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I damn to hell every second you breathe

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Jin wakes up and it takes a second for reality to come crashing in, a moment before the light filtering into his room dissolves from the memory of brilliant data streams into sun reflected off leaves.

One moment before he realises where he is, who he is and more importantly who he’s not anymore - who he’s not with anymore. A small grace period before the weariness of existence sets into his bones, before the unhappiness starts gnawing at him.

Onto the next part of his routine, staring straight ahead, sun painfully shining into his eyes. Asks himself if today is the day he won’t get up. Some time where he wistfully contemplates refusing this pointless, senseless exercise called living.

Which is when he hears his brother’s voice calling him through the door from below, forced cheer and lowkey anxiety; hope and fear. He gives himself another second to viciously hate it, hate him for forcing him to be here, to go through the motions, to breathe, to move, to live as if nothing happened – as if he belongs here, as if he’s the same.

He allows it because the helpless, painful guilt that follows is usually enough to get him out of bed, to shout down a COMING in his best approximation of a normal voice, to dress and clean and put on the face of what he assumes a boy his age to be like.

It’s never clear if he succeeds, since no matter his mood or attitude his brother always treats him the same. He’s clearly deliriously happy to see Jin doing even the tiniest things on his own, but there are flashes of guilt, of sadness, of something when he looks at him. He keeps saying he  wants him around and Jin even believes that, but at the same time he clearly has no idea how to actually act around him.

Shouichi spent over a decade fighting for him, searching for him, giving up his own life to get him back – now that he has him he’s unsure how to proceed. The awkwardness is palpable, he imagines he can almost see it hovering over their light breakfast conversation.

He wishes he could help it, could help his brother. He loves him, loves him in a way he didn’t think he was even capable of anymore for a while. At the end, he was the only thing that tied him to his old existence enough to come back for, instead of following Lightning into oblivion. His brother’s calls, his tears tethering him to whatever this is.

But at the same time he feels like Shouichi wants something from him that he can’t give him, that little boy who used to follow his brother araound so far from what he is now as to be nearly unrecognizable.

He wants to give that to him, oh how he wants to. He longs to be enough, to slot into the space he left behind in Shouichi’s life, in his heart. Not only because he wants his brother to be happy (though that too), but also because it sounds so much easier It sounds like this person, this Kusanagi Jin is someone capable of being happy.

So he goes through the motions. Forces himself to smile, to make jokes, to try to be as normal as possible, sitting with his brother in an open kitchen, eating pancakes, teasing him about his hair. Trying to ignore the threatening headache at the too bright glare, the hollowness in his chest that makes everything that by all accounts should be easy into something requiring so much effort . Ignoring the pained glances his brother sends him when he thinks Jin is not looking, the way he’s always careful with him, how their interactions are just this shade of uneasy. Rinse and repeat.


He always joins Shouichi at his van after school, though he’s been trying to convince him that now that there is no need for a cover for his activities he should try getting a real job, one that takes advantage of his abilities.

Shouichi always laughs and tells him that he enjoys it. Jin doesn’t know if that’s the truth or if he doesn’t want Jin to feel guilty for all he gave up in order to save him. He’s unsure if he should be able to tell, if he should be able to read his brother’s emotions better. All he knows is that it tears at him, his brilliant brother, wasted like this. He wants to scream at some of the people that buy from him, that clearly look down on him for what he does, even though he’s so much better than him, such a more worthy existence than all these other pieces of scum.

Nonetheless, the hot dog cart is where his brother spends his afternoons, so this is where Jin goes – he doesn’t have friends in his school, doesn’t see any need to interact with these children he has nothing in common with. He tells his brother not to worry, that it’s because they are all younger than him by at least a year. Knows that they keep their distance too, instinctively. Maybe sensing the echo Lightning left inside him, that sees these humans living their pointless lives and feels nothing but disdain.

He walks up to the plaza and – falters. Slows down, trying to lengthen the time until he arrives. Because he is here. Jin needs the time to deal with the rush of emotion, to force his face back into something neutral, before Shouichi sees, before he knows .

Fujiki has his back to him, so he can only observe his brother’s reactions. Whatever he says, it must be funny, because Shouichi throws his head back and laughs, free and loud – unrestrained, unlike anything he shows when Jin is in front of him.

As is evidenced by the way his face changes when he catches sight of Jin, pure gladness appearing at Jin moving, talking, alive , but also something complicated twisting it, chasing away the easy happiness of before.

Fujiki must notice it too, because he turns around before his brother even says anything.

“Hello, Jin-kun.” he says in his quiet voice.

“Hey Yusaku, here again?” he replies. The smile on his face must be grotesque, a nightmare creature, the lightness in his tone belied by the growling in his guts. 

