Work Text:
Divine
“Are you thirsty?”
“A little bit.” Mob looks up from his work, university textbooks strewn all over Reigen's coffee table, to see him paused at the windowsill with a jug of water. “...Oh. You're talking to your plants.”
“Yes.” Reigen pours water into the three pots lined up on the sill. “Unlike you, they don't have legs to walk to the kitchen if they need a drink.”
“My legs ache,” Mob says stubbornly. “I ran track after my afternoon lecture.”
Reigen doesn't seem like he has much sympathy regarding that, ignoring him in favour of padding around his living room like a very precise raincloud. He's barefoot and tousled, just out of the shower, in his old grey pyjamas. Mob really wishes he'd come near him, sometimes he'll stand at his shoulder as he works, but this evening he seems to know that Mob will grab him and steers clear.
Mob stretches out across the table, his arms and shoulders pulling, teasing out the ache. He's pretty fit these days but track still leaves him sore all over. “Come and give me a massage,” he groans.
“After you've showered,” Reigen replies absently. “It'll loosen you up.”
Mob groans again, louder, but Reigen isn't moved by it one iota; in fact, he's basically ignoring him. Being almost twenty-one has its perks, certainly, but a drawback is definitely that Reigen no longer drops what he's doing the moment he utters 'Shishou'. He lifts his head just enough to see him go into the bedroom with the jug. Watching the water slosh up the clear sides is making him thirsty, honestly, so he finally heaves himself up and goes to the fridge. He takes out the huge carton of milk Reigen always buys in specially when he's staying over and pours himself a glass, taking a long deep gulp to satisfy himself. Then he shuts the fridge and takes his glass to the bedroom, where he stands in the doorway and watches Reigen. He looks a lot younger in casual clothes, closer to Mob's age, and smaller, too. He looks so much happier, most importantly, surrounded by his plants. His collection over the years has grown larger, many of these potted plants gifts on birthdays from the likes of Serizawa and Tome, and they are beginning to spill into every room of his small apartment. He has plenty of beautiful exotic plants that require knowledge and care in addition to a couple of normal boring specimens that he nonetheless treats with the same love. Mob recognises the tomato plant from that farm job years ago sitting on the shelf above his bed. It was in Mob's house for a little while, fobbed off on him by Reigen, but Mob soon discovered that he was not much good at looking after greenery and brought it back, a withered shadow of its former self. Clearly Reigen felt sorry for it and brought it home to nurse it back to health and it's been here ever since, a staple feature of the shelf above his bed. Mob has found himself looking at it plenty of times before, thinking it funny how they both ended up here.
He presses his glass to his bottom lip as he watches Reigen step up onto the mattress and water the tomato plant. It's not bearing any fruit at the moment but it looks strong and healthy. He can hear Reigen talking to it, too softly to pick out the words, and he observes – not without a little envy – him touching the leaves, inspecting them thoroughly. There's a little flash of skin at the small of his back as he stretches. Mob drains his milk and leaves the glass hanging in mid-air, moving into the room. He's big and heavy but completely silent, using his power to ease his weight upwards, coming to the side of the bed without Reigen noticing. Now he could reach out and touch him so easily, run his hand up under his soft worn old top, trace the ridges of his spine – but something stays him. He feels compelled to watch him instead, to be reminded of his gentleness, his kindness. He wishes he could know what he said to the plant.
Reigen turns and clearly did not expect Mob to be right behind him, recoiling with a startled shout. He also throws the rest of the water right in Mob's face. Mob simply blinks once, dripping from his hair and nose and chin.
“Holy shit, Mob, don't sneak up on me like that!” Reigen presses a hand to his chest, breathing out. “Almost gave me a heart attack...”
Mob lifts the hem of his sweatshirt and rubs his face dry. “Sorry,” he says flatly. “I didn't mean to scare you.”
“Well, I didn't mean to drench you.” Reigen looks at his empty jug. “Lucky I was finished.”
Mob stares at him unblinkingly. “Can I have some attention now?”
“Not until you've finished your homework,” Reigen replies. “And showered. You stink.”
“I ran track.”
“You smell like it.” Reigen tries to step down and Mob seizes him, holding him tight when he squirms.
“Mob, no!” Reigen pushes at him. “I've given you my conditions. Let go!”
“It's Friday. I've got all weekend to do my essay.”
