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Summary:

Karasu is not much more qualified than Hiori is to be a professional player, but how he clings to him makes him sick.

Otoya can smell it all over him, and he can feel it in every drop running down his skin. Hiori wants him. He’s pretending to be needy and needs help for Karasu’s attention. It’s in the way his eyes glaze over when Karasu gives him feedback, or stutter when Karasu tells him he’s improved.

And Otoya hates it, tasting a dizzy and nausea-inducing rage as he grips his knee, crouched by the corner of the field.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

“You’re going out again?” Otoya looks up from his phone, lounging in his sweats on their couch. Their apartment complex has a sizable gym downstairs, and Karasu is clearly on his way, with the gear and ball to prove it.

 

“I told ya earlier. Hiori asked me to help him practice,” Karasu says as he pulls a face. Eita’s forgetfulness is not his favorite trait. It’s only the evening, but they’ve been in the apartment all day. On weekends, not as busy with practice or the press, they spend the days with soft touches and gentle embraces, but Otoya hasn’t been himself recently.

 

When Karasu wakes up early, stroking his side as Otoya rests, he sees that Otoya stirs quickly when he sees Karasu on his phone, jolting to see what he’s up to. He’s more invasive than needy, asking Karasu not to go out without him or do things alone— he wants to be part of it all. 

 

Otoya grits his teeth, and his grip on his cell phone is unusual. 

 

“The fuck’s wrong with ya, Eita?” Karasu cocks a brow, shifting his weight as he stands in place. He crosses his arms, meeting his eyes in a way that pierces Otoya almost uncomfortably. Karasu shouldn’t know too much right now. 

 

“He already asked to see you yesterday. And on Wednesday.” Otoya’s brows are furrowed, flicking his index finger against his thigh in a way that snaps to sting. “It’s been enough already.” 

 

“If it’s such a big deal, just tag along. He’s got tryouts, I’m sure he’d appreciate it anyway.” Karasu sighs and checks his watch. “If yer gonna come, hurry it up.” He turns his back and walks away to grab his keys, and Otoya leaps from the couch with a scowl. He doesn’t like being ordered around, and he doesn’t like that Karasu didn’t get the message he was trying to send, Don’t you dare see him again.

 

Otoya makes haste and pulls his shoes on, following Karasu down through the elevator in silence. When Karasu fights him, it’s not uncommon for him to get the silent treatment back. Karasu says nothing in return, scrolling through his phone and tapping against the wall. 

 

In their gym, Hiori is standing by the indoor court, doing keep-ups in warm-ups, with a slight sweat breaking on his forehead. He greets them both with a bright smile, but only Otoya would notice how it dampens in the smallest manner when their eyes meet. 

 

“Oh, Otoya. It’s nice to see you.” Hiori waves and Otoya feigns a peace sign, trying to pretend he means it.

 

Karasu and Hiori’s voices tune out as they set up the field, run drills, and do exercises. Karasu is not much more qualified than Hiori is to be a professional player, but how he clings to him makes him sick.

 

Otoya can smell it all over him, and he can feel it in every drop running down his skin. Hiori wants him. He’s pretending to be needy and needs help for Karasu’s attention. It’s in the way his eyes glaze over when Karasu gives him feedback, or stutter when Karasu tells him he’s improved.

 

And Otoya hates it, tasting a dizzy and nausea-inducing rage as he grips his knee, crouched by the corner of the field. Hiori is working on his corner, but in a feeble attempt, shoots and overshoots, flying into the ceiling netting. He frowns as he looks at Karasu for feedback, but Otoya gets up and leans against the wall, calling Hiori out.

 

“You seriously can’t do that?” Otoya yawns, flitting his eyes to ignore Karasu’s harsh stare as Hiori’s stance weakens. He makes his way over to the ball, where he ignores it and stares deep into Hiori, questioning him. 

 

“You know, you’re brave for trying so hard,” Otoya says, smoothly enough to lace it with venom but to keep his face flat, unnerved. “Maybe you’ll be good enough someday.” He brings himself closer, jutting his chin upwards as Hiori swallows nervously, muted. Neither of them questioned Otoya’s words, inserting himself as if watching over Hiori gave him the right to berate and bully.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” Hiori says, looking over to Karasu for approval, whose face is furious, only focused on Otoya. 