He hates him, oh how he hates him. He forces his smile wider, just in case, just to be save, because Shouichi can never know. Shouichi wants them to get along . He never misses an opportunity to tell Fujiki how grateful he is, how he gave Jin his life back.

The only thing Jin can see when he sees Fujiki is missed chances, Lightning dissolving in front of him, bright green swallowing up his world, the red and yellow of his hair like a bloody field.

He sees how he tore apart what Jin was with Lightning, how he took away that place Jin used to belong in, belong to.

Yes he’s different, yes he has changed, can barely remember what it was like to exist in this reality. Doesn’t know how to talk to Shouichi, can’t even comprehend telling him that sometimes he can barely stop himself from trying to rip off this useless human skin that itches and burns and feels like it doesn’t fit him.

But some part of him is sure, sure that he could be this person again, that he and Shouichi could be right , if only Fujiki hadn’t come along and stolen this spot in his brother’s life, if only there wasn’t perfect Saint Fujiki to compare him to, throwing his failings into sharp relief.

“Nothing better to do, I guess.” Fujiki says. Shouichi throws him a grateful look at the attempt of a conversation. Jin has to bite his tongue bloody to keep the smile on his face.

“Ahh, don’t say that. College life should be busy! I'm sure there are loads of people who would love to fill your schedule.” he replies, can’t stop himself from thinking the vicious you dirty whore , though he thankfully keeps the insult behind his red-stained teeth.

“Jin!” Shouichi says and the hint of dismay in his voice tells him that it was the wrong thing to say. It’s always the wrong thing to say.

Because Shouichi wants them to be friends , he thinks that Fujiki is a great influence, that they have so much in common, that Fujiki will be the one to understand him, to fix him. Since Fujiki is so perfect, beloved by all, the hero in the little drama they are playing.

As far as Jin can tell the only influence Fujiki has had on him is that the groves his fingernails are leaving on the inside of his hands might scar permanently.

But he can’t say that. He can never say that. Because this is important to Shouichi, somehow. There had been so much joy and hope in his face the very first time he left Fujiki and him alone to talk. Presumably he thought a lot of important bonding would happen, something affirmative and healing.

Mostly it had been an grueling hour of keeping himself from attacking Fujiki with sharp objects.

“It’s fine Kusanagi-san.” Fujiki says, calm, composed, Jin wishes his insides would melt , “Jin-kun is right – I should probably get going.” He gets up, stupidly graceful, his shirt slipping, showing off his white collarbone.

And suddenly Jin can’t focus on anything else, his world narrowing down to that slip of skin, asking himself how he’d taste , to find out what it is that so many people are desperate to get from Fujiki. How the white, white expanse of skin would look if he put his teeth right into that hollow and bit down . How beautiful the white-red contrast would be, what sounds he’d make.

It sends a shiver of arousal through him, making him feel more present in his body than he remembers being – well, since the last time his stupid, worthless, flesh-body decided to remind him at the sight of Fujiki’s body that he’s  teenage hormones now.

Fujiki raises his eyebrows the tiniest bit, clearly having seen the flash of heat in his eyes. Thankfully Shouichi is rummaging for something under the counter, because nothing could have stopped him from releasing the glare, wishing he could destroy someone through pure force of will, erase their existence completely.

He wants him to say nothing, because Shouichi is right there and he can never know .

At the same time he wants him to ask Jin about it – so he can tell him how far below them he is, how Jin’s body might be deciding to answer the siren call everyone else has already fallen beneath, but that it means nothing .

The only thing it does is add more fuel to his hatred, keeps it burning strong, proving to him that Fujiki is a base, craven creature – that maybe his dick is responding to him, because that’s all he’s good for.

He wishes he could say this to him, throw it in his face, have a way to bleed out this poison , this darkness threatening to swallow him. Sometimes he can feel it as almost a physical force taking him over, looking out from behind his eyes, corrupting his insides, tainting his heart.

Fujiki – stays silent. Always silent, like a half-broken doll. Doesn’t even have the decency to give this tiny bit to him, give him an outlet for this boiling rage.

Because he knows, he understands what Jin thinks of him. His brother might have decided to stay wilfully blind, but Fujiki seemed to have been able to tell what he thought of him from the very first moment. Maybe just because he isn’t showing the same senseless, slavish devotion for him like everyone else. It makes the bile rise in his throat the way Homura and Zaizen gravitate around him, as if he’s the sun. As if he’s worthy .

Whatever it is, it means that he rarely has to stay in the same vicinity as him for any extended periods of time. Which is a good thing. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he was forced to spend time alone with him.


When he gets to the cart and finds Fujiki there, it becomes clear that I forgot my laptop in the cart, but I have this important call, could you get it for me had been a set-up.

From the surprise followed by resignation in Fujiki’s face, at least he hadn’t been part of that clumsy ambush. Which might be a point in his favour, but Jin can’t think about that, because he can feel the rage rising in him. And this time there is nothing to keep him from letting it out, no hopeful Shouichi around to force him to ball his fist and smile, smile, smile .

