
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6220060.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Boku_dake_ga_Inai_Machi_|_僕だけがいない街_|_ERASED_-_The_Town_Where_Only_I_am
      Missing, 僕だけがいない街_|_ERASED
  Relationship:
      Yashiro_Gaku/Fujinuma_Satoru, Sugita_Hiromi/Fujinuma_Satoru
  Character:
      Kobayashi_Kenya, Sugita_Hiromi, Fujinuma_Satoru, Yashiro_Gaku
  Additional Tags:
      Dark!Satoru, Implied_Murder, Dubious_Morality, Shota, Spoilers,
      Lewd!Satoru
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-11 Completed: 2016-08-18 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 4481
****** God Doesn't Want Us ******
by Pseudonymous_(Cloudgrey)
Summary
     In 1988, Satoru escapes his fated coma by playing a little
     differently.
     ("It's exactly because I love you that I must destroy you."
     Satoru tries to make something out of his relationship with
     Yashiro—although, hold that thought.)
Notes
     As a manga reader, I've been sitting on this one for a while, because
     Hiromi is a trap and Yashiro is too obvious in the anime.
     This is my first time writing an explicit piece.
     Er, just wtf is this sin.
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
You are twenty-eight and eleven; things like a missing male presence in your
life and filling the gaping hole inside your heart have long been festering in
your mind. You look at him, look at his stilted smile, hear his warm words,
feel the cold frostbitten winter on your cheeks, and you wonder if the hole
your father has left behind could ever be replaced by him.
“You are the one who got me in gear, Satoru. Your heroic efforts couldn’t
possibly end in tragedy.”
His big, warm hand on your head brings a smile to your face, and you have
decided there is no way you will let him go. You want to have him how ever you
can. You will have him.
(You hardly have any memory of your father; you wonder if he talked like him.)
Evil deeds and good deeds are our attempts to fill the hole in our hearts.
Everything is a replacement for something else. For this, we do what we have
to. For this, we lie to survive.
“Yashiro sensei.”
You are inside a child’s body, and after a night of deep contemplation, you
decide to play into this role the best you can. You are your mother’s son,
Kayo’s silver-lining, Kenya’s ideal hero and the maker of Hiromi’s smile.
(What are you to him?)
Yashiro calls you to his office, taps his finger on the edge of his desk. He
looks at you, brown eyes kind and cold filled with all-knowing fascination that
unsettles you. You cannot quite place a finger on it. When he smiles, it
borders on a smirk.
“Was your reward the smile on Kayo’s face?” he asks. “I wanted that, too.”
He taps on his desk — one, two, three — and you realise with a jolt it is a
rhythm of your heart. Your breath catches, your hand shoots out to halt his
movement. Yashiro freezes under your touch, stares at you with glazed eyes and
parted lips. You hear a hitch in his breath when you curl your small hand
around his finger.
“Thank you, sensei,” you say softly. “You—you made me really happy.”
You are startled to see a crack in his composure and for a moment, you are so
certain that the animal that lurks behind those eyes is burning with desire.
There is something else there too. But the man catches himself quickly, gives
you a smouldering look that makes your heart beat double and winks at you. He
removes his hand from under your touch and says, “You are free to go, Satoru.”
You return to your classroom with flushed cheeks and a sense of opportunity
lost. Kenya calls you out for staring at your hand throughout the whole lunch
break. Hiromi giggles and asks if you miss Kayo already.
After school, you take them to the abandoned bus to look for clues. You divulge
to them your investigation, knowing it will either make or break your
friendship. Either they call you insane, or they go insane with you. But Kenya
smiles and tells you he believes in you. The same thing happens with Hiromi
when you walk him home, only it’s not the same at all when he grabs your hand
and—
You are twenty-eight, he is ten, and you wonder if this is what you look like
to Yashiro: soft, warm and despairingly naive. Hiromi tells you that he can
take care of himself, that he is a man too but then he leans into you, all soft
and sighing, all Satoru, please; Satoru, thank you, and kisses you. His mouth
is cold and quivering against your steadying warmth. Not bad. When he pulls
away, he looks like he is ready to bolt. You squeeze his hand reassuringly.
“It’s fine,” you tell him.
“No, it’s not,” he whispers back.
“Go home. Be safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When you walk into class the next day, Hiromi meets your eyes across the room,
turns bright red and looks away. You try to look appropriately baffled when
Kenya gets you alone and asks, voice laced with suspicion, What happened
yesterday?
“I think Hiromi talked me into protecting him without meaning to.”
“Don’t you do that already?”
“Yeah. But now I want to,” you say.
Kenya sighs, “Hiromi can be such a girl sometimes.”
You shrug. “It’s not a bad thing, I don’t think.”
 
