tws; implied sh, sh without the s, blood (obviously), uh idk hiori being a freak, dubious consent
oh, pretty boy, angel-looking hiori
he’d definitely be into, do i even gotta say it, blood
wounds? cuts? scars? yeah he's hard :/ eww what a creep (he’s so me)
so you’d be just like, y'know, hanging out with him at his room
obviously, his parents aren't home— they’re famous ex-athletes, so they’d get invited to tokyo for some random event. therefore, his house is empty, and there’s plenty of privacy for him to sneak you in…
it’s not like you’re stupid enough to hang out with his parents at home. and it’s not like they’d ever allow him to bring someone anyway— much less some ‘random’ girl like you. you’re just a distraction, an obstacle that could mean the failure of his football career.
but they don’t have to know about your existence, you’re hiori’s little secret :)
“whoa… your room is pretty cool.” you mumble. you knew hiori was rich, but this looks like the dream room of any teenager.
his setup seems expensive as hell, there’s a bookshelf filled to the brim with numerous books, and the bed is incredibly big and soft looking.
he hums in response, closing the door behind him.
you raise a brow, it’s not like there’s anyone at home…
“muscle memory.”
lol, whatever
you walk over the king-sized bed, allowing yourself to plop onto it without a care in the world. ou, it is as spongy as it looks like
hiori soon sits next to you,
“...”
“...”
“so… what are we doing?”
he looks at you with the most adorable eyes anyone has ever looked at you with.
genuinely, ethereal
with his doll eyes, huge baby blue orbs staring at you sooo sweetly,
his long lashes even flutter a couple times like he was some sort of angel
oh, whatever it is that he wants, you’re so fucked
“can we try somethin’ new?”
before you knew it, you’re laying against the mattress, your shirt lift up enough to reveal your naked torso
you’re already regretting this
“hio i don’t thi…”
he interrupts you with a soft kiss.
“shhh, it’s okay doll. close yer eyes for me, won’t ya’?”
he runs his lean fingers through your messy hair, a manipulative attempt to relax you.
you grimace as you try to keep your eyes closed
and he smiles
“yer soooo cute.”
he averts his gaze back to your exposed belly and unconsciously bites his lower lip.
and soon enough, the cold sensation of sterilized metal right on your v line sends a shiver down your spine.
you open your eyes immediately, only to be met with hiori’s focused expression
and a boxcutter on his hand
what?
“h-hey– what the fuck are you doing–?!”
he just flutters his lashes and smiles softly.
your stomach drops
“this isn’t funny— stop–e-eugh–!”
you try to move, but he already has your arms pinned up above your head with his left hand :/
on top of that, he sat squarely on your hips, thighs spreading far beyond your sides, leaving you squirming in impotence under his larger frame
you spew a couple (various) insults at him, tone getting louder with each one
spoiler: he dgaf
so you just keep thrashing your legs around in vain, shaking your head
meanwhile, the blade is already slicing through the first couple layers of your skin like butter
tbh it doesn’t even hurt, he’s not even going that deep—
well, he doesn’t think it’s that deep.
pun intended.
some are thin enough to look like papercuts
he doesnt look too convinced.
he retraces whatever shape(s) he is making, the new wounds now turning white before being filled with red dots that soon overflow the slits
the crimson begins running down, and so does a couple of tears when he presses the blade a bit deeper, the sting watering your eyes…
…okay, that’s prolly gonna be a hypertrophic scar
oops
(your body jerks)
and your breath is way too ragged
“f-fuck– n-no—ghh”
“mmm... y're doin’ sooo good f'me doll.”
the way you're looking at him right now is making him hard
(you look like you want to kill him. or die. or cry. maybe all three)
after an eternal couple minutes later, he finally seems satisfied enough with the masterpiece he created.
he smirks, his eyes shining brighter than ever, like a kid who got his favorite candy, as he drags his thumb on top of the wounds, smearing the liquid
(his fingers are calloused and rough, yet they feel so silky against your derm…)
(or maybe it's just the blood acting like lube)
then he brings it to his tongue and licks it, not breaking eye contact with you
he makes an obscene sound that you did NOT expect hiori to be able to make
you freeze
“ugh, f-fuck, my name looks so pretty on ya’, mhm”
…
…?!!!