“No you haven't. We've got an important job tomorrow.” Reigen gets his palm against Mob's cheek and really shoves. “Get off.”
“I'll do it Sunday,” Mob whines, clinging tighter.
“Ugh.” Reigen moves suddenly and gets free – he's nowhere near as strong as Mob but he's agile and good at slipping holds. He shakes himself off. “At least shower first. You'll feel better for it. Then we'll see.”
Mob glowers at him, rubbing his jaw. “I just want–”
“I know exactly what you “just want”,” Reigen interrupts. “I said we'll see.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means I'll see how I feel after you get back from your shower.” Reigen points towards the doorway. “And take that glass with you when you're going.”
Mob stomps to the door, snatching the glass from the air as he leaves. He knows he doesn't smell great right now but Reigen still doesn't seem to give a damn about being casually hurtful. That's not the only thing that hasn't changed; Mob hasn't got a hope in hell of talking him into anything, even all these years later. Still, it's disconcerting to realise that he – he, Mob – has been usurped in Reigen Arataka's heart by a tomato plant.
Okay, maybe an overreaction – but still. He throws his clothes on the bathroom floor in a huff. “I made that tomato plant grow in the first place, you know!” he calls through the door.
“Stop sulking!” Reigen calls back – which seems rich given how he sulked when he realised that he wasn't about to get a successful new business out of Mob's latent ability to produce, well, produce.
He turns on the shower and steps in, letting the hot water pummel the ache out of him. It doesn't feel as good as Reigen's hands – if there's one thing he really is good at, it's massages, good lord – but it's just what he needs after being on the go all day. He hates Reigen being right all the time, the smug bastard. He tries to put his stupid face out of his head as he soaps himself down but it's difficult after seeing him almost every day of his life for the last decade. It's like his image is imprinted onto the insides of his eyes. He gives up on trying to think about his essay instead and pushes smart professional Reigen in his suit and shiny shoes out of the way; recalls instead the one from last night, the one he gets to call Arataka, how he sounds and smells and feels. They've been together for a long time, a good while before they had the courage to consummate it, and he savours the moments when they are closest. He knows that Reigen isn't as open as he seems, that he is the only one he will let his guard down for. He knows he is the only one who knows how he looks when he's undone, how he sounds when he moans Mob right in his ear. He loves the cling of citrus and sting of salt on his skin, how he bends and keeps bending as far as you push him, smooth and soft like old gold. He hangs on how gentle his voice becomes, the tone he likes to call his own, for him only.
He's touching himself without realising it, his forehead pressed to the frosted glass. He can't help himself, his mind bursting and flooding like a dam, filling with damning things like fingers and teeth and pressure, tattletales in torture chambers. His hand moves slickly, quickly, sliding with soap, his other fist against the steamed glass. There's a building pressure in the cubicle, his powers lapping like waves at the edges of him, heaving and leaving, and he is aware of the glass shivering, of the bottles rattling in the rack. The light surges, no doubt going through the entire apartment, and he's almost certain he hears Reigen shout over the roar of the shower. He sucks in a breath, tries to reel it in. He's blown plenty of bulbs before. He bites down on the heel of his hand and remembers the way he held tight around his neck last night, the arch of his back, the gleam of sweat in the hollow of his throat. Fuck that stupid tomato plant. Fuck it fuck it fuck it–
He comes with a shudder, leaning back on the glass, feeling it cool and hard against his spine as he pants, enjoys the high as it sizzles through his every nerve. He puts out his palm and lets the water wash it clean. He does feel a lot better, he has to admit, though he still wants a massage. There's a knot between his shoulders that needs an expert elbow.
He shuts off the shower and steps out, quickly towelling off. The steam seems to hang thicker than usual, giving the bathroom a hazy heady feel. Strange. He hears a muffled thud as he pulls on his old sweatpants, passes it off as Reigen being clumsy, must have dropped something. He rubs his hair dry, stares at himself in the mirror as he notices it fluff up, swaying at the ends. He tries to smooth it down but it won't stay.
Another thud. Mob frowns, pulling on his worn black T-shirt, and unlocks the bathroom door. Something doesn't feel right. The steam seems to extend into the hallway, a peasouper fog of invisible thickness making the very air set like gelatine. It's psychic energy, he realises, and he wonders briefly if he could have overlooked something, if they're under attack from some malevolent spiritual force.
