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Mikoto sat on the edge of his uncomfortable cot, his hands pressed hard against his knees, trying to ground himself in the silence of his cell. He desperately wanted to return to his normal, routine life; to the version of himself that hadn’t been broken by the corrupt system of MILGRAM. The more he reached for that normalcy, the more the silence of the cell mocked him. It felt like his life was fraying at the edges, the grey walls closing in until the very air he breathed felt like it was being stolen. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold stone, and let his mind drift, looking for any path that led back to the way things were.
Mikoto’s eyes snapped open as he realized that the walls suffocating him were gone. In their place stretched a grid of white tiles that seemed to reach into eternity, framed by the broken edges of a landscape. He slowly got up, his limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He realized that he wasn’t on the unforgiving frame of that fuckass cot anymore. Instead, he was sprawled across a khaki sofa, its cushions soft and deep. It was comfortable; the kind of softness he hadn’t known for months. The contrast; the sudden comfort of the sofa against the crushing weight of the life he was being forced to leave behind was the last thing his mind could handle. His chest hitched, and before he could stop it, a jagged sob tore through him. Tears spilled over, tracking down his face, hot and humiliating.
"I sensed how much you were struggling," a voice echoed, low and steady. Mikoto’s breath hitched and a fresh wave of tears blurred his vision as he looked up. He saw no one other than John. The anger flared hot and sharp behind his ribs. “So, I brought you here.”
John leaned down, his thumb catching a tear running down Mikoto’s cheek.
"I took the weight off your shoulders, didn't I?" said John, his tone oddly calm. “You were drowning, Mikoto. I saved you. Every life I took, every line I crossed, it was only for you, Mikoto. Only you.”
"You didn't help me," Mikoto spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and hatred. "You didn't 'help' anything. You slaughtered people. Look where that got me.” Mikoto cried.
John’s grip shifted, his thumb trailing down to press firmly against Mikoto’s chin, forcing his head back until their faces were inches apart. The air between them felt thick, charged with the sickening reality of what John had done in his name.
“You’re lost and disgusted by me, aren’t you?” John whispered, his voice raw with sincerity. Mikoto remained silent as he scoffed.
“Mikoto.”
“What?”
“Listen to me. Purge that hatred. Im yours to break, so use me. If you hate me, or this doomed world, let me be the canvas for it. Destroy me, fuck me Mikoto. Use me as you please. Consider this your revenge.”
The audacity of it; the willingness of the man to be destroyed by the very person he ruined, sent a shockwave of rage through Mikoto. He shoved John back, slamming him down onto the sofa.
Mikoto straddled him, his knees pinning John’s thighs. “You want me to tear you apart? Fine." Mikoto hissed. "But I decide how I mark you. And I promise you, I’m not going to go easy on you.”
John looked up at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips; not of arrogance, but of complete, total surrender. "So then, decide Mikoto. I’m all yours."
Mikoto reached down, his hands shoving John’s clothes aside. He didn’t care about unbuttoning his clothes properly; all he needed was to reach him, to bury his hands into John.
Mikoto thrust two fingers inside with a sudden, punishing force, not bothering to gauge John's reaction. He felt the immediate, desperate tension in John’s muscles; he pushed deeper, his knuckles grinding against the internal walls. John’s breath hitched into a sharp, strangled sound as Mikoto pushed his slender fingers deeper inside John.
“Is this what you wanted?” Mikoto growled, his own breathing heavy and uneven. He curled his fingers, hooking them deep and dragging them against the nerves. As much as John wanted to say yes, the air was crushed out of his lungs; it was replaced with a jagged, guttural moan. It wasn’t a sound of comfort; rather, it was a sound of complete sensory surrender.
“Yes,” he choked out, at last. His voice was barely audible over the sound of his own ragged, pained breathing. Mikoto pushed more fingers in, testing the limits of what John could handle. John’s vision blurred as the pressure became overwhelming. He felt his skin beginning to fray, the promise of something tearing. John was slamming against the sofa with each of Mikoto’s thrusts, his head snapping back, hair matted with sweat against his forehead.
“Mikoto.. Please—“ A pathetic, high-pitched plea dragged out into a broken, whining sound. It was the sound of a man begging for mercy he knew he wouldn't receive. There was no more room for pleas; the delicate skin tissue finally gave way at the pressure of Mikoto’s slender fingers. Mikoto pulled his fingers out, coated with blood and their shared sweat. John’s breath cut off into a high whimper, his body going rigid as the pain spiked.
“You’re falling apart already,” Mikoto whispered, his gaze on John’s face. He didn’t stop the rhytm; he wasn’t done with John, just yet. He wanted to make the most out of his revenge. With one final thrust, he hit the deepest point, making John’s entire body go rigid. John let out a long shuddering moan, his hips jerking. His body was failing him.
“Enough,” Mikoto rasped. “Roll over.”
John didn't have the strength to hesitate. His skin was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He dragged himself until he was forced onto his stomach, pressed face-down into the cushions of the sofa.
Mikoto didn’t wait for John to settle; he discarded his grey trousers. He loomed over John, whose breath was hitching in wet, ragged sobs. Mikoto shoved John’s shoulders down, forcing his chest into the sofa cushion and grabbed his wrists. He ripped a piece of fabric with his teeth from his trousers that he had just discarded, wrapping it around John’s forearms, pulling it tight. John’s hands were pulled firmly behind his back, leaving him completely helpless with no other option to bite the cushion. The wet stains of his own drool coated the cushion. He was completely at Mikoto’s mercy, unable to even reach out to grab the edge of the sofa for stability. Mikoto didn’t waste another second and settled over him, grabbing his hips. He hauled John’s knees up onto the cushions, forcing him into a tight position. Mikoto’s grip on John’s hips tightened until his knuckles went white, and drove forward forcing himself deep inside with a sudden, thrust that made the entire frame of the sofa groan. The impact made a choked scream cut out of John's throat. The sound stopped instantly as his face was slammed back into the wet, drool-stained cushion. John’s back arched hard against the cloth tied around his wrists. His knees dug into the deep cushions, trying to find some balance, but he couldn't move. He had genuinely thought that letting Mikoto destroy him would resolve the problem between them. But the real pain of being stretched and torn completely blanked his mind.
