reigen's POV

You wake into the perfect dark and for a second you don't know where or what you are. Then you hear, feel the cause of what roused you in the first place: Mob snuffling against your head, his arm flexing restlessly where you've pillowed it under your neck. You're in the same position you were in when you fell asleep. Mob didn't even think to free himself despite his arm surely being sore and numb by now. Your heart lights up like Tokyo streets, brighter than noonday sun.

By increments, you lift your head from his arm and roll a little way away. You fumble for your phone in the pocket of your pants strewn nearby and squint against the horrid glare. It's one a.m. You've only been out for a few hours.

You grumble and activate the flashlight on your phone to help navigate to the bathroom, not wanting to flip light switches and wake Mob. After a quick toilet break, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Nothing is different or changed about your face, which feels strange. There should be a scarlet letter pinned to you somewhere proclaiming, 'I have had the sex!' but there is none.

What you see there instead is unmitigated joy.

The wonderful, baffling, beautiful man you've been in love with for so long loves you too. It didn't go at all like you were expecting it to, and you wouldn't have it any other way. It's like you've gained psychic powers of your own, floating your way back to his bed, where Mob's let you lie in. Where he's kissed you and touched you and—

You shudder, feeling yourself twitch in your boxers. His boxers. You didn't mean to put them on earlier, but he didn't make you change out of it. They sit too low on your hips, only barely held in place by the curve of your ass. You want to steal his shirts too. Watch his reaction, a gentle, flustered smile or a candid remark about how you look silly. Maybe he'll let you bring one home tomorrow.

Mob's still slumbering when you tiptoe into the room. You fantasize for a second about waking him up so you can fool around, but decide against it. That can wait until morning, when you can see his face with dawn coming through the little window. Your heart is so full it borders on physical pain.

You perch yourself on the futon, delicate as you please, and arrange yourself into lying down facing Mob, your head inches from his outstretched arm. You give in to a sentimental urge and place your fingers on his open palm, a prelude to holding hands.

Within milliseconds, the hand snaps around yours like a steel trap.

After an alarmed yelp and failed attempts to pull away, you realize that you might have woken up Mob, and that he was far more startled than you were, acting on instinct. Which is impressive, since the illumination from your phone flashlight that you'd forgotten to kill tells you that he hasn't even opened his eyes yet. You feel embarrassed now, stammering, "Ah, s-sorry, shishou, it's me. Just Arataka. I'm sorry, I just had to go pee and came back and wanted to hold your hand… Ah, I promise I washed!" You try to laugh it off, but he still hasn't stirred, or loosened his grip on your fingers. "Sh-shishou… Mob, you're hurting me."

Several things happen at once. Mob begins glowing, not with the deep ocean blues and violets that you know, but an all-encompassing fluorescent white like the afterimage of old TVs, somehow casting more shadows instead of dispelling them. A strange wave of energy slices through you, unfamiliar and cold, leaching your warmth. Its size and impact rattle the whole apartment, heavy aching sensation in your bones like you've been flung into a wall, yet you don't move a millimeter out of place.

And Mob opens his eyes.

They might be eyes, they might be stars, they might be fires. And they're not Mob's eyes at all.

"M-mob?" you stammer, your pulse ratcheting. "What are you doing, what's going on?"

That iris-less gaze stirs, fixates itself on you. The rest of Mob's face is just as blank and calm, and something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

"Mob!" you cry, giving in to your panic, trying to wrench yourself free even if it feels like you'll dislocate your fingers. "Mob, what's happening to you?"

Mob sits up, still staring at you, and finally releases your hand. But now you're shoved by an invisible force flat onto your back, unable to move, like what you've read online about sleep paralysis. You fling your gaze around to find your phone, but it's floating away, along with everything else in the room. The futon you're both on stays firmly rooted to the floor, like Mob is his own center of gravity.

Mob had always told you that psychic powers were difficult to have and to control, that you should be more afraid, have some self-preservation. You never understood his seemingly unfounded worries. You'd never felt even a modicum of fear around him, no matter how many evil spirits he wiped from this mortal plane like dust off a windshield.

Not until now.

You are so far beyond dread, beyond horror that you've settled into stunned resignation, paralyzed by your own mind as well as the force weighing you down. Even your voice refuses to scream, your mind a perfect blank. A spectator in your own show. All you can do is watch as your shishou kneels above you. He raises a hand to caress your face. You manage to squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for pain, for bone-carving agony.

