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It is scorching hot outside and Kageyama is the only one who stayed behind in the gym. It is typical of him, to over-exert himself, and while it is not strange for Kageyama to stay in the gym longer than anyone else, what is weird is for him to skip lunch entirely.
So by the time lunch is over, and the last of the team stagger back to the sleeping halls, Shoyou remains seated until the cafeteria lady shoos him out. He makes an attempt to ask for some takeaway for his friend, but all he receives is a hard shove, a sullen expression, and a door in his face.
It is with an anxious heart he drags himself back to the gym to check in on his friend. Kageyama may have the stamina of a beast, but he is very much human. Shoyou has seen enough glimpses of it to know it to be true.
Before he even reaches the gym he can already hear the telltale sound of a volleyball being slammed on the hardwood floor over and over again, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. Outside the cicadas play the summer song, and the sun’s hot rays beat down on them all mercilessly. Shoyou wipes the sweat off his brow as he rounds the corner to the gym.
He inhales, ready to shout at his stupid, idiot partner for being his suicidal self, but when he reaches the gym doors he stops dead in his tracks.
Inside is Kageyama—as was expected—but what Shoyou did not expect is the sight that greets him. He covers behind the door, terrified for a second that Kageyama heard him approach, but when his friend gives no such indication he leans in some more and takes a good, long look.
He is practicing his swing against the wall parallel to the entrance. Each smack of his hand is accompanied by the dull thud of the ball hitting the floor, and then the wall. Smack. Thud. Thud.
His form is flawless—not a movement wasted. As the ball ricochetback towards him in a high, perfect arch over his head Kageyama steps aside to meet it as easily as if he were dancing on clouds. His right arm bent back, shoulders in a high tilt, and like the sudden whip of a venomous snake he strikes. Smack. A big, wide palm hits the ball high over his head, perfectly on top. It spins forwards as it slams back against the floor.
His form is perfect as it always is, but for once in his life Shoyou’s focus is not on the volleyball. His eyes are glued to the droplets of sweat running down Kageyama’s temple, his jaw, down over his neck. Kageyama’s T-shirt is soaked-through, the white cotton turned grey all over. Shoyou is not sure about the state of his shorts, as they are black, but he can see the sweat gleaming on his thighs every time they flex with his movements.
He swallows, throat suddenly so incredibly dry. Perhaps he is getting dehydrated. It is exceptionally hot this season.
But he knows, if he is to be honest with himself, that the parched throat has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with what is before him.
Shoyou adjusts his shorts as inconspicuously as possible, looking left and right for any surprise audiences. He swallows drily when Kageyama grunts after a particularly difficult save. He has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to expose more of his arms.
Shoyou inhales sharply, makes a split decision he will most likely regret, and shoves a hand down his shorts.
It is shameful and gross and he hates himself for thinking it, but he wants so bad to get a whiff. Just once he would like to bury his nose right there, over black fabric, and inhale to his heart’s content. Just once he would like the privilege—the permission to have a taste, to lick a broad stripe up his stomach. Of course, he has never confessed these thoughts to anyone, barely even to himself. How could he? If anyone were to ever find out he would quite literally die. No one is allowed to know. Shoyou is intent on taking this secret with him to the grave:
That he wants his setter to absolutely defile him.
He thinks it must have begun long before they reunited at Karasuno. Some cosmic shift in which all wrongs righted themselves occurred, two strangers turned to rivals. When he saw him in the gym, perfect form a hovering sculpture in the air, eyes wild and hungry, he knew something was about to change—that, somehow, this would be fatal. Like the premonition that something bad, something horrendously bad, is about to happen it churned in his gut and twisted his insides out of shape.
He does not think he was ever put back together again to the way he was. Something in him was altered.
It did not happen overnight. This metamorphosis was slow and calculated, like the evolution of a species or the growing of nails. You do not notice it as it is happening, but when you look back you are left gaping at the change. He is gaping now, but not quite entirely over the many ways in which Kageyama has changed him—just one.
He is so hard.
Shoyou grits his teeth and palms himself over the fabric of his briefs only to discover they have been sullied. A wet patch is already forming over the tip as he watches his best friend slam down ball after ball expertly, sweat shining on his skin, brows furrowed in concentration.