 

“Nah, Hiori. It’s fine. Just try it again.” He says but doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he stares down at Otoya, whose face mocks him in return. 

 

The only thing his expression reads as is an insult, almost daring him to test him. Otoya smiles, plain and small. As Karasu turns his back, regaining composure, Otoya digs his nails into his thigh, leaning against the wall of the pitch. 

 

Hiori continues to fumble and falter in his movements as they go on, becoming quieter and meeker, passing and playing with less energy. Karasu himself looks phased by Otoya’s actions, glancing over to him in passing. 

 

But Otoya’s face remains calm, and composed as he looks back at him. When their session finishes, ending off with a damaged-looking Hiori packing his things quickly without a goodbye, Karasu grips Otoya by the wrist and takes them both upstairs as quickly as he can.

 

When Karasu slams the door, sweating profusely, Otoya meets him with a grin. 

 

“What’s wrong, Karasu?” Otoya leans against their countertop, Karasu looking down on him. “I thought you wanted my help.” He says, reaching for Karasu’s jaw as he drags his index finger, neutralizing his anger.

 

Karasu cannot meet his gaze. “Don’t take yer anger out on him. It’s me ya have a problem with, not Hiori.” 

 

“Is that right? So you care about his feelings, but not mine?” Otoya digs his nail in, chafing the flesh as he moves his finger slowly. 

 

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Tell me what ya want,” Karasu snarls. 

 

“So mean,” Otoya dotes, ghosting their lips together as Karasu’s body falls and fails in anger, simple in Otoya’s hands. “I just need you to be good. Why can’t you do that?” 

 

“I don’t want Hiori,” Karasu tells him weakly, fighting into pliant as he melts, nearly bent backward over the countertop. “I don’t know how else to tell ya.”

 

But Otoya says nothing, leaning over him, meeting skin-on-skin as he grabs the box cutter from behind them. As it comes into view, Karasu puffs, shoving Otoya off him, too involved in his fear. 

He throws him by the collar, but Otoya catches him as Karasu begins to storm away, back turned in an attempt to run and escape Otoya’s spells.

 

“Tabito,” Otoya says, quietly yet firmly. 

 

With a whimper-like sigh, Karasu places a hand on the door. He’s no match for Otoya, not when he breaches all separation with the use of his name, wrapping his hands around his soul and his hips. 

 

“Sorry.” Karasu breathes, forced into obedience. Otoya kisses his neck, eyes closed and ravishing his skin in softness, with his hands firm enough to stay marking his skin long after. 

 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Otoya praises him, as Karasu chokes into the wall. Though Karasu tries to phase into the door, disappear, and leave Otoya to his own devices, Otoya pulls him into his chest, rocking him with the extended blade flat against his chest. “Come be a good boy, I know you can.” 

 

As Otoya takes him away and moves to kneel him on the floor by their couch, he leans over and pulls him by the hair. His roots are thick, and Karasu exhales harshly in the shock. And so pleasantly, without him even having to ask, Karasu rolls up his sleeve and prostrates his pale forearm for Otoya’s dissection.

 

Karasu looks up with shallow, lamentable eyes. 

 

“Tell me ya forgive me, Eita,” Karasu says, but his voice trails away. Otoya’s stopped listening, enthralled with the way the corner of the blade begins to dig in.

 

He’s ignored, but Otoya licks his lips at the sound of sweet whimpers, blood beginning to bead from where Otoya slashes the strokes. He’s carving in his name— branding his lover, secreting him for permanent possession. When it doesn’t bleed, it’ll scar, and when it scars it means Karasu will look at it and kiss Otoya, needing to be needed by Otoya’s starving hands.

 

With one hand holding him in place, Otoya moves with grace. The blade is too sharp and Karasu struggles, but it only allows Otoya to grace him with commands once more.

 

“If my hand slips, it’ll hurt much more, Karasu. Stay still.” Otoya says as he digs the blade in further, wanting to bleed him drier and deeper. Karasu nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as Otoya draws the angled strokes.

 

He makes them sharp, peppering a kiss to his wrist with every curt line, and Karasu’s throat wails, clenching his fist as Otoya coos at his weakness, unable to resist him.

 

The result is filth. Karasu’s eyes shine with tears as Otoya places his tongue down flat and licks, the goreish mess beautiful against his tongue. Otoya can’t help but take his fingernails and roughen against the wound, scratching and pulling, the blade dancing to push in deeper, Karasu crumpling on the floor.

