, and you’re already tired. The soft palm of a hand clamps around the lower half your face—the other around your eyes, and the body weight attached to it ushers you aside, pulls you this way and that in spite of your wild tossing and jerking about until you’re pressed to a wall, writhing about like a wasp caught in a spiderweb. And as you vocalize, although muffled, he hushes you, shh, shh—lifts his hand off your eyes while you kick down out of overdrive and into shock.
“Stop it—stop screaming,” a familiar voice instructs you calmly before it breathes in sharply—and you go a little limp when you realize it’s him—your Hayato. “Stop screaming. Stop screaming.”
And you do, digging into his arm as you hyperventilate into his palm. He rewards your surrender by taking his hand away from your mouth and you sigh with everything in you, all at once relieved it’s him and alarmed at the unexpected ambush, the perplexity; in the second strike of atypicality, he yanks one of your wrists hostage behind you so roughly it makes you grimace.
You try to wiggle your arm out of his iron-tight grasp, but he thwarts you, breathless, too; that’s when you can feel the erection he’s sporting beneath his jeans. “You’re a fucking freak,” you spit—it’s a half-truth because you’re expecting him to agree, guilty as charged, in that half-roguish, half-obliging way that completes your half-accusations into full ones, ones only you and him know the ins and outsides of. You try to laugh but your breath is still coming too quick, too choppy, and your heart is racing for more than one reason. “What’s wrong with you? This is f—”
But he doesn’t agree—he all but growls in your ear, “Be quiet or it’s gonna have to hurt, baby.” And as if to prove it, he pulls your arm a little further behind you—it burns in your shoulder, and you wince, but he lets up before you can think, and your mouth opens soundlessly a second too late. “Scared yet?”
“No,” you shoot back shakily—which may debatably be true, you wouldn’t say you’re quite all the way to scared—but you are pulsing with adrenaline from how he startled you. Still, you’re in his arms now. You tell yourself it’s alright, plaster your very best grin on your face, and try to eye him sideways behind you. “You won’t hurt me.”
You say it confidently, but then your brain catches up. He has you ensnared like this, after all. But if your words just land right, maybe it’ll be so. Like you can laugh and make this trial into something recognizable that fits nice and neatly back into the shape of him that you know. Because this is close, sure, but it’s off-kilter and you’d be an idiot not to at least see that. His grip isn’t painful, but there’s a rush in it, a controlled and very intentional panic. Not clumsy; this is the same restraint you’ve always pointed at and defended without thinking twice about it.
Your Hayato.
“I won’t, huh?”
A pure white chill runs through your body at his words and he shoves one palm between you and your pants. You can’t believe this is what he landed on. He wanted to track you down? Give you a sixty-second head start?
“No,” you shimmy against him a little, and even you can’t tell if it’s toward or away. “We have a safe word.” Another thought barely formed before it fractures, splintering under the immediacy of him and the way he’s already there, dragging your pants down like this was never a question of if but when. Your breath stutters as you protest his hand, but it sounds uncertain.
“We do?” Suo sounds genuinely baffled in that deadpan little way of his before the chilled night air on your bare ass forces a whimper out of you. You don’t know if you like how it sounds. “I think I forgot it.”
“You didn’t,” you hiss through your teeth, “and you could’ve just told me if this was a sex thing, you don’t have to fucking—”
Fingers curl harshly into the hair at the base of your neck and pull you back in one motion, and the wind leaves your lungs.
“Keep it down,” he snaps, blankly and coldly. Mild annoyance.
And you shut up, you do. It works—you’ll give him that, but it’s not only from the sternness of his touch; it brings up something new and uncomfortable in your gut when you consider that you know Suo is strong—beyond just witnessing it, it’s not that you haven’t let him throw you around a little before—but he’s never handled you, certainly never put his hands on you. The implication of the situation crosses your mind; you wonder if this counts as that, but it turns your stomach to linger on, so you don’t.
“You said, if I remember correctly,” he continues, all hushed as his weight holds you in place and he pulls you to him, forehead pressed to your neck as your sweats pool around your ankles, “you could still love me scared.”
You could—but you don’t necessarily want to if you don’t have to. No one in their right mind, certainly, could want to do that, and you almost wonder if you gave him that impression—but this isn’t on you. He’s acting out of line. He should know better than this and you should spit it at him right now.