He grunts every time he swings and the sounds go straight to Shoyou’s dick. He moans into his fist on a particularly good stroke. His friend continues unbothered, working his shoulder sore no doubt. Shoyou will have to remember to reprimand him for overexerting himself—the way he reprimands Shoyou all the time. It will be some kind of poetic revenge.
Kageyama, like he heard, takes down the ball and lowers his shoulder. He breathes heavily for a moment, face turned to the sky, neck long and stretched taut as he pants. Pale, long fingers card through black hair slowly, and when they are done those same fingers—that wonderful hand capable of such mastery—fists into the hem of his shirt and lifts it to his face. Kageyama pats his cheeks dry while Shoyou’s guts turn upside down.
He whimpers quietly when another gush of precum stains his underwear. Kageyama looks good like that; red cheeked and exhausted with his entire chest and stomach on display. If they were on court, amongst their teammates, Shoyou would scold him for being so indecent—but as it were they are not, and Kageyama is unaware of him even being there, and the last thing Shoyou would want right now is for Kageyama to cover himself.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, he inches his hand underneath his briefs and grabs himself anew. A zap of pleasure shoots up his spine at the wonderful skin-on-skin contact. He cannot believe he is doing this. If Kageyama were to ever find out, if he were to ever know what Shoyou does when he is not there to see—if he knew the kind of thoughts he has about him—would he be mad? Disgusted? Would he scold him, call him a pig? Or would he ignore him? Give him the cold treatment, pretend he is air?
The thought makes him shiver, and to his utter horror—his dick twitches.
He looks up, just to catch another glimpse of him—or so he tells himself—but when he looks up again he looks right into bright blue eyes glued to his own, wide in disbelief.
Shoyou stills, the world stops spinning, the birds stop twittering. He has still got his hand in his underwear, kneeling on the floor outside the gym, and Kageyama is staring right at him—shirt still in hand. Those blue eyes are blown wide, pink mouth agape in shock. Shoyou cannot read his mood. Disgust? Hatred? Both?
And then, to truly make this all worse, he comes.
It washes over him so suddenly, numbs his hands and feet with the force of it—like the orgasm was pulled straight from his gut by sheer force—and no matter how hot his face burns he cannot will himself to stop, or to stay quiet. He groans and doubles over and squeezes himself dry.
As he pants for air in the aftermath he stares at the dirty floorboards between his knees and counts the remaining seconds of his life as it passes for good. He is too numb to be embarrassed, in too much disbelief to even be angry at himself.
He is mortified.
The silence hangs in the air like a corpse on a noose, the cicadas continue their ceaseless song, and Shoyou mourns the life he once had.
He does not dare to look up, terrified of what will meet him in his friend’s—ex friend’s eyes. Maybe Kageyama will have mercy on him and pretend he did not see anything, or that he mistook Shoyou jerking off to him practicing in the gym as him actually being in pain from stubbing his toe on the door.
Or maybe he will report him to the police. Make it quick and simple. Drive the knife in as deep as it will go and permanently ruin Shoyou’s chance for ever making it in anything, much less the sport he has grown to love so dearly.
Footsteps approach him at first tentatively, then quickly. A heavy, determined march forward. Shoyou only barely manages to remove his hand when he is suddenly being lifted by the scruff of his shirt and shoved inside the gym. The metal doors close with a loud wham behind him, shutting out the summer hum, and Shoyou’s blood turns to ice in his veins when he realises neither of the alternatives were correct in the slightest.
Kageyama has always been a man of action.
Shoyou just about has time to turn around when a fist slams into his face so hard the force sends him stumbling backwards. He slips, and falls, and through the throbbing pain and the ringing in his left ear he senses him approach—a shadow looming over him.
“You’re a pig,” Kageyama spits, face a crackling wildfire.
Shoyou’s skin erupts in goosebumps and he realises, to his utter horror, that he is getting hard again.
“Yeah… I d-deserved that.”
Shoyou braces himself for another strike—maybe a kick this time—but it never comes. Kageyama walks back to the door and locks it with a finality that makes Shoyou tremble in equal parts fear and arousal.
There will be time to unpack that later. First he must survive this, somehow. Perhaps he can plead to Kageyama’s humanity—or whatever is left of it. Shoyou is certain if life did not manage to beat it out of him, Shoyou’s actions certainly did. It is over for them.