his name—?!
your face is warm.
not from shyness or anything like that, no.
it's just rage and humiliation
and maybe a bit of horror.
mmm…
even better, he lets go of the boxcutter and uses his now free right hand to stretch your wrists apart
if you were already restrained before, imagine now
and then he slowly licks the wounds directly, making your body jerk and wince
you hiss and groan, desperately trying to break free
it's obviously futile
he only giggles at your sad attempts to do anything, his adorably sweet voice a condescending remark
“you s-son of a bitch—”
he places a kiss next to the fresh wounds, a shudder running down your spine
“i love ya’ too, sweetheart.”
you can taste your own blood when he kisses you once again, his pliant lips crimson-tinted
when he finally pulls away, there's an obscene saliva trail connecting both of your mouths that is dyed red at some point
“y-you're–” you pant, exhausted and sweating, brows pulled together, “so–gh—gross—! get off!! get off!!! i-i'm not your fucking p—!!”
the rest of the sentence dies in your throat as he takes his jersey off and tosses it to the side without sparing it a single glance, revealing his naked upper body—
—and revealing your carved name, a harsh deep scarlet with purple hues fading around, scarring under his right pectoral.
he’s blushing, hard and feverishly, an expression you never saw on him before, and you can only stare as your eyes widen in disbelief.
Your white scleras seem to swallow part of your orbs with the way your eyes widen in shock, strings of surprise pulling your brows back.
…
“What?”
You need a couple seconds to process the image flashing on your screen like a sick joke. Because you’d think it’s a sick joke. Messing with you. Trying to scare you a little.
But Hiori would never do something like that.
So it scares you to death because you know damn well that the photo is, indeed, his. You can see the shape of his gaming chair on the corner of the picture, and the way his muscles are flexed—
You retch.
Which is ironic, because you’d always been too tough skinned for this. Too many gory movies, too many weird friends, too many bad decisions— Too many hours of doomscrolling on twitter could be the cherry on top, you’ve seen things that shouldn't be seen, and you’d laugh by thinking that, even though it’s something not funny.
And—
Damn, you’d be the first one to cringe or laugh and— You aren’t dumb, much less the sweetest girl, so in a situation like this, it would be you the first one to ignore it and go on with your day. That whole manipulating stuff–? Yeah, no, you’re practically immune.
Or that’s what you thought at first.
Because the moment you see white oozing behind red like an allergic rash, or maybe pickled strawberries drowning on yogurt and— oh, God, you feel yesterday’s dinner boil inside stomach acid, threatening to become disgusting warm bile, is that– yellow?
The consistency looks like jelly and you watch horrified how inhumane it looks. Like instead of real blood it’s fake paint because surely, human flesh cannot look so shiny. But the way the crimson pools inside the large, deep, practically carved slit until flooding out gruesomely is way too revolting and disgusting to not be real.
Hiori is sweet.
He wouldn’t lie to you in this way.
And you’ve never thought you could see such a chunk of muscle by its insides like this, greasy yellow fat ripping out a mix between a gasp and sob, like it’s ready to be slurped with a straw by you.
Only when, mouth open wide, your trembling fingers shakily throw the phone to your mattress, the hot bile floods up up up in your throat like a disgusting bug crawling on your gummy palates.
You cough, hard. And only ten seconds must have passed since the moment you saw the picture, but you feel blood rush to your legs urging you to do something now. And you feel dumb, gosh, incredibly dumb as you scramble towards your phone again for even throwing it away like that, putting the wrong password twice before managing to open it again, as you immediately click on the call button.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Nothing.
You send a message.
‘hiri’
Another one.
‘hey’
Other one.
‘Hiorri pleaee pick up’
You flood the fucking chat like your life depended on it, trembling too much to even care about stupid typos. Your eyes are dry but your chest feels like you’ve been weeping for hours straight, too raw and– it’s not pleasant at all.
