Author: Eerie
!Advisory: Potential game spoilers, slash, mildly disturbing?
A/N: Written for an old prompt on the kink meme some time ago, but never posted it there (oops). I'll let you try to guess what the prompt was.
Grief Counseling
Adachi knew a fair deal about Dojima's past. Even without the late-night confessions fueled by one too many beers, the words that would tumble unreserved past Dojima's sleeping lips as he sat passed out and slumped over the bar, or even seeing the case file itself—which he'd discreetly dredged from the PD records soon after he arrived that spring—Adachi would have been able to deduce that the older detective was haunted by something genuinely tragic. Something that would never simply fade with the passage of time in the manner which so many people believed. But what did ordinary people know?
That muted despair was imbued into practically everything Dojima did, enmeshed even in the way he chose his words. Dojima was the archetype of a burdened man in many ways as far as Adachi was concerned, though that in itself didn't bother the young detective in the least. If anything, it was that very taint which compelled Adachi to insinuate himself into Dojima's life all the more. It wasn't so much physical attraction as it was visceral fascination.
That's not to say he didn't find Dojima good-looking—he did. And Adachi could tell that grief had played a large part in shaping the older man's appearance. The way Dojima would only bother to shave once a week. The way he allowed his tie and shirt collar hang loose at his throat, as if he knew better but couldn't care less that he was a superior officer and, as such, expected to maintain an example of professionalism in the office. The way the man hardly bothered to eat, keeping him on the verge of too-thin at the age of forty-one. And then there was Dojima's reason for continued existence—his young daughter. If it hadn't been for her, Dojima might well have offed himself years ago. Actually, Adachi was certain of he would have if not for that little girl.
And of course the catalyst of it all: the elusive dead wife. For all intents and purposes she wasn't in the picture anymore, but Adachi knew very well that sometimes the dead didn't stay buried where they belonged.
Dojima had truly and profoundly loved that woman—of that Adachi was as certain as any fool would be—even though the two hadn't been married for very long. Adachi had known couples back in Tokyo who lived together longer and remained unwed. And that woman had been dead for nearly three years. Her ashes would lie rotting in the earth until the sky folded in on itself and the planet ceased to be, and yet she still managed to control Dojima's heart from beyond the grave. To govern his methods, to manipulate his pain.
That, too, intrigued Adachi in no small way. Mostly it managed to inspire his constant, low-burning jealousy. Well, perhaps not jealousy, but certainly resentment. He wanted to be the one to make Dojima hurt. When he wanted. How he wanted. And with whatever means necessary.
Today was the anniversary of that woman's death. Dojima had even told him so, straight out and completely sober, while the two of them waited in line at Junes for their morning coffee. They had stood there—Dojima's very presence unusual, considering that running this trite errand was practically Adachi's second, albeit unpaid, job—waiting in barely comfortable silence, listening to the quiet murmur of early morning shoppers, when Dojima just blurted it out:
"I'll be visiting Chisato's grave after work, so I won't be able to give you a ride today. Sorry."
Adachi had already known, naturally, but he didn't let on. Instead he offered the usual loopy smile tempered with just the right amount of sympathy: slightly furrowed eyebrows, an awkward curve of the lips. Just enough to illustrate that he would be there for Dojima, should the man need a confidante. But of course he never did; not a man like Dojima.
Despite that, Adachi had dared to take it one step further and offered to accompany his superior to the cemetery so that he might act as a crutch. Dojima had refused, of course. It was his vigil alone. Said he wouldn't even take Nanako there. Not yet, anyway. Not until she was older and less susceptible to the trauma of losing a mother. Not until she had forgotten that there were still photographs stashed in dusty, unmarked boxes beneath Dojima's bed. Yes, by then she would hardly remember her mother at all, and so the pain would diminish. Such a noble man, thinking of his daughter's protection, though Adachi knew it wasn't actually nobility. It was a selfish delusion.
Dojima, on the other hand, would never be able to forget. He could drink himself braindead and still he would mourn the woman's death in that poorly concealed manner of his. It would be sickening were it not so fascinating.
Adachi snorted in a mixture of amusement and annoyance as he walked home in the rain. All throughout his shift at the office he couldn't help imagining what Dojima's annual graveyard visits would be like. He firmly believed them to be the scenes at which Dojima's usual stoic mask would finally shatter. He wondered what sort of offering the man carried with him to lay at the cold, lifeless marker. Did he kneel? Offer up a prayer to some unseen, ambivalent god? Did he prostrate himself upon the earth and weep?