But–
It doesn't feel like a ghost to him. It feels like raw natural psychic power – his own, to be precise.
“Arataka?” he calls.
No answer. He pinpoints the direction of the energy and moves towards it. It's radiating from the bedroom, growing more intense with every step. He knows something is wrong before he even gets to the door, pushing it open with caution.
“Arata...”
He trails off. You'd think, having seen the things he's seen in his short life, he'd be prepared for anything – but this still catches him off guard. He's not expecting to see the tomato plant now massively overgrown, filling the room with a spiralling thicket of thick tendrils. He's not prepared for the sight of Reigen having clearly lost whatever fruitless battle he waged against the burgeoning beast, firmly restrained by vines. His wrists are lashed together above his head and there are other tendrils wrapped around his body, his chest and belly and thighs, holding him firmly in place. His head is bowed, his face flushed, and he's breathing hard. It takes Mob a moment longer to realise why and, when he does, he actually averts his gaze, embarrassed right down to the roots of his hair. There are two vines snaked under the waistband of his pyjama pants, moving against the grey fabric, fondling him. Reigen isn't squirming much, panting through gritted teeth, but his toes are spreading, his feet arching. Mob forces himself to look at him, wondering how long he's been captive. How long was he in the shower?
Reigen raises his head, gazing at him. His brown eyes are clouded with arousal but he still manages to look annoyed. “M-Mob... you...!” He gives a deep shudder. “Will you... d-do something?!”
Mob flounders in the doorway. “Like what?”
“Get this thing off me!” Reigen yells. He begins to struggle with renewed vigour, which only causes the plant to tighten its hold. “Blast it, slice it to pieces, anything!”
“I-I don't have an axe,” Mob says stupidly.
Reigen doesn't say anything to this, likely because a third tendril begins to lift his pyjama top and the two between his legs up the ante, making him bend his back with a deep groan. And Mob, well, the sound goes through him, stirring him in sensuous ways, and he finds it hard to think straight. He knows he should do something to help him but the sight of him, the sounds he makes, they completely intoxicate him. He's never seen him like this before.
“Mob,” Reigen pleads.
Mob shakes himself out of his stupor. “S-sorry.” He raises his hand towards the monstrous plant, summons his power—
It backfires spectacularly. Instead of shrivelling, disintegrating, the thing absorbs his energy, swelling with unbelievable fervour, hitting the ceiling, curling around the light, the curtain rail, the legs of the desk. Reigen might have a brain half-addled by arousal right now but he puts two-and-two together quicker than Mob does:
“Stop, stop...!” He heaves for breath, his body trembling at the tangled heart of the overgrowth. “Mob, y-you're the one... doing this...!”
Mob recoils. “No, I'm not!”
“N-not... on purpose, m-maybe...”
Mob looks at his hands. It's true that the energy matches his own, undeniable that he is the one that made this plant grow to begin with, all those years ago – with Reigen standing right next to him, at that. After that blast of power, it's even beginning to bear fruit, tiny cherry tomatoes gleaming like garnets.
He knows he hasn't got much choice. He crosses the room and seizes hold of the first tendril he comes to, trying to pull them off Reigen with his bare hands. It's hard, much harder than he expected, their grasp far stronger than his. He wrestles with them to little avail, hauling with his entire weight, barely budges them an inch. They react to his touch, beginning to wind themselves around his wrists, and he wrenches them off and stumbles back. They don't follow him, wrapping themselves about Reigen instead, going up under his pyjama shirt, coiling around his neck. Reigen doesn't seem to notice, too strung out, gasping for breath, his back arched. He whines Mob's name but it's hard to know if he's pleading for help or begging for more, knowing the feel of his aura as he does. Mob flounders in the middle of the floor, frozen. He doesn't know what to do. It's starting to get to him, to make him feel tight and tingly and tremory, hearing Reigen gasp and pant the way he does when he's beneath him, and he tries to shut it out but he can't look away.
