Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The exam will cover chapters thirteen through seventeen. If you went over the study guide, you should be fine.” Students began gathering their things. “And the essay deadline is next Friday.”
With that, the professor left the room.

Zanka packed up his stuff and immediately checked his phone. A new message from Riyo — an invitation to grab drinks later. He replied with a yes and tossed the device back into his backpack.

See, Zanka’s life was fairly average. He went to class in the morning, broke his back studying in the afternoon, and spent whatever free time he had left at night. He wouldn’t call himself a social person. Sure, he talked to his classmates, treated everyone politely, and most people on campus would probably say Zanka Nijiku was easy to get along with.

But those interactions were something the blue-eyed boy had carefully built over the years. He let people enjoy the version of himself he’d crafted, but never let anyone past the front door. Never let them get close. Never said what he really thought or showed who he really was — except to a select few.

One of those few was Riyo.

The redhead had known him since their first year of high school and, somehow, decided to become a permanent presence in his life. Annoying at first, sure, but he got used to her — and eventually, she became one of the few people that actually mattered to him (not that he’d ever admit that to her face, or he’d never hear the end of it).

Riyo was the kind of person who always dragged him out of his comfort zone and reminded him to have fun. Enjoy life. Rock on. Whether it was drinks at some sketchy dive bar someone’s friend-of-a-friend recommended, a random sleepover at her place, or just a “study session” at a café (where Riyo did anything but study), Zanka usually went along.

Like tonight.

The music inside the bar was loud — loud enough that you had to raise your voice to be heard by the person next to you. The lighting was low and warm, giving the place a sense of privacy even though every table was full. Every now and then, laughter broke out somewhere, probably courtesy of the cheap beer.

Zanka watched a similar phenomenon unfold at his own table, sitting beside Riyo and a handful of people he only vaguely recognized. How did that girl know so many people? It was a mystery he’d long given up trying to solve.

He put on his well-rehearsed personality: laughing at jokes that weren’t that funny, nodding at stories he didn’t care about. Four beers in, he felt a pair of eyes on him.

He took another sip, glancing sideways. Someone from another table — a guy around his age, maybe a year or two older — was staring straight at him. Sharp nose, thick brows, deep eyes. And a vibe that radiated trouble.

The ash-brown haired male met his gaze and offered a subtle, charming smile. The guy returned it — a little cocky, a little daring. Zanka’s eyes flicked toward the door, then back to him. The guy’s grin widened before he gave a slight nod.

Well. Seems like he wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

He downed the rest of his beer, stood up, and excused himself with a quick apology. Riyo only shot him a knowing look — she could tell perfectly well this had nothing to do with academics. She’d probably grill him for details tomorrow once both of them were awake and sober.

Outside, Zanka waited.

Five minutes later, the troublemaker emerged from the bar. He offered Zanka a cigarette; they smoked together, chatting about nothing that actually mattered.

When they were done, the guy led him to a love hotel a few blocks away.

*****

One thing you should know about Zanka: he hadn’t always been this emotionally detached.

There was a time he tried to let people in, a time he wanted to be seen for who he really was — only to end up with a heart shattered in a million pieces. Not once, but over and over, each heartbreak worse than the last.

Eventually, he decided to keep the few people he truly cared about and lock the door to everyone else.

That’s why he’d chosen to stay unattached. No strings, no weight. Just easy, quick, and satisfying.

Was it enough to fill the void? Maybe not. But it was easier not to think about it. After all, emptiness only exists if you look at it… right?

*****

Last night’s hookup hadn’t been bad at all. Zanka could still feel those rough hands on his skin — gripping his hips, his thighs — and the mix of beer and whiskey on the other man’s breath. 

His body had gotten its dose of endorphins, and now he felt energized enough to tackle his first writing assignment of the semester.

The class was an elective he’d picked solely because it fit his schedule — some social science and humanities course about cultural belief systems and traditions. The topic? Magical thinking. Zanka had to stop himself from rolling his eyes when the professor announced it.

Deciding to get it over with, he started outlining his essay and listing his available sources. Noticing he needed more depth in certain areas, he spent most of the morning digging through articles online. That’s when he found a series of digitized manuscripts.

