Work Text:
Sanzu doesn’t remember when it started. Surely it had to do with one of Mikey’s mood swings, as most things do, especially when it comes to that disgusting piece of shit.
“Haruchiyo.”
His name comes soft-spoken, but to him, it’s loud and clear enough. There’s a warning edge peeking through them, and Sanzu perks like an obedient hunt dog, the gurgling noises stopping as his hand does.
“Don’t go overboard,” Mikey reminds him, hand never stopping from stroking his crotch over his pants.
Sanzu pulls the gun out of his mouth, finally allowing him to breathe.
Hanagaki Takemichi looks like a man who just came from underwater, desperately trying to fill his lungs with air as his body convulses with violent gasps. He squirms like a worm, fighting futilely against Sanzu’s grip on his hair. He makes a disgusting sight; mussed hair, face wet with fresh tears that trail down flushed cheeks, saliva dribbling down his jaw.
“Mikey-kun,” Takemichi rasps, trying to meet Mikey’s eyes. “Please...”
Mikey stands up and smiles, slow and gentle like a fond, exasperated lover.
“You keep pleading so much, Takemicchi.” Mikey kneels in front of him, cradling his repulsive, messy face in his hands. “Isn’t it about time you stop fighting?”
Sanzu twists his mouth, keeping Takemichi in place, never easing the grip on his hair as the gun rests unused in his hand, the barrel still wet and shining with his saliva.
“Please…” Takemichi begs. “Please, Manjirou.”
Sanzu clicks his tongue and pulls at his hair, earning a painful groan and a wince from Takemichi.
Mikey gives Sanzu a look. His eyes are calm, calculating, a little cold. There’s no reprimand in them despite how intense they burn. After so long, Sanzu still can’t interpret the meaning. He never can when Takemichi’s the reason behind it.
“You want a show, Boss?” Sanzu offers instead.
Mikey hums, sitting back on the bed, relaxing against the headboard. “Yeah, why not?”
“You heard that, bitch?” Sanzu smirks. “Let’s give him a show.”
Sanzu drags him from his hair and sits on the bed, leaving Takemichi kneeling between his legs. He holds his gun over his crotch, holding it standing like a euphemism made of steel.
“Don’t bite,” Sanzu mocks before he plunges it inside Takemichi’s mouth.
Takemichi gags at the suddenness. He motions for the weapon to stop the thrusts, but catches himself a second before he does, reminded of the punishment that will come the moment he dares to touch it.
“Finally learning, huh?” Sanzu taunts, watching Takemichi’s hands shake awkwardly in the air, evidently fighting back the impulse to grab the weapon.
Takemichi sniffs loudly, trying to catch as much air through his nose. Jaw tensed up, eyes tightly shut, and lips parted open as Sanzu pushes his head down on the gun without mercy.
“That’s it, bitch.” Sanzu janks him by his hair, allowing Takemichi to take a deep gulp of needed air. “Now lick it.”
Takemichi glares at him but does as told. He tilts his head, keeping eye contact with him as his tongue peeks out shyly, lapping at the base of the barrel.
Sanzu’s dick throbs.
“Filthy whore,” Sanzu laughs breathily. “So you’re not entirely useless. You do know how to use that disgusting mouth of yours.”
It’s in the way that Takemichi’s tongue wraps around the gun, slowly working it as if he’s trying to get a cock into stiffness, shiny lips mouthing the barrel, sliding up and down before engulfing the whole thing.
The bastard knows how to give head and look good, humiliatingly good at it.
If it depended on Sanzu, he’d add more to the sight. Those lips would be red and broken, perhaps even smeared with some blood. Those flushed cheeks, hollowing at every suck, would be bruised, branded, and matching the purple of Sanzu’s knuckles.
“Fuck...” Sanzu gasps, throwing his head back, aroused at the picture taking shape behind his eyelids.
Takemichi would look so good like that, nothing like the bland vision he is at the moment.
