Unrequited Love: Chapter 3
The day after his argument with Mikasa at the
izakaya, Yoshimoto entered the classroom for his first lecture, rubbing his
puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. Though it was cold enough outside for a light
dusting of snow to cover the ground, it hadn’t done much to wake him up. As he
took off his coat, he scanned the room for Kadowaki. Before Yoshimoto could
spot him, Kadowaki noticed him first and raised a hand in greeting from a seat
toward the back.
“Sorry for leaving partway through yesterday,”
Yoshimoto said as he slid into the seat beside Kadowaki.
“Yeah, that was something,” Kadowaki replied,
though he didn’t seem angry. Yoshimoto was grateful for Kadowaki’s laid-back
personality. A friend who didn’t overreact or preach with righteous indignation
was far better company than the kind who offered unsolicited, passionate
lectures. Some people called Kadowaki cold, but Yoshimoto found that kind of
temperament easiest to get along with.
“After you left, I stuck around and talked to
Mikasa for a while,” Kadowaki said, tapping the end of his ballpoint pen
against his chin before letting out a quiet chuckle. “Turns out, even though
he’s talking about getting married, the idiot hasn’t even proposed yet.
Yesterday was apparently his way of making some kind of ‘official declaration’
to us about his decision to marry.”
“What?” Yoshimoto slumped back in his seat, his
energy sapped.
“His girlfriend’s birthday is next month, on
the third. He says he plans to propose then.”
Yoshimoto felt a fleeting sense of relief, but
it was short-lived. Mikasa’s intentions to marry hadn’t changed.
“Well… I guess I can at least give him credit
for trying to be ‘normal,’” Yoshimoto muttered, feigning a small concession
toward Mikasa. Kadowaki gave a faint smile, the corners of his mouth barely
moving.
“He’s had his share of unrequited love. If
things work out this time, we should celebrate in style. I was a little worried
yesterday, though—you seemed really mad.”
Yoshimoto exaggeratedly threw his hands wide.
“We’ve been dragged through the mud by his drama with men for ages. And now,
out of nowhere, he says he’s marrying a woman? Talk about nerve. It’s
ridiculous! Of course he’s going to get a bit of grief over it.”
“You’re not wrong,” Kadowaki said with a shrug.
“By the way, it’s always Mikasa who gets you riled up. You’ve known each other
for so long that maybe you’re just used to it, but don’t you think you could be
a little softer on him? He actually takes more damage from it than he lets on.”
Yoshimoto stiffened, caught off guard. Kadowaki
had never openly criticized his attitude toward Mikasa before, and hearing it
now struck a nerve.
“You don’t usually act like that, but you’re
especially harsh toward Mikasa. I mean, sure, he can get carried away
sometimes, but still.”
“Everything he does just gets on my nerves…
I’ll try to tone it down next time.”
Kadowaki gave Yoshimoto’s shoulder a light pat
as if to say, Got it.
“By the way, Mikasa mentioned wanting to get
together again soon. He said he wants to introduce us to his girlfriend.”
“Introduce her?”
“If you’re up for it, I could contact Mikasa
today. I think he wants us to meet her before he proposes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is he expecting
us to judge her or something?”
“Don’t put it like that.”
As their associate professor entered the
classroom, Kadowaki turned to face the front and fell silent. Yoshimoto glanced
at Kadowaki’s profile, debating how to respond.
“…Tomorrow works for me,” Yoshimoto finally
said.
Kadowaki turned, tilting his head. “For what?”
“For that thing Mikasa mentioned—introducing us
to his girlfriend.”
“I can try contacting him, but tomorrow’s kind
of short notice. It depends on whether their schedules line up…”
It was always Kadowaki who contacted Mikasa.
That had become the norm, and Yoshimoto realized he had rarely, if ever,
reached out to Mikasa himself.
“This time, I’ll contact Mikasa,” Yoshimoto
offered.
Kadowaki looked surprised but nodded slightly.
“Sure, go ahead.”
Yoshimoto immediately pulled out his phone. But
no matter how much he searched, Mikasa’s contact information didn’t come up. That’s
strange. As he frowned in confusion, he remembered. His phone had broken at
the end of the year, and all his contacts had been erased. While he had rebuilt
his address book by asking his university friends to send him their details,
he’d forgotten to get Mikasa’s information.