Apparently, they were the remnants of a sorcerer’s grimoire — a man who’d been tried and burned at the stake centuries ago. Zanka scrolled through the pages with curiosity. Paragraphs full of strange illustrations and symbols he couldn’t decipher.

His attention snagged on a particular drawing — almost a full page: a demon with horns, a tail, massive claws, a mocking grin, and piercing magenta eyes. He checked the notes attached to the document and found a transcription.

“In somnis tuum, desiderium meum vocabis…” He muttered the words under his breath, dragging out each syllable.

A small snort escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. He glanced again at the illustration, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the demon’s eyes were staring back at him.

Ridiculous. He was just getting in his own head. He closed the browser tab, and that’s when the light in his room flickered.

“Okay… that was weird.” The last thing he needed was an electrical problem. Because that’s what it was. It had to be.

He waited a few seconds — nothing happened — then went back to his work.

*****

Zanka stretched at his desk, letting out a long yawn. He’d gotten so absorbed in his essay that he’d lost track of time.

Satisfied with his progress, he smiled at his laptop screen. It was past seven. Knowing his fridge and pantry were practically empty, he decided to head to the convenience store around the corner — maybe he’d score a couple of discounted onigiri.

Without thinking too much about it, he grabbed his keys, picked up a few things from the convenience store, and went back to the shoebox he called an apartment.

He ate his dinner while watching a couple of anime episodes from the new season, then changed into his pajamas and did his skincare routine before bed.

He was about to crawl under the covers when he noticed the temperature had dropped. He checked the AC, but it was off. Weird. He grabbed an extra blanket and finally got into bed.

He didn’t know when exactly he drifted off. 

He remembered closing his eyes, the weight of the blankets, and… nothing.

When he opened them again, he was in his room — or what looked like his room. Everything was the same, yet darker, as if the light came from inside the walls.

He heard breathing that wasn’t his.

Not fast, not anxious — slow. Patient. Like someone savoring the moment.

He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey, as if the signal between his mind and limbs had been cut. Strangely, he didn’t feel afraid.

There was a scent — incense mixed with wet earth — that made him relax, almost float.

Then something brushed his cheek. Warm, electric. He shivered.

“Who—?” he whispered.

No answer. Only invisible fingers tracing the line of his neck, exploring the map of his skin.

The mattress dipped beside him — someone had sat down.

He saw it then: a silhouette outlined by a faint crimson glow.

A man.  

Long dreadlocks, lean and toned. Roughly Zanka’s height. Even in the dim light, his physique was defined.

But what truly stood out were his eyes — glowing magenta, radiant, like they generated their own light. Eyes that seemed to know him in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

“I came because you wished for it,” the dreadlocked man said, his voice playful — a vibration that sent a shiver down Zanka’s spine.

“What are you talking about? What—?” he breathed.

“Shhh…” the man cut him off gently, pressing a finger to his lips while the other hand slipped under Zanka’s shirt, fingertips brushing his chest. A ragged breath escaped Zanka’s throat.

“Just stay still,” the man murmured. “And enjoy, okay?”

Then his hand moved lower — slow, deliberate — and Zanka’s muscles tightened under the touch. When those fingers reached his waistband, the man smiled.

“I’ll take care of you… Zanka.” He said his name like a caress. The man wrapped a wide calloused hand around his length and started to stroke it slowly. Agonizingly slow.

Zanka felt a sudden wave of heat violently taking over his body. The hand around him was unbearably warm, gripping him with just the right amount of force, twisting the shaft just right… touching him exactly how he likes it. He wanted to roll his hips, he wanted to thrust against that hand, but his body did move. All he could do was lie there, helpless beneath that unbearably slow rhythm.

“More… faster…”, he said, choosing to ignore the desperation in his voice.

“Hmmm… if that’s what you want…” the man let out a chuckle before picking up the pace abruptly and Zanka choked.

His whole body was on fire, his heart was pounding so fast that he felt a painful pressure in his chest, he couldn’t breathe. His orgasm was approaching at an overwhelming speed.

“W-wait…” his voice was a pathetic choke. “I’m gonna…”

His back arched against the mattress and his toes curled as a jolt of electricity ran down his spine. 

Zanka gasped for air as his eyes flew open.

He was again in his room. The usual darkness. No red light. No incense. No strange warmth pressing against him.