“Haruchiyo...” Mikey calls.
Sanzu shoots his eyes open and finds his hips bucking forward to an almost frenetic pace, pushing his gun into Takemichi’s mouth. Sanzu’s hand at the back of his head keeps him in place, choking him on it.
Takemichi claws at his thighs, grunting in protest, struggling to break free of his hold.
Sanzu’s cock twitches violently inside the oppressive restraints of his trousers. He wants to sink himself deep into Takemichi’s mouth the same way his Colt is. He wants to slam himself against the back of his throat, feel the vibrations of Takemichi’s pathetic moans, and fill him up until he suffocates with his—
“Haruchiyo,” Mikey hisses.
The moment Sanzu eases the pressure off Takemichi’s head, he crawls away, coughing on all fours, gasping desperately for air.
Sanzu can feel Mikey’s eyes burning with reproach. Knowing it’s in order, and without turning to him, he says, nonchalant as if he didn’t try to choke Takemichi to death, “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”
He apologizes only because that miserable human being squirming like a cockroach on the floor belongs to Mikey. As such, and regardless of how often he’s shared with Sanzu, Takemichi is a temporal possession; lent whenever Mikey feels like it and not without having Sanzu on a leash when it happens.
Deep inside, never to be disclosed, with loyalty rusting by envy, this whole game of theirs makes Sanzu bitter. Mikey might allow him to touch Takemichi, always under his own terms and never far from his oppressive, watchful eyes.
Sanzu hates it.
It’s only in the privacy of his mind, anger shaping the malleable sands of his imagination, that he can do anything he wants with Takemichi. Only then, he knows true freedom.
He dreams of hands wrapping around Takemichi’s frail neck, feeling bones creaking under them. He longs for steel lodged somewhere in his flesh and will breaking under the sole of his shoe.
All speck of life and hope ripped away from him.
Mikey, though, will never allow it. Sanzu’s leash is jerked back the moment he’s close to finding that much-longed-for satisfaction.
“Hey… Piece of shit, come here,” Sanzu commands. “We haven’t finished yet.”
Takemichi breathes loudly and deeply, still on all fours. He tilts his face and throws him a glare from under his bangs, then he looks at Mikey as if asking for his permission.
‘Don’t look at him. Look at me!’
Mikey nods. Takemichi grimaces but like the obedient, weak-willed dog when it comes to Mikey, he crawls back to Sanzu. The moment Takemichi’s at reach, Sanzu grabs his arm and hurls him on the bed. He bounces on it, eyes quickly searching for Mikey’s.
Blue and black find each other on the bed.
There’s a silent conversation held between them as Sanzu stands awkwardly like a third wheel. Annoyed to be ignored, he janks at Takemichi’s pants, struggling to take them off as he squirms in protest.
“Wait! N-no! Sanzu-kun!”
“Shut up, we’re not done yet.” Sanzu chucks the pants along with his underwear away, leaving Takemichi curling in on himself in humiliation.
Mikey has yet to say anything; he watches the scene unfold with quiet interest. That’s enough for Sanzu to know he’s allowed to continue.
He admires his colt, lilting it, faking contemplation. “Have you ever been fucked with a gun?” he asks.
Takemichi blanches and quickly scrambles into Mikey’s arms. “Mikey-kun, please, please no. I don’t want to!”
Sanzu’s blood boils.
Takemichi doesn’t deserve Mikey’s care and affection. He hasn’t even earned it; he’s not even worthy of it. And yet, Mikey either turns a blind eye on it or has decided that he doesn’t care about it; Sanzu doesn’t know which. Even if he were to find the answer, he might not even understand.
“It’s fine, Takemicchi. Don’t worry,” Mikey comforts, dropping a kiss to Takemichi’s temple, misleading him to fall into a false sense of security because he adds next, “Haruchiyo will be gentle. Won’t you, Haruchiyo?”
Sanzu can’t help a cruel, satisfied smile from curling his lips.