“This is not funny–” you stutter as your third call stops ringing. “This is not funny at all, Yocchan , come on—”
You start tearing up when you realize that not a single message has been delivered.
It’s one in the morning. Your family is out, parents visiting some old friends, probably, your sibling(s) partying away with their own friends, probably–
It’s one in the morning. And you’re the only one in your house. And the night isn’t a good time for a young girl to go out. And your father told you a hundred times to never ever leave alone after curfew. And you know your parents trust you and that you don’t trust the city at night.
But it’s one in the morning. Two, soon. And Hiori is bleeding to death and he’s not replying.
You bolt, grabbing the house keys, stealing some money from your mother’s secret stash… you’re in your pajama shorts, totally not appropriate to wear outside, but you don’t even think about that as you grab the first jacket you find and snatch it from the closet. You don’t even know if the sneakers you put on are even yours.
And you run. Run.
Bus station—
Fuck, it’s one in the morning. Almost two. Of course there’s no bus. No train, either. Your luck is as bad as your planning.
You stare at the 5000¥ bill on your hand as the cold summer-night air brushes your bare knees.
You hoped it was enough for a cab.
Or that whoever drove you there, didn’t attempt to kidnap you.
You bite your lip as you give another call. Nothing. Your data is going to die at this rate. And there’s a weird group of guys that’s laughing too loud and way too near. You see how some blonde nudges the freckled male next to him, his finger (not so) subtly pointing at your bare legs.
“Ugh, fuck fuck — taxi! Here!”
You don’t even bother thinking about how unsafe you are, as you get inside the first taxi you have the blessing to find.
“To xxx-xxx-xxx, please.”
….
You’ve only been to Hiori's house a couple of times, when his parents were away. So you pray, as you knock on the door, that it’s Hiori the one who opens.
Which you doubt. Because he might as well be dead.
Why didn’t you even call the police?
Ugh.
You know why.
Hiori would hate you if you did.
(No, he wouldn’t ever hate you. But you’re smart for remembering just how bad he gets along with his parents and how much in trouble he’d get. You don’t want pretty Hiori getting locked away in some psych ward now, mhm?)
So you try to catch air as you wait for a response.
It’s almost three in the morning now.
The door opens.
Blue meets your eyes.
“[name]?”
He sounds surprised. And sweet. And gentle. And sick. And fucking sick.
Or that’s just your mind playing games because when you can’t even reply or sigh in relief as your eyes travel down his body, lips quivering when you see dried crimson dripping from— oh, God, his shorts do not manage to hide the wound completely.
Your knees are going to give up.
“Y-yocchan–?” you can’t pull your eyes away.
So you don’t even notice how his lips curl softly upwards.
He can’t help it. You just look so distressed.
…
You don’t even know how you arrived to his room. How you made him sit down on his own bed, looking at you with a pretty, soft glance as you try your best not to yell at him or cuss him out.
“Where do you– ah, ahh,” you pant, too exhausted from your recent trip, and too scared, too, “you have bandages, right–?
You almost trip with his stupid gamer chair and fall on your face.
“Bandages,” you say again, voice shaking as you fumble to open drawers. “Antiseptic. Anything. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—fuck, Hiori.”
You aren’t even using that stupid nickname anymore. He speaks softly.
“I think there’s some in the bathroom…”
“ You think?!! What the fuck do you mean you think ?!! Fuck–”
By the time he blinks, you’re already gone. A thud resonates in his bathroom and when he blinks again, you’re already here with him again.
“I– found some gauge and alcohol. But it’s too deep– You need to go to the hospital and get stitches.”
He almost smiles again when you kneel in front of him, between his legs, with tears threatening to spill from your eyes. Because you’re there. Braless under the jacket, hair messy, nose red and so close to vomiting… with him. Because of him. For him.
He bites his lower lip (and not for a bad reason) when he sees how you try not to faint right there on the spot with his open wound just so damn close to your face.
And then he shoots the first shot.
“...I didn’t think ya’ would come.”
A pause.
“...yer’ not disgusted, are ya’?”
