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You never worried much about getting caught in a love dust attack. It wasn’t that hard to just not have sex with someone, no matter how horny you were.
It was all over the headlines for the past month. An unsolvable string of crimes with this stuff at the center. The media was calling it “love dust” because, well, it was dust, and you can’t say “orgy-riot nympho fuck dust” on the evening news. Think of the children.
After the first attack, authorities thought they were looking for a villain with natural quirk, but a new synthetic drug soon surfaced as the culprit—a concentrated, fine-tuned derivation of a seduction quirk, sold under the street name “Hathor.” Anyone with the right underground connections could get their hands on it, and criminals were getting creative. Release it into the air at a bank, and the guards will open up the vault on the promise of a handjob. Assassinate a CEO and walk out the front door as the heroes sent to stop you turn into a quivering mess on the floor. There have already been a dozen scandals with big-name heroes caught sleeping with civilians at love dust crime scenes.
Kind of pathetic, honestly. Considering how important their reputations are, you’d think they could manage to keep their pants on. Have some self-control.
Although… The effects only last until you do the nasty, so maybe heroes should have a quickie with the nearest volunteer and get back on their feet before the criminals escape.
Or, you know, wear a damned mask.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. There were physical symptoms, too. They say those who are unable to find anyone to “satisfy their urges” with experience increasingly severe libido, elevated heart rate, capillary damage, and all sorts of hormonal spikes that sometimes last days. One guy actually died of a heart attack. But you were young and healthy. It couldn’t be that bad.
If you don’t want to fuck someone, just don’t do it.
The night the dust rains down on your neighborhood, you finally understand.
You are sitting at the outdoor cafe in front of your apartment complex with a few friends when there is a loud pop, like an engine backfiring. The sky fills with a pink haze that glimmers with iridescence in the street lights. It’s beautiful. A few wiser residents scream, cover their faces, and run, but you watch the glittery powder in awe, not making the connection until you’ve breathed it in.
It has a cloyingly sweet scent, like cherry blossoms and bubble gum. Your throat tightens, and your mouth begins to water. Allergies? A warm tingle spreads under your skin and you start to feel like you want to go home and watch porn now.
There is a change in your companions, too. The conversation abruptly stops. You hear someone next to you moan, and it sends shivers racing straight down between your legs. Your thighs clench together trying to satisfy the growing need, as you try not to moan yourself. Hot… it was getting so hot. Your breathing was starting to come out shamefully hard as your arousal rapidly built, and suddenly watching porn doesn’t sound like nearly enough. You want to fuck someone—anyone, honestly.
Shit.
It finally hits you what you’ve been caught up in. Hathor. Love dust. Now you realize why this drug is so dangerous.
It was the feeling of being on the edge of an orgasm, where nothing feels more important, more urgent. Rational thought gives way to the singular focus on finishing. You were so close, oh god… Your walls clench around the nothingness inside you. So empty. Fuck… you want to come, but you need to be filled. You need it.
You could resist the physical symptoms, but the problem you never accounted for is, you don’t want to resist.
All around the street, people are falling on each other, mouths smashing together in wet, sloppy, passion. Your next-door neighbor is dry humping the waitress at the cafe as she works to undo her pants. The florist is already fucking a customer’s mouth. Their wet noises and grunting rise into a sexual cacophony that has your cunt dripping, aching. You need to find someone.
Your friend Ren grabs your arm, eyes heavily lidded, a crazed look in their eyes. “Do… you wanna?” they slur, voice thick with the same lust you are drunk on. Your cunt spasms painfully at the offer, and a throaty vibration rumbles deep within your chest. A primal part of you almost starts ripping off your clothes, but the small voice in your head that is still rational forces you to pull your arm out of their grasp. This isn’t right.
Not with a friend. Things would be too weird later. It can't be someone you know.
You mumble something that was meant to be words, and run from the table. Mei grabs Ren’s shoulder and their bodies instantly intertwine in a mess of limbs and sultry moans. She had had a crush on them for years, and they refused her several times. She was just starting to get over them. That’ll be trouble tomorrow. That’s why it can’t be a friend—no ruined relationships or awkward next days for you!
