The silence of the apartment was a living thing, breathing slow and steady around them. Two days had passed since that first feeding, since the contract had sealed itself into Akira’s bones, since Kanato had held him through the aftermath of a memory he hadn’t known was coming. Two days, and Akira still hadn’t left.
He told himself it was because his body was still adjusting. The mark on his stomach pulsed with a soft violet glow whenever Kanato was in the room, a heat that spread through his veins like honey, slow and insistent. He told himself it was because Kanato had made it clear—the contract was new, the bond was still settling, and it was safer to stay close until they understood the rhythms of it. He told himself a lot of things.
The truth was simpler. He didn’t want to leave.
Akira sat on the edge of the pull-out couch, a mug of tea cooling between his palms. The apartment was quiet in the way only mid-afternoon could be—light spilling through the curtains in pale gold sheets, dust motes drifting through the air like slow prayer. Kanato was in the kitchen, humming something under his breath, the clink of dishes and the hiss of the faucet the only signs of life beyond the living room.
Akira watched him through the doorway. The broad slope of his shoulders, the easy way he moved, the way his fingers found rhythm in the mundane. It was strange, seeing him like this. Kanato, who had pressed him into the mattress until his vision blurred. Kanato, who had whispered filthy things in his ear and made him beg. Kanato, who had held him through the shaking and whispered reassurances into his hair. They were the same person. Akira was still learning how to hold both truths in his hands without them cutting.
“You’re staring,” Kanato said without turning around.
Akira’s face warmed. He looked down at his tea. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.” Kanato glanced over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips. “It’s okay. I’m worth staring at.”
“Modest, too.”
“It’s a gift.”
Akira took a sip of the tea just to have something to do with his mouth. It was too hot, bitter on his tongue, but the burn grounded him. There was a rhythm to these moments, a fragile domesticity that felt borrowed from a life he hadn’t earned. He didn’t know what to do with his hands when they weren’t trembling. He didn’t know how to exist in someone’s space without bracing for impact.
But Kanato made it feel easy. That was the most terrifying part.
“Hey.” Kanato’s voice came closer, and Akira looked up to find him leaning against the doorframe, drying his hands on a dish towel. “You’re thinking too loud again.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Nagi-chan.” Kanato’s voice softened, a rare gentleness that made Akira’s chest ache. “You’ve been sitting here for three hours. You finished your stream at noon, you ate, you showered, and then you sat down and haven’t moved. What’s going on?”
Akira opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the steam curling from his mug. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between them, the word too small for the shape of it. “Being here. Not—not needing to fight or plan or escape. Just existing in the same space as someone else. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Kanato was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the room, sank onto the couch beside Akira, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “You can just be. If you want to talk, we talk. If you want to sit in silence, we sit. If you want me to read your palm and tell you your future is full of rich food and soft beds, I can do that too.”
Akira huffed a laugh despite himself. “That’s not how palm reading works.”
“Who’s the heir of a former mafia clan? Trust me, I know futures.”
The laugh that escaped him was real, surprising and warm in his chest. Kanato’s grin widened, victorious, and Akira felt something loosen in his ribs. This was the part of Kanato that disarmed him completely—the easy laughter, the teasing, the way he could turn a room warm just by being in it.
“There he is,” Kanato murmured. “Been wondering where you went.”
Akira looked down at his hands wrapped around the mug. “I’m still here.”
“I know.” Kanato’s voice was soft. “But sometimes you go somewhere else. Your eyes go distant, and I can tell you’re not in the room anymore. You’ve been doing that a lot the last two days.”
“I have a lot to process.”
“I know.”
Silence settled between them, but not the heavy kind. It was the kind that let Akira breathe, let him feel the weight of the words he hadn’t said yet. He turned the mug in his hands, watching the tea ripple.
“The first time I was sent on a honey trap mission,” he said, and the words came out flat, like he was reading a report, “I was fifteen. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do. They gave me clothes, taught me how to smile a certain way, and put me in a room with a man twice my age. I thought I could handle it because I had training. I thought I could fight my way out if it got bad.”