After class, Yoshimoto tapped Kadowaki’s elbow
and said, “Hey, can you send me Mikasa’s number and email? I don’t have them.”
“You don’t?” Kadowaki looked surprised.
“I forgot to ask after my phone broke.”
“That was last year, wasn’t it?”
Though Kadowaki gave him a look of mild
exasperation, he didn’t seem particularly bothered. He took out his own phone
and sent Mikasa’s contact information to Yoshimoto.
“Thanks,” Yoshimoto muttered, relieved to have
the contact details.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
That evening, Yoshimoto decided to call Mikasa.
Knowing Mikasa’s work hours were irregular, he waited until after 9 p.m., when
he was more likely to get through.
At precisely 9 p.m., he gripped his phone
tightly, but nerves got the better of him. He sat frozen, staring at the phone
as though locked in a standoff. Frustrated with his own hesitation, he finally
pressed the call button around 9:30, more out of impatience than confidence.
“Hello, Mikasa speaking,” came Mikasa’s voice
on the other end.
Despite his earlier nervousness, hearing
Mikasa’s voice immediately calmed Yoshimoto.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Huh? Who’s this?”
Mikasa’s voice was distorted with static, as if
he were in a spot with poor reception. Annoyed, Yoshimoto muttered, “It’s
Yoshimoto,” feeling slightly miffed at not being recognized right away.
“Oh, Yoshimoto? I didn’t check the number
before picking up, so I didn’t know it was you. But it’s rare for you to call
me. What’s up?”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I’m free in the evening. Oh, wait,
is this about that thing Kadowaki mentioned—introducing my girlfriend? If so,
tomorrow’s no good. She’s going to the movies with her friends.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Oh, really?”
“It’s something else. I’ve got a friend who
says they want to meet you.”
“A friend of yours?” Mikasa asked, his tone
skeptical.
“They want to meet you, yeah,” Yoshimoto
replied.
“Why would one of your friends want to meet me?
I don’t even know them.” Mikasa sounded less than enthusiastic, and Yoshimoto
felt his irritation rising.
“How should I know what’s going through their
head? I was just talking about you, and they got all interested and wouldn’t
shut up about meeting you.”
Yoshimoto licked his lips repeatedly. He didn’t
feel guilty about lying, but his lips were strangely dry.
“Wait… this friend who wants to meet me—is it a
guy?” Mikasa asked.
“Yeah, so?”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Sorry, but I’m going to pass this time.”
Mikasa’s unexpected refusal made Yoshimoto
panic.
“What the hell? You don’t want to meet one of
my friends?”
“It’s not that… it’s just…” Mikasa hesitated.
“I don’t really want to see any good-looking guys right now. And your friends…
well, they seem like the type to be good-looking.”
He mumbled the words awkwardly.
“Sorry, I know it’s rare for you to invite me
to something. But you know how I am—I fall for people so easily.”
Yoshimoto immediately understood what Mikasa
was implying.
“You’re saying you’re worried you’ll get
distracted by some new guy, so you’d rather avoid meeting him?”
“Well… yeah, something like that,” Mikasa
admitted hesitantly.
Yoshimoto let out a short laugh.
“You’re talking about marrying a woman, and yet
you’re trying to avoid guys? Isn’t that a bit contradictory? What, are you
planning to go your whole life without talking to another man?”
Mikasa went silent again on the other end of
the line.
“Well, I get it now,” Yoshimoto said. “The
woman you’re introducing to us isn’t even important enough to compare to one of
my random friends. That’s all she amounts to, huh?”
“Mikasa, I just…”
“Enough. I’m not introducing you to any of my
friends ever again.”
“Don’t be so mean… Fine, I’ll meet your friend.
I’ll meet them, okay?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve lost
interest.”
“What am I supposed to do when you say it like
that? I don’t know what to do…” Mikasa’s voice was filled with confusion.
“There’s nothing to do. Let’s just pretend this
conversation never happened. Goodbye.”
Yoshimoto hung up abruptly. At first, he was
angry—angry that Mikasa hadn’t responded the way he’d wanted, angry that Mikasa
seemed to know himself so well. But as his initial frustration cooled,
Yoshimoto realized he’d sabotaged what could have been a perfect opportunity.