Scissors. It comes to him through his stupor. There are scissors in the desk drawer, hardly ideal but better than nothing. He steps over the curling vines and hurries to the desk, yanking the drawer open. Panicked, he begins to rifle through the crap amassed in here, papers and stationary and loose batteries and half a dictionary, hunting for the scissors. He sees them right at the back, scrabbles for them, but by the time his hand closes around them it's too late. He hears Reigen give a strangled shout of his name and a wave of pleasure goes through him, sparking right to the end of every nerve in his body. He braces himself against the desk, hissing through his teeth, letting the scissors drop back into the drawer. It takes a long moment for the sensation to subside, sparkling inside him like the bubbles in freshly-poured lemonade. When it does, he looks up and sees Reigen hanging limp in the grasp of the plant, his head bowed, breathing ragged. He doesn't need to see his wet pyjama pants to understand.
A jolt goes through him, a strange itching hunger, a sense of incompleteness. With Reigen quiet, he tries again to exert his power over the overgrowth, raising his fingers just a little. This time it's not difficult for him to pinpoint the core of the power, although trying to make it bend to his will – let him go, put him down – doesn't bear much fruit. His orders come up against something immovable, something that he recognises as his own stubbornness, and he realises that Reigen is right: he is the one doing this. This is hardly the first time that his powers have subconciously done things without his say-so, usually acting on desires he won't allow himself, though he thinks this is really is the first time they've had a tantrum about being cockblocked, so to speak.
Reigen finally lifts his head. He's flushed and doesn't look very impressed. “I just meant no right then,” he says breathlessly. “N-not later.”
Mob feels embarrassed but doesn't show it. “It's later now,” he replies.
Reigen scowls, squirming, wet fabric clinging to his thighs. “I need another shower now. Let me down.”
“I can't,” Mob says apologetically. “I don't know how.”
“What do you mean, you don't...? Mob, I'm being serious, let me go this instant or I'll–”
“You'll what?” Mob raises his hand and makes the plant move – not down but across, the whole thing rippling like a wave, pouring over the bed. Reigen is still restrained as he settles onto the mattress, struggling like an animal in a trap.
“Mob, don't you dare–!”
“I'm not doing anything,” Mob replies. “You're right, I am doing this – but it's not really me. It's my powers, my...” He blushes, looks down at the floor. “Um, desires.”
Reigen stops fighting long enough to look at him. “Didn't you already get what you wanted?”
Mob shrugs. “Guess not.”
Reigen's expression changes, all soft charm, his spit-shined sales pitch. “Mob,” he reasons, “Mob, come on, there's no need for this. I wasn't being unreasonable, asking you to shower first. J-just let me go and we can do whatever you want—”
“Didn't it feel good?” Mob is standing over him now, watching with fascination as the vines slither over his body, tighten around his flesh, touch him in more places than any pair of hands could conceivably touch all at once. The wet cotton doesn't leave much to the imagination.
Reigen doesn't seem to know what to say to this, his mouth opening a little and then staying that way. He looks at Mob like he's grown a second head. Mob can't tell if he's terrified or turned on or both. No matter. Mob kneels next to the bed, bends over him, kisses him hard. Reigen resists him at first, sheer obstinance, but Mob persists and he does give in at last. He can't wrap his arms around him, still bound, but he arches into it, opens his mouth. He tastes smoky and sweet, jasmine tea, and Mob feels something at the heart of the plant swell and burst, echoing through him. He and this tomato plant, the one he made grow, have temporary twinned souls, they feel and want and need the same things. He feels it begin to wind itself around him again and this time he allows it. He's aroused and powerful and completely at ease, letting the death and rebirth of plant cells flow throw him, the kindred energy that emerges in him from time to time. He trusts it.
He breaks the kiss. “Do you trust me?” he whispers against Reigen's cheek. “Arataka?”
Reigen turns his face, groans against Mob's throat. “Y-yes,” he heaves. “Yes...!”
“Okay.” Mob kisses his way down his neck and withdraws.
Reigen strains after him but can't budge much more than an inch. He huffs as the tendrils wrap around his chest, pushing his grey top right up under his armpits, and Mob wonders if they'll leave bruises on his ribs the way he does when he grips too tight, too enthusiastic. He doesn't have time to think about it, the vines telling him what they want to do, dragging him along for the ride. He kneels back with his fists clenched on his knees, watching the plant manhandle Reigen, anchoring around his thighs and lifting his lower half clear off the bed so that he's hanging practically upside-down, just his head and shoulders on the mattress.
“Ow.” Reigen squirms. “Mob, this is killing my neck.”
“Sorry.” Mob wrestles mentally with it, comes to some kind of compromise; more tendrils wrap around his waist, supporting the small of his back. He's still hanging but the angle isn't as severe, his back naturally arched.