"Ah—nghh!" John choked out, his jaw locked hard against the cushion as Mikoto pulled back and thrust again, even harder this time. The intensity of Mikoto’s thrusts were stretching him past his breaking point. Terrified of the blistering heat building inside him, John tried to twist his neck slightly against the cushion, his voice breaking in a desperate whine. "M-Mikoto... please, wait—go slower... just a second, please—"
“Shut up. Did I give you permission to talk?” Mikoto muttered, clearly irritated with the pathetic plea of the man beneath him. His jaw tightened, and rather than slowing down, he did the exact opposite. He locked his grip onto John’s hips with great force. His pace was really fast, heavy and punishing.
"Ah! Ah—nhhn!" John’s voice shattered. He was completely unable to hold the sounds back as Mikoto’s cock hammered against his raw interior walls. The sudden, unyielding pace crushed the remaining air straight out of his lungs. His breath hitched, his drool and tears pooled heavily against his lips.
Mikoto leaned down low, his chest pressing heavily against John’s bound arms, pinning him even more securely into the sofa cushion as he maintained the merciless speed.
"Look at how pathetic you are," Mikoto whispered, his voice vibrating against John's skin. "You wanted this, didn't you? You ruined my fucking life, and now you're leaking all over the cushions. This really is my revenge, John. Every single bit of it."
"M-Mikoto—haaah!" John finally managed to let out a fractured moan, his hips involuntarily twitching back against the rapid pace. It wasn't a sound of pleasure, but a raw, involuntary surrender. He was completely at Mikoto's mercy, unable to shield his face, unable to stop the tears that Mikoto was now actively smearing across his cheek with a brutal, heavy thumb.
Mikoto watched the fresh cascade of tears spill over John's lids with a fixated intensity. The sight of John’s complete psychological breakdown only fueled his erratic speed, making him drive deeper and faster, hitting his swollen walls over and over again.
The sound of the wet, rhythmic slapping echoed sharply in the endless void, mixed with the sound of John’s teeth grinding against the fabric of the sofa and uneven breathing.
John's body was reaching its absolute limit. The tight pull of the restraints cutting into his forearms, the heavy, crushing weight of Mikoto’s anger brought him to a sudden, agonizing peak. His vision went completely white under the relentless friction, his core clenching in a desperate release as a loud, rattling sob tore from his throat, his hips jerking helplessly against the cushions as he came all over the khaki velvet beneath him.
But Mikoto didn't let up. He clamped his free hand onto the small of John’s back, pressing him down into the sofa, grinding his weight forward.
"Hey," Mikoto whispered maliciously, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of hatred and release. "I decide when you get to feel good. You’ll come when i say so."
He continued to hammer into John’s torn-up asshole. Mikoto drove forward with a few final thrusts, using every bit of John's total surrender until he finally came deep inside John. He stayed pinned heavily against John's back, his chest heaving, watching the final tears soak into the ruined khaki fabric beneath them.
Mikoto held John pinned down against the cushions for a long moment after he finished, his chest rising and falling roughly against John's tied arms. Slowly, the angry tension left Mikoto’s body, leaving him completely still and numb.
He pulled back out of John slowly, the sudden absence leaving John shivering, his sore muscles twitching involuntarily from the sudden cold. Mikoto didn't offer a hand, nor did he look down at the wreckage he had just made. Instead, he quietly stepped off the sofa.
Mikoto didn’t offer to help. He simply reached over and shoved John’s hands apart, the fabric falling away like dead weight. He didn't look at the mess on the sofa, and he didn't look at John's face,
whose eyes were completely bloodshot.
Mikoto put his clothes back on, his expression as blank as the white void surrounding them. As he pulled his trousers up, he didn’t seem to care that the cuffs were uneven, as one was torn into an asymmetrical line, ruined to bind John’s wrists. Without a single word, he began to walk away, his steps measured and cold.
John remained slumped where he was, his body aching and his breath still hitching in ragged gasps. He pressed his face back into the cushions for a moment, the reality of the last few minutes settling over him. He blinked, staring at the empty space where Mikoto had been.
He pushed himself up, his muscles trembling, and watched Mikoto’s retreating back.
Before Mikoto vanished into the distance of the environment, he stopped.
"Don't you dare think that this changed anything between us," Mikoto stated, his tone final. "You're still the same as you were before. Nothing is different." Damn, he thought, his body still throbbing with the aftereffects of the act. He really rammed my hole like that, used me for everything he had, and he still hates me just as much as he did before.
He didn't wait for a response. He kept walking, leaving John alone on the sofa, feeling more discarded and broken than he had when the entire thing started.
He looked down at his own wrists, still red from the restraint, and then at the asymmetrical, torn cuffs of the trousers Mikoto had left behind on the floor. Everything was ruined. The sofa, the clothes, the trust, if there had been any left to begin with, was gone. John let out a long breath, trying to think of a way to salvage what was left.
How do I fix this? he wondered.
He clutched his arms as the realization settled in. By letting Mikoto destroy him, he hadn't bridged the gap between them like he thought he would; he’d only pushed them both further apart. There was no way to undo the damage, and no path back to who they used to be.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the sofa, now covered in cum stains. He was left with nothing but his own ruined body and the bitter truth that his sacrifice hadn't mattered at all.