Bllk.fic - Blog Posts

another one of your roommate’s hookups is drinking your oat milk.

he eyes you appreciatively, his eyes tracking your legs, covered only by a low-slung pair of sleep shorts, up to where your tank top bares your shoulders and little clavicle divot. you frown at him and slam the cabinet shut so he jumps a little and sloshes coffee over the rim of his mug.

“hey,” he says, “i’m oliver.” when you don’t say anything, he continues: “i’m a friend of himari.”

you snort. friend. he still has her lipstick print on his neck. he’s still looking at you expectantly with a pair of long-lashed heterochromatic eyes so startling they’re almost beautiful, so you take pity and tell him your name.

“you’re up early. i heard you guys come in pretty late last night.”

“ah, yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish gesture, but he somehow doesn’t look shy at all. maybe because you can tell that he’s flexing as he does it. “sorry about that.”

“eh,” you shrug it off, “i was up anyway. cramming, you know.”

you were reading romance manga, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“oh, so you’re a student! i bet you could teach me some things, then.” you turn your back to sit at the kitchen island and try not to let him see you smiling at his total corniness before you sit facing him. he’s so blatant it flips the corner back to endearing. “i play pro football. i’m used to getting up early for practice.”

and to leave before my hookups wake up, you read between the lines.

“cool.” it is, actually.

you’re leaning across the island with your elbows propping you up, not noticing how focused you are on the bob of his throat as he finishes up his coffee. you flutter your lashes, eyes wide as he crosses his arms and does the same, bent at the waist so you’re almost nose to nose, bridging the countertop.

“right! so i was thinking i could give you—“

“is it supposed to look like that?” you blurt, brain momentarily overwhelmed by the minty smell of his breath and the way you can almost feel his lips against yours. he backs up slightly, more than half an inch between you now.

“what?” he has a bemused half-smile on, like he thinks he should be turned off by your bedhead and bluntness but is too intrigued to care.

“your beard. is it supposed to be shaped like that?”

he blinks.

“what is it shaped like? is it bad?” he scrubs a hand over the facial hair in question, suddenly looking so concerned you almost feel bad. it was a genuine question.

you don’t normally go for guys with beards, but he really is good-looking under all the rakishness.

“it’s not bad,” you shrug. “you look kind of like a dog. scruffy. in a good way.”

“that doesn’t sound like it’s in a good way,” he says, aggrieved. “it’s supposed to be handsome. mature.”

that rips a laugh from you. “it’s definitely not giving that.” he makes a noise that almost sounds like a sob. you wonder if all football players are this dramatic.

your roommate chooses that moment to start making waking-up noises from the room oliver left open, and he glances at you with panicky eyes. they’re almost hypnotic as his gaze darts between you and the door.

“better get going,” you laugh. “see you on the sports channel, maybe.”

he whips around, stuffing a pair of keys in his pocket and heading for the exit. he turns around with his hand on the knob, pointing at you.

“come see a game in person. i’ll tell ‘em to let the prettiest girl in for free.”

---

You’re at a party and Nagi looms over you without meaning to bc his ass is 6’2” but he can’t take a hint so every time you back up to get some breathing space, he takes another step with you and another and another until he’s backed you into a wall. But the wall is actually Reo’s chest and now you’re sandwiched between them and actually, I think this was the plan all along, for Reo to have his hunting dog chase you into his arms.

---

inversion

|| rin itoshi x reader || E/18+ || angst with a happy ending || wc: 7.2k || ao3 ||

Preemptive grief defines your relationship with Rin. Heartbreak is in the nature of your connection. You are forced to reckon with its end.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: eeeeeee this piece is part of a trade i'm doing with beloved @rabbbitseason :3c they asked for angst + rin and i am here to deliver a bruisy piece 🙂‍↕️!!!! he was an interesting (read: slippery) character to chew!! but very fun as well :3c thank you to @suguwu for beta reading this piece and talking through rin's character as well!!! jun's invaluable feedback rlly helped bring the piece together. please read and enjoy something a bit achey my kind reader 💗

CWs: angst with a happy ending, gn reader with afab anatomy, rin is assumed to be 20+ and playing professionally, f receiving oral, missionary, some possible abandonment issues for the reader

You do not mean to fall in love with Rin Itoshi.

Distinctly, you did not want to fall in love with him. Because he is probably not a good lover, nor does he want to be a lover at all. It’s a poor combination. Being enamored with him is a poor way of being.

It’s unfortunate that you have found yourself in this position— hopelessly in love and irrevocably attached to him. 

... 

Drizzle falls from the sky in a mist. It’s been like this for days, a haze of light rain with thick fog that rolls in during the mornings. You’ve almost gotten used to your hair frizzing up and returning home damp from any outing. 

It’s unpleasant. But then again, everything is unpleasant at this moment, so the rain is the least of your worries.

Rin Itoshi is on your front stoop.

There’s a little cement step there that he sits on. In front of your door, just behind him, is a welcome mat. A large, ceramic cat is set just next to the door. As you walk up to your home, grocery bags in tow, you cannot see your normal, friendly guardian.

Instead, all you see is Rin Itoshi. 

Stopping in the little walkway up to your small home, you let the rain drench you. Rin looks up from the ground with an expression between a scowl and a pout. His hood is drawn up over his head, but his hair still looks wet. The tips of his shoes are soaked through. Even from a distance, you can tell.

You sigh.

“You’re home late,” he says. His words get eaten by the ambient sounds of the city, and the pittering of rain on nearby roofs.

You raise your arms, trembling with the weight of your haul. “Groceries.”

“Hm.” 

You frown and Rin rises. 

He takes your bags, taking them from you and easily looping them on a single forearm. He moves aside so you can slip past him, to your door, now able to see your fat-bodied kitty cat protector (who really isn’t doing much protecting at the moment—) and give him a nod of acknowledgement. 

Rin makes a sound behind you; a huff. He’s amused. You contend with kicking his shin but decide against it.

Like a lost, wet puppy, Rin follows you inside. 

There’s a pair of house slippers for him; there has been for months. The fuzzy fabric of the slippers is patterned to look like big, pink cat paws. You purchased them for Rin as a joke, a gag that you didn’t expect to get a rise out of him beyond a heavy blush, and yet he took to them immediately. His pair sits next to your own slippers like the two belong next to each other. 

Rin shuffles behind you.

(How many times have you done this?)