 

The wound reads, Otoya Eita.  

 

“Hiori’s gonna love it, right, Karasu?” Otoya smiles, peering down at Karasu’s gritting teeth. Karasu doesn’t reply, unsure of how to react. He strokes Karasu’s scalp, released to hang his head lowly, fitted between Otoya’s spread legs as he takes his place.

 

“I’m sorry,” Karasu whispers again. Otoya hums. 

 

“Come take a seat, Tabi’.” Otoya begins to unbuckle his belt, having been fully erect for a while now. Karasu can writhe in pain, but any way that Otoya will hold him down, thrashing in place will soak him into rivers. 

 

He gives Karasu a hand, slipped out of his boxers to rub Karasu through his shorts, wetness soaking and clearly outlining his cunt. Karasu exhales loudly as the length meets his crotch, the fabric between him and Otoya’s gratifying touches so tantalizing. 

 

Otoya moves his hands, stroking his clit through the fabric but as Karasu begins to moan quietly, he pulls off and wrestles Karasu’s pants off. Karasu’s full of sweat underneath, but mixed with the thin pubic hair and plushy pink insides he looks like a dream.

 

His dick rubs between the folds, but Karasu can only bury his head into his shoulders, ashamed of the reward he’s given by Otoya’s mere touch, knowing he does not deserve it at all. Otoya travels, moving to grip his ass, fingernails digging into crescent-shaped bite marks. 

 

“Hiori could never do this, huh?” Karasu shakes his head against Otoya’s shoulder, but he’s not satisfied. Before he takes Karasu’s jaw in his right hand, pulling him sharply to meet his gaze, he’s slipping inside him, stretching him to the point that it burns, but between the way his arm sinks and bleeds onto their clothes, the pain is indistinguishable. 

 

Once he’s inside, Karasu is between broken pants and mewls against the thick weight, Otoya is instead between his jaw and neck, clutching his windpipe as he licks against his lips.

 

“Could Hiori fuck you like this? Could he make you come like I do, baby?” The pet name is there to barter, but it works. Karasu grinds his hips down in desperation, begging to be full and for Otoya to drill him into oblivion, but Otoya teases his clit and lets him work himself in tears.

 

“No, ‘Toya, I’m sorry.” He whispers, and Otoya responds by kissing him and landing a firm spank on his ass. It’s oh-so-sweet, as Otoya plunges into his mouth and up into the border of their hips, sucking on Karasu’s tongue as he sighs around him, leaking.

 

Karasu has to work for it, but even so, Otoya is relentless. He loves the pace he keeps, tight around Karasu within the fleshy pipe. Karasu stays within sobs and begs, trailed with kisses as Otoya takes him by the waist. 

 

His ego is crushed, pride ruined as Otoya stuffs his fingers in his mouth. Karasu lets the tears drip down his face carelessly, to be caught under Otoya’s tongue. His pace slows, endlessly needy, to slide his tongue around Karasu’s worn mouth— he doesn’t have a second to breathe, because as he slides his fingers away, he’s met with a hand tight around his throat.

 

“Such a good boy, Tabito. Now you won’t see him, will you?” Karasu wants to laugh, he wants to tell Otoya that through all his delusion Hiori could never, not in a million years, compare to what they have together. 

 

And as he stares deep into Otoya’s eyes, he takes his wound to his mouth and drinks from it, swashes his tongue slowly against each crease and fold, growing into his usual smirk as he takes all the blood he can and kisses Otoya once more.

 

Your boy, Eita.” Karasu’s eyes shine with lust, drool hangs off his lip as he trades saliva for red sanguine, and the look he holds tells Otoya to take him, hold him captive, and tie him up, to never release his body until he can no longer answer to any name other than his, forgetting the touch of any hand unbeknownst to Otoya’s mold.

 

Of course, he’ll oblige, and it’ll be much too long before Hiori sees either of them again. He’ll lock eyes with Otoya to be met with a white scar torn across Karasu’s forearm, and Otoya will wrap a hand around his, and kiss his cheek tenderly. His boy. 

Notes:

hopefully this is coherent. still have them on my mind... read exquisite corpse and was so in love with andrew and jays relationship so i felt a little inspired you'll notice one specific section if you've read it. will definitely use that more in the future but it deserves a thorough reread first