“Yeah, but—” You try to smack him with your free hand, but you’re smushed like a bug between him and the wall; it’s futile, and all the resolve in your brain gets filtered through the static of him, the shock kicking back up into panic, and him tearing away, kneeling down to rip your shoes off. “You’re—this is a little extreme, don’t you… Don’t you—”
“I wanted to see,” he says simply, while you try to jab at his shin with one foot and at the same time, keep your cheek from smearing against the roughness of the brick. He tosses your shoes away, and your pants go next, and then he stands, and you hear his belt.
Okay. This is happening.
You turn your head the other way down the alleyway, which suddenly seems very, very big and empty. His thigh is quick, wedged back between both of yours, hot and immobilizing you as he manipulates your other hand and shoves it behind you, too, even as you try to hold it to the wall; the struggle between you is no struggle at all, of course.
He clicks his tongue as he unsticks you. You hear his belt again.
“Okay, you’ve—”
And you start as you feel smooth leather, wrapping around one wrist and then the other; it goes around both, through the buckle, around again, and pulls tight, sticking to your cold sweat. You hiss again at the friction burn.
“—had your fun,” you keep yelling in a whisper so as not to upset his merciless fingers again. “I don’t think we should do this here.”
“That’s why we’re doing this here.” Still easy and breezy, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.
Your forehead hits the brick with determination—you don’t want to look at him in your peripheral anymore—and you kick again before there’s a heavy hardness on your lower back, a little wet and very warm. You seize again, lashing against him with the realization of how hard and leaky he is from this.
“And only when you tell me you’re scared—”
He doesn’t touch you, not like he normally does. Suo hardly ever thinks about his own pleasure until he’s gotten you off at least twice on his tongue or his fingers, but right now he just flips you rudely to face him, so quick it might give you whiplash, while he holds your shoulders against the brick and pitches his hips against yours, face to face with you, fixing his eye right into yours.
“—I’ll think about letting up.”
“I told you, we have a safe word—”
“And I told you, I forgot it.” His small smile is cutting as he kicks your feet apart. “Jump.”
“Hayato—”
But when you start to protest again, that unforgiving, pitiless touch flies for your throat. The back of your head smacks the brick; you screw your eyes shut and blink them back open to see the smile gone, replaced with chilling nothing. “Put your fucking legs around me.”
He doesn’t take a particularly precarious tone, but Suo doesn’t curse often. The word flying from him glues you in place.
Did you do something? Is he upset?
When you don’t move, he takes matters into his own hands—he seems intensely irritated at the notion of having to do so, but this isn’t fair, you mutter it under your breath to him as he claws into your ass and hoists you up. You wince at the scrape of the brick against your back, your knuckles, and flail, because god, it hurts. He doesn’t look at you as he grips himself to press against your folds—and with no hands at your disposal, a helpless sound leaves you.
“Cut it out right fucking now,” comes the tail end of your yelp, frustration watering down with impending tears. His cock prods at you and he spreads you with his fingers, all the while you’re telling him no, no, no, Hayato, stop it, I don’t want it like this—but he doesn’t seem to be listening, hair curtaining over his face, pale as the moon itself except for the apples of his cheeks; there, he’s pink and flushed with want.
“But you trust me,” he holds over you. “I’m gentle, remember?”
“You’re—”
“So stupid. You haven’t figured it out yet? I want you afraid.”
You scream this time, loud and unapologetic—or, you start, not even for a second before he claps his palm back over you, leaving you to ugh and mph and quake in your body as he shoves himself inside you. You’re struck dumb, as you close your eyes and lull to the side, that he’s doing this to you. You can’t believe he’s doing this at all.
It hurts going in. The tears well up hot and dense and he grunts as pushes past your taut entrance; you can’t imagine it feels good for him, either, as you arch away and try to shake him off, get him out of you, spitting and cussing and whining no into him.
“I’ll let you talk when you wanna say it,” he talks over you in that silky, casual tone, gritty only in the way it fights its way out past his teeth as he bottoms out in a way that feels hazardously unnatural. “Say you’re scared.”
You nod frantically back and forth because his hand is smothering, not because you feel inclined to fight him. Undoubtedly, he is scaring you now. You’re afraid. But what will he do if you give him what he wants? You can only imagine him smirking from his high horse—because, even if you loathe to admit it on account of the fact that you are so head over heels for him, your lover is more prideful than he lets on behind his modest mask; another thing you know well, but not because you’ve had a bunch of mature conversations about it or anything. You know this because he doesn’t shy away from opportunities to say the words I told you so—even if he does it from a good place, even if he goes in with an initial hope that he’ll be proven wrong, and even if he goes to great, unnecessary lengths to prove his point beforehand.