The small rational voice says you should go back and pull Mei away—stop her—but if you did that, you’d definitely end up in a threesome. It's all you can do to keep your feet moving away.
You need a stranger.
A spontaneous orgy breaks out around you, bodies tangled and undressing right in the road, cars honking at them, people stumbling out of cars and joining the fray. You stumble through them. No, no, your primal voice scoffs, none of this is right. As much as you’re burning to be filled, none of this was right.
The smell of sex is overpowering. Your walls expand wide as if expecting to be filled, yawning open until the muscles burn, then crashing shut and clenching down hard against nothing. The contractions rock your body so hard it’s difficult to walk, and it isn’t long before the muscles start cramping with overexertion.
It feels like you’re dying! Why didn’t you just join one of the writhing piles on the sidewalk? Your heart is beating out of your chest, and you’re deafened by all the blood pounding in your ears. Your eyes dart between faces and exposed body parts, frantically searching, but none of them click whatever primitive part of your brain is hunting for a mate. With every breath, it feels like you can’t get enough oxygen. You’re drowning.
A convulsing ache rips through your body again. It hurts. It hurts being so empty. What are you waiting for?
Something slips into the front of your pants and starts rubbing your clit—you realize it’s your own hand. It feels good, but doesn’t help. Rational voice reminds you that it won’t help. Skin-to-skin contact and penetration were necessary conditions of the quirk; something about pheromones or something? You hobble on, rubbing yourself, fingering yourself, not even thinking to care who sees, none of it bringing you over the edge of the climax that feels like it’s almost there—just a little more! Please!
You turn into the alleyway behind the apartment building. A short passage leading nowhere with a 90-degree crook, it serves to hide unsightly utility boxes and storage containers for the complex. It’s quiet here, away from the chaos in the street. Except you hear it… breathing. Deep, half-stifled grunts of a man trying to keep quiet, paired with quick, labored breathing, and a soft, rhythmic slapping emanate from behind the corner.
Struggling toward the source, you see a tall yellow-haired man doubled over. He’s bracing one hand on a metal box set against the wall with wires snaking out of it, while the other hand furiously works his cock. Slap. Slap. Slap. It’s glistening with precum, but his teeth are grit in distress at an orgasm that will never come.
A scarecrow of a man, he looks to be middle-aged, and has a face like a skeleton, with sunken cheeks and eyes lost in deep shadows—all bones and sinew. Definitely a stranger. You would’ve remembered a guy like that.
Something primal thrums within you, your blood surges red-hot in your veins. Him. He is perfect.
“Help!” you call out, voice shaky and fevered. He startles and tries to hide what he was doing—as if everyone else on the entire block isn't doing the same thing—shoving his dick back under his waistband and crossing his legs before turning to you.
When he sees you, desire clouds his eyes. They’re a shocking vibrant blue, though watering with frustration, and they linger on you for what would have been an uncomfortable length of time under normal circumstances, but right now his overt desire is exactly what you hoped to see. Encouraged, you close the space between you, but he takes a quick step back, just out of your reach. At this distance, you realize “tall” was an understatement. He towers above you.
At your close proximity, his hips start rocking of their own accord, his cock striving for relief against the fabric of his pants. You were too close. You smell so good he wants to devour you. He has to squeeze his legs together and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to regain his composure.
“I... I can help you, young lady. E-everything will be fine... Are you hurt?” With every ounce of willpower in his narrow body, he forces his voice to sound normal and helpful, and not like he wants to tear all your clothes off. No damned pink dust is going to make him—
He doubles over not in pain, but arousal, a spasm pulsing through his frame, and has to fight to shove it down again. He bites his thin lower lip, but the gesture only makes him aware of the string of saliva dripping out.
“Yes, it hurts.” You’ve still got your hand between your legs and must look as much of a mess as he does. He can’t pretend not to know what you’re asking. “Please… help me,” you ask again, this time dropping your voice into a husky whisper. You lean into him, splaying your hands out on his chest, running them down the rippled bones and muscle beneath his white t-shirt. His hands place themselves instinctively around your hips.