Instead the hand drags down your neck, traverses your chest, and pulls your shirt off you.

Wait. What?

You can't help gasping as fingers dig into your chest a little, catching on your nipples, which aren't even that sensitive but feel so vulnerable in this electric moment. You're so confused by this emotional whiplash. "M-mob?" you somehow manage to squeak out again. "Mob, are you… doing this?"

However, a glance at Mob's face tells you that there's no one home. Not the Mob you know and love. His head tilts to the side the slightest bit, the lights of his eyes unwavering. And suddenly, you're scooped up and into his lap. There's no grace in what follows, rough hands grabbing and squeezing your belly, your thighs, your ass. You splutter and try to shove away but your limbs may as well be swimming through molasses. To your utter mortification, you can feel your face flush and your cock twitch at all this stimulation. A garbled yip escapes you when his tongue laves over your nipple in one broad stroke, and several more over your chest and onto the other one. Like a predator toying with a morsel of prey.

A shaky tendril of hope creeps onto you. This is probably Mob's very weird version of sleepwalking. This would explain why he was so tentative with you, why he didn't date others in the past. But you can roll with it. You still want him, even with his ocean floor-dweller eyes and the dark twists of his aura. His direct boldness is good too. You love how he was so tender with you earlier, but it's nice to know he can stop treating you like you're made of glass.

You moan in earnest when Mob latches on to your nipple and sucks, delicious ache of teeth and tongue. You clutch at the back of his skull, marveling at how his hair drifts up and tickles your fingers. He licks and bites his way down your stomach, the insides of your thighs. It takes you a few seconds to realize that he's using his powers to lift you and pull off your boxers. His hands squeeze your ass while he guides you to his mouth and begins sucking your dick with the same curious enthusiasm.

Mob's mouth is inhumanly hot, and wet, taking you all the way to the root. And instead of pulling his head away, he coaxes your whole body off, and then brings you to sink right back. You can't even thrust into his mouth; he moves you around like a rag doll, neither of you having to do the work. You curse and whine and whimper as he rocks you faster and faster. You're so close, but this bizarre sex position of being suspended in the air makes orgasm seem unfathomable. And then you feel his thumbs dig in, seeking the ring of muscle around your hole, massaging in circles. He presses hard on it, and on your perineum, at the same time he hums around your cock, and you cum so suddenly and so hard you can't even shout. He doesn't miss a beat, gulping down everything you give until you're shaking and sobbing from overstimulation.

"Stuh-stop! Please, oh please, too much…"

He brings you down to his eye level again, and you're in a pleasant enough fog that his unearthly appearance and the fact that he keeps you floating in the air don't phase you. There's a plasticky pop, like a container being opened, and you put two and two together when you feel slick digits prod at your hole.

Mob's going to fuck you. He's going to ruin you, if what's preceded this is anything to go by. Just like that, you're already half-hard and ready to go again. You focus and breathe, moaning in delighted triumph when your muscles relax enough to let the tips of his fingers in, and he coaxes in the rest. They're so much longer and thicker than yours when you tried this, several times before, and the angle is so much better. You clench around him, trying to get him deeper.

"hngh."

You manage to look down your body to Mob's face. The stoic mask has cracked, and his mouth is still open from his little groan, a starved intensity in the set of his jaw. His eyes don't move from yours as he gets more lube on his hand, in order to ease in a third finger, and oh. You're feeling the stretch and burn now, but it's a good pain, the sensation and excitement that if his fingers alone feel this good, oh gods the rest of him—

"mine."

He says it so low that you almost miss it over the delirium of your own thoughts. You gasp, clenching around him once again, overeager. You start babbling, "Y-yeah, yeah, please, please take me, Mob, I'm yours—"

His free hand, which has been grasping your hip, tightens hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise, and watch his eyebrows furrow as he snarls, in such a vindictive voice, "not mob's. mine."

All the blood leaves your face, the heat vacuumed away. Just like that, you know for certain that this isn't Mob. He's somehow been possessed, some evil spirit has finally taken revenge for all their comrades felled by your shishou's hand, torturing the both of you for it. But then, why use sexual assault as attraction? Most of all, Mob is insanely strong. This situation shouldn't even happen. This being, this creature, is unknown, unknowable. It's bested Mob. What hope does an ordinary high school idiot like you have?