The very idea sent a hot rush of blood through Adachi's veins as he dodged a deep puddle in the cracked concrete before rounding the corner leading to his apartment's street. He grinned idiotically to himself despite the potentially embarrassing fact that his cock had actually twitched in response to his vision of Dojima wrecked upon his knees. But nobody was around.
The rain plummeted down harder now, colder, and he was thankful that one of his coworkers had left a spare umbrella at the office as he gripped the thing tighter against a sudden gale of wet wind.
Once Adachi finally reached the apartment building's stoop he ascended and began to work his key into the door's lock. He cursed under his breath when the thing stuck and forced him to throw his weight against the door. The structure groaned with the rude assault and screeched open rustily, as it usually did on humid days. With a sigh, he flapped the plastic umbrella several times over the threshold outside and dumped it down near the door. He dropped his keys onto the lamp stand and toed off his shoes. Shucking his suit jacket heedlessly over the back of his beaten loveseat, he began to work at his necktie while simultaneously moving toward the bedroom. A faint dripping sound caught his ear and he glanced up to see that the ceiling was leaking again. Tepid rainwater steadily pattered from the wide reddish stain above to fill the concave groove in the linoleum kitchen floor below.
Not bothering to tend to the puddle already accumulated, Adachi kicked the stray plastic bucket he kept around for that strict purpose beneath the steady leak. Stepping over the mess, he worked the buttons of his dress shirt undone and pulled it off. The air in the apartment was cold that day, and the skin of his bare torso prickled into gooseflesh. He brushed the heel of his hand over his hardened nipple and shivered, his mind already resurrecting his previous line of humiliating fantasies.
Once he had stripped himself of the remainder of his clothes, he made his way into the bathroom and started up the shower. The head spurted several times before a steaming jet of hot water erupted. The stream all but scalded his skin when he stepped into the tub and jerked the curtain closed. He gasped and gave the knobs a few tentative jerks before the spray immediately plunged to chilling. Stupid ancient pipes.
He moved to tweak the taps again, but suddenly stayed his hand. The cold water wasn't all that unpleasant after all. Just like the erratic spring shower that fell on the other side of the wall. The same rain saturating the graveyard earth. The same rain falling on Dojima at that very moment, greedily seeping into his work shirt and making the material cling to his hard, shivering chest.
Adachi slowly withdrew his hand and allowed the wet chill to flow over his skin. He closed his eyes and the images he had begun to entertain on the street instantly rematerialized in his mind.
He stood behind Dojima, cutting a silent, sentry-like figure, and trained his eyes on his superior's back. He watched the way the rain pattered down against Dojima's already sopping hair as the man stood stooped at the foot of the grave, head bowed low, face doubtlessly crunched in exquisite pain. The way the tiny rivulets snaked down the back of his neck before disappearing beneath his gaping shirt collar. Then, once the older man's shoulders finally buckled under their invisible weight, Adachi moved forward. Placed a hand on that damp shoulder to remind Dojima that he was there. Dojima turned to him then, completely vulnerable in that one instant, and Adachi wasted no time in utilizing the situation. He pulled their lips together and set to work devouring Dojima's rainwater-slicked mouth.
Adachi leaned his shoulder against the shower wall and lazily ran his palm over his limp cock, coaxing it to a stir. As he envisioned what it would be like to have Dojima at his mercy—their tongues intertwining as he inevitably curled his fingers into that short hair—his body began to respond more energetically to his touch. His tongue slipped over his lips, collecting the cool water splashing against his face, and for a moment he thought he could taste a distinct earthiness behind it.
Before he knew it his back was pressed against the ground, the mud and water seeping through his clothes. For one terrifying moment it felt as though he had been sinking into the pliant earth, pulled down by the unseen dead. And for all he knew, he was. But when he saw Dojima kneeling between his legs, trapping him between the man already working open the fastenings on Adachi's trousers and the hard gray marker just inches from his head, he hardly cared about anything else. He lifted his hips to assist with Dojima's labors, and before he had time to wince at the cold water now plummeting against his more sensitive regions, Dojima had loomed over him to shield him from the rain. Adachi blinked the water from his eyes and watched as Dojima slid the belt from its loops and dropped it aside, his large hands already lifting his swollen cock from it constrains. And then Dojima's eyes met his, and Adachi saw behind them raw lust, burgeoning doubt, and something else he couldn't quite decipher. He wasted no time in reaching between them and replacing Dojima's hand with his own, closing his fingers over that hard shaft and setting to work chasing those tendrils of regret from the man's mind. His free hand clumsily worked at his own arousal, which had already become rigid from the sight of his superior's state of conflict alone.