And you would love to prove him wrong right now, you really would. You’d love to be wet and clinging to his shoulders and begging for it harder, but what encompasses wrong is starting to blur—you don’t know what he wants. You don’t know if he’d rather you say it or you don’t, you be scared or you don’t. Maybe it’s already too late to talk him down from this frenetic state of jagged lust; it’s all so confusing to you, if he’s getting off on the idea of you running from it or submitting to it, or if he’s getting off on just throwing your ignorance in your face. Whatever it is, it’s hurting. You feel them spill over and you hate it because you have no idea what it means in the grand scheme of things, of appeasing him, of getting him to stop and let you go and love you in a way that feels good and not like you’re being held hostage for a price you can’t pay in a currency you’ve never heard of.
You thrash again, trying to take advantage of how he focuses on picking up his thrusts to quick and deep inside you, trying to dredge your wetness up, and butt your head madly, through his grip, at his nose, leaning into him to pull your legs up and try to get to his ribs.
He laughs, short and mocking, as he dodges your skull coming at him; you groan again and wind back up but his hand, unforgiving and cruel and so out of character, leaves its gracious post on your thigh and lands back down on your neck. He sends the back of your head into the brick again. You wail on contact but it’s pathetic and clipped short as Suo’s fingers squeeze down, holding you in place in every way he can as he fucks into you stiffly.
“Thought you said you loved me, sweetheart?” Suo grits, and you feel his blunt nails under your jaw as you twist and try to buck away. Being held up by nothing but your head and his cock hurts like the bones and ligaments connecting you to the rest of your body are going to pop loose, leave you headless on the ground. “Huh? Either you don’t—” Thrust. “—or I’m making you—” Thrust. “—afraid.”
You try to shake your head—it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. You’re humming no and riveting your eyes shut—you don’t know what you’re shaking no to; you love him, you do, but yes, you’re scared, you’re so scared because this Hayato—still your Hayato, for better or for worse—is unpredictable in a way his preestablished unpredictability could simply not allow you to predict before this very moment, and it’s never felt so bad and uncomfortable to have him inside you, and he knows—he knows, you’re telling him you don’t want it with everything in you, and he’s not stopping. The only wetness you feel is in your eyes, fuzzing up everything around you.
“It’s one of the two,” he says, deeply reproachful as he grinds into you. You almost wish he would kiss you—let you hold him and tell him you do love him, but if you were free to move, would you really be able to will yourself to do that right now? “And if you’re scared, you don’t trust me—”
His fingers clamp tighter. You tremble and twitch against the wall, but you’re losing steam quick, blood rushing to your head, temples tightening like a balloon inflated too far—you try to keep kicking, but it’s like the remaining energy in your body streams down your face and if the way Suo looks in front of you or the way his pelvis gains speed, creating a hollow echo down the alley each time his hips meet yours, is anything to go off, your tears are the only arousal he really needs.
“—And if you don’t trust me, I don’t see how you can love me.”
There it is. The corner he’s been backing you into, revealed in stale silvery light on a night just like any other. Fuck, he hisses, and the hand on your mouth falls, and he burrows back into the fat of your thigh.
“I do love you, I do love you, I do,” you gasp a whirlwind of humid air in and sob brokenly, and the friction burns until it doesn’t—it feels like it takes a lifetime, but whatever it is about this that gets you the slightest bit wet, whether it’s purely physiological or if some thoroughly fucked up part of you is enjoying this like he does, you’re thankful for it right now. It disgusts you, but if you don’t think about the cold or the brick or the impact of him into you, how Suo’s disregarding all your pleas in favor of violating you, maybe it can start to feel good. You want to feel good.
“Don’t lie.” He sounds kind of sad. It makes your gut snarl and tangle like the rotted roots of a tree up through your shoulders and into your numb arms. He’s not giving you a choice.
He’s been backing you into it—the corner, the alley—since dinner, or maybe long before that, waiting to get you like this, confused and defenseless, just so he could take advantage of it and selfishly try to provoke the impossible out of you. Can’t he tell he’s hurting you?
Doesn’t it hurt him to hurt you?