You turn on the electric kettle and put away the groceries Rin has carried inside for you. You mentally plan out your meals for the week and concurrently catastrophize about what the fuck to do with the man in front of you. 

He leans against your kitchen counter. His outer layer has been shed, all he’s in now is a (somehow, still damp) white t-shirt and his warm-up joggers. Rainwater still clings to his bottom lashes, dew-like. You lean forward, cupping his face to brush the moisture away. His cheeks are clammy, still so chilled. 

(It’s all too tender.)

“You’re cold.” You frown. “Go sit down. I’ll finish making tea.”

“I am sitting down.”

“Leaning isn’t sitting.” 

“Close enough.”

You sigh. “I meant in the other room, preferably with a blanket.”

“I’ll wait.” 

You sigh, “Fine.”

It’s not worth arguing with Rin. 

Rin is so— so— frustratingly single-minded. Motivated in a single direction to a fault. You’ve long since learned that attempting to sway him, regardless of how sensible and sensical of an idea you have, is fruitless. If it doesn’t align with what he has already decided he is going to do, he simply won’t change. It’s something rather immutable about him.

His nature is as stubborn as his thoughts. 

(Loving him is so difficult; you wish that you didn’t.)

Rin grabs two mugs (your mugs) while you fetch the tea. It’s the same selection as it always is— your cup of ginger and honey, and his plain peppermint. 

You only settle once the two of you make your way to the couch, side-by-side, covered in the worn quilt that Rin likes best. It’s a tawny mix of grey and tan yarn. You picked it up from a thrift store years ago. You never would’ve thought that it would become such an integral part of a pathetic, mutual routine.

Rin is stiff beside you. One glance at him tells you that he’s chewing on his words. He doesn’t tend to— to do that. He doesn’t mince anything that flows from his brain to his lips. Your stomach rolls with a sense of unease. 

“Is everything alright?” You ask. 

(It never is, not really, when this routine is being completed.)

Rin looks at him. His gaze is piercing, crystalline. It lances you. “I’m leaving.”

You know this already; you aren’t supposed to.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“... For how long?” This you don’t know. 

“A while.” Rin's hands ball into fists on the tops of his thighs. “Half a year, at least.”

“I see.”

(You feel your world begin to cave in.) 

An eerie quiet settles over the room. The rain patters outside, streaking your windows in droplets, obscuring the greater world. It makes it feel like all that exists is you, Rin, and the lucid knowledge that your connection has nearly run its course. 

You swallow; it’s audible. “Where to?”

“Europe.”

“Europe’s big. Countries—?”

“Germany, Italy, and France,” replies Rin. “Maybe more.”

The back of your eyes sting. “I could visit?”

“I’ll be busy.”

“... Could you not make time?”

(Could you not make time for me?)

“I don’t know.”

“Hm.” You feel something cold and dreadful coat your insides. 

Your tea is cooling down, steam hardly rising from the mug now. You take a sip of it, and hold the mug in both hands, grasping onto the warmth that radiates off of it. The ceramic of the vessel still holds heat, enough to scald your palms. Yet, you don’t put it down. 

This big, unspoken thing lingers between you both. It writhes, swirls, like it always does when you enter this routine. There’s always been an impending end date to your connection, even if neither of you could quantify the time you had left together. Rin's career, his ambitions, his nature to not just excel, but crush and break in tandem, have always floated above your dynamic. 

This thing would immolate eventually.

(And you along with it.)

...

You end up in your bedroom, the gloomy day sliding into a thickly dark night. You’re not even sure if the moon is out. The room only glows with light from a few soft lamps. The spray of them catches the angles of Rin’s face well. Even with age, his face hasn't hardened all that much. He still has pudge in his cheeks that he can’t shake. It makes him look younger, more innocent, like there hasn’t been a thing in him, forever, threatening to devour him as it craves to brutalize others. 

Another part of your routine commences once you enter your soft, kindly-lit bedroom. Sex— of some sort. Today it feels bad. You’re not sure what’s coming other than grief. 

Stripping feels like a funeral march. The drizzle that continues to fall outside may as well be a dirge. 

Rin pulls his shirt over his head and off. It’s a quiet affair today, though typically it isn’t. On a more normal day, when you aren’t witnessing your romantically entangled decay in real-time, there’s banter. You might rib Rin, he may respond with his own barbed remark that you find a bit silly. It’s fun, despite Rin’s perpetually bruised demeanor.

Today, though, there’s no humor. No jesting. All that’s left is the unfathomable depth of— something behind Rin’s eyes and the ache in your chest that you’re afraid will kill you.

You kneel on your bed, left only in a sweater, goofy-looking socks, and panties. The stupid satiny kind that you think is kind of uncomfortable, but you know Rin enjoys. He leaves his boxers on, coming to rest on his own knees across from you.

Your eyes feel damp, you feel stupid, and can’t make yourself look at him.

“Don’t be a crybaby,” he tells you.

You scoff, the sound warbly and your voice watery. “Like you’re any better.” 

(Rin isn’t the crybaby notably. You think he gets close to it sometimes. Maybe that’s just your own wishful thinking.)

(You want Rin to crack; it would make your own fissures less shameful.)

Rin kisses you then like he can hear your thoughts, and kissing you hard on the mouth will extract them from your brain. It does, in a way. He’s warm and familiar. You love him so terribly. 

You cup his cheeks in your palms, still aching from your mug earlier. You don’t care. You couldn’t make yourself care as you lean into him, pitching your weight forward. For all the things Rin isn’t good at, he is good at catching you. He bears the weight of you easily, wrapping an arm around your waist and securing you with a hand on the nape of your neck.

He’s so solid. Bigger than he appears. Firm muscle over firm muscle, he’s so entirely unyielding beneath your hands. There are so many parts of him that contradict each other; it’s what drew you to him in the first place. Rin Itoshi has always been a spectacle for you to untangle and know, even if, at first, it was just to satiate your own curiosity about the foul-mannered, enigmatic man he appears to be. 

Unfortunately, now, you have untangled Rin. The essence of him has been unraveled in your hands, laying across your palms like sheets of satin fabric— the kind that catches the light and almost shimmers in sun rays and moonbeams alike. Rin is so much more fragile than he appears, tough at some angles, but so bruiseable at others. This knowledge is held by you so intimately, you cherish it, what else can you do? 

It’s damning. It’s made you love him.

You stifle a noise against his lips and fall into him more.