You. ” he says and delights at the amount of venom he manages to inject, wants to laugh at how even just that one syllable feels like breathing air for the first time in weeks.

“Good evening, Jin.” Fujiki says, straightening up, no visible reaction in his face or voice. Jin embraces the fresh wave of hatred this brings, the way Fujiki always disengages , as if he’s too good to deal with the mere mortals in his path. Because this way he’s allowed to feel it, allowed to bare his teeth.

“No honorifics? I am shocked and appalled .” he mocks, a hand dramatically on his chest, voice going up, consciously mirroring the little dark Ignis normally at his side, the one who was allowed to live, when Lightning was not. “The mouth on you.”

Fujiki rolls his eyes, though his mouth goes a bit tight. He gets up from where he was fiddling with the bottom of the console – graceful, always graceful, but there is a bit of caution in his movements, a wariness in his eyes Jin has never seen before.

Realization strikes him, like a bolt of lightning, a gift from above. The fact that they are alone, at night. That he’s been forcing himself to eat, to exercise, to exist and it has led to at least his body recovering, the decimated muscles filling in, his frame widening. That no matter how larger than life Playmaker might be, Fujiki is slight. Almost delicate. The wrists he’d spent a wasted afternoon hatefully thinking about, probably easily gripped in only one of his hands. His bones possibly as easy to break as a bird’s.

That he’s standing in front of the door.

And that at least some part of Fujiki is afraid .

The thrill that sends through him is nearly incomparable, the feeling of power only exceeded previously when he was working with, being used by Lightning.

“What’s the matter?” and he hears the dark velvet entering his voice now, feels like a panther on the prowl and it’s glorious. “You have no reason to be scared.” he taunts, hungry for the step back, a flinch, a reaction.

But instead Fujiki just – sighs. Sighs and leans back against the counter, looking up at Jin.

“What do you want .” It’s plaintive. It’s tired . It stops him cold, kills the sweet lovely high he’d been floating on.

It’s a reaction, yes, but it’s empty . He’s torn apart, burned out every day, the thought of Fujiki following him, without reprieve, without end, this endless hatred festering in every part of him, suffusing his essence.  But this is what it is to Fujiki - meaningless.

He sees red.

In the next second he’s standing over him, panting, fist clenched, Fujiki thrown back against the shutters through the force of his punch. One of his knuckles must have scraped on his teeth, it burns. A shudder of revulsion goes through him at the thought of their blood mixing, getting contaminated like that, while at the same time some of the previous joy comes back to him at the sight of the bright flash of scarlet on Fujiki’s face.

“Do not fucking dare ask me if that's what I want.” he spits, breathless, the rage so all-consuming he can barely speak.

Fujiki turns to him slowly, the wariness back in his eyes, touching his split lip. “Or what?” he says, defiance entering his voice, more like his commanding presence on a dueling field, the passion that had blazed and ground Lightning into dust.

“Or I’m going to beat you to death.” he says and in this moment, in this instance he believes it, knows it’s true, can feel the need for it itching under his skin, a singular beautifully simple emotion.

A second later, he staggers back, gagging. Because how is he this , how has he become like this. Where did he go wrong, how can he go back to those golden days that Shouichi is so desperately trying to reach for both of them. How is he going to keep him from realizing that this – this ugly, monstrous thing – is all that’s left of him now.

There is laughter coming from him – if he can call it that, that stunted, awful sound – and he can’t stop.

Until suddenly there is a hand on his cheek, shocking in its unexpectedness, turning up his face to face Fujiki.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a little furrow in his brow.

His laughter had stopped, but at that it comes again, harder, more hysterical, but also more like real laughter – because god Fujiki is a disaster , he’s unsure if he’s even a real human being. Blood on his face, a shiner developing, locked in a van with someone rapidly losing their mind – asking if he’s alright.

He gets himself under control, looking up at Fujiki leaning back again, composed despite his dishevelled appearance.

He hates him, hates him, but he needs this, needs a reaction, wants the Fujiki back that was scared, that was defiant, a Fujiki dragged down to his level at last, clawing, punching, blood in his mouth and cursing the world with every breath.

He moves close to Fujiki in an instant, a leg between his legs, destabilizing, slamming him down. Gets a grip on Fujiki’s nest of hair, wrenching his head back, vicious satisfaction at the tiny sound of pain escaping and kisses him.

Fujiki freezes up for the tiniest second, before relaxing back into the hold, mouth opening the tiniest bit. It makes a wave of uncomplicated fury go through him, this easy acceptance, this further proof that this means nothing to Fujiki, that whatever he does, he can’t touch him.

It makes him bite down hard, deliberately widening the split in his lip, making the blood flow more freely. Drags his tongue through it, iron mixing in their mouths.