Hot tears well up in his eyes. His lip trembles. He curls up in a ball, makes himself as small as possible as he grieves what has been lost. All because he is a perverted, stupid creep.
“Did anyone see you?” Kageyama asks.
“I’m sorry, Kageyama, I d-didn’t mean to—“
“Did—” he starts and steels his jaw, “—anyone see you?” he repeats.
Shoyou swallows. “No… I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I looked, but there was n-no one there as far as I could tell,” he says.
He wipes his own tears harshly, uncaring of the blooming bruise no doubt forming on his cheek. He presses his tongue against his molars, just to test the give, and is momentarily grateful that none of his teeth were knocked loose in the process.
Kageyama crouches down in front of him and sighs like someone who has aged a millennium in just a few minutes. From between broad shoulders, he looks up, and holds Shoyou’s gaze behind the curtains of his black bangs. His hair has gotten longer—a little too long for comfort.
“Why are you hard again?” he asks, and nods to Shoyou’s shorts.
“I’m not,” Shoyou is quick to lie.
Kageyama rolls his eyes. “You’re a shit liar, and an even worse pervert.”
“I don’t know,” he says, so quietly he barely hears himself.
His vision blurs as new tears spring forth. Kageyama levels an unimpressed look at him and groans. “Seriously? If anyone should be crying right now it’s me.”
“I know, I’m s-sorry,” he hulks.
The shame burns like hot coals in his gut, weighing him down, making him nauseous. He can taste the smoke of his regret on his tongue every time he exhales.
Then, to his utter shock, warm hands cup his cheeks and tilt his face up towards the fluorescent lights. They cast a halo around Kageyama’s head, and for a second Shoyou mistakes him for an angel.
Kageyama is scowling, but he is not looking at Shoyou—he is looking at his bruise.
“I guess this makes us even,” he says with resignation, and pulls away to sit back in front of Shoyou.
Huh?
“E-ve…even?”
Kageyama scratches the back of his head, not looking at Shoyou. “I, err, don’t mind… exactly.. or, like—“ he hums, seemingly searching for the right words. “I’m okay with it. If it’s you. But I want you to ask next time, or give me a heads up, or at least—“ he pauses, “At least, if you’re gonna jerk off to me, don’t do it in the middle of the hallway where some unfortunate freshman might catch you, you absolute freak.”
Shoyou blinks owlishly at him, the words not quite registering.
“You’re… okay with it?”
And then, like something out of a slimy hentai, he spreads his legs in front of Shoyou to expose the very obvious hard-on tenting his shorts. Shoyou gapes at it in utter disbelief.
“It’s kinda… hot… I guess. Just, caught me off guard, is all…” he mumbles.
Kageyama is leaning back against his hands, long legs spread obscenely and bracketing Shoyou’s body where he sits curled up in shock. The sweat running down the inside of his thigh disappears into the opening of his shorts. Kageyama squirms underneath Shoyou’s gaze, clearly uncomfortable—or maybe turned on by his perverted ogling.
“You’re okay with it…” he repeats to himself, just to solidify this simple fact—to really hammer it home that he did not walk into a portal, or pass away on the doorstep and entered the afterlife.
“Can I…” he starts, but loses his train of thought when that monstrous thing twitches. He swallows, dick so throbbing hard between his own thighs—the inside of his shorts still sticky with his own cum and sweat.
“Can you what?” Kageyama says and extends one leg. Shoyou follows the movement numbly, mouth dry and heart hammering a mile a minute in his throat.
“Can I touch you? Please? Kageyama?” he says, hand already hovering over the pale, spotless skin so hot it radiates heat like a lamp.
The hair on Kageyama’s legs is black like the rest of his body, but it is much finer and thinner than elsewhere, and glimmers like glitter in the light. He has a scar on his knee and two moles just behind, on the top of his calf. Those ones he has seen before. He has seen all of him before, actually, but he has never been allowed to truly look.
Kageyama’s cheeks are bright red when he speaks. “Fine. You can touch me,” he says, ears like the sunset.
Shoyou does not want to know how red he is right now. If the smouldering heat is anything to go by…
He crawls forward and situates himself between Kageyama’s legs on his knees, his own arousal clear as day now, and reaches out his hands to drag them up his thighs slowly, from knee to groin. Kageyama exhales slowly, eyes fixated not on Shoyou’s hands, but on his face. Blue turned scorching hot by the fire behind his pupils, so warm as they flit between Shoyou’s every facial feature. Black lashes stick to each other with sweat—or tears? He looks good. So good with his lips bitten red and parted in pleasure.