He paused. Kanato didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just waited.
“I didn’t fight. I froze. And when it was over, I stood in the shower for three hours and couldn’t stop shaking. Seraph found me. He didn’t ask questions. He just sat on the bathroom floor and waited for me to come out.”
The words hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Akira hadn’t meant to say any of that. It had just slipped out, like water through a crack in a dam.
Kanato’s hand found his, warm and steady, not gripping, just there. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I don’t know why I did.”
“Because you trust me.”
Akira looked at him. Kanato’s amber eyes held no pity, no horror, just a quiet acceptance that made something in Akira’s throat tighten. “I don’t trust people,” Akira said. “It’s not safe.”
“I know.” Kanato’s thumb traced a slow circle on Akira’s knuckles. “But you’re trying. And that’s more than most people ever do.”
They sat like that, hands touching, breath mingling in the space between them, until the tea went cold and the light shifted from gold to amber. Akira didn’t pull away. For the first time in two days, his mind was quiet.
Two days later, Akira was in a stream room at the Nijisanji building, helping Sho with a makeup promotion.
It had been Sho’s idea—an olive branch, really, after the awkwardness of their last interaction. Akira had been distant since the incubus symptoms started, canceling collabs and dodging social events with excuses that sounded thin even to his own ears. Sho had cornered him in the break room two days ago, concern bleeding through his usual composure, and asked if everything was okay. Akira had said yes. Sho had not believed him. The makeup collab was Sho’s way of keeping him close without pressing.
“Nagi-san, you’re holding the brush like it’s a weapon,” Sho said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Akira looked down at the makeup brush in his hand, grip white-knuckled, and forced himself to relax. “Sorry. Muscle memory.”
“From... fighting? Or from applying foundation?”
“Both, actually. SPIA training involved a surprising amount of blending techniques.”
Sho laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Akira felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. They were settled in a small studio, lights warm and soft, the camera off while they tested products. Sho was patient, explaining each step with the careful precision of someone who had done this a hundred times. Akira listened, asked questions, tried to focus on the present instead of the itch under his skin.
It had been building all day. A low hum in his blood, a heat that flickered and pulsed, the mark on his stomach glowing faintly even through his shirt. He’d fed two days ago, but the hunger was already stirring, a restless beast pacing in its cage. He’d messaged Kanato earlier, a brief I’m fine that was more lie than truth, and Kanato had responded with a string of emojis that made him snort. But the hunger was there, waiting, patient.
Akira was trying not to think about it.
The door to the studio opened without a knock, and Akira looked up, expecting a staff member with a schedule update. Instead, Kanato stood in the doorway, and Akira’s breath caught.
He looked wrong.
Kanato’s face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his pupils blown wide and dark. He was breathing hard, leaning against the doorframe like his legs might give out, and his hands were trembling at his sides. When his eyes found Akira, something in them broke—relief and desperation tangled into a single, raw plea.
“Kanato?” Akira was on his feet before he knew he’d moved. “What’s wrong?”
Kanato staggered into the room, ignoring Sho’s startled protest, and collapsed against Akira. The heat coming off him was staggering, burning through his clothes, and Akira caught him on instinct, arms wrapping around a body that was shaking like a leaf in a storm.
“Akira,” Kanato gasped, and his voice was wrecked. “Akira, I need—someone put something in my drink. I don’t know what it was but I can’t—I can’t—”
“Hey, hey, slow down.” Akira’s hands found Kanato’s face, tilting it up. The pupils were blown, the amber nearly swallowed by black. He’d seen that look before—in the field, on targets who’d been dosed with something they hadn’t consented to. His stomach turned. “Who?”
“Staff. A girl. She handed me a coffee and I didn’t—I trusted her because she works here—” Kanato’s words broke into a moan, his body arching against Akira’s, and Akira felt the hard length of him pressing against his thigh. “Fuck. I can’t think straight. Everything’s too much.”