“You want to give me what I want?” he says, moving back the tiniest bit, enjoying the scarlet glow on Fujiki’s lips. “Spread your legs.”

It takes a moment, Fujiki looking at him, no surprise on his face, only calculation. Jin doesn’t know if he wants him to say yes to this, to this insane, stupid thing. He doesn’t know what it would mean if they do this.

He almost wants him to refuse, because it would show an opinion, an active response to Jin’s existence not this placid acceptance that is clearly only for Shouichi’s sake.

However, there is also the question of what he would do if Fujiki refused him now, like this. Because that way he’d finally found something real , something he could use to make him hate him, maybe, to –

Fujiki spreads his legs, making him slip closer between them, his whole upper body a sprawl of relaxed submissiveness on the hard surface under him.

Slut .” Jin spits, even while he can’t stop himself grinding up against him, getting harder at the sight before him.

Fujiki just shrugs, unbothered at the insult. “We are going to have to move.”

“What?” he says, not expecting any initiative, to be honest – he had always assumed that Fujiki’s general lassitude would extend to this.

“You need to take my pants off, if you want to fuck me.” he says, “Can’t do that with you crowding me.”

There is something….irreverent, almost insulting in his voice, the tiniest shading of you fucking idiot . It makes him clench his fist, gets him hot, because oh, how he can’t wait to have Fujiki under him, at his mercy , wipe that damn smirk off his face .

“Or if you just want to rub against me that’s also fine, I guess.” Fujiki concludes, that tiny bit of interest, of investment gone from his voice again. Jin wants it back .

He steps back, a bit disturbed at the direction of his thoughts. This needs to mean nothing to him, a way to get rid of this tension inside him, to take care of this persistent itch . To reduce Fujiki to a piece of flesh, use him as he sees fit. To hopefully discard him afterwards, purge himself from him.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of pants being carelessly thrown into the back of the truck. He looks up to see Fujiki standing there, only in his white dress shirt, his long white legs visible, his crotch just barely covered by the shirt tails. He finds it curiously hard to breath, suddenly.

“We should do this on the floor.” Fujiki says, looking critically at the other available surfaces. He sounds so practical about this. It makes Jin nervous, makes him feel out of his depth suddenly.

What is he even doing here, this is insane. How did picking something up for Shouichi spiral out of control into fucking the person he hates the most on the floor of his brother’s food truck.

He doesn’t even know what to do . He’s pretty sure pornography doesn’t actually prepare you for sex. Not that he cares about making it good for Fujiki, but god, he sure doesn’t need more ammunition to think less of Jin, to have it proven to him how much better he is.

Though Fujiki is weird, too. How is he so calm , so matter of fact. Jin is pretty sure he’s not attracted to him, has seen nothing like the disgusting, burning desire he feels in his eyes. And there was a time he was desperate to see it, to have something mirrored back, to not feel like he’s the only one overwhelmed by this yearning, intertwined with his loathing, a black sludge. Maybe that’s what this is, this insanity right now. Maybe this is what drowning feels like.

It frightens him sometimes how closely connected his hate and his desire is. What that means for his future, if the only people he’ll want are the ones he also wants to see bleed.

“Put this on.” Fujiki says from somewhere below him, shortly before a small object hits his chest. He catches it on instinct, all his thoughts screeching to a halt at the sight before him.

Fujiki is lying on the floor of the truck on the blanket that his brother often uses when he’s working nights. He’s unbuttoned most of his shirt, so his whole lower half is completely exposed. He’s still got his socks on.

All of these are details he processes in the back of his mind, because his whole attention is focussed on the fingers Fujiki is working steadily inside him. He sees the bottle of lube abandoned next to him and at any other time he’d mock him for apparently carrying that with him wherever he goes, but he can’t seem to form words.

A second finger enters, and he’d always thought this would be weird, it would be awkward and unpleasant , the part in porn he tends to skip. But instead, he is mesmerized, suddenly, by this whole affair. By Fujiki . The way he lets out the tiniest gasp at the stretch, how his eyes are just that bit glazed, how there is a flush in his cheeks, a trembling in his limbs that he can’t seem to control (because surely he would control it, in front of Jin, if he could).

He sinks to his knees, unsure if they can hold him up, needs to be closer . Wants to be nearer, wants to feel those long legs shivering, can’t tear his eyes away from where Fujiki is half-hard through nothing but his own ministrations.

“Like what you see?” It’s Fujiki’s voice, and yet nothing like it. The usual mocking edge to it, the one he knows is there at all times, even when seemingly nobody else notices it, can be heard loud and clear. But differently than usual it comes out on a breath, a suggestion of a moan, an undertone of abandon.

It’s a challenge, like everything he says, but Jin suddenly knows , bone-deep, with unsettling certainty – it’s one he wants to lose. It’s a fight in which he’s waiting for Jin to break him.