Expelling a long sigh, Adachi turned and pressed his shoulder blades flush against the wall, his head tilted back to allow the shower spray to beat against his closed eyelids. His cock met his palm fully now, warm tendrils of lust battling the chill from claiming his bones as he worked it slowly from base to tip. With his other hand he caressed his balls, constricted from the cold, before inching a finger further back to brush over his opening. His face scrunched in an expression of mock agony as he imagined what would happen next.
Dojima swatted Adachi's hand away, taking his erection back for himself and repositioning his knees against the backs of Adachi's thighs, which he had already unceremoniously slung apart. Adachi breathed a broken sigh of relief when he realized Dojima wasn't going to prepare him first. He wanted it rough and animalistic. Wanted it to hurt, for the effects to last. He wanted Dojima's own pain. But mostly, he wanted it in a way he knew Dojima never gave it to that woman whose grave they were desecrating. And Dojima was clearly of a similar mind. At least, that's what Adachi thought when he felt the breach between his legs and the subsequent sensation of being filled with hard heat. The water eased the way, but oh yes, the pain was still there. He moaned when the rocking began, and reached back to seize either side of the tombstone and anchor himself. Dojima was already panting above him, staring down at Adachi with that third emotion that was all-too apparent now. Apathy, emptiness. His eyes were blank as he moved.
Adachi clung to the image in his mind as he worked himself with more fervor. The cold had already begun to numb his skin, and somewhere in the back of his mind he had registered his body's uncontrolled shivering. It wasn't the unpleasant sensation it should have been, but instead served to push him deeper into his fantasy.
"Yes, oh god, Dojima…"
Dojima briefly snapped out of his trance at hearing his name and slowed down, focusing his eyes on Adachi's. Something like confusion hardened them around the edges, but it was gone almost as soon as it came.
Adachi smirked up at him. "Don't stop."
The pale glaze returned to Dojima's eyes as the man nodded. Like an automaton. Dwindling. Lost. Willing to grasp and cling to anything that would guide him. To fill him up. Adachi recognized it for what it was and a fresh wave of brutal arousal swept through him.
"Faster," he commanded, and the man above him complied. The end to this was in sight.
Dojima groaned and let his eyes roll back, the rain flowing over his lids and down his face. Adachi freed one hand from the tombstone and seized Dojima's jaw to pull his attention back.
"Watch me. I want to see you wrecked. The same way you were on that day. Show it to me."
Dojima seemed to regain some control and recognize the entirety of the situation in that moment, like a dreaming man suddenly slapped into wakefulness. His eyes flickered up to the tombstone and Adachi watched as they scanned over the epithet. Over her name. But it was too late by that point. Adachi thrilled when Dojima stiffened and suddenly pulled out just as he had begun to come. He didn't even touch himself, just panted in bewilderment as his semen spilled out over the earth. Adachi was quick to join him as he took himself in hand, his own release hot then cold over his hand as the rain swiftly rinsed it away.
Adachi's knees weakened and he nearly slumped to the shower floor as he rode out his orgasm. It came so fast and hard he barely had time to prepare himself for it, and the shout he had expected to loose never managed to make it past his throat as a strangled groan.
As he worked to control his breath and shaking limbs he realized just how cold and stiff he really was. He hurriedly opened the hot water tap and allowed the shock of it to assail his skin. Once sufficiently rewarmed, Adachi made short work of shampooing his hair and scrubbing his skin before stepping out of the tub. Standing naked and dripping before the mirror, he swiped a hand across its condensation and stared. His reflection stared back, pale as death despite the warmth, and devoid of expression.
He wondered if Dojima would betray something new in his face tomorrow morning at the station. Some complicated, agonizing emotion dredged up afresh from his most recent visit to the graveyard. Adachi hoped so. And if not, well, a few carefully timed and placed words could manage to reveal something. Then he could witness it, dissect it, savor it, catalogue it away. And with any luck, in time, use it to his advantage.
He slowly smiled at himself, the steam already closing back over his image in the mirror, as he trained that naive expression Dojima knew and trusted back into place.