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dream criminal

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He became a mangaka, and life was good. Good was the word he would use, because it was. It wasn’t bad. It was comfortable and nice. He had friends that cared about him, and a mother. He had his dream job. He had a potential girlfriend, who everyone knew was wife material. They had grown up together, and among their friend group they were the single ones. Naturally the two of them would eventually pair off and form a family of their own. Everyone knew it. His girlfriend, who always read his manga and had insightful thoughts, who had no physical defects, who would gaze with love, over coffee at breakfast time, when Satoru returned from work to their shared apartment.

He had logic as well, which would dictate his thoughts and behavior, he often told himself before bed. The logic told him that it was useless to think about the past. Real life could never be like a story because a story ends and real life just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.


Over the course of three years, the “Some secrets that he can’t tell anyone but Yashiro sensei” list gets longer.

-sometimes he gets into fights on purpose when he’s intoxicated, behind the love hotel where the creeps are- so its not like they don’t deserve it.
-sometimes he wants to ask his girlfriend to choke him but he knows it would be weird
-sometimes he feels like a lesser version of himself. Sometimes he’s obsessed with the image of himself on the roof that day, who had a genius plan in a moment of great danger, and sometimes he wonders why he can’t just be that person again for the rest of his life. The worst part is he’s definitely not that person to anyone else either. (well there is one person)


5 years after the roof incident, Satoru and his fiance are setting wedding dates and it should be wonderful, but picking out cake makes him grip his stomach.

The images of Yashiro run through his head all day and every conversation, every event. Especially troublingly the events that haven’t even happened yet run through his head all night. Sometimes he touches himself even, thinking of Yashiro, which is the most shameful part. He develops an obsession with gloves that he tells himself is not related. He jacks himself off with one black glove, and thinks about Yashiro’s pleasure, Yashiro whispering how he would die for Satoru, the sound that Yashiro would make when he comes inside him, leather wrapping around his neck, choking him.

Satoru had expected the story to end. Yashiro would pay for his crimes-was that not closure enough?

He can’t stop. It’s like his entire life has been contained within Revival itself- the chunk of his life that mattered anyway, he thinks, in especially grim moments. Sometimes Satoru gets drunk and writes his feelings into letters that he never sends. He’s not pathetic or sappy in the things that he writes, but its still intimate feeling-emotionally sticky- and in the morning when he’s sober he sees the results of his labor and throws the letters away. He has some self control, but his fantasies are wearing down on him bit by bit. There was even a stamp on the last letter.


When Yashiro gets out of prison, it feels like yesterday they were standing on that roof and he feels exhilaration for the first time in years, as well as intense anxiety. Yashiro doesn’t make a beeline for him, though Satoru is 60% percent sure he would. He tells himself he’s not disappointed. He is not supposed to care that Yashiro is a free man who doesn’t want to see him and might not think about him at all.

Then, Satoru just happens to have a really shitty day and his willpower shatters. It’s a combination of his boss being an asshole and the image of Kenya’s clouded face when Satoru finally confessed why he was seeing a therapist. Satoru knows Yashiro’s new address, on the other side of the city (due to a moment of weakness aka google stalking). He decides to write Yashiro a letter. He doesn’t know what to say but the urge to do it overpowers that fact and he ends up just including whatever is on his mind at the moment.

Dear Yashiro sensei,
I never told you this because I only figured it out in these past years: I must confess that I didn’t just want to become a mangaka because of heroics. The truth was I have always wanted things they get to do that aren’t pretty at all, like getting to beat people up when I'm angry, or being in situations where I might die. I thought my fixations were ethical, but if that were true then I wouldn’t be fixated on the past in the way that I am. I got my happy ending, but I wasn’t happy this whole time you were in prison, Yashiro-sensei.  And I don't know if this will help me achieve happiness..

Satoru doesn’t actually know how he’s supposed to end the letter so he just doesn’t. Doesn’t even sign his name. However, this time he licks a stamp on it; stuffs it in the mailbox and then sits down at the kitchen table with his head pressed against the wood.



Satoru can't help but to know in his gut that the most humiliating thing that could happen is if Yashiro never even responds.  

For better or for worse, that's not what happens.  In fact its quite the opposite.  Satoru wakes up to knocking at the front door and assumes its a package-his new ink pens, that were supposed to arrive the day before.  It's not.  It's Yashiro. Yashiro, immaculate Yashiro, complete and suit and gloves and a tie. 

Satoru is in his boxers and a shirt that of a sports team he doesn't know that has drool on the collar. Thus, the shock he experiences at seeing Yashiro is kind of delirious.  


Yashiro breathes intensity into Satoru's name, and its like experiencing all of his wet dreams in three syllables.

"You could have just written me back. you know."