It gets his blood boiling, makes him close the remaining distance between them, settling between his legs, feeling them on his sides, and adds one of his own fingers, shoving it deep.

The sound Fujiki lets out at that, a startled yelp of pain, should have made him stop. It would have scared him that he doesn’t, that instead he forces Fujiki’s fingers out, so he can shove three of his own fingers as deep as they go.

Is scared, for a moment, what that says about him, only to look up and see Fujiki fully hard. To look up at his face where his eyes are now wholly clouded over, his mouth open. Where there is desire painted on his features, finally an answer to the storm inside of him.

“You fucking slut .” He whispers, moving his fingers in hard tiny pushes. “I should have known you were gagging for it.” Is fascinated, spell-bound by the way the insult moves over Fujiki, inside him, makes him settle fully back on his arms and tip his head back.

Offering his throat and now Jin can't resist the urge anymore, doesn't want to. Moves forward to bite, hard and high up Fujiki's throat. He doesn't know if the moan is because of the pain or the way the shift in position moves his fingers that tiny bit deeper, changes the angle. Doesn't much care, aside from the way the sound makes his blood move even faster inside him. He moves down Fujiki's throat to his neck, nipping, sucking and biting the whole way, enjoying the little sounds Fujiki lets out.

He pulls back finally, after how much time he doesn't know. Fujiki is collapsed under him now, Jin's greater bulk and aggressive attack having forced him down, face turned up, hair hopelessly tousled. Jin is panting for some reason, as if he's the one lying there helpless and mauled. He takes a moment to catch his breath to admire his work, the bite marks littering Fujiki's neck and throat, some of them a deep purple.

Jin thinks he can taste iron and can't help the grin from spreading across his face, doesn't much care if it looks as feral as he feels at the moment.

His arousal is pounding through his veins, pushed into a new sort of frenzy by Fujiki below him, mauled and pinned, the power a more potent aphrodisiac than he thought.

It's painful too, his hard dick pressing against the inside of his jeans and he can't stop the tiny unconscious pushes forward of his hips. At the same time, it's nearly unimportant in this moment of supreme triumph, he's wanted this so long.

The best part, the thing that makes him let out a dark chuckle – a sound so very unlike who he is now, much more like who they used to be – is that Fujiki is still hard, slightly pushing back against his hand now.

“I should have known you'd love this, that you'd be this easy .” he taunts, taking his fingers out, hoping for a pathetic whine. “I bet you could come just through me fucking you hard, you –”

“Promises, promises.” Fujiki says from below him, his face a mask of caustic boredom.

The reply stuns him for an instance, the comment fully unexpected from the mewling animal he thought he had reduced Fujiki to. The rage bubbles up again, rushing through his blood like quicksilver. How dare he.

He's down there like a common whore, helpless, dripping hard because of nothing but fingers in his ass and painful bites all over him. Jin is the one who has him pinned, who is in control and yet, yet –

There he is, still calm, still able to bring Jin's self crashing down with nothing but a look.

“You won't be able to walk when I'm done.“ he promises darkly, with a confidence from he doesn't know – doesn't much care.

He sees Fujiki raising an eyebrow, can almost hear the sardonic retort. He slaps his right hand over his mouth, harder than necessary, presses down

“That's enough.” he spits, punctuates it with his other hand, the one holding one of Fujiki's thighs, squeezing , fingernails sinking into the vulnerable flesh, until he feels a give and a hissed breath of pain against his fingers.

Fujiki subsides under his hands again, arching slightly against him in seeming surrender, belied by the mocking challenge in his eyes.

The rage is a bonfire now, it makes his movements choppy, his fingers clumsy where they fumble at the button of his jeans. He finally manages it, letting out a sigh of relief at the absence of pressure on his dick.

He thinks about just shoving his pants down to mid thigh, but he doesn't like the restriction it would leave him with, so he takes the moment to fully wriggle out of his pants and underwear carefully not looking at Fujiki.

He's angry enough. He doesn't know what he'd do if he saw amusement on the other man's face.

When he's done he finds Fujiki pretty much where he left him - legs splayed almost artistically, invitingly, his entrance glistening, erection still at half mast. His gaze is idly averted, in a way signifying demure acceptance maybe.  He doesn't know what it means with Fujiki.

He shuffles back between those white legs, feeling slightly awkward suddenly.

“Don't forget the condom.” Fujiki says nonchalantly. He might as well have been checking his fingernails for the laconic tone of his voice.

“Shut up!” he half shouts, uses the indignation, the chagrin at how he might have forgotten without the reminder to move forward the missing distance, to grab Fujiki's legs and force them farther apart and up , as far as they can bend.

He lets them go so the fall more naturally around his hips once he hears another hiss – the sound now something he craves, already addicted to the rush of satisfaction, arousal, power it brings him.

