sharks in the water
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

Archive Warning:
ゲゲゲの鬼太郎 | GeGeGe no Kitarou (Anime), 墓場鬼太郎 | Hakaba Kitarou (Anime)
Kitarou (GeGeGe no Kitarou)/Mizuki (GeGeGe no Kitarou)
Mizuki (GeGeGe no Kitarou), Kitarou (GeGeGe no Kitarou), Medama Oyaji (GeGeGe no Kitarou)
Additional Tags:
Resurrection, Father/Son Incest, Homophobic Language, Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Violence, Blood As Lube, Rape/Non-con Elements
Part 1 of misery loves company
Published: 2024-02-26 Words: 7,335 Chapters: 1/1

sharks in the water


Mizuki was content with staying dead, but Kitaro isn't so merciful.


hakabaverse kitamizu! it's miserable here. please heed the tags. they are no joke. thanks for reading! and as always thank you to my beloved beta.

for those curious, the song title is from "the color of growth" by donovan melero. it gave me a lot of inspiration to write this.

sharks in the water

Mizuki has a long, long time to think.

The cold, dark depths he’s damned to are never ending. Even with nothing left of him but a small, flickering soul, he still tried his best to find a way out… initially. He wasn’t the only one– hundreds, thousands of flames passed by him, searching for the same thing, an exit, all tormented by the fact their bodies were forever lost, swallowed up by an angry, merciless god. He’d been through this song and dance before, the darkness reminiscent of his one way trip to hell, so it’s all too easy for him to give up, much sooner than the rest. Now, he watches the few wandering souls with pity, knowing that this truly was the end of the road for them all, punishment for simply being in the way.

There isn’t anything else to do but think. He thinks of his mother, of work… of Kitaro. It’s impossible to forget the look of apathy on his son’s face as Mizuki’s body dissolved. The memory used to be a bitter one, but he’s managed to come to terms with it, because he’s too tired and too old for resentment.

He wasn’t an idiot. It was obvious that Kitaro’s feelings towards him were superficial; the boy tolerated him, at best, and even that was only when Mizuki complied with each and every whim of his. Mizuki’s own were… complicated. As an infant, the boy was cute and, most importantly, harmless, but as Kitaro aged… misfortune just kept finding Mizuki’s way. His mother said the boy was nothing but trouble, and… she wasn’t exactly wrong.

It made Mizuki wonder why he even put up with it. Something must have compelled him to raise the boy until his demise. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

There was guilt, there was fear, there was affection. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t love, because Mizuki still couldn’t decide if there was any in his heart for the boy.

Mizuki only hoped that Kitaro managed to survive. If his death led to Kitaro’s safety, then he supposed it was the price he was forced to pay.

He hears something in the distance, a one-sided conversation, if he had to guess, but he pays it no mind. He’s grown used to the pleads and screams. They always died down eventually, though; a human’s spirit was stubborn, sure, but they were all vulnerable to time. The odd thing was that– the voice grew louder. Closer. Angry. It’s new, and Mizuki is such a stranger to new that he tries to run from it, but he’s too slow, always has been. So helpless, in life and in death.

Something large and rough encircles him, cages him in, Mizuki’s vision impossibly dark, snuffed out like a candle, and Mizuki wonders if that some thing dwelling down with him sought him out to finally put him out of his misery.

There you are,” it calls, low and nasally.

He expects claws and teeth, something to rip and tear apart the essence he has left, but, instead, he’s pulled up, closer, and it’s evident that he’s in the palm of the thing’s calloused, cold hands, like an insect caught by a curious child. Its hands part ever so slightly, allowing Mizuki to peek through the cracks, gaze at his end.

A monster. One he’s all too familiar with. Older, yes, but he recognizes it anywhere. How could he not, when it’s all he’s thought of for the past– who knows how long?

The monster grins, wide and yellow-teethed, all too content with its prey caught in its clutches. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, old man?”

Mizuki isn’t given the opportunity to ask any questions. He’s quickly shoveled into the depths of Kitaro’s pockets, and his soul is added to a hoard of spare coins and cigarette butts.

The journey to… wherever Kitaro is taking him isn’t long, though his sense of time may be too distorted to be a good judge of that. It isn’t a straight shot, with how many turns and stops he takes. It sounds like Kitaro’s out for errands, maybe, and finding Mizuki might have just been part of a list of chores. Kitaro is more talkative now with whoever he meets, and while the conversations are too curt and dry to be considered friendly, it’s already so much different than the boy he remembers.