You don't know at what moment you started crying, but now you can't stop. "Pl-please, evil spirit, please, let my master go, let us go, please, please, please—!"

The fingers inside you spread, and your body betrays you, makes you hiccup a moan against your will. You dare to look upon Mob's—whoever wears Mob's face, and are met with an intense, focused expression, like you're the only thing in this world worth seeing.

"not an evil spirit," he intones, low and precise. "i am me. this is who kageyama shigeo really is, when i'm not held back."

You're so confused. This is all too much. But you cling to this little driftwood of information, hope it'll keep you afloat. It's still your shishou, or a dark reflection of him. He won't harm you, it's not the end of the world. You try to gulp back the hysteria bubbling in your ribcage.

"and i can finally have you." His fingers shove as deep inside you as they can go, and you squeal, your cock jumping from the delicious pressure. "i have wanted you for so long."

You gasp, aflush with delight at this blunt admission. "R-really?"

The ghost of a smirk passes on his face. "yes. you've been a terrible brat. it's time to put you in your place."

The ravenous maw in your soul rises to meet his. It's an addictive feeling, knowing the one you want so badly wants you just as much. "Ooh," you giggle, "you gonna punish me, shishou?"

He hums, drags you in by the hip, the same one he gripped so tight earlier. The bruised ache only makes you moan, try and spread your legs wider. "i like when you call me that."

"I thought you hated it," you rasp, shuddering when the fingers inside you spread, and spread, and spread. Something hot and wet nudges the meat of your ass, and you realize it's his cock, bared and readied to take you. He's not even going to put you down on the bed; just leave you in the air like this so he can go as hard as he wants.

You're so aroused you feel like you're going to pass out.

"Well, if I've been so naughty…" You manage to reach down and cup your own ass, spread yourself apart for a good view. "Punish me, shishou."

There's an audible crack in the air, his powers flaring hot-white enough to blind you. He pulls his fingers out of you with no preamble, and you whimper at the drag and sting of it. You're not even given time to catch your breath when the head of his cock sinks into your still-gaping hole.

"W-wait, please, go slowwhhghk!" He's already pulled you all the way down on his cock, and it's too much, he's too big. You don't even have anything to grasp and ground yourself. You can only clutch at your chest, your stomach. To your disbelieving arousal, you can feel the hard tip of him through your belly. You didn't even know this was possible beyond perverted dojinshi.

And then he starts fucking you in earnest.

You can't even begin to describe the kinds of sounds you're making now. He's thrusting hard at the same time he slams your hips down on him, lurid slaps of skin on skin that's going to bruise you everywhere, from inside-out. His cock catches on your prostate every few thrusts. You're losing control of yourself, eyes rolling in the back of your head and body shuddering uselessly in his hands, a sweaty lump of clay for him to shape as he pleases. The universe burns down to the harsh drag of him inside you, cracking you open like an egg.

You don't know if you're wailing from pain or pleasure. You don't know if you want him to stop or go harder. You don't know if you're being actively fucked, or you're just a warm body for him to use or abuse.

You don't know why you're so close to cumming despite all this.

He's been silent the whole time, save for some harsh panting. Without warning, he grunts and buries himself in you balls-deep, holding still. You whimper at the sharp throbs of his cock inside you, wondering if he came early or you've simply lost all sense of time. You hope that he'll at least finish you off before this is over.

Except, he isn't pulling out. He isn't going soft at all. He rumbles out an assessing "hm," and you blearily look down to see him clambering off the bed, pulling your levitated body with him. He stands straight, his feet planted wide.

All the better to break you.

"Ohgodfuhck—!" He resumes at a far deeper and more brutal pace, your teeth clacking in your skull and your fingertips going numb. You get the vague ticklish sensation of something trickling out of you and down the crack of your ass. Mob's cum. Mob's cum, lubricating you, and you wonder deliriously how many times he can go, how much he'll make you take—

You fumble for your leaking dick, desperate to cum, to dull the edge of pain that's growing with each thrust. You only manage to stroke yourself a few times before both your wrists are grabbed and pinned behind your back.

"no," he utters. His eyes are somehow blazing brighter, taking in your red, sweaty, desperate face. You sob and blubber, tears of frustration blurring your vision. "come from this. and only from this."