He gropes blindly next to him till his hands find the little crinkly package helpfully having fallen not far from the still open bottle of lube. He grabs both, somehow gets the foil open without looking, puts it on, his gaze still fastened on the graceful splay of long limbs, the beautiful lines of Fujiki's face, the downturned eyes. The bruises blooming all over his neck and the one around his cheek.

“You really think I'd forget?” he asks his voice sounding calm again, silken, delighted. Velvet poison. “I wouldn't want to catch something. No telling where you've been.

He punctuates the insult with his newly lubed up fingers shoving into Fujiki again, four of them this time, as deep and quick and as hard as he can.

Fujiki clearly didn't expect that, lets out a startled groan, loud, his head snaps back, his spine arches, fingers clenching on the fabric below him, feet scrabbling for purchase uselessly where they are still shoved in the air from Jin's bulk between them.

He holds him there, makes sure his legs have no chance to settle, grinds deeper, forcing the arch by settling his hand in the space on Fujiki's lower back. He must hit something inside, because suddenly Fujiki keens, the high pitched sound coming from deep inside, sounding truly desperate for the first time in Jin's memory.

He laughs at it, can't help it, revels in the fact that it comes out deep and mean.

“This place seems used to it very well, anyway.” twisting his fingers now, trying to find the spot again, and by some stroke of luck he does. Fujiki is panting now, whine trapped behind his teeth, his hands white knuckled and his dick back to full hardness.

Abruptly, Jin  can't wait anymore, the helpless spread of that gorgeous, hateful body beneath him, the glint of poison green behind dark, dark lashes that look the slightest bit damp, too tempting, too much . The desire is burning him from inside out and he doesn't want to resist.

He pulls his fingers out harshly, one hand under Fujiki's knee, lines himself up with the other and pushes.

For an endless moment he knows nothing aside from the relentless slide in. Fujiki's insides are scorching, enveloping him in a tight grip and he pushes further into that heat, doesn't notice or care about any resistance until he's as deep as he can go.

He comes back to himself having dropped the legs, both of his trembling arms next to the other man's waist being used to hold himself up, breathing as hard as if he's run a mile as fast as he can go, sweat dripping down under his shirt.

He can't seem to catch his breath, the slow pulsing on his dick too much, the intensity overwhelming. He might have come then and there, buried deep and hips helplessly trying to push deeper, deeper, deeper.

Only he looks up at Fujiki's face, the flush in his cheeks. The raised eyebrows and an encroaching sense of disappointment all around him.

As so often this evening, the rage enfolds him, lifts him up, useful and targeted in a way it hasn’t once been since he's had to live without Lightning's guiding hand on it.

He bites his lips so hard he can taste the iron on his lips, clenches his hands into fists, feeling his nails draw blood. Gets himself back from the brink.

Opens his right fist and moves it upwards almost in a trance, until it settles on Fujiki's throat.

It stops all of the movement under him, the look in Fujiki's eyes instantly transformed into wariness. His hands twitch upwards, but Jin sees it, expects it, snatches both of them and slams them in the floor above Fujiki's head, leaning all his weight into the move.

It puts his face inches away from Fujiki's face, so he can observe the tiny twitches, when he uses his hold to squeeze , hard enough to leave bruises on his wrists. The thought makes him thrust, a quick snap of his hips, the slap of flesh on flesh loud in the enclosed space.

“You fucking bitch.” He says, close and intimate as a lover. He changes his grip, so he’s holding him down with only one hand, slim wrists twisting between his large fingers, just as he had fantasized so many times. The other settles again on that delicate throat, lying there like temptation.

He's staring right into the green eyes below him, when he starts to squeeze, with gentle, yet implacable force. Sees the calculations flitting through that gaze. Sees it wiped away by arousal when he adds slow thrusts into the equation, when it becomes clear that he's not cutting off his airflow, only pressing into the bruises below his hand.

He falls into a rhythm then, his dick pushing shallowly in and out, his hand squeezing and releasing gently to the same beat, trying to have it be a comforting weight rather than a restriction. He continues to watch, sucks the battered lip below him into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth.

Jin feels the moment Fujiki abandons himself to it, when the tension goes out of his arms, his shoulders relax, his head fully resting on the floor, slides a final bit deeper because of it.

He waits a few precious heart beats.

The he pulls almost fully out, balanced precariously at Fujiki's entrance. Slams inside, hard, violent thrusts at the same time as he bites the lip between his teeth and clamps fully down on the throat held in his hand.

Fujiki's eyes snap open, the relaxed lassitude leaving him in an instance. His mouth opens under Jin's teeth, but there is not enough air for him to scream, harsh choking sounds the only thing escaping. He clenches down around Jin, but he keeps up his long brutal strokes, forces himself inside with all the strength his legs and gravity allows him, violent and relentless.