“Of course,” Sanzu replies, moving his gun pointedly as Takemichi follows it with fearful eyes. “I’ll take good care of your whore.”
This time, Sanzu doesn’t wait for Takemichi to comply and pulls him from his leg, making him land face-first on Mikey’s lap. His nails dig deep into Takemichi’s hips as he forces him to arch his back, keeping his ass in the air.
“What a disgusting hole,” Sanzu spits out, spreading Takemichi’s asscheeks and ignoring the mortified whimpers echoing in tandem. “What a disgusting sight.”
Takemichi trembles under his hands; out of distress or humiliation, Sanzu doesn’t know. But, the glare Takemichi throws at him from over his shoulders, that Sanzu can acknowledge as something hotter and sharper. Something that has taken a while but finally has grown roots inside Takemichi’s ribcage; bloomed for and only for Sanzu.
Resentment.
Sanzu can feel his cock twitch in response.
“Takemicchi.” Mikey slides his fingers under Takemichi’s chin, gently tilting his face to look at him instead. The emotions on those blue eyes wither immediately, and that’s when Sanzu understands that Takemichi’s resentment will never outweigh his devotion for Mikey.
Sanzu despises it—him (?).
“Be a good boy, won’t you?” Mikey unzips his trousers and releases his prick. Takemichi doesn’t have to be told twice, and like the good, little whore he is, he readily pulls Mikey into his mouth.
“So good, Takemicchi…” Mikey throws his head back and releases a breathy laugh, eyes catching Sanzu’s in a second when he says, “So good for me.”
Sanzu’s nails dig deeper into Takemichi’s flesh, earning him a whine that, despite its pained nature, does nothing to cease the eager ministrations on Mikey’s cock.
“Haruchiyo,” Mikey pointedly calls, reading into Sanzu’s evident displeasure and his intentions to fuck Takemichi dry—making it hurt, making him look at him—. “Lube,” he says.
It’s on the nightstand, ready to be used, almost halfway through its contents, having been used by them.
Sanzu nods and takes it, not without glancing at them from closer. He finds exertion and pleasure coloring Takemichi’s cheeks, blue eyes hidden under fluttering eyelids as his mouth fervently sucks on Mikey’s cock; eager and hungry in a way he wasn’t with Sanzu’s Colt.
Prey of something unidentifiable prickling in his chest, Sanzu coats his fingers in lube and thrusts one of them inside Takemichi without warning nor preparation.
“Aahh!” Takemichi flinches, grunting in pain. Finally, letting go of Mikey. “Wait—N-no! Please… Sanzu-kun!”
Sanzu smirks, fingers never stopping from thrusting into Takemichi’s ass.
“Please… Slower. I can’t—It hurts.” Takemichi clings to Mikey, eyes pleading for him to tell Sanzu to stop.
Mikey smiles consolingly and cards his fingers through Takemichi’s hair. “Let Haruchiyo have his fun too, Takemicchi.”
Takemichi’s face crumbles, evidently averse to the idea but wordlessly resigning to his fate. His silence is urged by obedience and devotion, only comparable to Sanzu’s own. One of the very few things they do have in common.
Disgusted at the thought, Sanzu plunges two of his fingers into Takemichi’s ass. The view of a smooth, arching back is the response he gets along with the pained noises rising in tempo with his thrusts.
Sanzu is familiar with the soft, warm insides, too many times having edged and pushed Takemichi to completion. He scissors and forces his fingers deep inside, knuckles kissing the rim of Takemichi’s ass. He bends and moves them without any sense of rhythm, trying to drag his teasing long and tortuous, loving the control he has over Takemichi and how easily he responds to him.
Sanzu doesn’t even need to keep pushing them inside. Not when Takemichi grows restless, skin hot to the touch, and labored breath when a third digit is inserted. Moans of pleasure start echoing in the room as he begins to bounce his ass, chasing the stimulus.