                                       *
 
Yashiro makes you and Kenya stand outside the classroom holding water pails.
You contemplate seeking Yashiro out during lunch break, but that would be weird
because you have nothing to say to him. You go to the teacher’s office anyway
though, because children are expected to do weird things sometimes. You think
of Hiromi and the transparent way he acts, and resolves to emulate him.
Yashiro swivels around in his chair to face you, a pudding spoon in his mouth
and a pudding cup in his hand.
“Yes, Satoru?” he says.
“My body hurts,” you tell him.
He raises his eyebrows, Hm?
“You made us hold the pails for too long.” You sag against his desk to prove
your point. “Aren’t you a little cruel to be doing this to us kids?”
“Oh?” He sounds amuse and plays along with you. “Was my punishment too harsh?”
You nod, stumble into him and bury your face in his chest. His body is warm
under your touch and you whine in satisfaction.
Yashiro freezes and pushes you from him with one hand, the other places the
half-finished pudding cup carefully next to his convenience store bento.
Climbing onto his lap, you peer into his lunch. The question leaves your mouth
before you can stop yourself, “Why are you eating sweets before your meal?”
“Why are you being nosy?” he asks. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”
“You should finish your meal, sensei.”
“It’s fine,” he tells you.
“I’ll feed you if you want.” You shift around and picks up the chopsticks.
Yashiro flushes and leans away from you, looking around the empty staff room.
“That’s probably not appropriate, Satoru. If any teacher sees you now, I will
get in trouble.”
His hand is splayed on your hip though, thumb running along the waist of your
trousers. There is something here. You can use this, you think. Yashiro ends up
taking his lunch with him to the infirmary as you two wait for the nurse to
show up. When you scramble onto his lap now, he allows you this much. It’s as
if he knows the nurse will never show up and that there is no need to hurry.
“Where does it hurt, Satoru?” he asks softly.
He skims a hand up your back, and you sigh into his ear. His hand freezes and
you feel a shudder run down his spine. He shrugs himself out of his blazer and
rolls up his sleeves before placing you on the bed. He rummages through the
cabinet for something to relieve your pain. You feel kind of guilty for lying
to him, but there is also a part of you that is sure he knows.
“Ow, ow, ow.”
“Where, here?”
He presses into a knot on your shoulder and tries to dig it out. You yelp and
spins around to smack his hand away. He mutters an apology, sliding from the
nurse’s chair onto the bed and you lean into him, hand skating up his thigh,
lips parting to mouth around his name. He shudders, touch disappearing but
returns, this time to rub cold gel on your shoulder. Your body shakes from
thrill and nervousness when he pushes you onto your back. When he bunches up
your shirt over your chest, you shiver as the cool air brushes against your
exposed skin.
You catch a broken look on Yashiro’s face and your blood runs a little cold.
His expression is predatory, and you should be scared but there is also
something there that makes your inside heat up. Sensei, you murmur and pull him
down by his tie. He watches you enthralled and follows until your faces are
inches apart. His eyes glazed over with want, and when his hand brushes against
your nipple, you moan and arches into him.
“Touch me more,” you say. “It feels amazing.”
Yashiro yanks his hand back, startled, and you can practically see the gears in
his head turn. He pulls himself together at a speed which impresses even you.
“Those aren’t words children should be saying.”
You get up on your elbows, tilt your head and give him an appropriately
confused look. “What do you mean?”  When Yashiro shakes his head, you want to
tell him, say something accusing, like, Get your mind out of the gutter, or How
can you look at a kid with those lewd eyes? You want to rile him up, force him
into a corner, make him show his true colours. And even then, even then—
“I want you,” you blurt out.
His gaze snaps back to you, and you colour to the roots of your hair.
You try to correct yourself, “I want you to be nicer to me, Yashiro sensei.
Don’t—don’t make me carry those water pails any more.”
Yashiro breaks out into a laugh. And although it sounds a little forced, you go
along with it. You want to believe in him, in his sincerity, in his innocence.
Do not let me know it’s you, or I surely will—
The bell rings and he stands. When you make no move to sort yourself out, he
hovers over you and pulls your shirt down, knuckles brush and linger on your
stomach as he does so. When he takes your hand, your heart brims over with joy.
(It’s probably him.)
 