Sho had already moved, hitting the button to pause the stream, his face drawn with concern. “Kanato, do you need a doctor? Should I call—”
“No.” Kanato’s grip on Akira tightened, practically clawing at his shirt. “No doctors. I just need—Akira, please. I need you. I can’t—I tried to fight it but it’s too strong and I’m scared.”
The word hit Akira like a blow. Scared. Kanato never said that word. Kanato, who was always in control, always teasing, always one step ahead. Hearing it fall from his lips, raw and broken, cracked something open in Akira’s chest.
He looked at Sho. “I need to take him home.”
Sho nodded without hesitation. “Go. I’ll handle the explanation. Take care of him.”
Akira didn’t wait. He guided Kanato out of the studio, one arm wrapped around his waist, supporting his weight as they stumbled down the hallway toward the exit. Kanato was shaking violently, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and every few steps he made a sound low in his throat that made Akira’s pulse spike.
They made it to the parking lot, to Akira’s car, and Akira bundled Kanato into the passenger seat before sliding into the driver’s side. His hands were steady on the wheel even though his heart was hammering. He’d been trained for emergencies. He could do this.
“Talk to me,” Akira said as he pulled out of the lot. “Keep talking.”
“It hurts,” Kanato said, his voice thin. “It feels like I’m burning from the inside. I tried to make it stop. I locked myself in the bathroom but it just kept getting worse. I thought about you, and it got hotter, and I knew if I didn’t find you I’d lose my mind.”
“You found me. I’m here.” Akira’s voice was calm, steady, even as his insides churned. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”
“I can’t—Akira, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do this to you. Not like this. Not when you’re still—”
“Stop.” Akira’s hand found Kanato’s, squeezing. “You didn’t choose this. Someone did this to you. And I’m not going to let you suffer alone.”
Kanato’s breath hitched. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t seem to notice. “You’re too good. You’re too fucking good for me.”
Akira didn’t answer. He just drove, the city blurring past, the weight of Kanato’s trust pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
The apartment door had barely clicked shut before Kanato was on him.
Hands fisting in Akira’s shirt, mouth finding his in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation, the taste of salt and heat. Akira stumbled back against the wall, the impact driving the breath from his lungs, and Kanato followed, pressing his body against Akira’s like he was trying to crawl inside his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Kanato gasped against his mouth, the words ragged. “I can’t slow down. I can’t—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Akira’s hands found Kanato’s hips, pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing against his own. The contact sent a jolt through him, heat pooling low in his belly, but he forced himself to focus. “Do what you need. I can take it.”
“Akira.” His name was a prayer, broken and desperate. Kanato’s forehead dropped to Akira’s shoulder, his body shaking. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Akira’s voice was firm, even as his heart raced. He tilted Kanato’s chin up, meeting his eyes. “I trust you. Even like this. I trust you.”
Something in Kanato’s face crumbled. He kissed Akira again, softer this time, a moment of tenderness in the storm, and then his hands were moving, pulling at Akira’s shirt, at his pants, desperate and clumsy and hungry. Akira helped, kicking off his shoes, shrugging out of his jacket, letting Kanato push him toward the bedroom one stumbling step at a time.
The bed caught them, and Kanato’s weight settled over Akira’s, solid and shaking. His hands roamed Akira’s body like he was mapping territory he needed to claim, and Akira let him, arching into the touch, the heat, the overwhelming presence of someone who wanted him so badly it burned.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Kanato said, even as he pressed his thigh between Akira’s legs, making him gasp. “Tell me to stop and I will. I swear I will.”
“I know.” Akira’s hands tangled in Kanato’s hair, pulling him down for another kiss. “I know you will. That’s why I’m not scared.”
Kanato made a sound low in his throat, half sob and half growl, and then there were no more words.
The first hour was a blur of heat and need.