“I… I can bring you to the hospital…” He trembles, his breathing is hard and fast, fanning in hot bursts across your neck. You get lost in the smell of him, and every part of your body screams to take him. Your core twitches painfully again, but you’re so close to relief, you let yourself moan with it, and reach for the hard erection in his pants. The outline through the fabric is massive. Beyond massive. You shudder and stroke it greedily.
He draws in a sharp breath at the contact, and the warmth of him spreads out under your palm, spreading through your whole body. His muscles tense, still trying to fight it, but his cock pulses under your touch, betraying his desire.
“Let me feel it,” you beg, slipping your hand through the fly of the pants he was too distracted to zip back up. Your fingertips find it, hot and velvety, and hard as steel.
Even though he’s just as deep under the spell of the dust as you are, he manages to pull away again, and you immediately miss being in contact. “N-no, you don’t have to… to do this. I’ll take you to the hospital!” How can he be flustered with this need overpowering his every sense? Your entire life was narrowed into a tunnel where all there was and all that mattered was being fucked.
Without warning, he doubles over, coughing. Coughing up blood. A lot of it.
He wipes his mouth, grimacing, in obvious pain. A convulsion wracks his body, and he squeezes his thighs together, moaning.
He was so strained. Maybe coughing blood was a symptom from resisting the effects for too long. Your own lungs were already starting to burn with such intense continual use. Why was he trying so hard to fight it?
“Don’t want… a hospital. Just... fuck me. Please. I want you. So empty... it hurts. I need you to fill me… please,” you pant, pulling at his shoulders to bring him close again. He swallows, prominent Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck. He's cute, too, a small, still-conscious voice says, though you barely notice through the pounding, driving urge between your legs. Your clit is so hot it burns, and your pussy is dripping, soaking through your panties so much it’s made a wet spot through your pants. You grind against his leg, though it doesn’t give you any relief, but makes you want to fuck him even more desperately.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you...” He looks so sad, so protective when he says those words in his soft, deep voice. Then he cringes as another convulsion hits him, and his hips drive themselves into you as if acting on their own. He’s horrified. A wave of pleasure surges through you, leaving you a babbling mess.
You whimper, desperate for more. “I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me! Help me. I want it, I swear. I want you, please… please.” You're like an animal, mindlessly humping his thigh, grasping at his shirt. “I’ll find someone else if you won’t. Please, it’s the only way to make this stop…”
It’s too much. The urge was so strong even when he was alone, and your body is all over him, awakening things in him. You’re drugged! His cock won’t stop throbbing until it finds a warm body to fuck, and your pussy is grinding his thigh, inches away. Relief is so close. It’s unbearable. You’re so cute and helpless—he shouldn’t!—disheveled, begging for him to take you. You’re so lewd. It has been so long, so long since he felt desirable, and here you are begging like a little slut, driving him wild. Every second like this is torture—his heart pounding so hard, his single lung can’t take it much longer. You want him… You want him as much as he wants you. Why was he refusing, again? All the reasons seem to fall away…
A dam within him breaks.
He lets out a long, shaking breath as if he had thrown open a valve shut off half a lifetime ago, and all the pressure repressed and denied was finally being released. He crumples around you, lanky arms closing around your back, his face burying into your neck with a sob. A line of teeth bite down on you hard enough to bruise. Your body responds, hips bucking into his, your nails digging into his back, as you scream out in pleasure and pain, “Yes!” He snarls into your skin, leaving a trail of bruises claiming the length of your neck.
“Fuck, I need this,” he growls between bites, sounding like a completely different person. Sounding starved. His hands slide under your shirt to roughly palm your breasts. With the last pretense of control given up, he is a beast freed from its cage. “I want you so bad...” He kneads your breasts, pushing them together and rolling them apart, thumbs abusing your hard tits, while his teeth sink into your shoulder. He is ravenous. Fuck, he feels so good. You can only helplessly cry out as your body spasms with warmth, pulses of electricity running down your back, your cunt dripping and clenching, but still so empty.
Your lips clash together, wet and eager, nearly missing his mouth as you part and smash together again, but you don’t care. His tongue sloppily reaches for yours, and you open for him eagerly, saliva mingling, his taste entering your mouth—coppery and sweet. This is right, your body tells you. He is just right.