Mikasa had hesitated but ultimately agreed to
meet the friend. If Yoshimoto hadn’t been so stubborn, he could have made the
introduction. But after ending the call so brusquely, it was impossible to call
back and say, “About what I said earlier…”
With the plan to distract Mikasa with another
man now a failure, Yoshimoto could only think of one outcome—Mikasa would go
through with proposing to the woman.
Yoshimoto opened the calendar on his phone.
There were less than three weeks left until the birthday—the day Mikasa planned
to propose.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
The lingering winter chill might have been due
to the persistent overcast skies that refused to clear, even during the day.
Every night for the past few days, snow had been falling. In this area, where
snowfall was rare, the novelty had long since worn off, and the snow had become
an inconvenience.
That evening, the snow began falling again late
at night. By the time Yoshimoto stepped out of his door near the last train,
white flakes were drifting down, lightly dusting the ground along the edges of
the road. The snow crunched underfoot, leaving shoe-shaped marks that were
quickly covered by new flakes, as if trying to erase them.
On the sparsely populated train platform,
Yoshimoto hiccupped loudly. A woman in a business suit standing nearby glanced
back at him, her brows slightly furrowed, before moving a few steps away.
Embarrassed by how drunk and unkempt he must have seemed, Yoshimoto’s face
flushed, and he stared down at the ground. Even on the train, he stood the
whole time, one hand over his mouth, trying to suppress the hiccups.
The argument with Mikasa, the failed plan to
introduce him to another man—it all happened the previous night. Since then,
Yoshimoto hadn’t been able to think about anything except Mikasa’s impending
marriage. The idea of redirecting Mikasa’s attention away from the woman was no
longer an option. He had to confront the outcome he truly wanted: for Mikasa
not to get married and, ultimately, for Mikasa to fall in love with him.
But Mikasa didn’t know how Yoshimoto felt.
Yoshimoto had gone out of his way to hide even the smallest hint of his
feelings, so it was only natural. If Mikasa ever found out, Yoshimoto was
certain he wouldn’t let him go. If Yoshimoto showed even a sliver of interest,
Mikasa would cling to him.
It was only a matter of time—sooner or later,
Mikasa would figure it out. Yoshimoto had considered confessing directly so
many times, but every time, his pride stopped him. A confession… Could he
really tell Mikasa that he loved him? Could he say, “Don’t get married
because I love you”? Could he admit that—to Mikasa?
Why should he have to bow down to someone like
Mikasa—a man so unrefined, so clumsy? If Yoshimoto dropped just a few subtle
hints, Mikasa would definitely come to him. There was no need for Yoshimoto to
make the first move; Mikasa would come crawling eventually.
He didn’t want to reveal his hand first. Mikasa
was so simple-minded that any act of humility on Yoshimoto’s part would only
embolden him. Yoshimoto didn’t want to inflate Mikasa’s ego or let him gain the
upper hand. Even in love, Yoshimoto wanted to maintain control. Yet, if things
continued like this, Mikasa would remain oblivious to Yoshimoto’s feelings and
end up with the woman for sure.
After much deliberation, Yoshimoto finally
found a compromise he could accept—a plan he could act on immediately.
Fifteen minutes on the subway brought him to
Mikasa’s station. He knew the route to Mikasa’s apartment, but as he walked, he
remembered how unexpectedly far it was and sighed in frustration. Even so, he
quickened his pace, his heart racing as the dingy two-story apartment building
came into view. Knowing that Mikasa lived on the second floor of that shabby
building only made his chest tighten further.
Yoshimoto stopped by a nearby convenience
store, bought a small bottle of cheap sake, and drank it all just outside the
store. It gave him the final push of courage he needed. Now, there was nothing
left but to go forward.
The apartment building was old and didn’t seem
to have an intercom. Yoshimoto knocked on the flimsy door, which looked like it
might break if he kicked it too hard. When there was no response, he knocked
harder, his impatience growing.
It was late—well past the time of the last
train—and he hadn’t cared about the potential disturbance to neighbors. The
sake he’d chugged earlier, more than he’d ever dared before, had obliterated
his inhibitions. Each knock made the door rattle with an odd, reverberating
sound that amused him. But no matter how long he waited or how loudly he
knocked, Mikasa didn’t come to the door.