Kanato fucked him like he was dying, each thrust deep and desperate, chasing a release that kept slipping away. Akira took it, arms wrapped around Kanato’s neck, legs locked around his waist, moaning into the space between them as the world narrowed to the rhythm of Kanato’s body against his. The mark on his stomach blazed violet, pulsing with every thrust, and his tail manifested unbidden, wrapping around Kanato’s thigh like it was holding on for dear life.
“So good,” Kanato gasped against his throat. “You feel so fucking good, Akira. I can’t—fuck, I can’t slow down.”
“Don’t.” Akira’s voice was wrecked, his hips lifting to meet each thrust. “Don’t slow down. I want this. I want you.”
Kanato came with a cry, spilling into him, and Akira felt the warmth spread through his body like a second pulse. But the drug didn’t let up. Kanato kept moving, kept thrusting, his body still burning, still hungry.
“I’m not done,” Kanato said, almost apologetic, and Akira laughed breathlessly.
“I noticed.”
Kanato pulled out, and Akira gasped at the loss, but then Kanato was flipping him onto his stomach, pressing him into the mattress, and the new angle drove the air from his lungs when Kanato pushed back in. Deeper. Fuller. Akira moaned, his fingers clawing at the sheets, as Kanato set a rhythm that was relentless.
The second hour, Akira stopped thinking.
The third, he stopped trying to form words.
By the fourth, he was a mess of moans and whimpers, his body oversensitive and trembling, every touch sending sparks through his nerves. The incubus mark was a live wire on his stomach, glowing bright whenever Kanato pressed against it, and his tail was being stroked, rubbed, licked until he couldn’t tell where pleasure ended and pain began.
“Kanato,” he gasped, the name breaking on his lips. “Kanato, please—I can’t—”
“You can.” Kanato’s voice was rough, drunk on the drug, on Akira’s body. “You’re doing so well, baby. So perfect. Just a little more.”
Akira sobbed, the praise cutting through the haze, and Kanato kissed the tears from his cheeks. He kept going, kept taking, kept filling the space between them until Akira didn’t know where he ended and Kanato began.
The fifth hour, Akira stopped counting orgasms. His body was a vessel for sensation, each climax a wave that rolled through him without release—the contract held him on the edge, denying him the final fall, leaving him raw and open and desperate. He begged, not for it to stop, but for Kanato to let him come, the words falling from his lips in a broken loop.
“Please, Kanato, please, please—”
Kanato’s hand found the sigil on his stomach, pressing hard, and Akira screamed, the pleasure spiking into something unbearable. His tail was yanked, stroked, and he came dry, his body convulsing, his mind blank with the force of it.
“Good boy,” Kanato murmured, and Akira sobbed again.
Time lost meaning. The room was dark, lit only by the violet glow of Akira’s mark and the pale light from the window. Kanato changed positions, moving Akira’s limp body like he weighed nothing, fucking him on his back, on his stomach, on his side, each angle hitting deeper, harder, until Akira couldn’t remember a time before this.
“You’re mine,” Kanato said, the words slurring with exhaustion and need. “All mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” Akira gasped. “I’m yours, Kanato, I’m yours—”
Another climax. Another wave. Akira’s voice was gone, his throat raw from moaning, but he still made sounds, broken little noises that escaped without permission. Kanato kept praising him, telling him he was beautiful, perfect, so good for him, and each word made Akira’s chest ache with something that felt too big to hold.
When Kanato finally slowed, the drug’s hold loosening, Akira was barely conscious. He felt Kanato pull out, felt the warmth of him leaving, and whimpered at the emptiness.
“Shh.” Kanato’s hand found his hair, stroking gently. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
The words barely registered before Kanato's body was moving again, the drug still burning in his veins, the hunger still unspent. Akira felt him shift, felt the heat of him press close, and a whimper escaped his throat before he could stop it.
"Kanato..." His voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, but Kanato heard it. Those amber eyes, still blown wide and dark, found his face.