“Look at you,” Sanzu says, out of breath, pants getting tighter. “You’re like a bitch in heat.”
He says it with the same amusement as if it’s the first time he notices it. The words come accompanied with a soft touch on Takemichi’s back. Slowly, almost tenderly—mocking actually—he drags his fingers along his spine, watching with transfixed fascination how he arches in response.
Takemichi sighs. “Sanzu-kun…”
“Like a real, horny bitch,” Sanzu admires, entranced.
He pulls out his fingers and squirts an obscene amount on the Colt under Mikey’s attentive eyes. The noise and the sudden emptiness have Takemichi craning his neck, searching for Sanzu’s.
“Takemicchi, relax.” Mikey turns Takemichi’s head toward him with a tap on his chin. His words have the opposite effect and only serve for Takemichi to tense up, knowing what’s it’s about to come.
Mikey kisses him instead, deep and slow, melting Takemichi’s rigidness away. They wrap arms around each other and the room heats up with another kind of fire.
Despite its simple, chaste nature, there’s something so jarring about the mere act itself. Especially when it’s between the two of them.
It makes Sanzu feel weird, uncomfortable, out of place.
It doesn’t matter how many times Sanzu has seen them the fuck, invited or otherwise, he knows that this display is intimate, private. Mikey rarely does it in front of him. He’d rather have him witness when he face-fucks Takemichi, or bends him to the point Sanzu thinks his spine is going to break, or spreads him on fours, or pounds into him as if Takemichi is made to be bred.
That’s lust and primal urges.
This right here is anything but.
This right here, it’s theirs and even if Sanzu is in the same room, he is not part of it.
“C’mon, you left me hanging,” Mikey whispers into Takemichi’s lips before he pushes him down on his cock again.
“Mikey-kun…” The plea comes pitiful and weak and dies altogether when he takes Mikey into his mouth.
“Good boy. Just let Haruchiyo take care of you…”
“Finally.”
Sanzu slides the gun on Takemichi’s thigh, making him flinch upon the touch. “You’re so pathetic. I haven’t even—”
“Cold…” Takemichi mutters.
Sanzu clicks his tongue but rubs his hand on the barrel a couple of times. He finds Mikey’s dark eyes following his movements, not understanding the meaning behind it but continuing when finding no reason to stop.
He tries again, no objection following this time, only a long sigh and a shiver of his legs when Sanzu runs the barrel over his skin. Finally, the muzzle grazes Takemichi’s slick hole. The response comes as a stuttering breath but an otherwise welcoming spread of legs that prompts Sanzu to slide it further.
“What a whore you are…” Sanzu smirks, pushing the gun deeper inside Takemichi with more ease than he thought it’d be needed. “Fuck. Look at you. Your hole is begging for it.”
Takemichi squirms as the barrel stretches his insides, and it’s in the way his body trembles with both pleasure and pain that makes Sanzu’s blood boil with something other than disgust.
“Good, Takemicchi. You’re doing good…” Mikey praises as Takemichi keeps bobbing his head down his cock. “You’re taking it so well.”
If he means his cock or the gun, Sanzu doesn’t know.
Takemichi melts at the words all the same; he chases Mikey’s praise as he does pleasure. The resistance Sanzu is met with when the gun is halfway through his insides begins to subdue.
“Desperate bitch,” Sanzu mutters; bitterness overlaps lust despite his attempts at hiding it.
With one last push, the gun is completely sheathed in Takemichi. Sanzu can feel the tip of the Colt meeting a dead-end. He draws it back, and then, the thrusts start lethargic and gentle; everything that Sanzu’s very nature is not.
The vision of silver sliding in and out Takemichi’s slick, rosy hole is something that Sanzu knows won’t be as easy to get again. He enjoys the show with hungry, transfixed eyes and feeds it to his mind to recall it at night; when he’s locked in the privacy of his room, in the darkness behind his eyelids, in the depths of place unreachable for Mikey.
A place where he can break Takemichi to his heart’s content.