He pulls back as far as his hands allow him, to see, to witness. Observes the dampness around Fujiki's eyes, the blood on his lips, the useless bend of his arms trying to wrench free. His big hand, fully enclosing that fragile throat.

The sight is arresting . In that singular instance he's feeling whole in a way he thinks he's forgotten is possible. Feels almost hopelessly grateful, indebted to the struggling form beneath him, who has given this to him, this one moment of self-possession, of being present in himself – this incandescent joy. Half believes that this is what love is, this small fluttering of a pulse trapped beneath his palm.

The moment passes, and he comes back to himself in a snap, slams back into his body, into the here and now. The fact that reality and flesh, bones, organs restrict his actions here, the consequences dire and not rescindable.

He releases his hold, horrified, his hips stopping mid thrust. Fujiki pulls in a huge breath lets it out as a loud keen, a deep moan that shakes Jin apart, pure pleasure and abandonment in the sound. Fujiki uses his new freedom to try and complete Jin's half started thrust, pushing his hips up as best as he can. Jin looks down reflexively, sees Fujiki's untouched dick twitching between them, dripping with pre-come, Fujiki bucking beneath him trying to force him in closer. He automatically picks the pace up again, terror at what he just did, how good it felt, chased away by the sensations, by Fujiki beneath him, sweat soaked, head tossed back, mesmerising now that he's fully given himself over to this. He grabs the dick between them and the sound Fujiki lets out at that is indescribable, makes a full body shiver go through him.

He sounds desperate, he sounds gone, clearly close and when Jin squeezes down on the base experimentally, he goes wild.

His eyes open in a glare, and his hands suddenly free themselves from Jin's grip, slip effortlessly out of what he thought was a secure hold. In a split second he's grabbed Jin by the hair with one hand, his other pulling the other away from his dick.

“Don't you fucking dare.” He growls baring his teeth almost feral, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. He pulls him down in a kiss and Jin is lost.

He can't help but respond with the same ferocity, pushing them back down violently, hand buried in Yusaku's hair, pulling, using it as a handle to keep thrusting hard, fast, the legs around his hips urging him on to go faster, deeper.

It's too intense, it can't last and he feels Yusaku stiffen under him on a particularly rough thrust. He throws his head back in another loud moan and Jin buries his mouth in the junction of his neck as he comes deep inside, white behind his eyelids, red on his teeth.

–––

He comes back to himself an endless second later, panting into Fujiki's ravaged flesh, every nerve ending tingling with pleasure.

He pulls out carefully, thankful that Fujiki doesn't wince. He ties up the condom trying to come up with something to say, trying to grab hold of the rage fuelled confidence that got him to this point.

It's nowhere to be found, the only thing left behind are an uncomfortable sinking in his stomach and the sticky feeling of drying come. He finally gets the courage to look up, doesn't know what facial expression to expect, unfamiliar territory.

What meets his eyes is – devastation. Fujiki is wrecked. His neck is littered with deep red bruises, there are shallowly bleeding fingernail marks everywhere, his thighs, his sides.

He can see the shadow of hand shaped discolorations forming on his wrists, the clear indent of his fingers already becoming visible on his throat, standing out even among the other red marks. Fujiki himself seems to be dead to the world. Everything from his closed eyes, to his slack mouth and haphazardly splayed limbs screams passed out and for a heart-stopping second Jin listens as hard as he can for the deep breaths coming from below him.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to deal with this, with the signs of what they just did, of what he just did, of what he’s capable of, written luridly on Fujiki’s skin.

He panics, can’t help it, flight instincts activating. He pulls on his clothes as quickly as possible, only throws a blanket over Fujiki’s still form –  to keep him warm or to hide the evidence of what happened, even he isn’t sure of the reason – and gets out.

He thinks he sees a stirring out of the corner of his eyes when he closes the van door, but he isn’t sure and he’s not going to check.


He doesn’t know how he got home in the end, the whole trip back a blur in his memory. He just knows he slid into the house, ignored Shouichi’s call, his innocent question of how things went. Maybe he replied with something, he only needed to get away to escape the hopeful eyes and probing questions on if he ran into anyone on the way there.

He flinches at it, his hand imprinted on white expanses of skin flashing behind his eyelids. The rancorous feeling of dark satisfaction he felt at holding the fragile throat beneath his hand, of being powerful, enveloping him.

It’s the next day and his feet are carrying him to the van, dreading it, hating every minute, trying not to imagine his brother’s face when he finds out what happened, what he did to his precious Yusaku. The horror, disappointment, fear of him finally realising what Jin has become, what he maybe always has been, of what he certainly is now – someone dangerous, poisonous, a forbidding presence.

But still, he goes, because no matter how rotten his core is, he understands justice, consequence. Maybe better than anyone else.