In a single motion, Rin has you on your back, laid beneath him while he straddles your hips. He doesn’t stop kissing you. If anything, the leverage has him leaning into you more deeply. It’s suffocating, the weight of his body and him over you. Like it’s bearing down into your soul.

Rin licks into your mouth and you let him.

It’s almost gross when he kisses you like this. Filthy— dirty. He practically plunders the inside of your mouth, running his tongue over the back of your teeth, pushing it against your own, spit dripping out of the corners of your mouth. If you felt like you could be properly romantic with Rin, you might even say it’s a claiming act.

But you can’t be romantic with Rin. Because this doesn’t matter. The physicality you share serves the function of physical release and gratification. You love him and it is useless that you do. These are immutable facts.

(Facts that you hate, despise, and loathe. Why can’t he love you—? Why can’t he— just understand?)

You growl against his lips and shove at his chest.

“Just—” You sigh, turning your head to the side. You can’t look in his eyes or you’ll immolate. “Fuck me already, okay?”

Rin wordlessly presses his forehead against your temple. His hands claw into your hips. He’ll leave bruises, but they’ll never last the six months that he’ll be gone for. You’ll be a distant memory to him by then, you’re certain.

Something awful and far too hot is boiling in your chest. 

“No,” says Rin

“No?”

“No.” He repeats, dragging his nose down to your jaw, then your throat. 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to yet.”

“Well, get a move on then.” You scoff. The watery quality of your voice has shifted to something sharper, angrier. 

“What’s with you?” He sighs out of his nose and it makes you flinch. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like this—” Rin tugs your jaw to face him and holds you there. You’re stuck looking into his eyes, azure and shiny like polished stones. Full of something you can’t name, lest you break your heart further.

(Your delusions are both damning you and saving you.)

Your eyes water; maybe you are a crybaby. “Fuck off.”

Rin kisses you hard again, flattening himself to you. He’s a cage like this, where you can only take what he gives you and—

(Rin gives you everything. Because that’s how he is with things he cares about.)

You feel like you're melting into the duvet as you desperately claw into Rin’s scalp, raking your hands through his hair. A pathetic noise bubbles up from your throat, pours from your mouth into Rin’s, and he takes it in kind. He always does. 

(He shouldn’t be reliable, but he is.)

It’s hard to think when he kisses you like this. Rin’s physicality is consuming, like he’s attempting to crush you and absorb you into him. It’s an intoxicating type of connection; it’s part of why you linger within your entanglement. In the moments you’re under him, intertwined with him like this, god, touching at all— you can’t do anything but think of Rin and his attention.

You kick him because he’s leaving— he’s leaving you and he isn’t letting you follow.

Rin grunts at the impact, even though you don’t kick him all that hard. You nip him at the same time— 

You’re so angry.

All the dread in you is angry, bitter like bile, and white hot. Preemptive grief, loss that you have to start swallowing before Rin isn’t even out of your arms.

“I hate you—” You tell him against his lips.”You’re awful. You’re the worst—”

Rin breaks away from you in an instant, slamming you back on the bed by the shoulder in a single, decisive motion. It makes your head spin.

“You don’t mean that.”

“And what if I did?” It’s not convincing, your voice is wobbling too much for it to be. You stare up at him, lips curling. 

“You’re being a brat.”

“Oh my god, says you—” You roll your eyes. “You’re the brat here. Just— fucking kiss me—”

“No.”

“Then fucking leave already—!”

Rin holds you steady by the jaw, bowing over your body. You can’t look anywhere other than him. It’s consuming, like you’re being engulfed by a rushing tide. 

“Stop. It.” His words are clipped, filled with his own anger. His grip is too tight; you fear he may crush you. 

“Choke.”

“You’re throwing a tantrum.”

“So what if I am?” you laugh, the sound too high and airy to be comfortable. “If it bothers you so much, just leave already. It’s not like you want to be here. Does passing time in my bed make it go faster for you, Rin? Getting your last taste of this before you fuck off and leave—?”

“That’s what this is about?”

“What else would it be about!”

Your voice breaks and you close your eyes. God, you don't want to cry, but it feels unavoidable now. All of Rin’s attention, potential vitriol, judgment, and rejection is pointed at you. You might as well fucking die.

Rin is quiet over top of you, like a dark, stormy cloud in its last moments before a thunder crack. Heat lightning crackles between the two of you, but nothing strikes the ground yet. 

“It’s better for you to stay here,” he says eventually. 

“Why do you think that?” You sound exasperated.

Rin’s quiet again, then speaks like he’s seated at a confessional, and not over your hips. 

“You shouldn’t be around me too much when I’m playing,” Rin confesses and squeezes your jaw. “It’s bad enough here. All I’ll be doing is playing soccer—”

“And that’s what you want, right?”

“Yes—” Rin admittance hits you in the chest and you have to let out a steadying breath, so you don’t shatter right there. “And you can’t be there for that.”

“Why?”

Rin lets go of your jaw and you open your eyes. 

His own jaw is tight, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth. His eyes are wet, almost like there could be tears threatening to spill into his lower lashes. Maybe you’re imagining it. 

“Trust me.” His tone is a bowstring. You’re both ready to snap. “Please.”

A whine echoes from your throat, out of your control. 

(You love him and you hate seeing someone you love hurt—)

You can’t help yourself. You tug him down by the shoulders and into you, so he can lay over your chest. He lets you, so easily, and tucks his face into the curve of your neck. He hides there, arms wrapping around your middle, so tightly that you’re sure that you’ll ache there the next day. 

It hurts, it hurts— not the pressure on your ribs, but having the atypically unsteady presence of Rin in your arms. It’s not uncommon for the two of you to cuddle, Rin is clingy, especially after sex, but it is odd to see him this visibly upset. It hurts because he’s hurting. It hurts because he’s choosing to leave and telling you not to follow, despite... everything. It hurts so deep in your chest, that you let yourself become so involved and in love with him.

You bury your face in his hair and shake.

...

Rin is bad at protecting people.

It’s a given, knowing his nature and the fact that he had an older brother closely looking out for him for most of his life, makes his ineptitude at protection make sense. 

He clearly wants to be. He has the strength and tenacity to bare his teeth and claw, but you don’t think Rin knows which way to direct his fear and grief— whether to inflict wrath on himself, the aggressor, or the person he actually means to protect. 