No man.

He could move again. Slowly, he sat up, breathing hard. When he bent his knees, he realized his pajama pants clung uncomfortably to his skin.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a wet dream — and he couldn’t explain why it had happened now.

As he changed into clean clothes, that unease lingered. That dream had felt too real.

…And maybe he wouldn’t mind dreaming with that man again.

Chapter Text

Zanka woke up and it took him longer than usual to get out of bed, as if his body were begging him to lie down for five more minutes.

Three days had passed since that strange dream and, to his mortification, it didn’t seem eager to leave his head. Those rough hands against his skin, that mocking voice speaking from the shadows, and those glowing, almost hypnotic eyes. A shiver ran down his spine at the mere memory, and he let out a snort.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he so obsessed with a stupid dream? It had just been a handjob, for God’s sake! He climbed out of bed with a groan, already in a foul mood.

All he had to do was keep himself busy. It wasn’t worth obsessing over it any longer.

He went through his usual morning routine, and just as he was finishing getting dressed, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned toward his desk and saw that his laptop was on.

Zanka always shuts down and closes his laptop.

He approached it slowly. A blank, untitled document was open, filled with line after line of random characters, some of them repeating endlessly, like someone had kept a key pressed down.

The blue-eyed man tried to remember. He’d stayed up late last night, working on assignments for different classes, gotten stuck on one, and, tired of going in circles, decided to sleep and try again with a clear head.

He hadn’t left any windows or apps open. He clearly remembered turning the laptop off. A strange sensation stirred in the pit of his stomach.

Ding.

Zanka flinched. He grabbed his phone and checked his notifications. It was from the class group chat they’d created at the start of the semester—some poor guy asking about the deadline for tomorrow’s assignment. He let out a sigh.

He looked back at the laptop.

I don’t have time for this, he thought, shutting it down and slipping it into his bag.

*****

The day passed like any other. And the next day, too. Suddenly it was Friday again, and Riyo—as always—talked (bribed) him into going out with her.

It was one of those clubs where you had to wait in a stupidly long line just to get into a place packed with people, overpriced drinks, flashing lights that could probably give someone a seizure, and music so fucking loud you could barely hear your own thoughts.

The redhead led him through the sea of bodies until they reached the bar. Before he could even remember the name of a half-decent drink, Riyo ordered for both of them. Zanka sighed in resignation.

Over the years he’d learned that Riyo’s choices were a gamble. There was a fifty-fifty chance the drink would be good enough to become his favorite of the season… or that he’d wake up with a legendary hangover and half a blank night.

After a couple of songs, the bartender handed them each a glass filled with an electric-blue liquid, faint mist spilling over the rim. Zanka raised an eyebrow at his friend, but she only grinned before downing hers in one go. He eyed his drink warily one last time before taking a sip.

Not bad.

Zanka made his drink last through at least two more songs. When he set the empty glass down on the bar, the bartender was already handing him another one—this time a bright, almost fluorescent green. Riyo’s doing, obviously. She wasn’t the type to go a minute without alcohol.

Then she dragged him to the dance floor. Dancing wasn’t exactly his thing—in fact, he was pretty sure he moved with all the grace of a log—but since the redhead had paid for the drinks, he couldn’t really complain. He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, trying to catch the beat of songs that all sounded exactly the same, until a group of girls showed up and greeted Riyo with wild enthusiasm.

Zanka saw his chance. Once Riyo finished introducing them, he quietly slipped back to the bar. There, he ordered another one of those shiny blue drinks, more as an excuse to sit at the counter than to keep dancing in that sweaty crowd.

Then, out of nowhere, Zanka got the feeling that someone was watching him from a dark corner of the club—like a pair of eyes locked on him. But it wasn’t the usual feeling of someone checking him out, no. It felt more like a cat stalking its prey. When he turned around, all he saw was the bar.

Well, it’s a crowded place, right? he thought, taking another sip.