Shoyou squeezes his legs shut, stifling an embarrassing moan only just barely. Kageyama hears it—of course he does. He grins wickedly at Shoyou and then, much to his utter dismay, lifts his leg and presses down his foot on Shoyou’s bulge, just on the edge of too hard.
He really does moan this time, loud and clear, and slaps a hand to his mouth in embarrassment.
“Didn’t know you were into this freaky shit, Shoyou,” he says,
his name like syrup as it drips off his tongue. Shoyou swallows, mind suddenly preoccupied with the mental image of Kageyama wrenching his mouth open with that big hand of his and spitting into his mouth. Maybe if he riles him up enough he just might do it.
Kageyama continues, heel grinding down as he speaks in that low, hungry drawl. “Does getting beat up turn you on, you pervert? Do you like being humiliated?” he asks.
Shoyou shakes his head, but when he does the foot on his dick presses down harder and he practically wails as pain and pleasure shoot up his spine and make a scrambled mess of his brain. He wraps both hands around Kageyama’s ankle in surprise.
“You do like it, don’t you? Look at you—humping my foot like a dog in heat. So pathetic.”
Shoyou bends over just then, overwhelmed with sensations. His orgasm is fast approaching, threatening to have him spill for the second time in his pants.
But just then, as he is panting heavily in pleasure, bent over with his hand still halfway up Kageyama’s shorts, he realises he has come face-to-crotch with his wildest fantasy.
“K-Kageyama…p—hah! Please…”
They have always been so in synch, a symbiotic relationship between parasite and host that has outlasted everything and which, despite its ups and downs, will continue to outlast it all—will continue to evolve in tandem with the other.
Kageyama gives him a long, heated look and then, blissfully, with a fist in his hair shoves his head down all the way until his face is pressed between his legs, right where he has always wanted to be.
Shoyou groans and inhales, and that seems to be enough.
He comes a second time, this time so hard his mind goes completely silent.
He does not realise he has wrapped his arms around Kageyama’s hips until after, when the comedown has his ears ringing and his vision blurring in ecstasy. The rush of hormones makes him dizzy as he lays there, content to die right where Kageyama is so warm and smells so heavenly.
If this is all there will ever be, if this is the pitiful end of him, he thinks he just might die happy, after all. No matter the consequences.
But then those fingers are back in his hair again, tugging him up, and Shoyou watches as a beautiful, calloused hand unties Kageyama’s shorts and pulls out his dick. Shoyou’s eyes widen when he finally sees it in its fully glory, throbbing hard. A vain travels up its underside like a twisting river. The head is wonderfully pink, covered in foreskin, and the shaft is thick and long and absolutely perfect.
A single droplet of fluid blinks at him from the tip, and without thinking much about his actions Shoyou dives in. He gives it a slow, tentative lick—he has never kissed anyone properly before, never mind sucked a guy’s dick.
But he will be damned if he does not give it his very best.
Shoyou gives it another lick, this one bolder, broader. One long swipe from base to tip. He can feel the vein on the underside throb as he does and a moan escapes him is in response. The hand in his hair tightens, and then, before he has time to think, he has got a mouth full of dick.
It smells like sweat and exertion and power—musky of skin and something else, something uniquely Kageyama, his body wash and detergent—and Shoyou finds himself inhaling deeply; addicted to it all despite the fact that he can barely breathe around the thick intrusion. He is sure his lip tore at some point, but there is no time to fret over that.
He tries to hollow his cheeks and suck, but the attempt is futile when Kageyama’s other hand joins his first in pressing his face down, down, down until his nose is pressed to the black hair at the base and he is grunting and gagging around the cock halfway down his throat. Twin tears slip past the tight squeeze of his eyelids. He tires to lift his head, but the hands in his hair are unyielding.
Then, blissfully, they tug him off in one swift move.
“If it’s too much tell me. Or tap me twice on the thigh. Got it?”
Shoyou nods fervently.
“I asked if you got it?” Kageyama repeats scathingly.
“Y—haaa—yes!” he manages to hiccup between gasps and coughs.