You can’t blame him. Some things, Rin only understands in theory and not in practice. Rin is so highly attuned to feelings but so absolutely atrocious at empathizing. You think— with you— he tried. He even succeeded at points, which makes your own heartbreak feel all that more infectious and virulent.

Your back is laid out over your duvet, your legs cradling Rin’s hips. He has three fingers in you, stretching you out with as much care and intention as he can muster. You can tell by the furrow in his brow, the peek of his tongue sticking out from his lips. Pleasure burns in your core, but the sensation is eclipsed by a well of fondness and grief, drowning you.

Rin slides onto his stomach and hikes your legs over his shoulders. He takes one of your hands and places it into his hair. You knot your fingers into the soft texture of it and tug. He likes when you do that, when you try to take from him. Rin shudders between your thighs, huffing a breath into the pudge of them. He nips.

On another night, you’d scold him and give him a playful amount of grief for it.

Tonight, you want him to bite you so hard that you bleed and scar.

(Would he? He’s so scared of hurting you, even if he doesn’t say it. He is hurting you. A sick part of you wants him to do material harm to you, so you’ll have something tangible to remember him by. An imprint of his teeth in your thigh would be too romantic, maybe. Too much to ask for.)

Rin kisses up toward your cunt, taking his time over the outside of it. He breathes in the scent of you, long and hard, a few times. A wishful part of you hopes that he is committing it to memory. 

“Hurry up,” you snap. 

“No.” Rin keeps fucking denying you. Haste would make this hurt less. You could speed things up to the inevitable end where Rin Itoshi has thrown this— you— away and you are left alone. Instead, he prolongs it. Instead he is carving a piece of you out, in the shape of himself, the wound never to fill as cicatrix and heal.

You drag him closer by the hair and grind against his face—

“Impatient—” he says against your cunt with a growl. His arms wrap around your hips, holding you down and in place, keeping you from squirming. 

It’s needed as he drags his tongue over your cunt, dipping the tip of it into your hole before landing on your clit. He laps at it, at you, humming and groaning as you tug at his hair. The motion you’re allowed lets you just barely grind against his face. It’s not enough contact. You want more, need more, but Rin is only giving you so much. 

“God,” you breathe out. “Fuck you.”

Rin practically growls, the vibration of the sound against your sex makes your back arch, a pretty, croaking sound dripping from your throat. He dives into you with more fervor, digging hand-shaped bruises into your hips.

The pleasure comes to you like licks of a flame, just as scorching as they are whimsical. Your toes curl as Rin’s sucks your clit. There’s finesse in his actions. There didn’t used to be, at the start of things, but now Rin knows your body so intimately—

(It feels crushing to know this will be the last time—)

It feels like you’ve been struck.

Never again— this is it—? The last time he’ll be in your bed, between your thighs, in your arms. You’ll never get to share this proximity with Rin Itoshi again. Not this version of him, anyway. You know what the journey that he’s about to embark on will do to him. The Rin that you know won’t exist for much longer, and— 

The version of himself that he’ll return as won’t be yours.

(And he won’t give a fuck about you, will he?)

It feels— like you’re going to die. Preemptive grief for a still-living person feels selfish. And yet, you can’t breathe suddenly, even with Rin, present, between your thighs, lavishing you with (fleeting— fleeting!) attention.

You rip your hand from Rin’s hair and cover your face. You can’t look at him. You can’t. Tears are dripping from the corners of your eyes, soaking into your hairline. Your breathing speeds up, painful and raw. Rin is still between your legs.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looming over you once more. You can feel his shadow, more than you can see it. 

He grabs your wrists and tries to drag them away from your face. When you don’t budge, he pries them down to your sides. Perhaps it was foolish of you to think that you could hide from him.

“Just—” You breathe, staring into the shadows thrown onto your bedroom wall. “Keep going. Please. Ignore me.”

“The last thing in the world I can do is ignore you right now.” Rin squeezes you, less for comfort and more to remind you that he is there. “Don’t be unreasonable.”

“I just want to get this over with—” Your voice wobbles and you squeeze your eyes shut. A sob is trapped in your throat, breaking in an ugly sound. Your wrist jolts in Rin’s grip, desperate to try and hide the noise. 

You want to hide this from Rin.

If Rin wants to hide the ugly, poisonous part of him that comes out in his career, you want to hide the lovesick one that has infected you. The one that is shattering, in real-time, at the idea of Rin leaving your bed cold, forever. 

“I want to take my time,” Rin tells you. “Let me?”

“And I want you to just get it over with—” You repeat, a sob finally breaking from your lips, fully. Rin noses into your cheek. “Finish breaking my fucking heart already, Rin. Then you can hop on a plane and I can block your fucking number.”

There’s a stall. A beat, then two, followed by a third.

Rin is shaking on top of you.

“Would it be that easy for you?” He speaks with gritted teeth.

Would it?

(No, it would actually be so hard for you to cut Rin off so swiftly. Even if you blocked his number, you’re bound to see him in the news. You don’t even follow football all that closely, but he’s such a household name these days that you’re sure to encounter news of him and his accumulating accolades.)

(If not, you know his teammates. Rin begrudgingly introduced you after the lot of them crossed paths with you enough times. You have a few of their phone numbers. Rin’s mother has your contact information too, from the time that Rin spiked a high fever and you needed her specific oyaku recipe. She messages you photos of her garden now, and asks if Rin’s alright.)

(And none of that is even acknowledging the personal, emotional wreckage that cleaving Rin from your life so swiftly will leave behind.)

“No,” you say. 

Rin takes a steadying breath, his breath too warm against your cheek and down your jaw.

“You said,” his voice maybe wobbles, you may be imagining it, “that I’m breaking your heart?”

You laugh, something horrible and pained. “I thought that was obvious?”

He pauses. “Maybe it was.”

God, he’s so shit at this kind of thing.

“You’re awful, you know that?”

And you cry.

You’ve become so fragile in the past few weeks. Imagining this day, these exact moments of fleeting intimacy, like doing so could prepare you in any way for the pain that’s now tearing through you. The fear of losing him is being actualized, and you’re making it worse, pushing him away like this. But what would happen if you held him closer when it’s so clear that’s not what Rin wants?

You tear your wrists from Rin’s grip, taking a great amount of effort to flip and attempt to crawl across the bed. Crying like this makes you feel awful and ugly; you want nothing more than to hide. Rin is frozen, motionless, above you at first, letting you writhe until you get onto your tummy, squirming and clawing your way out from under him.