You freeze. And then—
“Hiori, don’t— don’t do that to me, ” your voice breaks, “I ran here—I stole from my mom, I— fuck, do you know how scared I was?! Of course I’m disgusted—!”
You close your mouth when those words slip from your tongue.
Because he doesn’t reply.
Your eyes dart above.
His pretty eyes are covered by his soft, silky bangs. But you can see, even with the darkness that seems to be swallowing him all, how his eyes are zeroing on yours.
“Ya’ did this.”
…
What?
A drop of saline water drips down your face and that’s the cherry on top.
“Wait I didn’t mean it like— I’m sorry– I– Sorry, I’m sorry Hiori–”
Your words crumble into gasps. You try to wipe your face but your hands are shaking too much. You look up, watery eyes pleading. “I’m sorry, Hiori. I didn’t know. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you feel—like—like you weren’t worth coming for—”
“Yer’ cryin’ ‘cause of me,” he murmurs.
And then comes the real knife .
“Ya’ must really hate me right now.”
“N-no—! What?! Hiori, stop—, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—! It’s not disgusting, I’m just too shocked and–”
Your voice is a whimper . You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, but the words are falling out between sobs.
Hiori likes someone who could leave him alone when he needs it.
You also like being alone when you need it.
But, God, you never expected that ignoring his messages for a couple days would turn out this badly.
You stare at his thigh.
"H-Hiori, I—" you choke, voice nothing more than a stuttered gasp. "It’s not disgusting– But this is—too deep—fuck—why didn’t you tell me—?”
“…”
“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.
You look up at him.
“I—I shouldn’t be the one—you should be at a hospital, Hiori—please—please, I can't—”
“Then why are ya’ here?”
You freeze.
His voice is soft. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... calm. Like he’s genuinely curious.
“Because I-I have to clean it,” you mumble, more to yourself. “I have to—god—fuck, I have to—I can’t let it get infected—if it gets infected you’ll—”
He watches you tear open the alcohol, fingers fumbling, almost dropping the cotton pad. You press it to his thigh—tentative, barely touching him.
He hisses and you mutter another sorry.
You dab the bleeding edges, even when your throat burns. You press the gauze in place and tape it down, even when your whole body screams to run.
You’re going to reconsider your dream job after this. And stay away from meat for a good while, too.
You sit back once the bandage is in place, gasping like you’ve just performed surgery.
And he—he looks at you like you hung the stars.
Like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than you there, kneeling between his legs, covered in snot and tears and the scent of antiseptic, eyes blown wide with horror and still looking at him.
“…Yer’ shaking,” he murmurs.
And before you can stop it—
Before you can even process it—
His hand is cradling the side of your face.
His thumb runs under your eye, smearing the tears.
And you don’t flinch.
You’re too tired. Too gutted. Too broken open by the moment to even care about what you should and shouldn’t allow.
So you just sit there. Kneeling. Letting him touch you like that. Wiping the fat tears away with his calloused thumb.
Letting him look at you like that.
Like he’s the one that needs to take care of you now.
And maybe he’s right.
Because you barely notice when his other arm wraps around your shoulders,
“No, Hiori, wait— you need to rest this isn’t–”
You can’t keep talking when you see how his eyes look. So you let him pull you up—closer—into his lap.
You stiffen, but he’s gentle.
Always so gentle.
“Are you feeling better now?” you ask, brows looking sad.
“Ya’ did good,” he whispers, lips close to your ear. “Thank you.”
You blink, stunned.
Your hands hover awkwardly against his hoodie.
“Hiori, I—”
“Shh.”
His fingers slide into your hair.
Slow. Careful.
He starts rubbing the back of your head in slow, lulling circles.
Your breath hitches.
You shouldn’t let him.
You shouldn’t be here. Like this.
Pressed to his chest. Straddling his good thigh. With his injured one still warm next to your leg. Some of his blood dried on your fingertips and his hands in your hair.
You don’t even hear them. You don’t hear the tiny hiccuping sobs against his collarbone, almost too quiet to notice now. It’s like your body hasn’t realized you’re not in danger anymore. Or that you weren’t the one in danger, per se.