It is hot and slippery when Shoyou tries to reposition his grip on Kageyama’s sweaty thighs. The air inside the gym is humid and suffocating—courtesy of the broken air conditioning—and it only serves to amplify every agonising minute of this sweaty, sticky mess they have gotten themselves into.
Shoyou is hard again in record time, dick straining against his shorts. Kageyama pulls him down again. This time, he goes down easier—now that he is expecting it. He gags only twice and cries only a little. Overwhelmingly it feels good—great, even. He did not think he would be into something like this, but he is so very, very into it.
Kageyama’s hands in his hair tug ever so slightly with every bob of Shoyou’s head, using his mouth and his throat as nothing but a means to an end, and it turns him on beyond what should probably be normal.
He ruts against the floor when Kageyama practically growls at him and uses the advantage of the situation to inch his hands underneath his shorts and feel around there, where the skin is unblemished by the sun and untouched by foreign hands. Kageyama is soft, if a little hairy, and so unbelievably firm everywhere. Suddenly, Shoyou has an idea. He pats Kageyama’s thigh twice.
“I—“ he stops to catch his breath and rub away the snot and tears and drool off his face, “I want you to wrap your legs a-around my…my, uh, throat…” he says, trailing off awkwardly at the baffled look Kageyama gives him.
“You want me to choke you with my thighs.” It is not a question.
“In my defence, I said nothing about choking,” he tries to argue.
“But that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
He cannot bear to look at him anymore, face too hot and heart hammering too wildly for it, so he looks down instead to where his hands have snuck all the way up to Kageyama’s ass. He gives a tentative squeeze and Kageyama gasps.
And then, much to his surprise, his vision is swallowed entirely by skin, skin, and so much skin. Two warm, sweaty, strong thighs drape themselves over his shoulders. Kageyama leans back on his arms and he is blushing ever so slightly. Or maybe it is the heat getting to him.
“Really?” He asks, a little breathlessly.
“You asked for it,” he says, glaring at the floor.
They are both breathing heavily and Kageyama’s dick is still inches from his face. He blows cooly at it just to watch it twitch and hear Kageyama hiss.
“Are you gonna get to it already?”
He likes this turn of events, the rush of being the only to pull at his strings for once. Even if it is from such a compromising position.
So he dives back in and eagerly takes him all the way to the hilt.
Kageyama curses above him and immediately fists a hand in his hair.
“Shit,” he says, “I can’t believe you don’t have a gag reflex.”
Shoyou is not sure he does not have one at all, but he is certainly glad that if he does, it is not causing him any issues now.
Then, blissfully, Kageyama’s thighs tighten their grip until Shoyou can neither bob his head nor move. The asphyxiation hijacks his brain immediately, turning him to mush on the floor. His vision is swimming, black spots dancing, and he thinks he would die happy right now.
With no other option left he opts to swallow around the length in his throat. Kageyama groans and throws his head back and it is such a wonderful, spectacular sight that he suddenly does not want to share this vision with anyone ever again. Overcome with a certain possessiveness—and maybe competitiveness—he digs his nails into his thighs, right where the marks will not be coverable by Kageyama’s thighs, and moans loudly around him.
The reaction is instantaneous. Kageyama bucks up into him and comes right down his throat. Shoyou does his best to swallow it all down. Some of it escapes his mouth to drip down his chin, but in spite of the coughing and gagging he manages to get most of it down.
In the aftermath, he wipes his chin clean and licks up the residue. It is salty and kinda musky and totally addictive. This is bad, he thinks, as he watches Kageyama’s chest rise and fall with every heavy breath.
He remains quiet for so long Shoyou begins to worry he is regretting it all when suddenly two strong hands are gripping him by the arms and tugging him violently against him, back to Kageyama’s chest. He is breathing heavily and Shoyou can feel every inch of him pressed against his back.
“W-what are you—“
A hand sneaks its way into his shorts, the other wraps around his chest. Shoyou whimpers embarrassingly when that beautiful, perfect hand grips his still throbbing dick and begins to stroke, wasting no time or finesse on dragging this out any longer.
Kageyama’s movements are purposeful and demanding, as with everything else, and they have Shoyou on the edge far, far too soon. He can feel every callous with each drag, every muscle and bone as he cups the head of his dick on the upward stroke and squeezes.
