blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

Eighteen: Conjoined.*

You leave her room, your unease building into dread rapidly, like a snowball rumbling into a full blown avalanche. You look down on your shoes as you find yourself walking towards Chuuya's room, knocking on it before entering.

"Chuuya?" You ask. He's working on some paperwork when he looks up, his smile quickly turning into a look of concern when you look at him with hazy eyes. The scribbling of his fountain pen comes to an end as he stands up, but you're pointing at him with a shaking finger.

"You lied to me," You say, "You lied to me alongside Mori."

A look of realisation washes over him, "Princes—"

"You watched it all happen."

He tongues the inside of his cheek, a war in his mind, "How'd you find out?"

"Dazai told me," You sneer when his expression immediately turns into that of anger, "Your enemy, the man you hate the most in the world, told me that you, alongside Boss, lied to me."

"That slimy bastard. Why're you still talking to him?" He's crossing towards you, his ability triggering with each step he takes. There's a look of rage, almost bordering on betrayal, as he approaches you; a look of love that has subverted itself in expiration, "Don't talk to him ever again. I'm telling you to not even look at that bastard anymore."

"He tells me the truth," You look down at your hand and its fading, becoming transparent, and you see the carpet behind it. You shake your hand and it remains translucent, devoid of its usual weight of colours, "He tells me what it is."

"I can do that instead for you," He argues back, his voice snappy and overflowing with greed, "Don't fucking interact with him anymore."

You blink hard and your hand regains its vigour and opacity, "Everything's getting worse, Chuuya. I don't think you understand."

"I'll help you." He grabs your collar and smashes his lips against yours; the kiss is searing, almost as if he was branding you, as if he was protecting you, as if he was killing you so that he could have you to himself, body and soul. His lips are sinful, screeching with overfilling, undulating desire, reminiscent of that when you were both children and testing the waters of sexuality, gingerly touching each other in places that were a foreign territory, a pleasurable territory.

But it's different this time. He knows what he's been doing. He knows your body like the back of his hand. He's been dreaming of doing things to you ever since you had defected, ever since you had left and fled the dark waters of the Port Mafia, seeing you on the faces of other women that he couldn't bring himself to touch, feeling that it would be pseudo-infidelity, despite having no established relationship with you.

The kiss is filled with desire, and you find yourself tearing up in the midst of all this passion.

How passionately you desired to be held. To be held without any other ulterior motives, to be held without knowing there was something behind you, poised with a knife, ready for the blade to embed itself in you within any fluid movement. You stumble onto his bed.

"You hurt me," You murmur against him, and he bites down on your lower lip gently.

"I know," He says, taking the coat off of you, "Take this shit off."

You obediently comply, your hands shaking to the extent you were unable to unbutton your shirt. His gloved hands stop you.

"We don't have to do this if—"

"I want to," You say. Your voice cracks, and you find yourself sobbing, "I want to. Please, just put me back together. Put the pieces back together."

He looks at you with a flash of regret in his gaze, before it disappears and is replaced with determination. He helps you unbutton your shirt, fingers shaking in anticipation, and rips your bra off of you with a ferocity that was common in Chuuya's world. He finds himself swallowing back spit at the sight of your naked body. How he had craved this body for years since your disappearance, dreaming of it and martyring himself for it as a religion. He sees religious iconery in the crevices, the folds, the curves, and it calls his name when he runs a hand over the plains of your stomach. It's smooth to the touch, and slightly heated, as if you were fevering up to his touch.