es

“Dokja.” 

His ears perked up.

“Yes?” His voice wavered. He couldn’t read you.

Obviously, he had done something to piss you off; he just couldn’t tell what. The corners of his lips threatened to quirk up–he was thankful that whatever he did led to this.

“You’ve been acquainting yourself with your co-workers these past few weeks, hmm?”

Ah. Jealousy? No way. What for?

“Just the usual–”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Oh. You were pissed. You dug your foot harder, and he couldn’t hide the noise, a whimper falling from his lips. He brought his hand up to cover his mouth–he knew he was blushing. This was fucking humiliating, and yet, he couldn’t stop his dick from hardening against the pressure of his boss hovering over him, exalting every ounce of authority you had. He didn’t think he was one for masochism, but the pain shot electricity up his spine.

“Is it… a problem?” He knew the answer already.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Haah… I didn’t realize I had–ugh–caught your attention…”

You lifted your leg. He missed it. It was just your foot, but somehow he’d already grown attached, the pressure offering relief he didn’t realize he needed. Never in his life did he think someone would pay this much mind to him, let alone consider others a rival for his attention.

“Stand up.”

He scrambled to his feet. There wasn’t a single bone in his body that desired to disobey you, not when your eyes held such a condescending glint. Not when you looked at him as if he were already yours.

“This–” you palmed his dick, “Is mine.” 

His breath was ragged. Your breath was on his ears, your lips centimeters away from them. And then he felt it–your wet tongue dragging from his earlobe to the top. His body writhed, the sensation so intense he couldn’t stop the strangled moan that left his throat. It was so unexpected, he thought he’d cum from it.

What the hell?

“Remember that.”

Then door was pushed open, and you walked out, leaving him. He slid down the stall wall, his mind a mess, unsure of what to make of the encounter. 

Confusion. Desperation. Excitement.

The darkened spot on the crotch of his pants would agree. How was he supposed to return to work?

Isn't it funny?

He tries to deny himself of love, no matter how much he craves it. Which is why I think it's the most effective method in ruining this man. Samura can say what he feels is just lust, but he knows. He knows very well that this desire will break him.

You're just another townsfolk, but you treated him like he was normal. Not some war veteran, not some war criminal, not a hero; someone to admire, not an animal; someone to look down upon. A regular person.

You treated his daughter with respect, as if she was your own, and that's what got him. His heart would pound in his ears any chance he saw that two of you together — but oh man, it isn't love.

Nope, nope. He's stupid. So stupid. So insensitive to your feelings. He pushes you away, everyone away and tries to justify it as 'I don't want you to get hurt'.

'Coward,' — you called him. It's not an insult, its the blunt truth — 'you'll enjoy my hatred because you're scared.'

He agrees. Crass man.

He's gone through so much stuff, battles, war, hunger, lonliness, bears so many scars, emotionally and physically, yet he can't even think of you with another one without the horrible churn in his stomach and the painful ache in his heart.

Something closely related to committing a sin.

He wasn't your lover. He has no right over you, no choice.

He's always been dumb with love. He knows enough to pull away. Nevertheless, he still shows up to your wedding.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't feel a heavy rock in his heart nor the burn behind his eyelids. He's so stupid. Get up, and leave. He can't even see anything!!

He stayed. Until the very end, fingers twitching around his glass of sake — a typical celebratory drink - now turned sour. He huddled himself in a small corner, trying his best to stay as invisible as possible, but then he got a whiff of you, and his back straightened up like a dog awaiting its owners return.

Your scent fills his senses, alarms going off in his head, as you thank the guests for showing up. You're a foot away, there's no way you haven't spotted him. His fingers clench in a fist, nails digging into his palm for some sort of support.

Maybe he should've bought some company. Maybe he shouldn't have put so much effort into his appearance. Who is he trying to impress? Yeah, he reels himself as he feels the smile radiating off of you, it's you.

Why? Why?? It's not like you'll leave your beloved for him. What has he got that makes him so special.

"Seichii." This is hell. His name sounds so sweet on your tongue. "...It's nice to see you again."

He's sweating bullets as he forces out a small, nervous chuckle, "i could say the same... but - i can't... see, heh.."

Oh. That was just his way of saying he's going to hurt himself when you turn away. Just kidding.

"Yeah," you exhale air from your nostrils. He'd like to think you actually found his joke funny, the corner of his lip quirking up to form an awkward smile. "Seiichi?"

"Yeah?" How embarrassing. He didn't mean to reply so eagerly.

"Thank you for being here." He thinks this truly is hell. "I worried about you living all alone up on the hill.."

He isn't alone. He's got his 'guards', and he's capable, but he misses the doting. "It's my p-pleasure, hah?"

He swallows thickly when your finger taps under his small cup, gently prodding it to his lips, he shuts up quickly.

You laugh at the sight. It's a hearty, genuine laugh. His heart squeezes, "We'll be having an after-party. I hope to see you there -"

He isn't going.

"...Sei'."

Oh, brother.

You turn away.

He permits the alcohol to sit on his tongue before letting it dribble back into the cup, as gross as it sounds.

Your last words ring in his head. That little nickname only you called him.

Sei. Sei. Sei — "Sei."

Nonononono.

Samura grips onto the bathroom handles, the tight stall stopping him from slipping. His arms feel like jelly!

"Haven't you thought of this?" You muse, lips dancing across his hip bone, squeezing his thighs in reassurance. "I have. Ruining you, messing you up so badly you'll fall in love again. I've always had a feeling you loved me. Did you?"