He hears him stop at a convenience store, buying a brand of cigarettes he doesn’t recognize. At least that confirms one thing– Kitaro is an adult. He’s been in that place for… at least a decade, perhaps more.

He wonders when the smoking started. By the mess in his pocket, it must be a habit. The fact that Kitaro is able to buy something on his own is a surprise in itself. Fatherly concern brews in his metaphorical gut, even after all Kitaro’s done. What kind of work did Kitaro find? His son skipped school so often, it was hard to believe that he graduated, nevertheless found himself something normal to do. Whatever it is, he hopes it’s honest work.

Kitaro tosses a burnt through cigarette to join the rest, breaks Mizuki’s train of thought because it burns him somehow, and he hurriedly presses himself in the back corner to hide away from it. Kitaro must feel him moving, because he laughs, of course he does, and it’s deep and husky in a way that makes Mizuki metaphorically shiver.

The rest of the way is uneventful, and Mizuki finds himself falling victim to his years long exhaustion, the faint warmth from the cigarette coaxing him to some strange spiritual sleep.

The most curious thing Mizuki notices, though, is how as he rests, Kitaro occasionally reaches into his pocket, fingertips tracing the shape of his soul, as if to make sure Mizuki is still there.

Mizuki feels much heavier when he wakes up.

Flesh and muscle weigh him down, and it’s been so long that he’s had a body that he briefly struggles to even sit up straight, sweaty palms against wooden floor to hold himself steady. He looks down at himself, eyes grazing over every mundane detail. He turns over his calloused hands, follows the seams of his cheap suit, pinches his leg to make sure it wasn’t all just a silly dream to cope with the madness of hell. It almost brings tears to his eyes.

“...You’re up.”


He cautiously looks up to his “savior”, and it’s the first real good look he gets of his son, all grown up.

There’s still traces of the boy he raised. Pale, sickly skin. Dry, brown hair, side swept bangs shielding his crushed eye. A look of agitation always directed Mizuki’s way.

But he’s changed. He’s tall and broad, like his father before his sickness caught up with him. The baby fat of childhood pulled over a strong jaw. In the right light, right angle, like how he tilts his head to meet his cigarette, he’s almost handsome. Kitaro holds his lit cigarette between his fingers, and they’re so long and thin, skin taut over bone, Mizuki wonders if Kitaro’s been eating enough. Even when they were dirt poor, he remembers Kitaro’s chubby fingers grasping onto crayons as he drew his father over and over again.

There’s so much he wants to say, to ask. He struggles with his words, tongue heavy as lead in his mouth. He speaks, hesitantly. “...Kitaro, what–”

“Don’t start,” Kitaro interrupts, and Mizuki listens, like a dog to his owner, too accustomed to being voiceless. “I know you’re gonna ask a bunch of annoying questions, so I wrote stuff down for you.” Kitaro reaches into his other pocket and holds out a wad of paper.

“How… kind of you,” Mizuki replies, unsure, taking the crumbled note into his hand. His eyes scan over the page, and Kitaro’s handwriting is still the same, barely legible.

1. This is my apartment
2. It’s 1989 1990
3. I got your body back from the water god

There aren't even any words past the fourth line, just small detailed sketches of creatures Mizuki has never seen before.

Mizuki looks up from the paper, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and Kitaro looks way too impressed at himself for what little he managed to write. “Well? That’s all of it, right?”

“...Mostly, yes,” Mizuki lies. Kitaro conveniently left out the most pertinent answer– why he even brought Mizuki back in the first place. Even more curious, how he managed to do it. Mizuki isn’t even sure if he wants to know, since Kitaro doesn’t seem so keen on explaining himself. “I just wonder… where your other father is?”

Kitaro makes a face, and Mizuki knows exactly why. “My dad is letting me try the human world out for a while. He wants me to see how I like it on my own.”

“I see.” Mizuki pauses. So even now, Kitaro doesn’t consider him a father. It’s not surprising, just… disappointing. He changes the subject. “What do you do for a living, Kitaro?”

“You’re still asking questions.” Kitaro takes a long drag, then blows smoke into the room, pointedly in Mizuki’s direction. Mizuki turns away, shields his face with a hand, though it still manages to sting his eyes. Mizuki assumes that this is the last question Kitaro will allow him. “I’m one of those life insurance guys. It’s easy, and it makes me a lot of money.”

Hm. Life insurance. That… was oddly fitting, but he worried about what kind of… practices Kitaro employed. The conversation dies there, and Mizuki looks around the room instead. It’s cleaner than he expects, though that may simply be because there isn’t much inside. The necessities, with some… revealing posters of women on the wall. Was Kitaro always into idols…?