“So good, Takemichi,” Mikey breathes out.
“You like that, don’t you slut?”
It’s praise that drives Takemichi to swallow Mikey’s cock like a starving man. It’s the tender hand on his head that makes his dick hang stiff and pulsing red, precum dibbling down on clean sheets.
And…
It’s humiliation that flares his skin up, thighs trembling with unconcealed desperation. It’s the hand bruising his waist, carving red crescents on it that make his hips sway back frantically, seeking release.
Takemichi responds to both. It’s the only time when Mikey and Sanzu have the same power over him.
Sanzu quickens his thrusts, the slick sounds coming as loud as Takemichi’s labored breath does.
“Look at you…” Sanzu breathes out as Takemichi ruts back, trying to sink the weapon even deeper inside him and rub it against his prostate. “Look at your hole…”
Sanzu unzips his pants and begins to stroke himself, gun steadily in place as Takemichi keeps fucking himself on it.
“I bet I could get my fingers in there too, greedy slut.”
Mikey chuckles, out of breath, “He is greedy, isn’t he?”
The soft pat on Takemichi’s head comes as possessive as it does affectionate, a misleading gesture for what comes next. He grips Takemichi’s hair and starts bucking his hips up, fucking Takemichi’s mouth without restrain.
“So greedy for my cock, aren’t you, Takemicchi?”
Sanzu pumps himself faster, aroused at the scene. “Shit. You’re such a cock-hungry whore—”
“—so meant me,” Mikey continues. “You take me so good, Takemicchi.”
Takemichi’s flush travels from his face to his ears and down his neck, flooding his shoulders in a way that Sanzu has learned to read as his orgasm drawing near. He looks overwhelmed and lost in the haze of lust. And Sanzu knows—has learned to—that it’s not just the pleasure, but the idea of being used like this that makes Takemichi look so utterly wrecked, ready to burst.
The gagging noises, the lewd bounce of his plump, red ass, the slickness dribbling down his legs, Sanzu takes it all in with dilated pupils, blood pumping loud to his ears, cock aching and throbbing.
“No,” Sanzu growls, stopping Takemichi from gripping his cock when he sees him reach for himself. “Not yet.”
Takemichi obeys but not without a pitiful whine.
“You look so good, so beautiful, Takemicchi…” Mikey keeps praising. “You’re so fucking perfect—Shit!”
Sanzu’s insides burn, ache.
He doesn’t care if he gets punished for taking control; the lust coiling in his navel blanks out any speck of rationality, forgoing any sense of duty or responsibility. He pulls the gun out and flips Takemichi to lie on his back; he finds red, bruised lips, a mouth desperately trying to fill his lungs with air, and deep, blue eyes zooming in on him with lust. A desire that Sanzu acknowledges that belongs to him. Not Mikey. Him.
The ache, Sanzu finds out, has subdued, if only a little.
Mikey takes the new position in stride and pushes his cock into Takemichi’s mouth. He does it in tandem with Sanzu’s thrusting the gun back into his ass. The echo of a pained, lust-filled moan vibrates in the room as Takemichi arches, stiff cock bouncing and rosy nipples erected.
“Good boy, Takemicchi…” Mikey whispers. “Keep going—I’m almost there.”
“Mikey-kun,” Takemichi whines, letting go of him, panting desperately, body trembling as Sanzu drives the gun into him without mercy. The first ripples of his orgasm arriving ashore. “I’m going to… Mikey-kun, Mikey-kun—”
“Shut up,” Sanzu growls under his breath.
“Mikey-kun—”
“Shut up, trash!”
“Sanzu-kun…Please…”
His name comes quietly, almost missed under all other noises trying to drown it out, but Sanzu catches it. The plea, that one he doesn’t, he reads it from Takemichi’s lips when he looks at him.
“Please, I want to come—touch me!” Takemichi begs louder. “Sanzu-kun!”