                                       *
 
He drives you home.
You listen to his advice.
He shoves three lollipops into his mouth like he has something to prove.
Your suspicion grows.
It’s him.
 
                                       *
 
Insightful as ever, your mother tells you to be careful. She doesn’t say of
what, but you have a feeling you know. Either way, you should focus on positive
results. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
At school, Hiromi latches onto you and you let him. Although you pretend to be
oblivious, you didn’t survive all the dangers that came each revival without
knowing how to sense dangerous eyes on the back of your head. As you return
Hiromi’s hug, you look past his shoulder and meets Yashiro’s eyes across the
deserted hallway. He holds your gaze, his hands clenching and unclenching. You
look away when you stumble into the wall under Hiromi’s weight. Hiromi murmurs
Satoru and kisses you all closed-mouth and awkward.
Yashiro calls both of you to the teacher’s office after school. Hiromi is
shaking from embarrassment, and you try to look equally abashed.
“This is not something two boys should be doing,” he says, “What makes you
think this is appropriate?” and the underlying message here is: You are barely
more than a decade old.
“It’s because we are ten that I think it’s fine,” you say.
Yashiro shoots you a sharp look.
“Hiromi, you are dismissed for now. I need to speak to Satoru alone.”
Hiromi panics. “But—but it isn’t Satoru’s fault. I—”
“It’s fine,” you tell him.
His shoulders sag and he looks at you with teary eyes. “I’m sorry Satoru.”
“It’s fine,” you repeat, and then, lean in to whisper, “I’m not angry. You can
have dinner at my house, if you want.”
Hiromi jolts and sputters an “o-okay…” He turns bright red and runs off.
“Now what is this about, Satoru?” Yashiro crosses his arms over his chest and
leans forward in his chair. “You think being ten makes you grown up enough to
be doing those things?”
You shake your head.
“It’s the opposite, sensei. We are too young for it to mean anything,” you tell
him.
Yashiro raises his eyebrows. He looks genuinely surprised. You know you sound
like an adult, but that is because you are.
You continue, “I don’t think Hiromi fully understands what he is doing, that’s
why I think it’s fine. It’s not like I’m encouraging him. I’m just making sure
all my friends are close enough, so I can protect them.”
“Protect them from what?”
You bite your lip and stare at your feet. You lean forward until your mouth is
right next to his ear. Sensei…can I , you murmur, can I touch you?
He jerks back. “What?”
“See? I know you understand it, sensei.” You move away from him. “The caution
of having to hold back because of society’s disapproval. You like me too,
right? You must understand how Hiromi feels.”
Yashiro sputters. “Satoru, that’s not—”
“I like you too,” you blurt out. “I admire you a lot.”
(From whom am I protecting them?
 I’m protecting them from you.)
 