Mizuki doesn’t look at those for too long, and, eventually, after he glances over old furniture, he settles on a tall mirror. He can’t imagine Kitaro as the type to care much for his own appearance, but maybe that’s changed over the years. Mizuki moves up, stands in front of the mirror to take his own reflection in.

When was the last time he looked at himself…? Having a body is something he took for granted; something everyone did. He’ll never get his heartbeat back, nor would he ever be warm blooded again, but at least he has this.

Though… something feels… off. Wasn’t he taller than this? He could’ve sworn his hair was just a tint darker, too, and he didn’t recall having a beauty mark right under his bottom lip. Then again, time could simply be playing tricks on his memory. It had been ages, after all. He sighs, pulling his tie loose. What was he working himself up for–

Dark, bruised skin peeks under his collar. Mizuki thinks to ignore it, chalk it up to a trick of the flickering, humming lightbulb, but his hands move to shuffle his coat off and pull the neckline of his dress shirt low.

It’s worse than he thought. A ring of sickly, purple bruises circle around the skin right under his chin, like a necklace pulled on too tight. Surely Kitaro wouldn’t be crude enough to tamper with his body, right? There’s a more obvious answer, one that makes Mizuki sick to his stomach. The more he stares, the more differences he finds, and it becomes all too clear that the figure in the mirror is a complete stranger.

“...Kitaro.” Mizuki whispers fearfully, boring into eyes that are not his own. “Who– who is this?”

“Oh. You noticed?” Kitaro huffs, annoyed. He doesn’t even look up, takes another drag, instead. “I mean, it’s close enough, right?”

“That isn’t the point! This isn’t me!” Mizuki can hardly believe it. Kitaro was never going to tell him otherwise, was he? He would have gladly let Mizuki parade around in another man’s skin. He can’t bear to look at “himself” anymore and fully turns to Kitaro, fists clenched, jaw tight. “You–” He points a finger, and Kitaro purses his lips. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but you have to give this body back to who it belongs to.”

“Yeah? And who does it belong to?” Kitaro asks, amused, like they’re playing a game. “The guy didn’t have any friends or family. Why else do you think he offed himself? Could smell him in the next apartment over, so I borrowed it, heh.”

That didn’t make it okay, he wants to say, but Kitaro cuts him off before he can argue further.

“But I mean–” Kitaro smiles, and Mizuki already knows he won’t like what he hears. “If you’re gonna complain, I might as well just put you back where I found you, yeah? ‘Don’t be ungrateful.’ That’s what you always told me, right?”

The fear of going back to that cold, empty place is much stronger than his guilt. Mizuki doesn’t say anything back, and Kitaro’s grin turns toothy, knowing that he won.

That night, after Mizuki prepares his dusty futon, he prays, prays that the body he’s stolen will forgive him.

It’s frightening how easy it was for Mizuki to return to his old routine. With how much time had passed, Mizuki didn’t have confidence that it’d be easy to find work. Resurrection wasn’t exactly a good excuse for the impossible gap in his resume, not to mention that his death certificate in the system would raise many, many questions.

Kitaro had already elected to take care of his new identity, tossed his new ID and papers his way one morning (literally– the man had the audacity to just watch him pick up the mess), and when Mizuki asked where on earth he managed to get them, Kitaro just said he “knew a guy”, whatever that meant. The documents looked official enough, managed to fool the employment office. The only issue was that… well. Kitaro must have not cared to learn his actual name. Mizuki was his family name, not his first, and it took some time to adjust to being “Tanaka-san.”

Their schedules aligned more than Mizuki would have liked. They left at the same time, came home at the same time, had the same days off, and Mizuki worried about what people might think of two grown men living together.

When Mizuki voiced his concerns, Kitaro just rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be gross,” he said. “You’re my dad, aren’t you?”

Mizuki liked to think so, but it was clear that Kitaro was just humoring him, and… the way Kitaro hovered over him when they were home together made Mizuki feel more trapped than loved.

“You’re in a good mood this morning, Kitaro.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Kitaro adjusts his tie (a new form of his chanchanko, apparently) again, for the third time, looking unusually nervous in front of the mirror. It’s… oddly cute, watching him stumble about, starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked. The new suit looks good on him, too. Grey suits his complexion, and the cut doesn't make him look so skinny. “I have a date after work, heh. She’s a hot office lady. Big boobs, glasses, that type.”