Then, he bears his weight down on you. He gathers your wrists up again and pins them to the bed on either side of your head. It’s a single moment of strength that immobilizes you flat all over again.

“Rin!” You mean to shout it, but instead, it’s a cracking sob that you have to muffle into the duvet.

He gathers your wrists in a single hand, and pets your hair, like you so often do for him. He rubs circles on your shoulders as you wail into the duvet. Bucking him off doesn’t work, he’s an unrelenting presence, sitting on your lower back, almost laid over you. It’s hard to breathe.

(A sick part of you likes this. Knowing that your blatant pain and struggle are being acknowledged by Rin, held and quelled by him, soothes the part of you that craves his attention so terribly. You love him so much, you feel guilty for these feelings just as much as you feel elated by the touch and care he is providing you.)

“It’s okay,” he tells you. He is not a being meant to comfort, the words sound wrong coming out of his mouth. “It’s okay.”

“You know it’s n-not!”

A fresh wave of tears pours from you. You’re soaking the mattress. 

“I’m sorry,” he doesn’t apologize either. “If I could give you what you want, I would.”

The sob that you scream into rumpled bed sheets is like thunder that splits the sky.

...

Rin fucks you like he loves you.

He kneels between your legs, holding your hands, thrusting into you at an unhurried, almost reverent pace. Slow and deep, busting up your insides. You’re stretched around his pretty cock beautifully; he told you so. 

Each cant of his hips knocks a teary breath out of you. You— you haven’t stopped crying. You’re not sure that you ever will.

Rin kisses you despite the tears and snot, licks your cheeks and mars your neck with mark after mark. His teeth dig into fragile flesh, biting and sucking like he could be eating you, rather than bedding you. It’s a shift in his demeanor— he’s not normally this desperate. Maybe your shattering has made him more lucid to your coming loss. 

His hands slip up the backs of your thighs, resting behind your knees. He bears his weight down on you, folding you in half easily. It pushes his cock deeper in you, maybe too deep, but you relish the pain anyway. The pressure of him forces a sound of you, aborted and frail. When you try to cover your mouth, muffle yourself, Rin is pulling your hand away to kiss you. 

Rin swallows down every sound, every breath, every bit of you that he can. You press back at him with as much desperation as you muster. He takes and takes, regardless of your tears and jagged edges. 

He curses under his breath, tilting his forehead against your own.

“C-Close?” You ask, another involuntary sound being punched out of your lungs. 

“No—” He shakes his head.

“Are you lying?”

“No—”

“I’m unconvinced,” you manage to grit out, a bubbling sob creeping up your throat just after. 

Rin growls, something in his chest, and thrusts harder, like he’s trying to carve out your insides. 

“I—” Rin’s words choke off, pressed against your lips, a frantic edge to it. “I don’t want to be done yet.”

You both freeze.

Rin’s as deep in you as he can be, his hips pressed to your pelvis. Every bit of his weight is bared into you, into your cunt and flesh. He’s breathing in deep, hurried breaths, sweat beads on his brow. You’re grasping his shoulders, digging your nails into him as his words hit you.

“You—” You laugh and cry in the same breath. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?”

His grip on you tightens. His expression is cloudy, his focus solely on you (what a terrifying thing to be on the receiving end of—)

You continue speaking, feeling a creeping amount of panic, “You— you mean sex right? You want to k-keep going?”

“If I said yes to that, I’d be lying.” Rin thrusts into you, hard and fast. You arch your back against the duvet. 

“S-So you don’t want—”

“I want to keep fucking you,” Rin corrects, easily. He pushes you down into the mattress like he’s trying to crush you, pulverize you. “I don’t want to be done fucking you.”

“God,” you hit his shoulder with your fist and the force of an angry kitten. “You fucking suck, Rin.”

“I’m sorry—”

“ — Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

He kisses you again, this time softer. More kind, but still like he wants to eat you. 

You finish like that, with his lips laid over yours, with the tempest of loss having consumed you. Rin heavy over your body and heart, pleasure having snuck up behind him enough that tension has coiled in your gut. Your orgasm washes over you slowly, in waves, and you’re sucked down into the sensation with darkening vision and curling toes.

Rin kisses you through it, cursing as you tighten around him. He didn’t— he didn’t use a condom.

“Inside—” You beg him. “Inside— please, please—”

Rin listens to you, bowing over you and pushing your knees up to the sides of your skull. A choked sound leaves his lips and you swallow it down with your own keen. A gush of warmth follows, and you shiver with the heat and fullness of it.

Rin fucks you through his orgasm, muscles drawn tight as he fucks you deep and slow. He only stops when his cock is too soft to continue, and you’re both shivering from overstimulation. 

His cock drags out of you, wet and chilling in the still air. You whine at the loss, the panic and grief of this all hitting you again.

You don’t have much time to spiral, as Rin is gathering you up his arms, rolling away from the soaked sheets. He holds you tight, chest-to-chest. His hand is in your hair, and he grabs yours and places it on his own. Reflexively, you scratch his scalp and tug him closer.

You’re both quiet for a long time. The rain hasn’t stopped, dribbling on, but it doesn’t feel as grim now, more sedating. Your eyes go half-lidded.

“Can you clarify?” You ask Rin, peeking up at him. “What you meant before?”

(“I don’t want to be done—”)

“Hm.”

“God—!” You laugh, headbutting him. “You do suck.”

He squeezes you, so hard that a sound is forced from your lips. 

“So you want to keep fucking?”

“It’s more than that.”

“Fuck, Rin—”

“Shut up.”

“Still figuring it out?”

“Something like that.” He muffles the words into the top of your head.

You’re not sure where your grief sits then. Maybe it’s gone, and your release was just that— release. It makes you laugh again, into Rin’s chest. You squeeze him like doing so will keep him here, in this moment, for a little longer. 

Rin wordlessly squeezes you back even harder.

...

You and Rin don’t talk much once he goes to Europe.

You lose your mind right after he leaves, obviously. Screaming, crying, not throwing up, but pretty close to it. His house slippers get thrown in the back of a closet (rather than in the trash because, despite everything, you have hope—) and you rot for several weeks.

It takes a while for you to be close to normal.

Your routine with Rin had been a regular occurrence. Maybe once a week, sometimes twice. Not having it to count on unmoors you and makes you lonely in a way that feels unwelcome and raw. There’s a piece of you missing, just like you knew there would be.