Somehow Fujiki is there again, which is unusual. Since Jin has come back, he spaces out his visits, rarely here twice in a row, college keeping him busy. It puts another spike of icy fear through him, makes his feet seem heavier, every step a chore. Because the only reason Fujiki shows up more often is if something has happened.

Something did happen, Jin thinks, you happened. And even though he can see Fujiki only in profile, it’s clear to the world that he did . The black eye is clearly visible now, the bites on his throat so high that the collar of his shirt can’t hide it. The hint of dark bruises flashing through his sleeves when he moves.

He can’t yet hear what they are saying, too far away, but he recognizes the signs of avid concern on his brother’s face, can tell that he’s worried by his wide eyes, the hands fluttering over Fujiki’s form, clearly unsure where to settle, while at the same time wanting to grab him close and hold him safe.

“...not going to do anything Yusaku.” he hears, “Just tell me what happened.” Tone turning pleading now, entreating, clearly torn up. No wonder. Surely, he’s trying to justify Jin’s behaviour to himself, trying to find an angle more palpable to what actually happened. The love and desperation he can hear in that tone of voice lances through him, because there is nothing to excuse what he’s done and he knows it.

“There’s nothing to say, Kusanagi-san.” Fujiki’s low voice replies, dismissive. It’s like a slap in his face. He wasn’t expecting Fujiki to protect him – he knows he’s not given him any reason to. But to treat his brother this way, to hurt him so callously with what he knows, that he has a harder time forgiving.

His face hardens, step quickening. Even if he’s going to lose Shouichi’s regard over it, the feeling of welcome in their house, he’s not going to let Fujiki treat his brother in this way, purposely hurting him, even if it is with the truth.

Shouichi must hear his approach, because he looks up and the simple joy shining through his exasperated concern makes Jin falter, because it’s just normal. It’s how Shouichi always looks at him, but that can’t be, surely what he did changes things, so what –

“Jin, I’m so glad you are here!” he says and his tone tells him that he clearly means it. “Maybe you can talk some sense into Yusaku.” Which is so far out from what he was expecting, he doesn’t even know what his face is doing.

“Kusanagi-san.” Fujiki says, as toneless as always, with the hint of strain always apparent when one of his denizens of lackeys is showering him with unwarranted concern. He can’t help but stare, because this, too, is normal. Fujiki is acting as if nothing has changed, as if nothing has happened. If there wasn’t the evidence written plainly on his skin, Jin would think he’d dreamt their encounter.

“If Ai and Takeru couldn’t make me tell, what do you think Jin-kun can do?” he finishes, short glance in his direction. This was the same too – the way he always acknowledges his existence, but nothing more. The familiar rage at this clear dismissal is mixed with such a profound relief this time, he’s reeling from the whiplash.

“But Yusaku, this is serious . I know you are an adult now and that you might want to experiment. ” Shouichi sounds truly distressed now, horror scenarios plain behind his eyes. “But you need to take care of yourself! I – “

“I am, Kusanagi-san.” Shouichi makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, his eyes flitting over the multiple contusions. And those are only the ones he can see goes through Jin’s mind. “ Truly. I promise I’m taking all necessary precautions.”

“Anyway,” A sardonic eyebrow raised, tone becoming wry in a abruptly familiar way, sending a shot of adrenaline and arousal through him at the memory. “I’m reasonably sure you don’t actually want any of the lurid details of what happened.”

Jin has never seen his brother turn red that fast.


“I don’t owe you anything.” he says when he catches up with Fujiki, after he made up some excuse to his still stammering brother, about wanting to make sure Yusaku-kun was safe.

Fujiki turns to him. Says nothing.

“I didn’t need you to lie to my brother.” he continues, trying to keep his voice from shaking, to suppress the sense memory of last night. “I certainly didn’t ask you to.”

“I didn’t.” Fujiki replies, cool and collected. It makes Jin’s fingers itch with the want to tear him down, to make him lose that calm facade again. To take them to yesterday night and the ravages of desire and instinct between them.

He’s shaken at the strength of it, at the way his arousal seems to come harder and quicker than usual, at the way his need is almost a physical force inside of him. Clearly getting him out of his system did not work he thinks.

“Well, good.” he says, floundering, too rattled to come up with anything better. It sits between them badly, making the silence awkward, but not a definitive end to the conversation.

“I still hate you.” he finally says, for lack of anything else. At least that’s the truth, as far as he understands it. As uncomfortable as it is, he feels he’s owed Fujiki at least that.

“I don’t.” Fujiki replies quietly, already walking away, so it’s carried on the wind. Unsubstantial, a throw-away comment in the purest sense.

He stands there for a long while, fighting with the way the anger is mixing with a strange wistfulness all of sudden, a senseless, painful longing.

He shakes it off, as best as he can turns around. Back to his brother, constructing the smile he needs step by step. Rinse and repeat.