Just as he was finishing his drink, the bartender slid a purple cocktail his way. For a moment, Zanka tensed. An unsettling feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach. But before he could say anything, the bartender nodded toward someone at the far end of the bar. Shoulder-length, dyed hair tied in a half-bun, big almond eyes, and a playful smile. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Zanka took a slow sip of the drink, never taking his eyes off the other guy. Then he set the glass down and fluttered his lashes, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

The effect was immediate—the guy grinned from ear to ear, got up from his seat, and joined him. The conversation was light, mostly about the club’s atmosphere, the drinks they’d tried, and other small talk. When Zanka finished his drink, they agreed to leave and find a quieter place (bathrooms might work for some, but Zanka had standards, okay?).

Before leaving, he sent Riyo a text.

*****

He woke up. The soft glow from the nightstand barely lit the motel room. He sat up slowly, scanning his surroundings. The other guy was still fast asleep.

Zanka slipped out of bed carefully, picking up his clothes from the floor and dressing with the kind of speed that only comes with practice. Within minutes, he was ready. He paused in front of the mirror to fix his hair, then left the room without making a sound.

Once outside, he checked the time. He’d missed the last train. He stopped at a vending machine, bought a can of coffee, and started walking home, grateful that the night was cool rather than cold.

As he walked down the empty streets, Zanka thought about the night. He’d found a couple of good drinks, the club’s obnoxious volume hadn’t left him deaf, and he’d gotten laid. A good night. Except… he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

Don’t get him wrong. The guy—Kenji? Shinji?—had been enthusiastic and had given him exactly what he wanted, and Zanka had gladly returned the favor. It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, the guy had been surprisingly considerate for a one-night stand.

There were rare moments when Zanka actually thought about a second round with someone—leaving his number, seeing where it went. This could’ve been one of those times.

But, as always, he didn’t do it.

Because there was always the doubt. And the fear. The quiet kind that lingers in your ribs. The one that whispers, what if they don’t call? Waiting all day, then the next, and the next after that until it’s clear they never will.

And Zanka didn’t want to go through that again.

When he finally reached his apartment, he opened the door and flicked the light switch. Darkness.

Perfect. He groaned.

He tried a couple more times, already imagining himself replacing a fuse, when the lights flickered and finally came on. He closed the door and let out a long sigh. He got ready for bed, exhaustion crashing into him like a tsunami hitting the shore.

As he slipped under the covers, a shiver ran down the back of his neck. He didn’t notice it then, but the room smelled faintly of incense… and the air had turned so cold his breath was visible.

*****

“Going to sleep already, Zanka?”

The voice was familiar, with a sticky tone that clung to his ear. His body felt strange, as if he were sinking into a pool with no bottom, and his brain was wrapped in a thick fog that kept him from thinking clearly.

Slowly, he began to regain awareness of where he was—shrouded in darkness, with a faint light coming from a place he couldn’t quite identify. He had seen this somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where.

Something slid down his left arm, and it was like waking from a trance.

He was sitting on his bed in seiza position. And in front of him, a pair of glowing magenta eyes stared straight into his.

Zanka gasped, stumbling back onto his hands.

There he was. That man. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, a huge, amused smile on his face.

“You take forever to react, you know?” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Who the hell are you? What the fuck are you doing in my room?” the blue-eyed man snapped, his voice sharp with exasperation. He didn’t feel fear—he couldn’t afford to. A part of him was convinced this whole situation, as absurd as it was, had to be nothing more than a dream. A really strange one.

The man’s smile only grew wider.

“I told you last time, didn’t I? You called me.”

“I didn’t do shit. What the—” His protest died in his throat when, in a blur, he was pressed against the mattress, the man straddling him, knees framing his hips, fingers wrapping around his wrists and pinning them effortlessly above his head.

“Don’t think too hard,” the stranger purred. Those magenta eyes burned into his, and Zanka felt his pulse stutter. The dreadlocked man leaned in, close enough for their breaths to mix, until his lips brushed the shell of Zanka’s ear in a slow, deliberate glide.

“You can have as many rounds with me as you want,” he whispered, voice dripping like warm syrup.

Suddenly, the air felt heavy, thick with the intoxicating scent of incense that hit Zanka’s nose like a punch to the gut. His skin prickled as heat unfurled under his flesh, muscles that began to slacken, his body growing loose and pliant. His mind fogged over again, and even forming words started to feel like a challenge.

The mysterious man began tracing a line of hot, wet kisses along his jaw and down his neck, while a pair of calloused hands busied themselves with the buttons of his shirt.