Mob rises, comes close again. “Better?”
Reigen opens his eyes, looks hazily at him upside-down. “Only a little.”
“You're flexible.” Mob pulls his damp black T-shirt off over his head and lets it drop, leaning over Reigen's suspended body.
“Lucky for you,” Reigen grumbles underneath him. Mob feels every syllable stick to his skin, his body trembling with want. He bends over him, breathes against the taut skin of his stomach, feels him shudder.
“Lucky for me,” he repeats, letting his teeth graze his navel. Reigen squirms crazily, bucking against the vines holding him, but he may as well be caught in a spider's web for all that he can move. He's usually very wriggly, ticklish when Mob is trying to be tender, never able to hold this still, and so Mob doesn't waste it. He kisses his way down the length of his torso, starting at the soft hair on his belly and moving right down the core of him, pressing his mouth into the well of his throat. He skims his fingertips down him as he does so, either side, dipping into the valley of his hips, catching over the ridges of his ribs. Reigen twitches as much as he can beneath him, making hiccoughy little sounds something between gasping and laughter.
“M-Mob, no, I-I'll kill you...!” he pants when Mob's fingers move to underneath his arms. “I mean it!”
“Relax,” Mob says softly, kissing underneath his jaw. “I'm just taking this off.” He tugs Reigen's top off over his head, slides it down his arms and lets it hang on the vines like it's been pegged out to dry. “I never knew you were so ticklish. You don't seem the type.”
“I'll have to kill you now that you know,” Reigen groans.
“Probably,” Mob agrees. He begins to kiss his way back down, nipping at his warm skin, pushing his tongue deep into his navel when he reaches it. Reigen strains into him as much as he can, Mob's fingertips oozing, bruising, into his hips. He's never had him so helpless.
The vines around Mob himself are not restraining, just gentle pressure at his wrists, his waist, one looped around the back of his neck. He can feel them moving, however, one boldly slithering over his belly and teasing at his waistband. He debates whether to let it, raises his eyes towards Reigen. The vines are still between his legs, his damp grey bottoms clinging to them as they squirm. He sucks in a breath, his brain scrambled with longing; that familiar aching want to be inside him. The vine slips under when he lets his guard down, wrapping around him, and it's rough and warm, not what he expected it to feel like but not unpleasant. He ruts into it, forgetting about Reigen for a split-second even as he buries his face in his belly, dragging his teeth over his skin. Reigen grunts and hisses, trembling against the tension, and Mob can feel the gooseflesh prickling under his tongue. He doesn't know how much more either of them can take.
“Mob,” Reigen whines, his breathing shaky, “please...”
Mob lifts his mouth, turns his face towards him. His head is tipped right back, his pale neck arched, his gold hair swaying off his face, his mouth open. Mob can see the jump of his pulse under his jaw, the twitch of his fingers, his wrists still lashed together, every tendon pulled taut. He looks like he might shatter at any second, split into shards of seeds and earth. Mob presses his palm against his stomach and runs his hand firmly up him, spreading slickly over his heaving chest, gripping his neck, palming over his cheek and taking the back of his skull. He lifts his head, bends close to kiss him once more. Reigen doesn't seem to have much fight left in him, letting him, kissing back but very lazily. Mob skims his other hand over him, circling his navel, teasing down the soft trail of hair and following it beneath his waistband. He feels the damp warm slither of vines beneath his nails, knows he won't be able to persuade them to move aside. He's too late to the party, as it were, his own desire overspilling, overtaking him. He understands their intent, lets them be. He withdraws his hand and shakes off the hold they have on him as he steps back, gets onto the bed. He feels it sag beneath him, mould to his weight, familiar, as he settles cross-legged behind Reigen. He sees him open his eyes, half-dazed, observing him upside-down.
“What... are you...?” His voice, usually so measured, is little more than a rasp.
Mob puts a hand to the middle of his chest, pulls his fingers firmly up him, following the arch of his throat right up to his chin. He can feel the scratch of his stubble on his fingertips, the quiver of every muscle and tendon in his body.
“I thought you trusted me,” he says in a low voice.
Reigen closes his eyes, swallows hard. Mob watches the bob of his exposed throat hungrily, bends his own neck to mouth along the underside of his jaw.
“Changed your mind?” he whispers in his ear.
