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In these moments, Yoshiki’s head is quiet. It’s nice.
Nail-bitten fingers claw and scrabble at the writhing mass wrapped around his throat, slipping over its surface and finding nothing solid to grab onto. The mass alternates between constricting and loosening in a slow, merciless cycle — stealing the air from his lungs and waiting for his vision to swim at the edges, for the pressure to build into something hot and dizzying, only to relent right before he can pass out. Keeping him suspended on the edge between relief and collapse, where every breath feels like it might be the last.
It’s better like this.
His body convulses in a desperate, instinctive struggle for oxygen, muscles burning and heartbeat hammering as he strains beneath the weight pinning him down. But the tendrils are relentless, unyielding things, caressing over his skin in almost a mimicry of a lover’s tender embrace. They reach deep inside him, undulating in rhythm and fucking him rough into the mattress.
The sounds of his choked moans fill the room like a sinister orchestra. His cock is flaccid, dribbling weakly against his stomach where he’s already spent himself into a mess. Pain throbs through every his nerve, yet there’s pleasure amidst the raw sting of it.
This is the only way he can stand to have sex without spiraling, without breaking down in the middle of it all. Because at least when he’s suffocating, the torment in his mind finally goes silent. The panic drowns it out, brain too busy fighting for survival to give him the chance to think all his depressing, bitter thoughts. The emptiness is fleeting but it’s real.
More, please more
Dazed eyes roll, landing over to where Hikaru stands off to the side. The slit on his chest is wide open, allowing his insides to spill over and inside Yoshiki, while his form distorts at the edges like a reflection on broken glass. Hikaru’s face is eerily blank, drained of expression, but his eyes are burning red with a hungry unnatural glow, fixated on Yoshiki without blinking
Yoshiki looks away.
They’ve come to this point because Yoshiki refuses to let any real part of Hikaru touch him that way.
There are lines he’s crossed before, things he’s endured, ignored, excused — unforgivable sins that he’s let pile up. But this…this feels sacred in a way he can’t defile. No matter how twisted things have become, he can’t bring himself to destroy what little remains of the person his friend used to be.
In the process, he’s made the monster wearing Hikaru’s skin into a worse one than he already was.
It’s hard to tell who’s the real monster nowadays.
He’s a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being.
The insults barely cut anymore. He’s carved himself open too many times, beaten himself black and blue and bloody on the inside with the same accusations until they’ve dulled into nothing. Words lose their meaning when you’ve repeated them enough.
He knows better than to hope, but Yoshiki wishes, briefly, that Hikaru would choke him until he actually does die.
Hikaru would never allow that, though.
And Yoshiki’s terrified of what he’ll do if he’s not around to hold him back, to act as the fragile tether keeping the worst in check. Hikaru’d probably kill everyone else in grief.
Maybe this is Yoshiki’s punishment for everything. There’s a perverse peace in that thought.
The kaleidoscope of fractals at his throat tightens at the same time they pound directly against his abused prostate. Yoshiki cries out in half agony half rapture and then he’s suffocating, closing his eyes and succumbing once more to the floaty void where he feels blissful nothing.