You get a few texts from him. A photo or two of monuments he encounters with a few choice words—

[Rin]: I thought you would like this

You’re going to fucking kill him.

You’re never sure what to reply, so you tend to keep things brief. Your last encounter made you question your understanding of your relationship so profoundly that you don’t know how to proceed. There’s... certainly more than you expected, but upon Rin departing for Europe, so much had been left unsaid. How do you begin to broach that— is it even your place to?

You don’t bring it up. You don’t call him, you leave the wound he left alone, and it aches a little less each day. Still gaping and empty, but less raw maybe.

It’s late one evening when you receive a call from a random, international number.

You ignore it at first, thinking it’s spam, but they recall you several times, and you pick up on the fourth attempt.

“... Hello?” You ask into the receiver. 

“Oh, hi! Is this [name]?”

“It is— who is this?”

“Oh, it’s Isagi— I’m one of Rin’s teammates from Bluelock. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we’ve met a few times!”

You have— Rin has a serious chip on his shoulder about Isagi, which has been made to be an incredibly comical fact when realized Isagi is one of the most genuinely kind, polite people you’ve ever encountered. 

“Oh yeah, it's nice to— um, hear from you. What’s up?

“Ah, yeah! I apologize for the abrupt calls. I’ve got something to ask you that’s kind of time-sensitive— if you have a minute.”

“Yeah, I’ve got time.” You swallow. “Is... everything alright? Is... Rin okay?”

“Oh, yeah! He’s totally fine. Maybe a little hungover, but fine.”

You straighten up and withhold gasp. “Rin drank?”

Rin has refused alcohol the entire time you’ve known him. He swears it affects his performance. 

Isagi laughs on the other side of the line. “Oh man, you don’t even know. I’ve never seen the guy with any alcohol in his system before either, and I kind of get why. He really is a lightweight.

“I imagine... and this has to do with why you called?”

“Yes, actually—” Your phone chimes with a new message from Isagi. “Is this you in the photo?”

The photo is of another phone, specifically of its lock screen. The time on the photographed phone screen reads [01:11]. The lock screen is a photo of you.

You’re sleeping, clearly, face half-smushed into one of your pillows. Mascara smears under your eyes and hickeys are bruised up and down your throat. From the location of the marks and makeup, you know this is from the last night you saw Rin. Your chest feels tight. 

“What the fuck.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, oh my god.” You had no idea Rin took this photo— and it’s his fucking lock screen? That fucker only had the generic, preloaded graphics displayed on his phone the entire time you knew him. 

“I thought so— sorry, it’s kind of insane for Rin to have a photo like that—”

“It is, yeah.” You run a hand over your face, switching your phone to speaker and rubbing your cheeks. “How does this relate to you calling?”

“Well,” says Isagi, “Rin’s been playing like shit.”

“He has been.” Oh my god, has he. Like actual garbage. You’re not sure you should admit that you watch Rin’s games religiously, because at this point it’s a bit pathetic of you. But you do watch them live if at all possible, otherwise you purchased some stupid European streaming service to catch the recording as soon as possible. And because of this, you know he has been playing sloppily. You’ve been... blaming jetlag. Or something. Adjusting to the European diet or whatever.

(Not the vestiges of your relationship still, miraculously, affecting him in any way.)

“It hasn’t been great. We won our match yesterday, but barely. And we went out drinking which was good for morale! But maybe not great for Rin. He drank a bit too much and got a bit weepy.”

Your stomach drops. You can see where this is going.

“He kept talking about missing someone but didn’t say any name. And when we saw his lock screen... we kind of put two-and-two together.”

“Great deduction. Aren’t you known for that?”

Isagi laughs, sounding good-natured. It makes you smile. It’s nice to know Rin hangs out with good people who aren’t all dour and weird like him. 

“Something like that. Anyway, his birthday is in a few weeks, and me and a few of the other guys thought it would be a good gift for him to fly you out and surprise him.”

You stay silent, attempting to suffocate the spark of hope that traitorously stirs in you.

“Isagi.” You fold your hands and put them vertically to your lips. “Have you met Rin?”

That makes him laugh, “I have, I’m probably around him too much. But he’s been weird since we started the season here. If you visited, the team would cover everything. Our coach even offered to arrange rooms for you at the hotels we’ll be at. If you don’t want to room with Rin, anyway—”

“Rin and I aren’t together.”

“Damn.” Isagi clicks his tongue. “Does he know that?”

Maybe you’re an idiot. Maybe Rin’s an idiot. Maybe you’re both idiots. 

“I should ask him, maybe.”

“He’s never been the type to do things in halves, you know.”

“Trust me, I’m very aware of that.”

Isagi whistles and you shake your head. 

“You don’t have to give me an answer right away. If you could let me know in the next few days, that would be great. You’ve got my number now that I’ve called, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in touch.” You swallow. “Thanks for reaching out, Isagi. I appreciate it. And— thanks for keeping an eye on Rin too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Someone needs to while he’s here. Let me know what you’re thinking, feel free to call if you need anything too. Or want me to spy on Rin for you.”

“Will do,” You laugh, light-hearted for the first time in weeks. You exchange goodbyes and you drop your phone onto your lap.

...

Oh my fucking god.

You know several things immediately— you want to go. Desperately, actually, especially with the knowledge that stupid fucking Rin Itoshi has you as his fucking lock screen? You need answers, if nothing else. You won’t settle for a very sad, weepy fuck this time around. 

You also know that you should not surprise Rin. 

So, you act before you can convince yourself better of it. You scroll to your messages with Rin and craft.

[you]: hey, i hope you’re doing alright. your teammate (isagi) just called me and invited me out for your birthday to surprise you. but i know you well enough to know that if i surprise you like that you will either kill me, isagi, yourself, or all three of us.

[you]: i wanted to touch base before i gave isagi an answer

[you]: i’d love to see you

[you]: and we should talk too.

Rin almost immediately sees the message— the freak has read receipts on. A bubble indicating he’s typing appears, then disappears.

A call from him comes in. You nearly drop your phone as the screen lights up your face and vibrates.

With a steadying breath, you answer.

“Hello?”

“What did Isagi tell you?”

You snort. “That your play sucks and that you’re a weepy drunk.” 

“He sucks. Don’t talk to him again.”

“I have to, so he and the rest of your team can buy me tickets and a hotel room—”

“If— if you want to come, I’ll buy your ticket. And why would you need a hotel room?”