“Heh.” To his surprise, Reigen manages a weak grin. “L-like hell... you brat.”
“Good.”
Mob tugs on his ear with his teeth and withdraws, taking his wrists and looping his bound arms over his own head. Now Reigen is lying against him, his back pressed to Mob's sticky chest, although the vines still suspend his lower half at a pretty steep angle. Mob hears him grunt in discomfort and knows his spine must be screaming. He puts out a plea with his powers, reasons with the roots, and the tendrils lower him at last, letting him rest on the mattress. They do not, however, release their hold and Mob has no problem with that whatsoever. He kisses over his shoulders and neck, hears him sigh, feels every tremor of his trembling body. The vines are growing impatient, however, and so is he; he can sense the build-up of backed-up energy with no outlet, an echo of his own.
He slips his big hands up across Reigen's chest, moves down him with his palms spread, raking over his slick-sensitive skin; his nipples, his ribcage, the jut of his hip bones. He hooks his thumbs inside the soft waistband of his pyjama pants and tugs at them. The vines take over, take his lead, peeling them damply down over his thighs and all the way off. Mob uses his powers to drop them over the side of the bed, feeling Reigen squirm against him, totally exposed. Now he can see the slithering nest of vines between his legs, wet and shining, wrapped around his straining hardness. Mob feels an intense shudder of arousal knowing the vines are an extension of him, of his wants, his utmost desires. No wonder Reigen can't keep still, can barely speak. Mob doesn't think he can possibly last much longer, feeling him turn his face against his neck, breathing hard.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Mmm.” Reigen's chest bucks as he breathes in sharply. “I-I'm fine...” He rocks against Mob's hardness, making him see stars. “J-just...”
Mob mouths over the nape of his neck, tasting the cheap lemony soap from his shower. “Just what...?”
Reigen exhales through his nose. “I-I'm gonna...”
“Wait, wait,” Mob begs, “...not yet.”
Reigen gives a gravel-sounding groan, trembling madly, and Mob can feel him trying to push his knees together. He stops him with first his powers and then the vines, wrapping them around his knees, locking him in place.
“Mob, st... stop fucking teasing!” It comes out snappy but Mob knows he's pleading, teetering. He still sucks by and large at reading people but he's grown to know every nuance of Reigen's voice by now.
“Okay,” he says bluntly, his voice deep and rumbling, almost a growl. He feels Reigen shudder in his arms, the promise pouring over him, drenched in every pore. The vines slide over his skin, pressing into the flesh of his thighs, coiling thickly between his legs, and Mob can feel the kickback, the tingle of tension. The hunger in the plant is his own – and vice versa, the sensation sinking into him like he's running his own hands over him. He wants to be inside him so badly.
The plant moves with his will, growing and spiralling, overflowing over them both. It's taking up almost an entire corner of the room, a hulking beast of spindly snake-like tendrils that entangle them. Mob can feel them wrapping around him, going under his waistband, up the legs of his loose sweatpants. They wrap them up together, a tangle of bodies, leaves, legs, teasing and trembling, and he can sense it as they push at Reigen, coax him open.
“No, wait, wait...!” Reigen twists madly against him, tries to kick but he can't, strung up, suspended. Mob feels his bound wrists hit the back of his neck as he struggles. “M-Mob...!”
“It's okay,” Mob whispers. He wraps his arms around the heaving chest, anchoring him, holding him tight; feeling his ribcage buck as he gasps for breath, his spine bend and arch away from him. “You're okay...”
Reigen is making sounds like he's far from okay, whining, moaning, something like a half-shout that might been an attempt at a swearword. He's so tense, his head tipped back against Mob's shoulder, his stomach muscles pulled taut and twitching. Mob can't see anything past the seething mass of tendrils but he can feel everything, that familiar aching tightness flooding his senses as one of the vines pushes deeply inside Reigen. It's thicker than he is, taking him to his limit, and more flexible, moving with a mind of its own within him. It comes back on Mob like an echo, singing all through him; the tendrils around his own cock rubbing, tightening, rocking him into oblivion. He knows he can't last much longer, he's been half-hard since he stopped in the doorway, and Reigen groans in his ear and squirms crazily and he digs his fingers into his soft flesh, panting hard. He mouths over his shoulder, leaves an imprint of his teeth in the juncture of his neck, ruts himself against him as much as he can. He's aware of his jet hair standing on end, his whole body pumped with his power, the plant growing and growing, spilling over the floor and up the opposite wall. It's growing inside Reigen, too – or least it feels to Mob like it is, winding around his organs, filling him from head to toe. He wonders what will happen if he reaches capacity, if he will burst open and become a garden of green and ever-growing flowers, an endless earth of Mob's powers.