"Well, surprising as it might seem, I didn't exactly trust myself with your well-being, something which I find myself valuing against all odds. I suppose in a sense, I've always wanted to take care of you Satoru."

Satoru laughs. " 'Take care' of me?" You realize you sound like yakuza, right?"

Yashiro breaks out into a genuine grin and for half a second the moment between them is light.
His smile is still mischievous when he says "Oh, Satoru, I'm worse than any yakuza."

"I know, " Satoru agrees glumly. "Its insane that I'm still even talking to you."

"I wouldn't like you if you weren't at least a little bit insane, Satoru."

"Gee, that's reassuring, coming from a psychopath."

"You know,” Yashiro continues calmly, "I'm especially intrigued by the part in your letter when you talk about your fixation with heroism.”

"Of course you would be."

"I'm just trying to give you what you want, Satoru.” Yashiro reaches out and strokes his face with one curved gloved finger; crooning, “It's so wrong of you; getting off the experience of a hero.”

Satoru grimaces and tries to swivel away, but Yashiro tilts his chin back. "No you misunderstand, I find it charming." Yashiro leans in slowly, kisses his neck. "You let me in. And now look at you. How am I supposed to leave you alone when you look like this?”

"Like what?"

"Helpless. You're helpless to your own feelings, just as I am.”


"It's incredibly fascinating to witness. Do you wish me to be more explicit?”

"How could you be, I've never indicated the slightest bit of sexual or romantic interest in you.”


Yashiro makes a sudden movement. Satoru flinches, but its only Yashiro coming even closer, caressing his forearms with two gloved hands.

"I never alluded to anything of the kind but I find it interesting that that's where your mind goes. Let me make it clear, Satoru:, you and Spice instilled the same rare reaction in me to preserve life instead of snuff it out. But that is where your similarities end."

"What do you mean?"

Yashiru flexes his hand around Satoru's throat and Satoru sighs involuntarily, then blushes when he realizes what he's done.

"I mean," Yashiro confesses, "that I'm not satisfied anymore by the simple fact that you aren't dead. I want more than this. More from you. To put it simply, I want everything-" he purrs in Satoru's ear. Then , "to be so close, inside.."

Satoru sighs with desire then immediately claps his hands over his mouth as if it is possible to erase the noise. He's not expecting such a strong reaction from Yashiro. Suddenly he's being manhandled so his back hits the wall of his living room. He’s being kissed with what feels like lethal dedication as Yashiro languidly opens him up with his tongue. He grasps at Yashiro's broad shoulders, sucks at his bottom lip with a small whine. Yashiro's all over him and it feels like he's drowning.

"Yashiro-“ Satoru finally manages to stammer, "I.." he steps away and fidgets with his rumpled shirt.

Yashiro smiles gently and reaches out again to stroke Satoru’s cheek. "You'd let me wouldn't you?"


"Alternatively, I could leave right now," Yashiro says.

"You'd actually leave if I asked?"

Yashiro presses a single kiss behind Satoru’s ear and Satoru bites his lip.

"I had those years Satoru; to think about just how I would have you,” Yashiro murmurs. “What positions, what place, what time. There would be no joy in taking you unwillingly. In fact, I want the opposite. I want you to beg for it."

Their eyes meet.  In that heat something breaks. Yashiro leans forward and palms him through cloth. He reaches in and brings out Satoru's cock; draws a breath in when he realizes Satoru is already hard. Yashiro’s pupils become so dilated they turn completely black. It should scare Satoru but it doesn't. Yashiro dips his fingers against Satoru's slit and collects the dewy precome on his leathered glove before licking it off like its a delicacy and Satoru gasps.  Yashiro takes his time peeling off his gloves, smirking at Satoru's hungry eyes.

“I want to hear you say it,” Yashiro mutters as he soaks his fingers in Satoru’s mouth. He removes his fingers and reaches down to rub them against Satoru’s balls. The reaction is immediate and intense, Satoru cries out like a wounded animal. Yashiro presses his fingers slicked with spit and Satoru’s precum into the crease of Satoru’s ass. “Tell me you want me inside you.”



“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I have someone.”

Yashiro’s hand pauses for an instant, then goes back to stroking his dick, curling his thumb over the top and slicking it back down, the other hand locked in a vice-like grip around the back of his neck.


“Do you think I’m an idiot? I won’t let you hurt her.”

“It was worth a try. Interesting that you’re letting this happen then.”

Satoru immediately pushes Yashiro away, who casually backs up and puts up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Fuck,” Satoru says, “we just.. What am I doing?,” He sinks back into the living room armchair, which sighs in its depression-just as Satoru does. Yashiro laughs at him. “Surpassing my expectations. I never thought you’d let it get to this point so quickly. Or, even at all.”