"I c-cahan't—!" He elevates you from your horizontal position to press against his chest, and he kisses you. Ravages you, rather; his teeth pulling on your lips and his tongue almost down to your throat, making you gag and whine.

He pulls away, staring at you like an old god. "i know you can." A beautiful, cruel smile stretches his mouth. "don't you want to make shishou happy?"

You utter a panicked moan, the tension in your belly coiling tighter despite everything, your muscles fluttering around his cock. He cups the back of your head, brings his mouth close to your ear. "be a good boy for me," he growls.

And somehow, just like that, the dam inside you breaks. You cum with your cock trapped between your stomach and his, screaming so hard that something ruptures in your throat. It's such a long, drawn-out orgasm that you wonder if you're dying, if you're coming alive.

Nothing's clear anymore.

He croons into your ear, "what an obedient slut. and all mine."

You whimper into his shoulder, unsure if you like this kind of dirty talk. You're going soft, and the uncomfortable, sticky feeling of your cum and all your sweat becomes more pronounced.

And like a goddamned machine, he's still fucking you at the same pace.

The afterglow is fading fast, overstimulation on both your dick and your prostate, and you warble out, "Shihngh—Shishou, it h-hurts a lot now, please… slower—"

"you'll take what i give you."

Without pulling out, he spins you in the air, so your back is to him and your limbs dangle uselessly to the floor. You wail and scrabble at his arms holding you by the shoulders, but he's both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Your vision is going dark at the edges, your ears ringing, and you only barely hear him snarl, "you were made for this. this is all you're good for."

Time becomes liquid, after that. He cums into you three, maybe four, maybe five more times. Your belly is achingly full, slightly distended from how much he's released. You cum too, at least once; pathetic dribbles from your soft cock that brings very little relief in this onslaught. There are bruises and scratches all over your back and thighs and ass from however he grabs you, some bite marks on your neck. When unconsciousness takes you, you welcome it like a shipwreck survivor welcoming dry land.

You wake to the sounds of someone crying.

You manage to force your eyes open, and it's Mob. Mob as you know and love, all of him, his dark eyes crinkled as he sobs without ceasing. His streams of tears are floating upward, colliding with the ceiling. He's glowing a heavy blue as he hovers his hands over your limp body strewn on the bed. You can't even feel your legs. You whimper at the dull ache deep inside you, and Mob answers with a ruined animal noise. His trembling hands glow brighter, and you realize he's healing you. You manage to raise your head enough to see the handprint bruises all over you recede, the scratches and bites thin out. But there are scars. And the ache in both your entrance and your heart only grow more unbearable.

"W-water," you croak, your throat and mouth desert-dry, and Mob jerks a hand forward, a glass levitating into his grip. He supports your head to help you drink, some of it spilling down your neck, cooling your heated skin.

"A-Arataka," Mob sobs, his hair twisting wilder, "oh gods, Arataka, I can't even remember what happened, what I did, I h-hurt you, I'm so sorry, I'm s-so sorry—"

"You. Don't remember?" you rasp.

Mob doesn't even hear you, on the verge of hyperventilating as he weeps, "Oh gods, it's happened again, I've hurt someone again, oh gods I'm so sorry—"

"M-mob," you manage to snap, and Mob's mouth clamps shut, his gaze meeting yours for the first time.

You breathe through the pain, and tell him, "It's not your fault. And I forgive you anyway." Tears are escaping you too, now, and you ask him, your voice breaking, "Do you still love me?"

"Of course I love you," Mob cries in utter anguish, "and this is why you should never see me again. I'm going to hurt you again!"

"Hold me."

He's baffled enough that he stops crying for a moment. "H-hold me!" you plead, raising your feeble arms to him. He sinks into your embrace, but doesn't let his hands touch you, his tears washing over your skin like holy fire. "See?" you try to say. "You're not hurting me right now. You could never hurt me."

"B-but—"

"You could never. Hurt me." You squeeze him tighter. "We'll figure something out."

He's rattling in your arms. "I've tried, I've been trying for years—"

"But you didn't have me around then. I'm here now. And I'm not leaving you."

Mob cries into your chest, his shaking hands coming to rest on your face, on your heart. You look out the window, at the hint of dawn that's eating up the black sky, and promise him in your head, i'm going to be right by your side no matter what.

END