He forces himself to open his eyes, looks down the length of their tangled bodies, watching the staccato rise and drop of Reigen's thin chest; searching for bulges that shouldn't be there, telltales that he's about to tear open, but he sees nothing. His only movement is the rocking back and forth as the vine pushes and pulls, filling him, easing back, over and over and over. Mob can feel it as vividly as if it were him, his own flesh deep inside him, pounding towards paradise. The lights flicker, the electricity surging, and he can feel the bed shaking beneath them, the window rattling in its frame. He tries to reel himself in but he can't, it's too much, he's too close, he's too too too–
He comes, his body tremoring, biting down hard on Reigen's shoulderblade. The sensation chases through him, riding on a huge surge of surplus power, sizzling his every nerve so that he can't help but moan 'Arataka' with way too many As right behind Reigen's ear. He clings tightly to him as the energy goes into the plant, strips through every tendril, every. single. one., and goes in and up and bursts inside Reigen with an intensity that could have killed him if only it wasn't Mob, if only he wasn't holding him the way he is. He climaxes with a hoarse yell of something that was definitely an obscenity, thrashing crazily, and even his hair is on end, swaying like a sunburst. Mob squeezes him tightly until it subsides, crushing him to his chest like his life depends on it, and after a few moments they are both utterly wrung out, panting for breath. The vines recede, withdraw, releasing them both, and Reigen flops bonelessly against him like a ragdoll.
“Ow,” he mumbles.
“S-sorry,” Mob replies. Now that it's over and he's feeling somewhat-sane again, he wants to die of shame. He settles for burying his flushed face against Reigen's neck.
Reigen doesn't say anything, his body still heaving. He seems kind of dazed, which is unsurprising. Mob rolls them both over, spooning behind him, kissing his hair. He can still feel the fluff and crackle in it, tingling against his lips. He's utterly exhausted, right down to the cores of his bones, to the grit of his soul, and wants nothing more than to sleep. Reigen doesn't struggle, doesn't shift or even speak, but Mob can feel him breathing and that's good enough for him. He cuddles him close and promptly forgets all about the tomato plant enclosed around them, their own private jungle, tangle, strangle.
When Mob wakes up, many hours later, the sunlight coming in through the curtains right into his eyes, he's not the most refreshed he's ever felt. His mouth tastes sour and his skin feels sticky and his belly and thighs are gluey and gross. He disentangles himself from Reigen, who is in much the same state but still out for the count, and eases himself out of the narrow bed, scuttling to the shower. He takes his time, enjoying it, the hot water rinsing off his sore body. He remembers last night vividly but he doesn't let his hand stray. He's pretty embarrassed about it, to be honest. His powers, as usual, have a lot to answer for. He doesn't know if he'll be able to look Reigen in the face today, given that he'll likely have some choice words for him. That's if he ever recovers.
He towels off and pulls on some fresh clothes, clean jeans and a green hoodie, then pads barefoot to the kitchen to make some coffee. He doesn't like coffee much, too bitter, but Reigen can be surprisingly grouchy first thing without a kick of caffeine in his system. He gets himself a glass of milk while he's waiting, standing with the small of his back against the sideboard. His university work is still spread out all over the table, exactly as he left it. He's still got that tight spot between his shoulders, too; he reaches back to try and get at it but it's no good. He'll have to ask Reigen to get it later.
He takes the coffee into the bedroom and he realises that he didn't notice something extremely glaring before: the huge overgrowth of vines has completely vanished. He stops for a moment, thinking he imagined the whole thing, eyes chasing around the walls in search of evidence. Eventually they fall on the tomato plant on the shelf above the bed. It's dead, a shrivelled brown twig wilted over the side of the pot. Somehow he's not surprised.
“I killed your plant,” he says aloud.
Reigen is actually awake, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. “Aha,” he says. “I see.”
Mob approaches the bed with his peace offering. “I made you some coffee.”
“Wonderful,” Reigen says. “Thank you, Mob.” He doesn't sit up.
Mob frowns as he comes to the side of the bed. “Uh... are you okay?”