Another torturous spasm rips through your body. This isn’t the time for foreplay. You already feel like someone has been eating you out for five hours straight—it’s time to fuck him. You tug your pants and underwear down and let them hang around your calves, in too much of a rush to bother taking them all the way off. Now. You need him now. His cock is back out of his pants, slick with precum, and rubbing your entrance.
It’s so huge, you wonder how it will ever fit inside you. You would never expect something with that much girth to come out of a guy so narrow. How does he have enough blood to support this thing? Normally, you wouldn’t actually want a dick that big, but your sex-crazed brain starts drooling. You want to lick it from head to balls, to worship it. All your muscles are loose and stretched and aching for something to fill them, and only something like this could fill you enough to satisfy this artificially-heightened need.
Rubbing his cock over your opening, his intense eyes study the way your folds part and twitch around him, and the adorable way you struggle to open your legs wider with your ankles still shackled in your pants. “Look at you... fuck, you’re perfect.”
Before he pushes in like every muscle in his body is urging him to do, he checks in with you one last time. His sharp blue eyes meet yours, and, sweating and trembling with the effort of holding back, he asks, “You’re sure?”
“Please!” you whine, voice cracking. You jerk your hips to help push the swollen head inside, gasping as you feel the pressure of it spreading your opening. He needs no more encouragement. Releasing control over his inflamed libido that took every ounce of his willpower to wrestle down, he thrusts sharply inside you. It knocks the air out of your lungs. A scream tears from your throat at the intense pleasure and discomfort of being finally, finally filled all at once by something so large. He grunts into your shoulder, large fingers digging into your skin as his body shudders and trembles. He pulls back out a little, and thrusts in again. You clutch at his shirt and his yellow hair, balling them in white-knuckled fists as you sob out, “Thank you.” It’s almost too much pressure—almost. Your walls twitch and contract happily around the thick shaft. Satisfaction. This is what your body has been demanding. The pain stops, but the need urges you on as strong as ever.
It won’t let you go until you come.
After a few rough, choppy thrusts, he can’t get enough leverage standing facing you. He pulls out, and you entire body sets off alarm bells in protest, your hands clutch at him, trying to pull him back in. Empty! So empty! It hurts. The fevered look in his eye tells you he’s still as desperate for this as you are. Strong hands flip you around, and bend you over the metal box, your ass in the air, presented to him.
“There you are,” he purrs.
He meant to enter you again right away, but the view triggers something voyeuristic in his brain. He grabs your whole pussy possessively, rubbing circles over your bare skin with his thumb, spreading your lips apart.
“Look at you. So beautiful.” His voice is thick and husky; drunk. His whole body shudders as you moan for him, pussy twitching around his thumb, hips writhing, whining for him to enter you. “You'll look so beautiful wrapped around my cock…”
Why is he looking at it? If you had any shame right now, you’d be blushing, but your whole face is already red and sweating. Just put it in already!
“Please… please keep going,” you whine.
“Fuck, I want you… I need this…”
“Need it... need you…” you echo, drooling.
You feel his warm chest lean over your back, his soft bangs hanging down next to your cheek, his hot breath in your ear. “I deserve a reward for being so good, don’t I?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, barely audible even with his lips so close. His cockhead rubs against your drenched slit without pushing inside, the pressure of it maddening, teasing.
His muscles tense suddenly, and you brace yourself against the cold steel surface, fingers curling as he penetrates you from behind and sets a relentless pace.
It’s a good thing the aphrodisiac already had you dripping and ready, because you feel split open and stuffed, the friction and pressure driving you insane, mewling and whimpering as you reach between your legs to stoke your clit. You can feel it now—that heat that’s been building up and pooling between your legs without getting any closer to relief is building toward a crescendo.
“More,” you whine, even though you’re already past your limit, “Give me everything!”
He starts thrusting wildly, uncontrolled, eager to obey you. His movements are unrestrained, and so fast, inhumanly fast. “So good, you feel so good,” he praises, words hitched and slurring. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” A moment of hesitation breaks through the fog, “Am I hurting you?”
“Don’t stop,” you snap, “don’t you dare stop!”