“So I have somewhere to sleep.”

“Is my bed not good enough for you?”

“Are you implying that I’d sleep with you?”

“...Yes.”

“Damn,” you fall back onto your couch with a laugh. There’s an odd coil of relief that’s unspooling in your chest. You could cry again. “Is that alright?” 

“I— I wouldn’t want—” Rin so rarely loses his words, it shocks you to hear when he does. “Yes. It’s fine. I can meet you at the airport too.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

There’s a poignant moment of silence that passes between you two. You can imagine Rin now— it’s the morning where he is. He probably is nursing both a bottle of water and that electrolyte drink he prefers— he likes the blue flavor the best. He’s probably in his warm-up clothes, preparing for his meticulous morning routine. 

“I’m excited,” Rin says, stilted but there. “To see you again.”

Something warm burns in you, frail but burgeoning.

“So am I.” You wipe your eyes and laugh. “Don’t break my heart again, Rin, I swear to God.”

“I won’t.”

He says it with enough conviction that you believe him. 

---

hair down!karasu

“you’re so distracting,” you grouse as you feel your roommate’s chin come to rest on top of your head, your fingers stilling over your keyboard mid-sentence. 

“‘m bored,” karasu sighs. “and ya spelled specific wrong.”

tilting your head upward, you glare up at him while whacking the backspace key more aggressively than necessary with your middle finger, “because you distracted me!”

he stands back up, chuckling to himself and sauntering off into the kitchen to inevitably make more noise while you sacrifice what remains of your late-semester soul to the research paper gods. 

to be fair, the issue of him being a distraction is less about his shuffling and tittering about the apartment in boredom and moreso just about…him. 

well, a very specific part of him. 

you’ve been friends with karasu for years, you’re close. exceptionally close, you’d argue. and when the entire first floor of your dorm building flooded out last week, he offered you the spare room in his apartment—no questions asked.

it’s a temporary arrangement, so really, it should pose no risk to the neat and tidy little drawer that you keep your attraction to him shoved into the dark corners of. spending a few weeks underfoot with his warm accent, pretty eyes, dry humor, and gravely laugh shouldn’t kill you.

you’re been compartmentalizing it all like a champ for years, after all.

if subterfuge of unrequited pining was an olympic sport—

but you underestimated one tiny issue that you hadn’t quite thought out the consequences of when presented with the opportunity to cohabitate with karasu tabito. 

one little thing—

his hair.

his at home hair. 

his i’m not leaving the house or seeing anyone today hair. 

his clean, completely product-free, ridiculously attractive hair—which falls softly across his forehead, tickling the bridge of his nose. which flits along the shell of his ears and rests against the back of his neck.

(which makes you want to run for the hills and jump into his arms and flee the country and kiss him until you can’t breathe and—)

it’s funny, really, when you think about it. the fact that you’ve actually never seen karasu without styling wax in his hair somehow. it feels somewhat ridiculous thinking it out loud. 

but restricted exposure throughout the duration of your friendship thus far was clearly for the better, given the way you haven’t been able to stop glancing over at him every two minutes since he got out of the shower three hours ago. since he padded into the living room in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and plopped down on the other end of the couch, idly scrolling through his phone and entirely unaware of the crisis he’d unknowingly thrust upon your unsuspecting, fragile mind. 

because here’s the thing—on a normal day, you can squash them down, these inconvenient feelings of attraction. the way your heart flutters feebly against your ribcage at the sound of his voice, at the curve of his lips when you say something ridiculous that makes him smile. 

at the way he says your name, how you always seem to be the first person he calls after games. how he falls asleep with his head in your lap when you watch movies, the way he doesn’t even have to ask what you want when you’re ordering food or getting coffee because he just knows. 

but this. 

this. 

he’s sitting on the other end of the couch again, lazily running a hand through his hair and blowing it out of his eyes every so often while he taps away at a game on his phone. 

and yeah, you’ve never been quite so attracted to him as in this moment.

it’s not even just the fact that his hair is down, even though the back of your neck has yet to stop burning at the sight of it. 

it’s the undeniable domesticity of it all that has your heart racing in your chest. 

that has your fingers itching to toss your laptop aside, to crawl across the expanse of cushions and into his lap—

“please tell me you’re almost done,” karasu interrupts your treacherous train of thought. 

you find him on his hands and knees in front of where you’re seated sideways against the arm of the couch, positioned between your lazily spread legs with one hand hovering over the lid of your laptop, which he’s slowly pushing closed. 

“hey!” you choke out, both startled by the way your body reacts to his sudden proximity and the fact that you haven’t saved your document in fifteen minutes. 

hastily, you do just that, and the laptop snaps shut with a resounding click that seems to echo off of the walls of the apartment like a beacon while karasu stares back at you for a beat. 

a slow grin of victory spreads across his face when he uses one hand to transfer your laptop to the coffee table, but he makes no move to get off of you. 

“otoya and hiori wanna get dinner,” he tells you by way of explanation. 

it’s not fair how much more attractive his stupid, cute little mole looks with dark strands of hair falling against it—

“and?” you ask carefully. 

you just want to reach out and touch—

“and you gotta eat, too, so i’ve been waitin’ on you, princess.”

fucking pet names. one goddamn crisis at a time.

your ribcage is on the verge of becoming a triage center. 

“well, don’t you—shouldn’t you go and get ready, at least?” you do your best not to sound completely and entirely rattled as you gesture toward his hair. 

he looks up with just his eyes, as if he’s only just now noticing the origin of your afternoon’s torture. “what, does it look that bad?”

is he serious?

he smirks, and—oh. your breath hitches in your throat as you try to figure out when he got so close, when he shifted even higher to cage you in entirely between his tall, muscled frame and the plush, worn-in couch cushions. 

it makes you feel dizzy, being beneath him like this. 

karasu smells like the strawberries he was eating earlier, and your throat goes dry as you think about the way he’d outright fed one to you instead of handing it to you like a normal person when you asked. the way his fingertips had briefly touched your lips—

he smells like the fabric softener he’s used for years, and it’s seemingly the last remaining lifeline left to ground you in this moment. you grasp at it, almost desperately. 

you end up unconsciously fisting a hand in the fabric of his shirt instead. 

he leans in a little closer, close enough that his hair brushes against your forehead. 

it tickles. 

warmth blooms hot in your gut, petals of heat caressing your spine.  