And when they finally stop, after who knows how many minutes, you exhale, sloooow. And you sloooowly put your weight back onto your feet, because you need to leave, it’s way past three in the morning, standing up and—
He’s not smiling when you do that. Not like you knew he was smiling as you cried before anyway. But you do see his face is slack with exhaustion, hair falling over his eyes, lower lip bitten raw. Because he wants you here. Not in a clinging, panicked way. No. In that soft, aching, terminally lonely way that makes your stomach flip.
He doesn’t even talk but your eyes glance at the blood of his thigh and you slowly drag your body back to his lap.
He smiles.
He fucking smiles.
This time you see it.
He looks right through your eyes. So cute. So soft. So sweet. So gruesome.
“I love ya’.”
“...Me too.”
“Then prove it.”
Your lips quiver.
“Hiori…”
You hesitate, before giving him a light peck on his cheek.
He easily grabs your right leg and spreads it so you’re now sitting fully on his lap, each thigh hugging his waist.
You gasp.
His injury is there. So close to you. If you moved too harshly now you could easily reopen it. The butterfly bandaids are amazing, but even if they’re steri-trips, they can only do so much with such a cut.
“Aren’t ya’ goin’ to prove it…?”
You softly place your lips against his and you close your eyes shut as his slender fingers squeeze on the flesh of your hips, short nails digging inside. You don’t even gasp again when his tongue licks your lower lip, but you do gasp when you feel how his hands drag you further into his lap, until your core is directly above his middle. And he takes advantage of it, of course, when you push your palm against his shoulder as you groan, to harshly shove his tongue inside your mouth.
Of course he does.
One hand is still firm against your hip, but the other one is now behind your head. Holding you in place (or maybe not letting you leave your place). You feel how he pushes your head closer to his mouth, not even allowing you a mere breath or a second to talk.
Who cares.
It’s not like you’d just walk away or just leave like that. Not when you know that if you move too abruptly you might tear his skin open. No, you’re not dumb, much less the sweetest girl, but in this situation it’s morally easier to choke on his squirming tongue than to make him bleed.
His hand now slips under your jacket, and you can’t help but to jerk at the sudden move. But his hand is still holding your head in place. So this time you shove him away, harder. Before you can even process it.
…
Silence.
“Ah–” he says. “ Ah. Sorry.”
You blink.
He starts to push you off him.
And suddenly, every part of you panics.
“No—wait—Hiori—”
His eyes stay on yours.
Empty.
“I get it,” he murmurs. “Ya’ don’t want me. Not like I want ya’.”
“That’s not—”
“Go home.”
Your whole chest caves in.
“No—wait—I do want—Sorry, please don’t— Yocchan I’m sorry—”
You don’t even realize you’re moving until your hips rock forward.
Lightly. Barely.
But he gasps.
And smiles again. So sweetly.
And pulls you right back into his lap. Hard.
You yelp. Not so high-pitched to be considered a yelp, actually, but there’s nothing else that could describe it in a way that doesn’t feel as harsh as a hiss.
And that’s when his grip on your hips tightens. Just enough to guide you. Just enough to make your hips roll forward.
Right over the heat of him.
And you feel it.
All of it.
Your back arches.
“H-Hiori—!”
He shushes you with another kiss. His mouth is warm. Too warm.
“Yer’ already doin’ so well,” he murmurs, voice breaking just slightly—just enough to still sound boyish, soft, cute. “Yer’ bein’ so good for me. Just a little more. Just a little more and I’ll be okay.”
You know he won’t.
You know he’s lying.
But your body is already moving.
Well.
You let him move your body.
Because how could you not?
When he says your name like that?
When he looks at you like that?
When you’re the only one keeping the knife out of his hand?
You bite your lip, choking back a sob, and let him pull you flush against him again.
He sighs—moans—into your mouth.
And when he rocks you again, he smiles like he’s finally full.
Like he’s fixed.
Even though you know he’s not.
Because you’re still scared of what he would do if you leave.
No.
You’re scared of what you will make him do if you leave.