You’re not lying. You love him so much and everything is starting to feel numb, not just your arms—and if he’d just stop and help you to your feet and say sorry and take you home, you might forgive him. If he can just see it—you’re telling him the truth and he’s tormenting you trying to hear what he so, so selfishly wants—you can forget about it and go home.
You want to go home and fuck in your bed. You want to kiss him. Your Hayato. Your fingers flex frantically and your shirt feels dirty against them and you feel dirty and you’re the one that’s been lied to, and it makes you very angry, how unfair he’s being. If only he’d kiss you.
You’re so angry you ball up spit in your mouth and hurl it right at him.
In his surprise, he flinches back from you, cock sliding out of you as he does, leaving you feeling stretched in all the wrong ways, and you don’t have time to cry out before he’s dropping you. When you hit the ground a crunch radiates from your tailbone up through your spine, white-hot and ugly and forcing a cough out of you. Oh, god, you think you might throw up.
You don’t catch him scooping it off from where it landed, between his eyepatch and his angular nose, but you certainly feel it when he flings it back down at you, gross and mean. He grabs you by the back of the head thereafter, fingernails scorching across your scalp as he raises your face to his. He slaps you hard with the back of his hand.
It sends you out of your body, almost. You’ve never seen Suo slap anyone. The other guys, sure—plenty of times, both jovially and in fights, and it’s almost always funny, but there is nothing funny about the ringing in your ears or the blood you taste in your mouth. You loathe to imagine what Sakura, Nirei, or Umemiya would think about what’s unfolding a few minutes’ drive away from where they’re all asleep in their beds right now. You hope maybe they’re not. Maybe someone will find you. Maybe Kaji’s on his way home.
You sob, full and breathy, as the pang subsides and the ache in your backside amplifies tenfold.
“Say it,” he demands of you, still not at full exasperated capacity, like this might still just be a huge bit to him—it’s like he barely has to lift a finger to break you. Maybe that’s what makes it all so horrifying. If his tone matched the aggression in the way he tugs and yanks and repositions you onto your knees, it’d make sense. But he just sounds sad. Your vocal cords keep reeling and the concrete scorches your kneecaps and you feel hopeless trying to think of what will fix him right now.
When he’s got you against the wall again, legs all askew beneath you and mouth opening and closing like the words want to come out but aren’t ready, he hunches over and cups your face—the gentlest of all his touches thus far, and you slump into it with the impression that it might be over; he tilts you up to him, coos for name, for you to look at him, look at him, and you do—he’s all blurry, but you do, and his thumbs swipe at the streams of tears. You squint to push the rest of this wave of the flood out and over onto your cheeks, and when you do, you miss the flash of a self-satisfied grin, the glint in his eye. Suo loves your tears when he causes them—he hasn’t told you this in those exact words, but he hopes you’re smart enough to have figured that out by now.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” his voice that’s been so flat takes on that familiar, dreamy intonation again. You struggle against his belt, acutely aware of it, offended that he’s starting to be nice again but not reaching around you to take it off. You’re eager and your ankles and knees are cut and scraped and it feels like you’re on broken glass; maybe you are. You’re spinning.
“Hayato…” you rasp, tensing back up when he stands back at his full height, your chin between two fingers.
“Tell you what. Say it or don’t,” he backs down, stroking himself once, and then twice. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.” It never mattered. He’s an asshole, you think. He’s evil, because he knew it didn’t matter from the beginning and now he’s done all this to you—taken it out on you in this rage against something in his mind that has so very little to do with you. “But if you want to, now’s your last chance.”
You start to say his name again but he catches your mouth with his thumb, hooking you like a fish as he steps to you, stabbing his cockhead at you so you taste it—the salt of his precum, the tang of yourself drying on him and you do your best to snap shut, to turn your head away, but you’re repaid for this swiftly with another slap, and then another, and then another; you envision screws falling out of intricately held together structures, rapidly unwinding spools of thread as each subsequent one lands harder, harder, unrelenting until your heaving sobs are nothing but claustrophobic air, neither wanting to enter or exit your lungs.
“You could at least stop,” slap, “fucking,” slap, “resisting,” he grabs your face, still restrained by sorrow, you can tell—loaded with frustration that you won’t just submit but certainly not at full power, or else he might break your jaw with his manic fingers, you can feel it. “If you’re gonna act like you trust me.”
One thumb becomes two and pries you open like a dog chewing on something it’s not supposed to.