His sharp hip bones collide with your ass, leaving bruises with every hard thrust, his balls swinging against you, slapping your fingers working your clit, as he frantically jackhammers into you. He’s completely feral, head thrown back, not holding back his strength as he hits you so deep and hard you could break, but it’s exactly what your body wants right now—to be animals.
“Harder!” you urge, trying to jerk your hips up to meet his thrusts, and spread your legs farther apart—but your efforts weren’t enough. However hard he's going, you want even more. Deeper. You want him to rip you in half. Obeying, his bony hands grip the soft fat of your thighs, yanking you down onto his cock as he thrusts into you. You yelp as he hits something deep and sensitive, and your muscles quiver and melt with gratitude.
It could have been minutes or hours with him pumping into you with forceful abandon, until you were a sweaty, quaking mess, sobbing into your arm for his frail body and powerful cock. You lost all sense of time, all sense of sense—of anything besides the delicious friction and being stuffed full to bursting. You may as well have been stray cats rutting in the alley. The dark echoed with the steady percussion of flesh smacking into flesh, and a harmony of your own whimpering cries melding into his hard, ragged breathing.
“Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop! It’s so good,” you sing out for him. It must have been the effect of the drugs, but you had never felt so complete.
He growls low in return, “Mine, you’re mine…”
His arms cross around your chest and he leans his body over you, pressing himself closer, and closer to you as his thrusts hit you deeper and longer. Beads of sweat drip from his body wetting your clothes and your neck. His strong hands serve the dual purpose of holding you firm against him and grasping your breasts, roughly pinching the hard peaks, twisting and pulling. The sensation is overwhelming, jolts of pleasure ripping through you, shooting through your spine, winding you tighter and driving you closer to the crest. Your fingers work your clit faster, until he forces them away with his own hand, taking over, abusing your sex with long, calloused fingers, with the same reckless abandon as his fucking you. You feel the heat of his erratic breath in your ear. Something breaks inside him, and he starts grunting loudly with every wild buck of his hips—an unhinged beast. Every forceful thrust throwing your body forward, thighs striking the edge of the metal container.
“More,” you urge, “more!” You’re so close. You feel the muscles of his lower abs twitching and contracting against your ass, and he bites you hard on the shoulder, clenching down until it draws blood. He lets out a helpless, unrestrained noise that is almost a roar and almost a sob as he empties himself into you, filling you up with so much hot seed you can feel the pressure of it inside you. His fingers jerk powerfully into your clit, and it drives you over the edge. Your hips jerk, riding his cock as he comes down from his climax and sticky cum drips out of you, walls clenching around him, milking every drop from his twitching, overstimulated cock.
“Thank you,” you mutter, breathless and slurring. “Thank you…”
It's over.
It's over.
Like a veil had been lifted, your brain function returns to normal. The fog of lust evaporates and you're back to rational, non-horny you.
What. The fuck. Were you doing?
Oh my god.
An alley. You're in some filthy alley with a total stranger and no condom. Fuck. What the fuck. You're going to have so many diseases.
Your, uh, “partner” pulls out, and a flood of semen pours out from between your legs. Oh, god. How is there so much? Does this guy have some kind of disorder or was it the love dust’s effect? Either way, it's gross, and starts to feel chilly as the cool air hits it and it runs down your thigh.
Purse.
That's right, you have a purse. It's still, somehow, by pure luck, still attached to your body. You rummage through it, pushing aside keys, and—oh, look, a condom. You roll your eyes. Where—aha, there it is! You knew you had a little pack of tissues. You wad a few sheets up and catch the copious glob of cum before it can run all the way down your leg and sully your pants.
“Uhhh, here,” you say tersely, really not looking forward to making eye contact now that you’re remembering your actions through the eyes of a sane person. So embarrassing! He probably thinks you’re some kind of slut. Worse—what if he’s some weirdo who thinks you’re his girlfriend now?
You hold out a few tissues so he can clean his sticky, red cock, still impressively large even as it softens and begins to droop downward.
Why are you looking at his dick stop looking at his dick!
He doesn’t seem to notice you peeking. He’s still struggling to catch his breath, his bangs stringy and clinging to his face and neck with sweat. More than that, he’s vacantly staring at his hands, like they might not be his own. Like he hopes they’re not. His eyes snap to the source of movement, and he tentatively takes the tissues you’re holding out to him. That seems to bring him back to reality, as he blushes and turns his back to you, and gets to work wiping himself off.