Yoshimoto stopped knocking and pressed his ear
gently against the flimsy door. Inside, there were sounds of movement—something
being shuffled or kicked—and then a gruff voice growling, “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Yoshimoto muttered to himself,
chuckling softly. He heard footsteps approach, and the door flew open so
suddenly that the force knocked him backward. Yoshimoto landed on the ground,
sitting unceremoniously on his backside.
“Wait… Yoshimoto?”
Standing in the doorway was Mikasa, wearing a
navy tracksuit that looked suspiciously like the ones from their high school
days. His hair was disheveled, likely from sleeping, and his drowsy expression
was paired with a distinctly irritated look as he peered down at Yoshimoto.
Still sitting on the floor, Yoshimoto tilted his head up and grinned.
“There’s no train left,” he said
matter-of-factly.
Mikasa ran a hand through his stiff, messy
hair, letting out a loud sigh that made it clear he wasn’t thrilled about this
development.
“Are you drunk? Fine, I’ll lend you money for a
taxi. It’s only about twenty minutes from here, right?”
Mikasa grabbed Yoshimoto’s arm, trying to pull
him up. Yoshimoto deliberately stumbled, landing squarely against Mikasa’s
chest. It was firm, hardened by daily physical labor, and Yoshimoto caught a
faint whiff of sweat from Mikasa’s thick neck, brushing against his nose.
Taking in the sensation of Mikasa’s body, Yoshimoto muttered softly, “Even if I
go home… I can’t get inside.”
“Can’t get inside?” Mikasa tilted his head in
confusion.
“I lost my keys.”
Yoshimoto giggled, and Mikasa sighed again,
louder this time. Without another word, he helped Yoshimoto into the apartment,
practically carrying him.
Yoshimoto had only been to Mikasa’s place once
before, to help him move. It hadn’t changed since then: a cramped kitchen with
a single pot and kettle, the rice cooker carelessly stashed under the sink. In
the six-tatami room beyond, a futon lay spread out on the floor. Yoshimoto felt
a wave of relief seeing no signs of a woman’s presence.
The futon was as thin as a rice cracker, with a
small hump in the center where Mikasa had likely been sleeping before
Yoshimoto’s arrival. He imagined Mikasa crawling out from the futon like some
burrowing insect, and the mental image made him laugh.
Yoshimoto flopped face-down onto the futon,
flattening the little mound. It smelled like Mikasa—sweaty, like the scent from
his neck earlier.
“Want some water?” Mikasa offered, holding out
a glass.
Yoshimoto’s throat was parched from all the
alcohol he’d consumed, so he eagerly drained the glass.
“This is rare,” Mikasa murmured, watching him
drink.
“What is?” Yoshimoto asked.
“You being drunk. And coming to my apartment.”
It was almost time. Yoshimoto knew he couldn’t
wait too long, or he’d lose his resolve. He raised his head, locking eyes with
Mikasa. Instead of his usual mocking, condescending grin, Yoshimoto gave him a
warm, charming smile—one that could win over anyone. Mikasa’s eyes widened in
surprise, and he quickly looked away, flustered. Yoshimoto couldn’t help but
think, What a hopelessly simple man.
Letting the empty glass fall onto the tatami
with a deliberate toss, Yoshimoto watched as Mikasa hurriedly picked it up. The
way Mikasa scrambled to retrieve the glass and bring it back reminded Yoshimoto
of a dog fetching something its owner had thrown.
“I had a bad day,” Yoshimoto said, his voice
soft and slightly slurred. “Maybe I drank too much… I don’t feel great.”
He shrugged off his coat, loosening the top
button of his shirt with his fingers—but only fidgeting with it, not
unbuttoning it completely. He knew Mikasa was watching and played up the motion
deliberately.
“This collar’s too tight—it feels suffocating,”
Yoshimoto added, emphasizing his discomfort.
Mikasa brushed Yoshimoto’s fingers away and
undid the button for him. His hands trembled noticeably as he fumbled with the
task, and after unfastening two buttons, he quickly pulled his hands back.
Yoshimoto reached for the third button himself,
slowly fanning open his shirt to expose his chest. He could feel Mikasa’s gaze
fixed on him, his chest, and nowhere else. It was almost amusing to see how
captivated Mikasa was.
“I drank too much,” Yoshimoto murmured, sliding
his belt out from the loops of his jeans and unbuttoning only the top button.