                                       *
                                        
Like with Kayo, Hiromi’s safety is more important than other people’s opinions
of you, even if one of those ‘other people’ is Yashiro. It’s easier to work
with the tide instead of against it, and if accepting Hiromi’s crush means you
can keep him close enough to protect, what does it matter? You will not lose
your focus or get your priorities mixed up. Yashiro’s love comes second to
stopping the killer.
And you can only hope it’s true when you get into Yashiro’s car to chase after
Shiratori’s truck. In your gut, you feel that there is something very very
wrong. It finally comes to you when you see the empty glove compartment, the
laxative that falls out of it, the tap-tap-tap of Yashiro’s gloved finger on
the steering wheel and the chilling grin on his face. Your heart races and then
sinks. You are not as surprised as you think you should be.
“I resisted the idea. I didn’t want to believe that anyone was anticipating my
move, let alone, you.”
The seatbelt will not come undone, and Yashiro tells you so. In the haze of
flight or fight response, you decide on neither. Instead you let out a sigh,
lean back into your seat, and you know your resignation must have startled
Yashiro, leaves him wrong-footed, because his grin slips into confusion.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” you ask him. “Grown ups always let their
guards down around children because they think we don’t notice. But you are
really remarkable, Yashiro sensei. I almost couldn’t tell.”
You can see his body tremble, can see the look of uncontrollable frustration in
his eyes. His leather grip tightens around the steering wheel.
“I was going to let you go, Satoru, because you are truly special to me.” He
grits his teeth. “Why must you get in my way?”
You force a quiet smile. “I only did it to get you to notice me. I won’t stop
you any more now that I seem to have your attention.”
“My attention?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “And I’m not going anywhere.” You try to touch him and your
arm is a little short, so it falls into his lap instead. His thigh muscles
tense when you slide your fingers up to his crotch to make your intentions
clear. “Please park the car, Yashiro sensei. Help me out of this seatbelt.”
Yashiro parks the car beside the riverbank. The snow is falling all around
them, turning the scenery an innocent white. The future is a sheet of blank
paper, and only your will can leave footprints on it.
When Yashiro leans over, an expression of complete manic on his usually
handsome features, you reach out to him, arms shaking from fear and
anticipation, cradle his face in your hands and smashes your lips against his.
He kisses you back, open-mouthed and feverish, and you cannot help but moan,
your voice high and so pathetically young. He runs his gloved hands over you
and when you whimper against his mouth, he finally breaks.
His will, his resolve, his plan.
He helps you out then throws you into the backseat and follows. You kick the
basketball bag onto the floor in the haste to make room for him. He pulls you
onto his lap, his fingers skim down your front, dancing along the lines of your
leg. Touch me without those gloves, you pant.
It is sick, twisted in every way, but your voice catches in your throat and
comes out as a shallow exhale.
“Did you know,” he says, reaching up higher by a fraction — you flinch, and the
barest beginning of a whimper escape your mouth, “that I have always been
watching you?”
You bury a half-suppressed moan in his shoulder, shuddering.
“You are just like me, aren’t you? Always seeking out things to fill that hole
in your heart.” He takes off his gloves and brush his fingers against your
inner thigh. ”Satoru." His voice, right into your ear again, clearly
enunciated, softly spoken, and it nearly drives you into insanity.
“Sensei.” You grab Yashiro’s chin and press your lips against his, desperate,
body on fire and mind in a mess.
“What a fragile little thing,” he says. “I can snap your neck in half any time
I want, yet you are not scared in the least. There is no boy as special as
you.”
You whimper into his ear as he begins to peel off your clothes. Your jacket is
flung over the steering wheel, and your shirt is thrown to the back of the car.
You shiver against him, and he wraps his arms around you. You lift yourself up
as he pulls off your trousers and underwear, dropping them to the floor. Hold
me tighter, make me feel warm, you murmur.
He kisses you hard enough that he almost bites down on your lips, and it makes
everything tilt and slide sideways like vertigo, like your entire world is
tipping. You find his hips and begin to unbuckle his belt. He grinds into your
hands and pulls back to gasp, then his mouth is back, still wet and open on
your lips. You make some incredibly stupid noise and kiss him again and again,
sloppy with need.
He pulls away to give you a stern look that you know so well. You smile and
wrap your arms about his neck, drinking him through the kiss, feeling the sheer
bliss of his warmth pervading you and you are dimly aware of his hardness under
you. You part your thighs, murmuring gently as he pushes your hips down and
grinds roughly against you. You wince as the texture of his trousers graze