"I know," Kanato said, and there was apology in his voice, buried beneath layers of need. "I know, Akira. I'm sorry. I can't—it's still—"
"I know." Akira's hand found Kanato's cheek, the touch feather-light. "It's okay. I'm still here."
Kanato's breath hitched. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to Akira's palm, and then he was pushing back inside, the slick heat of Akira's body welcoming him like it had been waiting. Akira gasped, his back arching, the sensation spiking through nerves already raw and oversensitive.
"Ah—!" The sound escaped him, high and broken, and Kanato groaned in response.
"Sonna koe dashitara," Kanato murmured against his throat, "motto yaritaku naru daro."
Akira's face burned. He understood enough— when you make sounds like that, it makes me want to do it more —and the embarrassment cut through the haze like a blade. But Kanato was already moving, already setting a rhythm that was relentless, and Akira's body responded before his mind could catch up.
Each thrust drove the air from his lungs. Each impact sent a jolt through his nerves, pleasure and pain tangled into a single unbearable thread. Akira's hands found the sheets, gripping white-knuckled, as Kanato fucked him with a desperation that bordered on violence.
"Kanato—Kanato, mō—" The words tumbled out, broken, pleading. I can't anymore. But he didn't say stop. He couldn't say stop. The word was locked somewhere deep in his chest, behind ribs that had been wired shut by years of training and conditioning.
Kanato didn't hear the plea beneath the moan. Or if he did, the drug drowned it out. His hand found Akira's stomach, pressing down, and the moment his palm touched the incubus sigil, Akira screamed.
The sound was raw, animal, torn from the depths of his throat. The mark blazed violet under Kanato's hand, and Akira's body convulsed, the pleasure spiking tenfold, overwhelming, unbearable. His tail manifested all at once, lashing against the sheets, and Kanato's other hand caught it before Akira could even register the movement.
"Kawaii," Kanato breathed, stroking the sensitive appendage from base to tip. "Itsumo kore ga detekuru to, Akira wa motto yokute, motto sexy ni narunda."
Akira sobbed. The words— cute, whenever this comes out, you become better, more sexy —made his face burn even as his body arched into the touch. Kanato's fingers traced the length of his tail, rubbing, caressing, and every stroke sent sparks through his nerves. He could feel Kanato's cock inside him, still hard, still moving, and the combination of sensations was too much.
"Please," he gasped, not even sure what he was begging for. "Please, Kanato, please—"
"Nani wo onegai shiteru?" Kanato's voice was teasing, even through the haze of the drug. "Motto hoshii no? Soretomo yamete hoshii?"
Akira shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't know. He couldn't think. The pleasure was too bright, too sharp, cutting through him like glass. Kanato's hand was still on his sigil, pressing, rubbing, and each touch made his body clench around Kanato's cock, drawing a groan from both of them.
"Nakanai de," Kanato murmured, leaning down to kiss the tears from Akira's cheeks. "Don't cry. You're doing so well, baby. So perfect for me."
The praise cut through the haze, and Akira whimpered, his hips lifting to meet Kanato's thrusts even as his body screamed for respite. He was caught between wanting more and wanting it to stop, between the pleasure that made him feel alive and the overstimulation that was slowly breaking him apart.
Kanato shifted, pulling out, and Akira gasped at the loss. But then Kanato was flipping him onto his stomach, pulling his hips up, and the new angle made him gasp again when Kanato pushed back inside.
"Koko," Kanato said, his voice rough, "kono naka, Akira no ichiban fukai tokoro. Fucking made." He drove deeper, and Akira's face pressed into the pillow, a muffled scream escaping his throat.
The position exposed him completely. His tail lay across his back, twitching with every thrust, and Kanato's hand found it again, stroking it in rhythm with his movements. Each caress sent a jolt through Akira's body, making him clench around Kanato, drawing a groan from the man above him.
"Sonna ni shimetsuketara," Kanato gasped, "motto hayaku natchau daro."