“Well great, I feel a lot better now.”

“I think you’d feel even better if we continued.”

“Not afterwards.”

“Then we should make it never-ending." Yashiro winks.

Satoru chuckles bitterly. “Everything ends. Around you, especially.”

“But bizarrely enough, you want me, even still. I’ve actually been meaning to ask why.”

“..You know, I don’t think I will tell you.” Satoru murmurs, lips curved into a tiny smile and there it is, that cruel-kindness of his that plays with Yashiro so well.

“I could force you.” The gloved hand idly threatens again, leaving pink imprints on Satoru’s clavicle.

“I’m not stupid enough to think you won’t hurt me. But when I’m around you, life, death, dying , seem like just another game. I think I might even want it sometimes,” Satoru confesses. “For you to kill me. “I should add that to the list of all the things I’ve wanted to tell you, since there’s no one else I can tell. At first it was just Revival, but now it’s more, so much so that even when you stand right in front of me I can’t bear to because I know how much it would mean, giving into that temptation. But I’ve already given you so much so abruptly, without even a single question or thought. I’m not the type to have a secret affair. I have everything I’ve ever wanted- friends, family, someone to marry, and I’m still not-It’s perverse. Something is awfully wrong with me, Yashiro-sensei. So perhaps you really should end it.”

Yashiro reaches into his left breast pocket. It’s one of his few vices, carrying a scalpel everywhere he goes, as if to perform surgery on the go. The reality is that touching the blade with his fingers is soothing-reminds him of all the escape paths in every situation- a way to take himself or someone else out permanently.

“That’s much better,” Yashiro says. “Your honest self gives me so much pleasure. But to your request, I’m afraid the answer is no. I don’t believe our story has ended yet. You know if you die I will as well. But I’m not quite ready. We haven’t consummated our union.”

“So we’re still alive because you want to fuck me.”

“You don’t have to put it in such vulgar terms.” But at the same time Yashiro’s hands are reaching for Satoru again, caressing his cheek, his lips, wrapping around his lower back like a spider, and Satoru doesn’t have any choice but to moan, and then they are kissing again.

Kissing Yashiro feels like the most terrible thing he could be doing. The kiss is not chaste. Yashiro dips his tongue into Satoru’s mouth, and it’s lewd; wet. Yashiro bites his bottom lip, Satoru pulls Yashiro’s hair until he groans. He’s made out with his fiancé before obviously, many times, but it felt like some kind of delicate activity; tennis- not like he’s already being fucked, in most senses of the word. Satoru shudders with the warmth of it. Yashiro's fingers are long, exacting in their exploration.

Then Yashiro slides down and before Satoru even has time to stutter, his pants are at his knees and Yashiro has begun to suck him off greedily while digging his nails into his thighs until they bleed. It doesn’t take much to get painfully hard. Yashiro is devouring him.

“Let me see you,” Satoru says hoarsely. He’s starting to get close, but he’s waiting, forcing himself not to come before he gets what he most wants. Yashiro unbuckles his belt, and the sound causes Satoru’s dick to jerk traitorously. Yashiro is thick, and when Satoru touches him, he hisses, like he’s been burned. “Just like that Satoru,” Yashiro mutters, and takes Satoru’s hand in his own and brings it to Satoru’s lips; Satoru who has never been one to resist a dare, opens his mouth and licks the precome from Yashiro’s fingers. It tastes like Yashiro, Yashiro’s musk- kind of sour but rich, like a mixture of tangerines and cologne. He doesn’t know why he expected anything else.

There’s a moment where Yashiro goes to retrieve lube and condom and Satoru can think about what’s about to happen. He knows what he should do, but the part of him he’s tried so hard to lose in the past is whispering to him about how good it will feel- and that the wrongness only makes all of it hotter and hotter. It feels like his brain in a cloud.

Yashiro grins and leans into his ear once more, whispers:
“As I recall, you did say you weren’t going to let me fuck you. If something's changed I want to hear you say it.”

Yashiro expects some kind of defiant reaction because its Satoru, but doesn’t expect his arm to snap out, his hands to ring around Yashiro's neck and squeeze tightly, the anger in his eyes flickering into desire and then back again. The slow crush of his Adams apple, internal suffocation.

Satoru finally lets go. Yashiro coughs, massaging his throat. “ Satoru, you are so sweet, it’s as if you don’t even exist in the real world.”

“I just wish it wasn’t you saying these things.”

“Do you? There’s goosebumps on your arms.”

“..I’m scared,” Satoru retorts. But he can’t keep his poker face, and the second they catch each other’s glance he’s laughing with Yashiro at the pure ludicrousness of his own statement, because the fact is that he’s not, he’s the furthest thing from scared.