“I can't move.” Reigen sounds almost cheerful. He looks up at Mob, his bronze hair crazy, sticking out at all angles.
“Like... paralysed?” Mob says, thinking he hadn't been that rough, surely–
“I mean I ache. All over. I can't even lift my arms.” Reigen's eyes narrow a touch. “Hardly surprising given every muscle in my body was stretched way beyond its normal function without even a warm-up.”
Mob simply blinks at him. He doesn't have an answer to that.
“I'll live,” Reigen goes on. “Thank you for asking.”
“Sorry,” Mob says redundantly, remembering the delicious bow of Reigen's spine as he hung suspended by vines. No wonder he's in agony now. “L... let me help you sit up.”
He props up the pillows with his powers, puts an arm under Reigen's back and eases him up. He hears him hiss in pain, sees the faint bruising marks on his pale skin, especially prominent at his wrists.
“Sorry,” he mumbles again against his hair. He feels terrible.
“It's fine,” Reigen says. “I'll just sue you for everything you have.”
“I only have student loans.” Mob presses the coffee into his hands.
“Great.” Reigen sighs. “Well, there is one thing you'll have to do for me.”
Mob feels so guilty he'll do anything he asks. “Of course.”
Reigen looks at him. “We have a job today, remember? I can't go in this condition. You'll have to do it alone.”
Mob hates going on jobs by himself, he doesn't have Reigen's slick salesman shtick down at all, but he knows he's got no choice. “Fine.”
“Don't sulk, it's your own fault.”
“I'm not.” Mob withdraws. “I'll make breakfast. Can you at least crawl out of bed?”
Reigen looks at him very piously over his coffee. “I'll try,” he says like a martyr.
He smiles placidly and Mob has the uneasy feeling he's going to milk this for all it's worth. Still, he can't argue: he really has no-one to blame but himself.
The job takes Mob less than five minutes, a routine haunting caused by some nuisance of an evil spirit hanging around a grocery store harassing customers. He's glad it turns out to be a real ghost and not someone complaining of a sore shoulder, which is well outside of his means. He's joined by Dimple and he's glad of the company, making him feel much more at ease.
“Where's Reigen?”
“He's... sick.” Mob hopes Dimple won't probe, he knows he hasn't got a good poker face.
“I can't believe you're still letting him take you for a ride, Shigeo,” Dimple scolds. “Sending you out to do his bidding while he lies in bed.”
Mob doesn't want to go into the details of why Reigen is in fact incapable of getting out of bed, ducking into a 7-11 as a distraction. Dimple phases through the glass door after him.
“Oi, Shigeo. I'm just saying, you can tell him to take a hike once in a while, you know?”
“He can't help being sick,” Mob mumbles, staring at the shelves in the snack aisle. He thinks he'll bring Reigen some of his favourite things back as an apology. Something nice for dinner, too.
“He's sick and you're gonna bring him this crap?” Dimple asks, floating next to his shoulder. “He's probably sick in the first place because he eats all this junk.”
“Mm,” Mob says noncommittally. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and takes it out. Reigen is calling him. “Arataka?”
“Hey, Mob. I need you to do another two jobs. Just got the calls through, both sound like the real thing. You okay to do that?”
Mob's fingers tighten on the phone. He supposes he hasn't got much option. “That's fine.”
“Great.”
Reigen rattles off the details to him as he scrambles for a pen, writing the addresses up his arm. He's barely got them down before Reigen pretty much hangs up on him with little more than a 'Thanks, see ya'. He tries to reason that it probably hurts his arm to lift the phone to his ear but he's still kind of irritated. Reigen is definitely getting revenge on him for last night, no two ways about it.
“What the heck did you do to him?” Dimple asks. “He sounds pissed, not sick!”
Mob selects the snacks he wants and begins to make his way to the counter. “I killed one of his plants,” he says flatly.
Dimple snorts. “Is that all?” He manifests an arm to point at the shelf of seeds near the till. “You've got powers, right? Grow him a new one.”
Mob stops, stares. He drops the snacks on the counter and goes to the seeds, searching through the rack until he finds them.
“Good idea, Dimple,” he says, unhooking five packets of tomato seeds.
Dimple squints. “Why do you need so many?”
“Oh, you know, just a precaution,” Mob replies vaguely. “...They might not last very long, is all.”