Akira couldn't form a response. His voice was gone, reduced to moans and whimpers that escaped without permission. His body was on fire, every nerve ending alight, and Kanato was everywhere—inside him, around him, above him, a presence that filled every corner of his awareness.
The second hour blurred into the third. Akira lost track of time, of orgasms, of himself. Each climax rolled through him without release, the contract holding him on the edge, denying him the final fall. He came dry, his body convulsing, and the sensitivity only grew worse with each wave.
Kanato changed positions again, pulling Akira onto his lap, and Akira's legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The new angle drove Kanato's cock deeper, hitting a spot that made Akira's vision white out. He cried out, loud and broken, his hands gripping Kanato's shoulders for support.
"Soko?" Kanato asked, his voice strained. "Koko ga ii no?"
Akira nodded frantically, unable to speak. Kanato thrust up into him, hitting that spot again, and Akira's moan was almost a scream.
"I love this," Kanato said, and there was something almost reverent in his voice, even through the drug-fueled desperation. "I love watching you fall apart, Akira. I love knowing that I'm the one doing this to you. That you trust me enough to let me see you like this."
Akira's chest ached. The words cut through the haze, reaching something deep and raw. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Kanato's, and whispered, "I trust you. I trust you, Kanato. That's why I'm still here."
Kanato's breath caught. For a moment, something clear and sharp broke through the drug's haze—something that looked like love. He kissed Akira, soft and tender, a moment of gentleness in the storm, and then the hunger surged again, and he was moving once more.
The fourth hour, Akira stopped trying to hold back his voice. It was useless anyway. Every moan, every whimper, every broken plea fell from his lips without permission, and Kanato drank them in like they were oxygen.
"Motto," Kanato said, his voice hoarse. "I want to hear more. I want to hear everything, Akira. Don't hold back."
Akira couldn't have held back if he tried. His body was beyond his control, arching and trembling under Kanato's hands. His tail was being stroked, rubbed, licked, each touch sending sparks through his nerves. His sigil burned under Kanato's palm, the violet glow pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His nipples were pinched, rolled, teased until he cried out. His cock was stroked, denied, teased until he sobbed.
"Onegai," he gasped, the Japanese falling from his lips like a prayer. "Onegai, Kanato—mō—muri—"
"Muri janai," Kanato said, his voice low. "You can take it. You're so strong, Akira. So fucking strong. I know you can take it."
The praise undid him. Akira came again, dry, his body convulsing, and the sensitivity spiked to unbearable levels. He cried out, his hands clawing at Kanato's back, leaving red lines across his skin.
"Sou, sou, soko da," Kanato breathed. "That's it. Let go. I've got you."
The fifth hour, Akira couldn't form words anymore.
His voice was a constant stream of sound—moans, whimpers, gasps, broken syllables that meant nothing and everything. His body moved without his input, responding to Kanato's touch like an instrument played by a master. Every nerve was alight, every cell singing with sensation.
Kanato had him on his stomach again, pressing him into the mattress, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand found Akira's tail, stroking it from base to tip, and Akira's moan was muffled by the pillow.
"Akira," Kanato said, "mite. Mitai." He pulled Akira's hips up, angling him so he could see where their bodies joined. "Kore, mite. Boku no cock ga, Akira no naka ni haitteru. Donna ni ii ka, wakaru?"
Akira's face burned. He could see it—Kanato's cock sliding into him, wet and glistening, the sight obscene and intimate and overwhelming. He whimpered, his hands clutching the sheets, and Kanato thrust deeper, making him cry out.
"Donna kanji?" Kanato asked, his voice strained. "Ittemasu ka?"
"Hai—" Akira's voice broke. "Hai, ittemsu—Kanato no naka de—"
The words were enough. Kanato groaned, his hips snapping forward, and Akira felt him come inside him again, the warmth spreading through his body. But the drug wasn't done. Kanato kept moving, kept thrusting, and Akira's overstimulated body keened at the continued sensation.