Something snaps inside Sanzu. He wants to stop his hand and drag the torture long like he always does, have Takemichi beg like the disgusting, pathetic worm he is, refuse him any form of release, and leave him unsatisfied.
This time, he doesn’t.
His hand moves on its own, quickening the pace, pushing Takemichi to the edge with the same fervor he does himself every night when he hears the very same words falling from Takemichi’s mouth. Now, for the first time, said on this side of reality.
“Come, whore…” Sanzu says, panting. “Come for me.”
Takemichi does. He comes with Sanzu’s name taking shape in his lips and the waves of his orgasm hitting him strong and unforgiving. Ecstasy bends his eyebrows, flutters his eyelids, burns his skin, and lands all over his abdomen and chest.
Sanzu pumps himself faster, eyes never leaving him. He’s too lost in the scene that the white ropes of semen landing on Takemichi’s flushed face come as a surprise as it does intruding.
Mikey announces his peak with a guttural growl and marks Takemichi like the vulgar dog he resembles every time he claims possession over him.
Sanzu’s orgasm is the last to arrive. When it does, it’s mixed with Mikey’s all over Takemichi’s face, and drank with an enthusiasm only comparable to one of a dehydrated man.
The clock on the wall keeps ticking and their heavy breathing bounces off the walls, breaking the illusion of a world where time has stood still.
Takemichi lies on the bed, spent and wrecked; used like a ragdoll.
It’s in that quick, silent interlude that they meet eyes. Although arousal still clouds Takemichi’s eyes, they’re lucid and burning with something that Sanzu knows travels through his veins too. He recognizes its nature and acknowledges it’s mirroring it despite remaining nameless.
It’s disgusting. They shouldn’t have anything in common other than their fervent loyalty toward the other man in the room, and yet…
Loyalty and it—whatever it is—burn just the same.
“Haruchiyo,” Mikey calls softly, gently unlike his words, “Get out.”
The order doesn’t come as a surprise; it does come unwanted like all other times that Sanzu is forced to obey. He knows that he shouldn’t overstep his boundaries when he’s been graciously thrown a bone, the leftovers Mikey decides to share with him.
At his hesitation, Mikey’s cold, bottomless eyes land on him, attentive and assessing. There’s a dangerous glint in them that Sanzu knows comes as a warning.
“Yeah,” Sanzu concedes, tucking his cock back into his trousers, eyes stealing another last look at Takemichi. He still thinks that purple would go well with the pink of his cheeks, the shinny lips would look so good tinted in red; savagely bitten until blood is drawn, Sanzu wonders if they’d feel as tender as they look and—
“Sanzu-kun!”
Sanzu’s world is tilted out of its axis. His face hits the floor before he registers the pain exploding in his cheek. He knows by experience what just happened, but as usual, he doesn’t know how it did.
“I gave you an order, Haruchiyo.”
The words come calm and cold, heavy with authority and pushing him to submit.
Then, bitter and mad, laughter explodes from his chest and bubbles up to his throat, resonating in the room.
“That fucking hurt. You’re savage, Mikey,” Sanzu smirks and stands up, eyes not daring to go near the vicinity of Takemichi’s form, but knowing he’s halfway to leave the bed, urged by his unneeded concern.
He limps to the door, tossing the words over his shoulder, before closing it behind him, “Have fun with the whore.”
He’s not allowed to see what happens next; too intimate, too raw for him to see, too precious for Mikey to even think about sharing it with anyone else.
Sanzu hears the rough fucking, the animalistic pounding, and the sobs; he’s seen it. The whispers, the sweet nothings, the wet smack of their lips, and the promises following after; he’s never witnessed it.
Sanzu hates it. Takemichi shouldn’t be pampered like that—loved like that—especially not by someone like Mikey. He doesn’t deserve it; too ordinary and pathetic as he is.
Sanzu hates Hanagaki Takemichi with all of his being.
But…
Hanagaki Takemichi is not his to break, and Sanzu hates that the most.