against your baby skin. You sit back on your heels and unzips his trousers. He
hisses as his erection springs free, brushing his rigidity against yours as if
that is its one true purpose. You hold it, hot in your hand, and pumps.
Sensei, tell me you love me, you demand throatily, knowing he’ll comply. He
does, voice catching on the words as he drags his lips and the short syllables
across your smiling mouth.
No, you tell him, wrapping your legs around his, pushing your pelvis onto his
erection, Tell me when you’re inside me.
His erection jerks at your words, pre-come splattering against your balls and
you whimper, rocking gently to bring him back into contact with you as he says
slowly, I am going to break you, Satoru.
Please make it so that it doesn’t hurt, you whine. Unceremoniously, he sticks
his finger into your entrance, and it burns. When you scream, his penis
twitches. Before you can adjust, he pushes in a second finger. Your voice
cracks this time, and he groans loudly at your scream. He adds one more finger
and then another until you are so full and hard and writhing.
You are a sobbing, shrieking mess of Yashiro sensei, sensei—ah, ow! He grabs
your chin with his free hand and peers hungrily into your tear-stained face.
When he smashes his lips against yours, shoves his tongue into your mouth in
the same rhythm as his fingers, you scream and thrash; he pulls out and slams
his fingers into your ass right to his knuckles.
“Sensei, please. It hurts!”
"What’s life without a little pain?”
And then his fingers are gone.
He lifts you up and slides his throbbing penis under you, lining the
overflowing tip to your wet entrance, wide palm spread across your rear, nails
grazing the crease between your cheeks. You cry out and claw at his shirt when
he breaks into you. He groans loudly and you whimper at the agony as he
stretches you beyond your limit.
"You’re mine, Satoru. Mine.” he says, eyes flickering shut as your already too
tight passage clenches around him.
You gasp. I’m yours. No one, you tell him, no one but yours. His breath catches
and, sliding his other arm about your back, curving you to him, he muffles your
cry with his kiss, his body slipping deeper into yours. Your body throbs with a
heady mixture of pain and promise, your toes flex back and forth over his
waist, your legs squeezing him, wanting him to move even as your body spasms
around him. Now, you manage between laboured breaths, Tell me now, sensei. You
feel a quiver run through his form, nerves, apprehension, pleasure.
He looks down into your face, expression that of deadly seriousness. I love
you, he says it, and you tremble. I love you. You’re the only one who’s ever
made me feel this way. Your entire body is wracked with shudders and there’s
this disturbing wetness seeping from your eyes. I love you too, sensei, you
gasp and drag his head down to muffle your ecstatic sobs with his lips. You
separate for air a few moments later and the smile in his eyes makes you blush.
Your heart breaks to be loved by him and to want him as much as you do.
Closing your eyes to kiss him deeply, smoothing your tongue across his palate,
it occurs to you that nearly every inch of him is pressed against you. You
shudder, opening your eyes, wanting to see exactly how his body looks against
and inside yours. He catches sight of your attempt and chuckles, Don’t worry,
Satoru. You look perfect connected to me.
Your penis twitches; you rub it against his stomach, moaning, and he begins to
pull out. You look downwards to where your body aches, past your own
undeveloped straining dripping hardness just in time to watch him slam that
thick hot shaft back inside you. You choke on your own pleasure, gasping as his
width rubs the quivering nerve-ends within you and he places his hands on your
hips, lifting you and then releasing, groaning as gravity pulls you back down
until he’s fully seated in you once again.
Your hands curl over and around his shoulders, wanting to hold him closer but
needing to push at them with every wave of pleasure that strikes you. Weak with
emotion now, doing barely more than rocking wildly and sobbing atop him as he
thrusts into you, you rest your forehead against his, whimpering as the rough
pads of his fingers reach up to tangle in your hair. Eyes locked, you kiss and
you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of consciousness, a slow burning
filling the hollow of your belly. Good boy, he whispers against your mouth, I
truly do respect you.
And just like that, you come.
You thrash, head thrown back and shoulders knotting as you arch your spine
beyond its limits, skin burning bright under the cold winter dusk. You vaguely
worry that you might both die from this as you collapse on top of him, crying
hoarsely as your body clenches around him and he jerks, nearly lost in the
throes, in the pleasure you gave him. You feel you could almost come again as
the thought passes through you that even though Yashiro may have done this with
others, he never loved them and he never looked into their eyes; they never
knew the true him, and as you lay there, snatching quick kisses between gasps
for breath and triumphant smiles, you know that he is as lost as you are when
he finds love reflected in your eyes, and you see yourself in his.
I will beat you unfairly first, so stay with me a little longer.
 