"Mō sukoshi," Kanato said, almost apologetic. "Mō sukoshi dake, Akira. Gaman shite."
Akira nodded, tears streaming down his face. He could endure. He had been trained to endure. And this—this was for Kanato. This was for the man who had held him through his own nightmares, who had promised never to let him go. This was the least he could do.
But endurance had limits.
The sixth hour, Akira's body began to rebel.
He tried to hold still, tried to let Kanato use him as he needed, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. His hands pushed weakly at Kanato's chest. His hips tried to pull away. His body, pushed past every threshold he had, was trying to escape on instinct alone.
"Kanato—" The word was a sob. "Kanato, mō—muri—muri, onegai—"
The words didn't mean stop. They never meant stop. But Akira's body was moving without his permission, dragging itself back, away from the overwhelming sensation. His arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the mattress, trying to crawl away on elbows that wouldn't hold him.
Kanato caught him mid-motion. His hand closed around Akira's waist, firm and unyielding, and pulled him back. The shift in angle drove Kanato's cock deeper than before, hitting a spot that made Akira scream—a raw, broken sound that filled the room.
"Iyaa... mou muri... Kanato... mngn... ahh... onegai..." The words tumbled out, a stream of Japanese and nonsense, Akira's voice cracking on every syllable. His body was shaking, tears and sweat mingling on his skin, and he couldn't stop the sounds that escaped him.
But Kanato's eyes were dark with the drug, with arousal, with the intoxicating sound of Akira's voice. Every moan, every plea, every broken word only made him harder, only made him want more.
"Sonna koe de onegai sareta," Kanato said, his voice rough, "yametaku naru wake nai daro."
Akira sobbed. His body was no longer his own. It was a vessel for Kanato's pleasure, for the drug's hunger, for the contract that bound them together. He couldn't stop. He couldn't say the word that would end it. The conditioning ran too deep, the training too thorough.
So he took it.
He took every thrust, every caress, every overwhelming wave of pleasure that pushed him closer to the edge and refused to let him fall. He took Kanato's mouth on his, Kanato's hands on his body, Kanato's voice in his ear, praising him, mocking him, breaking him apart.
"Kawaii," Kanato murmured against his throat. "Motto kawaii ne. Mou naki nagara mo, Akira wa boku no cock wo shimetsuketeru. Donna ni ii ka, wakatteru daro?"
Akira couldn't answer. His voice was gone, reduced to whimpers and gasps. His body was a wreck of sensation, every nerve raw and exposed. But he could feel it—the truth of Kanato's words. His body was still responding, still clenching around Kanato's cock, still chasing pleasure even as it drowned in it.
Kanato shifted again, pulling Akira's legs over his shoulders, the new angle driving him impossibly deeper. Akira's back arched, a broken moan escaping his throat, and Kanato's hand found his sigil, pressing hard.
The orgasm that ripped through him was blinding. Akira's vision went white, his body convulsing, a scream tearing from his throat that was half pleasure and half plea. He came dry, his cock twitching, nothing left to give, and the sensitivity spiked to a level that was almost pain.
"Sou da," Kanato breathed. "Sore da yo, Akira. Subarashii."
Akira's hands found Kanato's shoulders, gripping, pushing, trying to create distance his mind couldn't voice. But Kanato didn't move. He stayed buried deep, his hand still pressing the sigil, and Akira's body continued to convulse around him.
"Onegai," Akira whispered, the word barely audible. "Onegai, Kanato... mō... yamete..."
But he didn't say stop. He couldn't say stop. And Kanato, lost in the drug, in the heat, in the overwhelming pleasure of Akira's body, didn't hear the plea that was hidden beneath the moan.
He kept going.
The seventh hour found them tangled in the sheets, both of them drenched in sweat, both of them trembling with exhaustion. But Kanato's body was still moving, still hungry, still chasing a release that the drug wouldn't let him hold.