Good, he’s not trying to talk to you or anything. He’s embarrassed too. That’s good.
When you’re both dressed and as decent as you’re going to look (though let’s be honest, it’s impossible to hide that just-been-ravished glow), you turn to him, lips pressed tightly together. “Well, that’s that, I guess. Um. Are there any STDs I should know about?”
He jolts out of the quiet stupor he was in, face growing redder at the implication. “Oh! N-no.”
“OK, good. Me neither. Though we should both get tested again anyway.”
“Oh! Oh god!” He lurches backward against the wall, remembering something even more devastating. “We didn't... I didn't use—”
“I’m on the pill, relax. No babies.”
His shoulders relax by a few milliliters, at least that weight off of them, but he's far from relieved.
“Alright, well…” you back away, making finger guns out of nervous, idiotic reflex, eager for this embarrassing scenario to be over with and forgotten. “Thanks for helping me out with... a medical emergency, let’s call it. Hopefully we never see each other again, and never think about what happened today ever again!” Yup, that’s about that. “Bye.”
“Right,” he nods weakly as you walk away. He’s still too stunned to give any other acknowledgment.
No contact. No reminders. You did what you had to do, and that’s it. He agrees with you that this is for the best, right? Or at least he will once he… processes what happened.
You sigh.
Pausing at the exit of the alley, you chance a look back. He’s slowly sliding down the stained wall, and coming to rest on the ground with his head between his knees. He looks devastated.
He isn’t processing, is he?
This is your fault, you know. He was trying to avoid people until you found him in his little hiding place. You could have fucked anyone else tonight, but you chose a sensitive old man. You broke him. So, go fix him.
You flop onto the ground by his side, back against the concrete wall.
“Hey. Are you OK?”
He doesn’t look up or acknowledge that he heard you, but a low, quavering voice emerges from his hidden face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I lost control. I took advantage of you. Violated you. I should turn myself in to the police…”
Despite how somber he sounds, you snort a laugh. “Is that what you’re so worried about? I asked you to, remember? I literally begged you.”
His hands clamp down over the back of his head, pulling at his messy yellow hair. “No. You were being controlled by a synthesized quirk. You had no way to consent, but I did it anyway.”
You wouldn’t have guessed he was such a sensitive guy when he was pounding your insides into oblivion, or from the bruises you were going to be covered in by tomorrow. He’s falling apart. Well, you’re here, and there’s no way you’re going to let him beat himself up over this.
“By that logic, I’m as guilty as you. We were both hit with the same stuff, completely out of our minds. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have been able to resist,” he says firmly, voice rising. “I’m…” he makes a noise from his throat and trails off.
“Even heroes have trouble with this stuff—that’s why it’s, like, the cover of Villain’s Digest, you know? At least you tried, which is better than I can say.”
“I have to be better than that!” he snaps. What will the world do when it comes out that All Might is a rapist? He sets his jaw. “I was the one who ultimately went through with it. It was my fault. I failed to protect you.”
You lean back against the wall, letting out a long, pitying sigh. “Are you just looking for me to punish you? Because that’s not going to happen.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t have to better than everyone else in the world, you know. I thought I’d be able to resist, too, but there’s a reason nobody ever does. That stuff rewires your priorities so you don’t want to resist. It… all felt really good in the moment…” You blush and suddenly look anywhere else. Why’d you say that last thing? “The point is… it was stupid to think I was somehow above the hundreds of people who’ve been victims before. So, stop holding yourself to some higher standard. If you want to blame someone, blame me. You… you should blame me...”
His head shoots up from his lap to lock eyes with you, his gaze protective and firm, horrified that you would feel at all culpable. “I don’t blame you.” Just as quickly, he looks away—down, to the side, anywhere else—hand gripping the back of his neck.
“Then why do think it’s your—oh my god, you’re married aren’t you?”
Blood sprays from his mouth as he coughs and sputters denials about being in a relationship. “I wasn’t cheating on anyone! I just… shouldn’t have.”