“And if I feel teeth you’re gonna wish I only slapped you.”
The wheeze you intake as the heaviness of his cock drags across your tongue is garbled by your long, hopeless croon. His furious, despondent fingers land over your ears now, trapping you underwater against him as he punches toward your throat, hips as livid as the rest of him.
And you gag. It feels so suffocating—literally and figuratively, but mostly literally, because he forces you onto him, rocks back and forth until your nose is mashed to his pelvis and the tuft of hair there. You have no choice but to smell him, warm and sweaty as he maneuvers you, molds you to him, fingers locked around the back of your head as he fucks your face like a toy. Over and over and over, he bullies his way in, sighing and groaning as your senses start to fail; it sounds like it feels so good, the way he brutalizes your mouth.
You’ve never heard Hayato moan like he is right now, as he’s ripping ugly gargles and chokes from you, totally paralyzed, trying to become dead weight as he strikes the back of your throat again and again and again.
Drool spills from you and gets tangled in your shirt in pathetic strings; his balls slap your chin and your eyes wide shut pour all over again. It’s all wet in a dreadful way. You want him to finish. You want it to be over. Please let it be over, you think, as he still, and you feel him throbbing and pulsing against your tongue.
Not yet, though. His hips stop but his hands go, battering you against him; you try to wail around him but it just sounds like exactly what it is—a poor, soft throat getting wrecked.
And the pain from your cunt and the ache in your jaw reach for each other, meeting in your stomach and embracing. You quake and twitch as he holds you down one last time, humping and grinding into you and relieving a hand to pinch your nose. You want to bite. You want to bite. But you’re not a bad dog, you think, you don’t know why you’ve been hit, and it would be worse to prove him right.
Suo vocalizes a few more times—it would sound so pretty if it didn’t all feel so awful. He spills thickly down your throat with a cuss, and heavy breath. And you whine in protest, fingernails leaving violent crescents in your palms.
You are spinning again as you nod forward into him, head curling into his thigh, vision black around the edges, lungs screaming. You suck in air like you’ve never breathed before, and you crumple into his lap as he crouches down to catch you.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs tenderly as your form, a ball of utter defeat, curls into him, even though it’s not okay—none of it is okay and you can’t imagine a world where it ever will be again.
The sobs come again, loud and shaky, as he hugs around you to undo his belt; with newly freed fingers you dig into his shirt, damp with sweat, and cry, and cry and cry—all your anger and disorientation coagulating at your lashlines and cascading endlessly, endlessly into your palms, into his shoulder. You sob until you feel empty in his arms, until there’s nothing left in you, and what you’ve expelled feels like it could fill a swimming pool.
“You did so well for me, sweetheart. I never doubted you.”
And he coaxes you up, letting you grip his forearms and then his shoulders as he coaches you delicately to lift one foot and then another as he reinstates your underwear first, and then your pants, back how he found them; he tucks himself back into his jeans, soiled and sweaty, too, but neither of you mind that as you hide in your hands and he fits your shoes back on again, just like he did less than an hour ago. Lastly, a zip up hoodie blankets your shoulders. And after all this, all these blazing, tender little touches, Suo shoulders your weight against him to stumble you both back home.
Your hair feels a mess. Your wrists are sore. Everything aches and feels so, so bad.
If it was daylight, or if you felt a part of this planet, you might be self-conscious of how your knees knock together, how you walk funny from the chafing—but it’s not, and you don’t. You lean onto a warm body that supports you so kindly and make your way back, sniffling away, wiping at your swollen face, adjusting your clothes. Nothing feels right.
And you tell him, finally—you can’t talk but you look up at him, your Hayato, as your feet, which hardly touch the ground, get caught up between his.
He’s quick to right you, hands mild and kind and his face all full of placating grace and something bitter you don’t have the faculties to process yet. You can’t speak but you tell him in the way you tug at his shirt sleeve and look up at him with all the weight in the world in your glossy eyes and wobbling lip. You nod. It takes your whole body, but you nod, and it hurts, and you keep nodding forever because you want to make sure he knows.
He smiles at you vapidly as he picks you up like a baby.
And you let him, because he’s your Hayato, and it’s over, and he punctuates it all with an I know, sweetheart, you fall asleep, exhausted in every sense of the word, in the crook of his neck.
You think, as you drift off, pin-and-needle arms secure around his neck, that you are so tired you might never wake up. You hope you dream of being with him someplace far away from here.