Samura's cigarette goes slack in his mouth. The temptation to light it is strong. His breathing deepens, it's a visible reaction to your actions. "Ngh — w-we shouldn't do this.."

Though he throws his head back, flaunting off the multiple hickeys given to him, his adam apple bounces as he gulps.

You laugh, warm hand gently pumping his shaft, fingers barely touching him — he came in his pants from kissing you, it was so cute. He acted like a virgen — "as you've been saying. Do you really want me to stop? Just say the word.."

He's barely just got out of his clouded mind, he needs to think straight, but man, does it feel good.

Samura huffs out shakily, eyes darting around under their lids. His sensitivity is to the roof. And it doesn't help that your teeth sink into the root of his pelvis, nibbling on him.

"Ahh!"

It feels like a claim. This is a reminder that you'd always be a part of him, even if you marry another. Even if you sleep with that person, even if you have children — he'll be your property for life.

You're married. You have been compromised. Your spouse is outside, partying at his own wedding. What if they're looking for you? Your friends? Family?? Lover???

"Ahh," you mock him by opening your mouth and taking only the head of his cock into your mouth, soft lips closing around the curve.

He shakes, knees bucking underneath his weight. He holds himself up with his forearms, ignoring the burn of the plaster against his skin as his arm slips from the thin walls.

Your tongue lays flat.

Movemovemove.

Do something. Anything. Don't pull away.

Ah, he wants more.

He looks down as if that'll make him see again. He shakes his head rapidly, nononono. He can't do more.

"[Name]." He utters your name so softly, like a prayer. His glasses slip down his nose, and he's quick to bring a trembling hand to fix them. "You can't do this to me..."

His words come out like vomit, one of his hands clench at his white dress shirt, right over his heart as if he's in physical pain. He thinks so, but it's mixed with pleasure.

His foot taps against the tiled floor, hunching over your crouched figure. "It's h-hngg hurts...!!"

"Me hurch ya?" You muffle out, tongue lapping up all his leaking pre on his tip, it smears against your tongue. It tastes salty and thick, but it's worth it. His hips are clumsily thrusting up into your mouth, and his leg jumps like a ruthless rabbit in heat.

You pull off of him, leaving him whining into the hot air. "That's inevitable."

"[Nam-]!"

"Don't you hear that?" Your hot breath fans across his twitching cock, he tries to listen in but his only senses are filled with you. You, you, you. "Someone's calling for me. How do you think this'll look?"

His mouth waters.

He falls back onto the toilet, thankfully the seat is covered, thumb rubbing away at the wet head, sinking his nail into his urethra in a shaky, desperate motion to at least sooth the insufferable burn his feverish red tip feels.

"How will we explain this? Maybe I'll tell them you dragged me in here to make me watch you masturbate."

His hips lift and squirm into his hand with a gasp.

"Or I can tell them the truth," you whisper to yourself. "But that'd only be if you let me have you."

Samura can't have that.

"Can't!" A sob nearly forces his way out when he hears the thud of your knees hitting the floor, your fingers dig into his muscular thighs, spreading them apart to wedge yourself in between them.

Samura nearly closes them shut from the thought of being stimulated.

All it takes is for your mouth to engulfe him, and he's shooting a load into your mouth. Your eyes widen at the unexpected moment.

Is he that easy?

His hips lift off the seat, arching deeper into you as his wavering hands scramble to find footing underneath his body.

"A-ahh!!" He yelps. His thighs shake in your tight hold, the sound of his belt buckling echoes in the empty bathroom stall.

His head hits something porcelain. He doesn't care.

He was palpitating with delight.

You detach yourself from him with a pop, and he whimpers from the loss of warmth only for it to be muffled when your fingers find his jaw, prying his mouth open. Spit dribbles down, and you watch in satisfaction as he jolts.

"Hah?" He pants in confusion.

And then he feels it — a salty tasting and thick substance on his tongue. His eyebrows furrow with need. A whimper leaves him when your tongue meets his messily, pushing the liquid into the back of his throat, giving him no other choice but to swallow.

When you pull away, you finally make up your mind, a string of drool connects your lips. You wipe it off with your thumb, pushing whatever you can into his maw. His tongue peaks out to take you in. His body quivers with aftershocks, hips melting and spent cock relaxing against him.

"I will disappear, and you will not have to endure me any longer."

Oh. He's so stupid to think you'd fight for him.

Stupid man.

The first action he gets in years ends up being held to your chest, his fist pumping around his throbbing cock, it's flushed red and the head is pierced so it feels a lot more sensitive, and your arms tighten around his waist at the sight.

'I hope you're satisfied, [n-name].' He pants out between grunts, his free hand clinging onto the arms around his waist, fingers curling with the fabric of your jacket. 'I'll teach you how, hahh, to t-touch me later...'

I think he lack of experience on your part is also a major turn-on for him. The fact that he can shape you up, corrupt you into touching him so perfectly that he can really only cum by your hand now...

And then you'll defy him, taking matters into your own hands; denying his orgasm, neglecting him, leaving him wanting, yearning. Whispering words of degradation into his ear, eating him up with a simple phrase of 'I'll find another. He'll be a good man, yura...'

He's whipped. Oh, he loves it so much. Your threats, your need to satisfy him all while he's the one wrapped around your pinkie. He's in control, he tries to affirm, he's the one with the upper hand.

But everyone knows he's wrong. You know it better than anyone else. With the way he stares up at you when he's on his knees, foot nudging against his soaked slacks as you guide him to rut against your shoes.