Never Let Me Go | YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

2: debauchery.

The way he fucks you is not the way your husband fucks you.

He fucks you like he likes you. Loves you, even.

He has you folded in half and his hands under your knees, fucking you so tenderly and passionately that you fall apart in his ungloved hands. He had licked your cunt with his skillful tongue, fingered you and scissored your pussy until you creamed down to his knuckles. He relished in your reactions, looking up at your face as you came over and over, mouth open to release a wail as sweat beaded down your temples.

"Whatever the circumstance, the lights must be off and you cannot remove my eyepatch nor my turtleneck." Was your condition, and he had eagerly accepted it, already having visions of you breaking in half, making you shed your past self like a coat.

"Feel good?" Chuuya presses down on your lower stomach and you can feel your eyes water at the pleasure. "That's me right there, righttt there, baby."

You can feel his cock bulge through your stomach as he fucks you ruthlessly, hitting your sweet spots with such precision it makes you squirm and fist the blankets.

Your wedding band rested on the nightstand besides the bed. The silver gleams in the borrowed light of the moonlight, stars twinkling besides the great white opal. You lay in the snowy light of the moon, the penthouse bed a scraggly mess of blankets and liquid and slick.

You say his name and he melts–Chuuya. He travels upwards so that he can lie behind your eyes and peep at the world through you. He looked at himself through your eyes–his neck, his naked chest, his eyes full of determination and annihilation to break you apart. And you do. You come around him with a helpless cry of his name, your walls spasming around his cock as a white ring of slick foamed at the base. He grins at this, pulling off a glove with his teeth on his other hand to rub circles at your throbbing clit.

"Fuck fuck fuck," You chant as your voice evolves into a scream which is soon muffled by a tooth-knocking kiss, his lips swallowing yours in a cannibalistic kiss. His teeth dig into your lower lip as you thrash like a stunned sparrow smashing itself against glass when you squirt all over him, hot liquid spraying everywhere and onto the thin sheets crumpled underneath you.

And when all of that is done, you cover yourself with fresh blankets that Chuuya provides for you, sliding your wedding band back on.

"I never thought of you as a cheating woman," Chuuya says, flopping down onto the sheets next to you.

You shrug. "My husband isn't faithful to me either. In a way, there's mutual consent to not talk about it."

"Why not divorce?"

"Ruins face."

"Fair."

The two of you lie in the darkness, and you lift a hand to touch your eyepatch: still intact.

"This is just a one night thing," You say, drifting off to sleep. "Don't expect me to stay."

"Sure," Chuuya says, though something in his DNA told him otherwise. Something primal and feral told him that this would be a permanent thing: that you would come to him everytime you and your husband had a falling out. Something along those lines.

He doesn't sleep. Instead he watches you sleep, tenderly sliding his fingers down the long expanse of your back, the covered xylophone of your spine, shivering and tremulous underneath his fingertips. Why you had decided to keep the turtleneck and eyepatch on was a mystery to him: were you concealing scars? Or were you just insecure about your beauty?

He wasn't the type of person to have one night stands–sure, he had his masterbatory urges, but it would always result in him feeling pathetic and weak, his hand sliding over his cock and jerking himself off. He was a romantic at heart: He longed for a Isolde to his Tristan–oh, a hopeless romantic at heart, with Richard Wagner reducing the world into a boat, bed, a love potion, a wound, a music note. The world is contained within a world: Isolde. And he longed for one. After years of memory loss and busying himself with executive duties, he longed for someone to come home to, a partner, a woman, something warm and malleable that he could sink his ravenous claws into. And when he saw you, so alone and desolate in your loneliness, he saw a chance, an opportunity. You were a gorgeous woman, with features that made him possessive and bad-tempered; how could other people have the opportunity to look at you? Why should he let others look at you?

He falls asleep.

When he wakes, you're no longer there. You leave no trace behind but a legacy of longing and come stained sheets, your warmth ebbing away on his bed. How you found your way out of his penthouse was a mystery. You don't even leave behind a slip of paper with your number. It was like you didn't want anything to do with him anymore, past that one night. You don't leave anything behind.

Chuuya grumbles under his breath and sits up, basking in the marmalade gold of the morning sun, piercing through the satin curtains, groping for living flesh. There was a faint outline of your body and the bed seemed to remember your weight for it still dipped ever so slightly, and Chuuya brought a hand over the centre of it all.

A one night stand.

Why did he feel so empty, then?