At this point, you’re more interested in the coughing-blood thing. Since the dust wore off, your breathing has gone back to normal, so it seems it wasn’t a side effect after all. Does he have Ebola? Can you catch Ebola from sex?
“Is that… something I should be worried about?”
He gapes in confusion before following your gestures to a blood stain on his shirt. “Ah! No, it isn’t contagious. It’s from an old injury…” he pulls up his shirt to show you a scar disfiguring the entire left side of his body. It’s not just marring the surface of his skin; it looks like a whole chunk of his chest was removed, with pink arms of surgically reconstructed flesh spiraling over his torso, as if the center of it were a black hole slowly pulling the rest of his body inside.
You forget to not stare.
He shakes his head and chuckles darkly. “Of all the people you could have come to your senses with… must be disappointing to find yourself with a sickly old man.” He stops laughing. In a quiet but biting tone, he adds, “You must be disgusted.”
Maybe it’s a bad idea, considering how much trauma you’ve already caused him today, but you can’t help it. You lean against him, and let your head rest on his shoulder. “I’m not. I’m glad it was someone sweet, and not some gross perv.”
A touch of warmth comes to your cheeks, feeling the pressure of his body against yours again. It’s comforting. You can only hope it’s comforting to him, too.
He doesn’t push you away, at least. “You shouldn’t have to try to cheer me up,” he sighs after a long pause. “It must be hard to be near me, after what I did.”
“It isn’t, really.” Strangely, that's true. You had wanted to get as far from him as possible and avoid any reminders of the humiliating act, but oddly, being close to him is nice. “As far as I’m concerned, I was suffering, and you helped me. Have you read the articles about this stuff? Those symptoms only get worse the longer you don’t… you know.” Why are you blushing like a virgin to the guy who gave you the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life five minutes ago? His cum is still leaking out of you. “I was in agony, so I’m glad we just got it over with instead of spending days in the hospital. ‘Met the conditions of the quirk,’ as they say. It was the best possible option.”
“That’s a very practical way of looking at it.”
“What can I say, I’m a pragmatist!” you grin.
He nearly returns your smile out of reflex, but his face falls again. “But I wasn’t thinking about helping you… I was being completely selfish.” I enjoyed it. How could he tell you he enjoyed it?
“I don’t care.” You give a pointed look at his bony frame and flecks of blood clinging to his lips, and raise an eyebrow. “No offense, but I don't think you’d have lasted 48 hours under that kind of stress.”
He grumbles and lets out a sigh, but he doesn’t have any argument. You were probably right. There was no antidote but to wait, usually sedated. That would have been a long time to not be able to do any hero work. This was the best way… But not at your expense...
“Sorry, you were trying to leave earlier. You don’t have to stay any longer because you’re worried about me. You can go.” He smiles like a wounded soldier in a movie, telling his companion he’ll be fine—get out of here and finish the mission—while the violin hits a dramatic crescendo in a minor key.
Should you take the opportunity to escape? Your plan was to get the drug out of your system with a stranger. Getting to know him any better would throw a wrench in that plan, but the thought of leaving his side makes your throat tighten. This guy… he’s sweet. He carries so much sorrow inside of him, you want to stay and help him with his burden. A primal instinct urges you to throw a blanket around him and feed him soup. He’s handsome, too. He doesn’t seem to think so, but you understand why your libido-brain latched onto him over anyone else. Excessively tall, with sharp features, and electric eyes. If it had to be anyone, you made the right choice picking him.
You want to get to know him better—you want to learn everything about him.
“It’s OK,” you coo softly, like you were approaching an abused dog. “If you want me to go, I will. If… if it’s hard for you to be around me. But I’d rather stay with you for awhile.”
He looks up from his own lap at last. Two blue halos study you from within broken, dark-shadowed eyes, finally really seeing you. He looks like he’s about to cry, but does not. He looks down again, but tugs the corners of his mouth into the best effort of a smile he can manage, and this time, it doesn’t suggest he’s dying. “Thank you.”
You sit with him for awhile, talking. Reassuring him, while mentally kicking yourself for hurting the sweetest man on the planet.
Yagi Toshinori, he introduces himself. So much for staying strangers, you think, smiling as you tell him your name in return.