Sitting on the futon, he tilted his head slightly, his movements deliberate and
slow. Mikasa simply stared at him in silence, his gaze fixed. Yoshimoto spread
his knees apart, moving deliberately, and even from a distance, he heard the
sound of Mikasa swallowing hard.
By now, Yoshimoto had expected Mikasa to pounce
on him. Yet Mikasa made no move, staying rooted to the spot, watching. He
wasn’t leaving, but he wasn’t acting either. Frustrated by Mikasa’s hesitation,
Yoshimoto decided to make the next move himself.
“I want some water,” he said, leaning closer to
Mikasa as if to search for the glass. He stretched his arm behind Mikasa,
feigning an attempt to reach for it, bringing their bodies into full contact.
Yoshimoto knew the glass was empty—he’d tossed it earlier. Still, he grabbed it
for show. The glass slipped lightly from his fingers and rolled across the
tatami.
Then, a strong hold. Finally, Mikasa’s arms
wrapped around him tightly.
He’d finally taken the bait. Yoshimoto had
anticipated this outcome, but there had been a slim chance Mikasa’s meager
reserves of self-control might keep him from giving in.
Now Mikasa was his. Yoshimoto felt a surge of
certainty: this man belonged to him. Not that Mikasa was particularly special,
but he was Yoshimoto’s, and Yoshimoto wasn’t about to let anyone else have him.
Mikasa’s body, pressed against his, was more than warm—it was scorching. That
heat made Yoshimoto’s heartbeat quicken, faster and faster.
Mikasa pushed Yoshimoto down onto the futon.
Yoshimoto opened his eyes, meeting Mikasa’s. His stubbled jawline was tense,
and his eyes—burning with a desperate, almost fearful intensity—bored into
Yoshimoto’s. Mikasa froze for a moment as their gazes locked.
Yoshimoto smiled faintly and closed his eyes,
signaling Mikasa to continue.
As expected, Mikasa wasted no time. He pressed
his lips to Yoshimoto’s in a kiss that was more like a bite, full of hunger and
urgency.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
A wordless act. Mikasa’s rough hands explored beneath
Yoshimoto’s shirt, sliding from his neck to his sides. The sensation was
nothing like what he had felt with women—it was a deeper, more electrifying
pleasure that coursed repeatedly down his spine. Mikasa’s calloused fingers
toyed with Yoshimoto’s chest, brushing and pinching his nipples, their clumsy
motions sometimes causing sharp jolts of pain. Yoshimoto frowned at Mikasa’s
lack of finesse, but his body betrayed him, trembling and quivering in response.
The probing fingers tugged his shirt up, but
the sleeve buttons wouldn’t unfasten, leaving the shirt tangled at Yoshimoto’s
wrists. He sat there, arms raised awkwardly, as if left deliberately
vulnerable. Under the dim light, his bare chest was exposed. Mikasa wrapped an
arm around Yoshimoto’s back, lifting him slightly, and bent down to latch onto
one of his nipples.
The sensation of Mikasa’s moist lips and the
warm, slippery touch of his tongue against the sensitive bud sent Yoshimoto’s
mind into a frenzy. A peculiar tingling spread through his body, centered at
his hips. Even knowing the source was pleasure didn’t make it easier to bear.
Flustered and overwhelmed, Yoshimoto weakly pushed at Mikasa’s head, trying to
dislodge him. But the shirt still tangled his arms, hampering his movements.
“Stop… don’t…” Yoshimoto murmured, his voice
barely audible.
Mikasa ignored the half-hearted protests, his
lips trailing down from Yoshimoto’s chest along the line of his abdomen. His
chin brushed against the waistband of Yoshimoto’s jeans. The sound of the
zipper being pulled down—a slow, deliberate motion—echoed lewdly in the quiet
room, making Yoshimoto want to cover his ears.
The shame of being exposed struck in a flash as
Mikasa saw the bulge in Yoshimoto’s underwear. That embarrassment didn’t last
long, however, because before Yoshimoto could react, Mikasa tugged down his
jeans and underwear in one swift motion. The cold air against his bare thighs
made Yoshimoto instinctively clamp his legs shut, but Mikasa roughly forced
them apart.
Yoshimoto could feel Mikasa’s gaze,
scrutinizing him. Even though he knew his body was flawless—proportioned and
toned in a way that matched his handsome appearance—being stared at so intently
made him feel unbearably self-conscious. Despite all his care in maintaining
his body, he lacked confidence in moments like this. The trembling in his spine
was not from embarrassment but fear: fear of what Mikasa might think, of how he
might judge him.