He wants to enjoy this—wants it to last. He wants to remember what Kageyama sounds like as he is telling—no, demanding Shoyou to ‘come already,’ and ‘you can do it, c’mon, for me,’. He wants to record the sound of his heavy breathing in his ear, sample his smell and keep it in a jar forever, and if possible bite off a chunk of him just to know what he truly tastes like, just to keep some of him forever.
But there is no time for that, because in a matter of seconds Shoyou is bucking into the hand rubbing him through one of the most intense orgasm of his life, and even when he is sensitive and itching to get away Kageyama’s grip is unrelenting. He whines and sobs for mercy, clutching at any part of him he can reach, until Kageyama finally seems satisfied enough to let go. He takes his hand out and spreads his fingers in front of Shoyou obscenely. They sit in silence and watch Shoyou’s cum as it drips between his fingers and over his palm.
The embarrassment hits him like a freight train in the moment. He looks away from the blatant proof of his obsession and focuses his attention instead on the heat, the unbearable, gross feeling of the two of them sticking together, mixing sweat and grime.
Or, it should be gross, but instead Shoyou finds himself leaning further into him, searching for another whiff, another blissful moment of closeness. Kageyama is so unbearably hot behind him, like the sun shining on your back on the beach, and he never wants to leave this place.
“Holy shit,” Kageyama breathes after what feels like ages, his voice booming in the silence despite being no louder than a whisper. “You came so much,” he says.
Shoyou groans and buries his face in his hands.
This is it. He will never again be able to show his face at school ever again. No, actually, he should probably change his name and move to another continent altogether.
But much to his surprise, Kageyama starts to laugh.
It is quiet, at first, and a little shy, a little hesitant—like he is worried this is not the right way to react to all this, and maybe it is not—but then it evolves into full on giggles. Shoyou can feel every one of them agains this back with every rise and fall of Kageyama’s chest, every beat of his heart. He cannot help but laugh along. A little breathlessly, in total disbelief of his own dumb luck.
In a second he is staring at the ceiling, his back to Kageyama who has thrown himself back on the floor. The sullied hand joins the other in wrapping around Shoyou, uncaring of the mess he no doubt smears all over Shoyou’s shirt.
Truth be told, he cannot find it in himself to be mad. He turns in that vice-like grip so that they are pressed chest to chest and admires the sight of a grinning, happy Kageyama. His hair is ruffled, his cheeks are red, he is sweaty and tired and gross and so wonderful Shoyou forgets how to breathe.
Kageyama opens his eyes and without warning kisses him square on the lips hard enough to leave a bruise. Shoyou decides to reprimand him for the rough treatment (and swollen eye) later, when his brain is no longer a scrambled excuse for an organ sloshing around in his cranium.
Kageyama’s lips are soft and warm and wet with spit. His tongue eagerly slips into Shoyou’s mouth and runs over his teeth, his tongue, the inside of his mouth until Shoyou’s heart is sore and his dick gives a valiant, last little twitch against where it is pressed between their bodies. Kageyama pulls back to smirk at him.
“Eager, aren’t we?” he says, pointedly glancing down between them.
Shoyou groans and buried his face in his chest, where the laughter is the loudest and the sound the sweetest.
“You’re insufferable and a colossal jerk.”
“And you’re a pervert. I think that makes us even,” Kageyama shoots back.
Shoyou wills up enough courage to glare half-heartedly at him, the despite the wobbly smile twitching over his own lips.
They stay like that long enough for the air to cool and their clothes to become overwhelmingly gross and cold on them, and as they stagger back, hand in hand, towards the baths way past sunset it seems like the perfect time for the sky to open up and for the two of them to chase each other through the rain.
Shoyou does reprimand him for not eating—after he has had his fill of him underneath the clouds, in the warm summer rain, and when they sneak into bed that night they are both sporting fresh, blooming bruises.
When he is certain Kageyama is asleep he turns on his side and watches the fluttering of his lashes and the soft, quiet huffs of breath as he exhales, and his chest aches for him. A trembling hand inches towards him in the dark. He knew this was a bad idea. He knew getting a single taste of Kageyama would make him addicted. He knew all this and still, here they are.
His finger trails down his nose, his jaw, until it reaches his bruised lip. Shoyou smiles to himself in the dark, satisfied he managed to leave a mark after all. The first of many.
Another cosmic shift, another disturbance, another change is upon them
already brewing in Shoyou’s chest.