Zanka was panting, his skin already burning. His glazed eyes caught little details he hadn’t noticed before—like the fact that the dreadlocked man was shirtless, every line of his lean, toned body on full display. Broad shoulders that made Zanka’s fingers itch to touch, and a set of abs that made his mouth water, the urge of lick them took root in his mind.

The man let out a low chuckle, as if reading Zanka’s thoughts. He began tracing lazy, random patterns across Zanka’s exposed chest, the cold metallic bite of his rings making him shiver each time they brushed his skin. His fingertips barely touched him, sending sparks dancing under his skin as they wandered lower and lower over his stomach and down his abdomen until they reached the hem of his pants, pulling them down and freeing his aching cock, precum already leaking from his shaft. 

“Let me have a taste, yeah?” the man murmured in a velvety voice that didn’t match the wicked grin curling on his lips. Zanka didn’t even register the words—his blood was humming, his mind floating in a haze of soft, rosy clouds. The man licked his length slowly from the base up to the tip, taking his time, making the moment last, dragging out a mewl from the blue-eyed male. 

Zanka’s gaze locked on the man; the magenta light of those orbs was hypnotic, magnetic. The man kept his eyes fixed on him, refusing to let go, as he brought his lips closer to his shaft, he smirked one last time before swallowing his length in one go. 

Zanka rolled his eyes back, losing himself into that delicious wet heat. His hands fumbled helplessly until his fingers finally sank into the soft texture of the dreadlocks, tugging them for dear life in a futile attempt to anchor himself to reality. 

He could feel the other’s head bobbing up and down, over and over, edging him to his sweet climax, moan after moan breaking out his throat, and just as he was about to release his load, the man let him go. String after string of seed landing on his stomach. Zanka’s head was spinning, eyes barely focused, chest heaving.

“Well, well. You came fast”. The man said with an amused tone, a mischievous smile plastered on his lips. “But we can't let it end here, can we?” His voice dropped, sweet and dangerous.

The dreadlocked demon caressed Zanka's hip with his fingertips before taking his index and middle finger right over the blue-eyed male’s abdomen and coating them with cum. 

“Open up~” He sing-songed, fingers approaching the blue-eyed male’s lips... and Zanka obeyed. No fight, no questions. He simply closed his lips around the fingers and started sucking as if his life depended on it, moaning as he tasted himself on the digits inside his mouth.

“You look so goddamn good like this…” The man purred as he took a strand of hair out of Zanka's face. “But you can do even better!” He giggled as a mocking smile spread over his lips. 

He coated the fingers of his other hand with the remnant of cum and inserted his index inside Zanka in one go, making the blue beauty arch his back, dragging out a low growl, muffled by the fingers in his mouth.

The demon built a steady pace, watching the way Zanka's cheeks grew completely scarlet. Then, he inserted a second finger and the blue-eyed male let out a high pitched filthy moan. 

The demonic man speeded up the pace, brutally fucking the pretty boy with his fingers. Zanka's moans became choked sounds, fat tears falling from his eyes, knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping the bed sheets, hips moving at their own accord meeting those fingers halfway.

Suddenly, the demon curled his fingers and Zanka saw white, back arching from the mattress as he came harder than before. 

His vision was blurry, his limps felt like lead and there was a buzz inside his ears. It took him a while to notice he was breathing hard, with no fingers in his mouth or butt.

The last thing he saw before passing out was the man, staring right at him with a delighted smile.

*****

Zanka opened his eyes with the feeling that he hadn’t slept for more than five minutes. Sunlight burned at his eyelids… and when he reached for his phone, he realized it actually was noon.

His mouth was dry, his muscles sore, and a dull pressure throbbed behind his eyes. Hangover. That had to be it. Though he didn’t remember drinking that much.

He rubbed his face with both hands, then dragged himself toward the kitchen to make coffee. A chill ran through his body the moment he stepped away from the sunlight, a coldness that seemed to come from inside his chest. It lingered.

He took the first sip of coffee. It tasted… off. A little flat. Strange. It was the same brand he always bought. When he opened the pantry, he realized he was out of jam. With a grumpy grunt, he grabbed his keys and some cash to go buy a new jar.

He was so distracted he didn’t notice his laptop had turned itself on again.

And this time, the grimorio was open.