Desperate to escape, Yoshimoto kicked his legs,
knocking away Mikasa’s hands, and tried to turn over and crawl away. Dragging
himself forward on weakened limbs, he was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions.
He had never imagined that simply touching another man could make him feel this
overwhelmed, as though he might melt. And he had never expected that this new,
exposed version of himself could be so deeply humiliating.
Mikasa grabbed Yoshimoto’s legs and pulled him
back onto the futon. The weight of Mikasa’s firm, muscular body pinned him
down. Between his thighs, Yoshimoto felt the heat of Mikasa’s arousal pressing
insistently against him. Mikasa’s large, coarse fingers grasped Yoshimoto’s
stiffening center, draining the strength from his knees in an instant. Trapped
between the futon and Mikasa, Yoshimoto couldn’t move—and he didn’t.
Mikasa’s unpracticed fingers roamed downward,
tentatively brushing against an area that made Yoshimoto freeze. He had
prepared himself for this moment, though the thought of it still made him flush
with shame. This wasn’t like his own hands; the way Mikasa’s fingers moved,
reaching deeper inside, was foreign and unsettling. It felt
strange—uncomfortable—but also, just a little bit, good.
“Ah… hah…” Yoshimoto gasped, a sweet,
unfamiliar sound spilling from his lips as Mikasa’s fingers grazed shallow,
sensitive areas.
It was as if that sound became a signal. Mikasa
withdrew his fingers, and then something larger, hotter, and more intrusive
began to push inside Yoshimoto. It was painful, almost unbearably so, but it
was happening. And Yoshimoto had no choice but to endure.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
I’m drunk… Yoshimoto kept telling himself that, over and
over, as if the drunkenness could excuse everything, even though deep down he
knew it was only a pretense, a shield for his choices.
Mikasa had entered him from behind, thrusting
twice before releasing inside. Yoshimoto had prepared himself earlier that
night, but the reality of being penetrated—of having something so large moving
in and out—was something he had never experienced before. The act brought more
pain than pleasure, and when Mikasa finally withdrew, Yoshimoto thought it was
over. But Mikasa, relentless, turned him onto his back and pressed on.
Even when Yoshimoto protested, recalling the
sharp pain, Mikasa effortlessly subdued him and entered again, as though it
were the most natural thing in the world. Yoshimoto shivered at the thought of
Mikasa’s hardness, still rigid and hot even after all they’d done. Eventually,
resistance felt futile, exhausting. Yoshimoto draped his arms around Mikasa’s
neck, surrendering to the rhythm as his eyes fluttered closed.
Mikasa’s hips moved steadily, and he leaned
down to suck fervently on Yoshimoto’s chest, lips and tongue hot against his
skin. As Mikasa’s movements became rougher and the grip on Yoshimoto’s back
tightened, Yoshimoto could sense the end nearing. Despite the ache, there were
moments when pleasure surged, raw and electric, bleeding through the pain.
Yoshimoto, dazed, found himself giving in completely, absorbing the intensity.
Mikasa groaned softly, his body shuddering as
he released inside Yoshimoto again. The sensation of being filled made
Yoshimoto tremble. His own arousal, pressed between their bodies, was rubbed
against Mikasa’s toned abdomen until he too climaxed, spilling against Mikasa’s
skin.
When Yoshimoto opened his eyes, Mikasa’s face
was close—so close that he could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the
redness of his flushed skin. Mikasa’s lips were slightly parted, revealing the
flicker of a red tongue as he panted, breathless as though he’d run a marathon.
Unable to resist, Yoshimoto reached up, cupped Mikasa’s flushed cheeks, and
pulled him into a deep kiss. Their tongues entwined, Yoshimoto devouring him
with a kind of desperate hunger.
The kiss seemed to reignite Mikasa. Inside
Yoshimoto, he began to harden again, and his hips resumed their slow,
deliberate motions. Yoshimoto wrapped his long legs around Mikasa’s waist,
drawing him closer as they moved together.
At some point, Yoshimoto’s awareness faded. He
couldn’t recall when he lost track of time or the world around him. All he knew
was that he had been utterly consumed, completely immersed in the role of
receiving, and nothing else mattered.
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