                                       *
 
Filling up that emptiness in your heart is a commonality, finding what you are
looking for and obtaining it…
The more difficulties there are, the greater happiness when you overcome them…
You blink open your eyes to the year 2004, to the feeling of kisses peppering
down your stomach, right to the base of your half-hardness. You are propped on
goose-feathers pillows and white linen sheets. When you thread your hand
through a head of hair, the face that emerges from between your thighs is
Hiromi’s, all long-limbed, grown up and handsome. Somehow, you are not
surprised. A gentle wave of awe washes over you, filling the gaping hole inside
your heart. He slides up to you, all smiles and loving licks just like a puppy,
murmuring, Good morning, Chairman of the City Council.
You chuckle and pull Hiromi down into a kiss, Idiot, that’s not my name.
He giggles into your ear and tells you softly that he loves you.
 
                                       *
 
Locked inside a mahogany dresser are letters addressed to a deadman named
Nishizono, a rusting handgun and an old pair of bloodstained leather gloves.
(You really did love him.)


 
***** Chapter 2 *****
This is Pseudonymous.
I've compiled all my ERASED fanfictions into one book. And it's free to
download! At least for now. So you probably better hurry. Haha. I've set up the
download page, so feel free to tap into this link: God_Doesn't_Want_Us to get
your free copy. It's an ePUB file which will make it easy for you to read
mobile. And you can also read it on your computer. If it doesn't work, feel
free to email me or leave a comment, and I'll send you the PDF version!
The anthology consists of 'Sunlit Heights, From Life’s Dissonance', 'God
Doesn't Want Us' and 'There Isn't a Single Soul in Paradise'.
Sunlit Heights, From Life's Dissonance
     Satoru x Kenya; PG-13; 3,900 words
     When they pull Satoru out of the water, Kenya watches from the slope.
     Kenya decides early that he doesn’t need to believe in Satoru’s time-
     travel bullshit to want a future with him.
God Doesn’t Want Us 
     Satoru x Yashiro, Hiromi; NC-17; 4,200 words
     In 1988, Satoru escapes his fated coma by playing a little
     differently. “It’s exactly because I love you that I must destroy
     you.” He tries to make something out of his relationship with
     Yashiro—although, hold that thought.
There Isn't a Single Soul in Paradise
     Satoru x Kenya; PG; 1,500 words
     The reasons Satoru decides to stay. During his coma, Satoru haunts.
 
                            Download_the_book_here.
  Works inspired by this one
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