“does it look bad?” he asks again. 

you can feel his breath skirt against your lips. 

“maybe,” you whisper, voice almost hoarse. because you need some sort of an upper hand here. 

he huffs, eyes locked on yours. “liar.”

“you’re distracting,” you tell him again for the—you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said it today. 

one of his knees is slotted dangerously between your legs, and you try not to think about the way his thighs look in his kit. how often you have to tear your eyes away from the sight of them when you’re watching his games. 

fucking footballers. 

“am i?” 

you nod slowly, and you wonder what his lips taste like. how he kisses. if they’re as warm as the body heat that’s blanketing you while he keeps you bracketed beneath him. 

if he’d methodically break you down like he does to his opponents on the field—if he’d call you some other endearing thing in that pretty accent of his while your legs are wrapped around his waist, while you’re carding your fingers through his hair and parting your lips and gasping his name. 

you wonder if he’d take it slow and drag his nose down your cheek before sliding his lips along the curve of your jaw. 

if he’d kiss you long and deep, licking his way into your mouth with one hand splayed against your throat and another curled around your hip. 

if he’d—

“you’re distracting, too, ya know,” he whispers. 

“what?” your heart’s pounding so loudly in your chest, you’re not sure if you heard him right. 

karasu taps your chin lightly with his pointer finger. “ya read out loud, and ya sing to yourself while you’re cookin’ and cleanin’.”

embarrassment washes over you as you begin to realize what a bothersome house guest you’ve probably unintentionally become over the past few days. “i’m sorry, i’m just so used to living alone, and—“

he cuts you off abruptly, “i said you’re distracting, not that i didn’t like it.”

you blink up at him owlishly, and your chest tightens in confusion as you breathe out what seems to be one of the few last remaining words in the wasteland of your mental dictionary, “what?”

“you have a pretty voice,” he murmurs, thumb ghosting over the edge of your bottom lip. “i like hearin’ it.”

you feel breathless when you exhale the only other thing you can think to say, “karasu.”

his eyes fall shut for a moment, and he smiles. “i love the way you say my name.”

your tongue dances impatiently against the back of your teeth as you swallow, testing the weight of three different syllables—

“tabito,” you whisper. 

he opens his eyes suddenly, and he stares down at you with an expression that has your toes curling against the couch cushions. 

“you should only say that if ya want me to kiss ya,” he rasps. 

your fingers tremble slightly as you reach up and touch his hair, slowly brushing the tips across his mole. he catches your hand when you go to pull away, keeping it there. 

“tabito.”

karasu’s mouth crashes into yours. 

---

there's saliva dripping down rin's chin.

he doesn't realize it at first. though conscious of the way it's been pooling in his mouth, he didn't notice when it began slipping out at the corner of his lips—thanks largely to how his teeth are bared. he's barely concerned by it, even when he does realize, scrubbing at the edge of his jaw with the sleeve of his expensive suit as he pants raggedly.

his eyes are still fixed to the door.

you're cowering in the corner behind him, your body curled into itself as you tremble, the scent of you polluting the air so thickly that rin forgets what it feels like to pull in a breath that doesn't taste of you.

there's glass shattered across the floor from where he'd just sent a vase—an expensive looking one—flying at the man who'd wandered in, no doubt following the trail of pheromones you'd left in your wake. the unsuspecting man had stumbled back in shock, though he hadn't been directly hit, and quickly retreated when he caught sight of rin.

"are you that much of an idiot?" the alpha before you hisses, but doesn't dare turn to face your way. his eyes are glued so firmly to the door he's not sure he could tear them away if he tried. he's not sure if he did look away that he'd be able to will himself to look back again. "what self-respecting adult can't even keep their heatcycle in check?"

"i have... i have a suppressant implant." your breaths are shaky, a wet staccato that makes rin's stomach turn. "i don't know... what's ha-aaah-ppening to me."

the little moan that bleeds into your words sends another wave of saliva flooding into his mouth.

"fucking ridiculous," he snarls.

the trousers of his suit are unbearably tight.

"itoshi-san," you mewl from behind him. a plea, though neither of you are quite sure what you're begging him so sweetly for.

"shut up," rin snaps. "just fucking—fuck."

"i need... i need—" you can't even get the words out. what you need is a suppressant. you need to get out of here.

what you want right now is something else entirely. something instinctive and carnal and obscene.

"cover your nape," rin manages to spit. his jaw is aching. his entire body is tense. he can feel his pulse pounding underneath his tongue. there's no change in how thickly your scent permeates the air and his head snaps around to face you. "cover. your fucking. nape."

you lift a hand and weakly press it to the back of your neck, your heavy lidded gaze meeting his. you look delirious, only half-conscious in your haze. there's a sheen of perspiration on your skin, a glow that catches in the dim light of this tiny room.

your lips part like you're about to speak, and rin finds his muscles coiling as though preparing to unconsciously inch closer.

"oh, wow."

a bloodlust blooms in the pit of rin's stomach, racing up his throat. a merciless, undiscerning urge to rip and tear. he whips around towards the voice, and finds sae's cold, steady gaze waiting for him.

"easy," his brother chides, lifting his hand in a dismissive wave. his eyes flicker to you, still curled up on the ground behind rin, and there's the subtlest shift in the elder itoshi's expression. wordlessly, sae pulls a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, holding it over his nose.

rin feels a growl building in his chest as his brother steps closer.

"down, boy," sae says coldly as he steps past, and though rin can't be sure because of the handkerchief, but he's almost certain his brother is sneering.

his pulse is so loud in his ears, he misses some of the softer words sae says to you as he crouches over you behind his brother's back. when rin finally turns, he sees sae press a small tablet between your lips with his fingertips, then uses that same hand to gently hold your mouth closed until you swallow.

"good girl," the eldest itoshi murmurs, and it's only a few moments more until you shift forward into his touch—like your body's gone limp. rin watches as sae lifts you into his arms, turning back in the direction of the door.

he doesn't consciously step into his brother's path, but somehow rin finds himself there all the same. the brothers stand face to face for a fraught moment, the air between them still thick with the scent of your pheromones and crackling with unspoken tension.

rin feels that ugly, vicious feeling clawing up in his chest again. angry. domineering. ravenous.

"run along now, rin," sae dismisses him coolly. the way his brother's hand pats against your temple makes rin feel violently ill. "i can look after my own things from here."

---