“...I see.” Right. This was Kitaro, after all. Anything cute from him didn’t last more than a minute or two. Mizuki turns back to his newspaper. “I hope you both enjoy yourself.”

“Yeah, well.” Mizuki feels Kitaro looming over him, a lanky shadow creeping forward into his vision until he can’t read the ink of the local news section anymore. Bony hands clamp down on his shoulders, and Mizuki can’t help but flinch. The cold breath on his ear doesn’t help. “I might have to kick you out, ‘nless you wanna be a perv and watch us when we get back from dinner.”

Mizuki grimaces at the thought and shrugs Kitaro’s hands off of him. No self-respecting woman would stay long once they took a good look at the place. Regardless, Kitaro gleefully whistles to himself on his way out, leaving Mizuki to tidy up. Because in the case that Kitaro actually does bring his date home, Mizuki figures that Kitaro should at least have a fair chance at a intimate night, even if that means Mizuki stays at a hotel to save his poor eyes and ears.

Mizuki expects the apartment to be empty when he comes home, and thankfully, he’s right. It’s a nice change of pace having the place to himself. Mizuki could finally relax knowing Kitaro would be busy for a while and not have a skeleton of a man breathing down his neck for a change. He splurged on some groceries after work, since the same order of takeout was starting to become stale on his tongue. He isn’t the best chef, no, but he could follow a simple recipe.

Mizuki’s mother made better curry, but his is serviceable, and he’s happy to eat alone. Just as he spoons his last bite, he hears Kitaro coming in, and he braces himself for another person to follow behind, but it’s… just Kitaro.

The date must have not gone well. It’s written all over Kitaro’s face, annoyance and flushed cheeks– did he go drinking? Mizuki doesn’t question him. He knows that would only make things worse.

“Where’d you get that?” Kitaro slurs, nearly tripping over his own legs.

Mizuki is thankful that they’re avoiding the subject entirely. “I, er. Made it. There’s some left on the stove, if you want any.”

Kitaro grunts, and he makes himself a plate in silence. He sits on the other side of the table, and Mizuki watches him eat a spoonful. Kitaro’s face doesn’t change, and he continues to eat without insulting Mizuki’s cooking, a shocker. Mizuki’s satisfied enough knowing that it’s good enough for Kitaro’s drunken tastes, and he gets up to wash his plate. This is good. Uneventful, peaceful.

“Sssshe stood me up.”

Or so he thought. Kitaro’s confession isn’t a revelation, but he… can’t help but feel a little bad for him. Kitaro didn’t have much luck with love, not with his looks or winning personality. That Neko girl seemed like a perfect fit, but… her death tore Kitaro apart, and it made his heart ache. Was this Kitaro’s way of asking for comfort? It’s not his forte, but… Mizuki could try. It’s his duty, as a father.

“Is that so?” Mizuki starts, drying his plate with a towel. “I’m sorry, Kitaro. That just means she wasn’t right for you.”

Kitaro clicks his tongue. Mizuki sighs. At least he tried. Maybe it wasn’t comfort he wanted, then.

“I donnn’t get it.” Kitaro angrily spoons curry into his mouth, talks through his food. “What’s so bad about me, huh? Huh?” Quite a lot, but Mizuki doesn’t say that. “I just want a girlfriend. I’m never gonna get one at this rate. ‘M gonna die alone.”

There’s a sniffle or two between Kitaro’s lamenting, and it spurs Mizuki to try again. “That isn’t true. There’s someone out there for everyone.” Mizuki puts his plate back in the cupboard and turns around to retire for the night, but Kitaro is right in front of him, blocking his way– he didn’t even hear him move. “Kitaro–”

“How come you don’t have a girlfriend?” Kitaro leans down, staring at him hard, as if he’s looking for something.

“Ah, well…” There’s an easy answer for that, but Mizuki doesn’t want to have that conversation. Ever. He goes with his classic way out, the same he used with his coworkers and prying neighborhood grandmothers. “I don’t have time for one. I guess you could say I’m married to my work.”

“I think,” Kitaro leans down even more, their faces inches apart. Mizuki can smell the alcohol on his breath. There’s sauce on his lips. “I think. You don’t want a girlfriend.”

What? It can’t be that obvious. Mizuki has been careful about it; he’s nothing like the “fairies” people gossip about. Kitaro’s just… drunk and stupid. Mizuki reasons that Kitaro’s just trying to get under his skin, and, unfortunately, it’s working. His entire body tenses, mind on high alert, sensing danger at his heels.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mizuki tries to push Kitaro away, but he doesn’t budge. He’s thin, but it’s like pressing against a brick wall. Mizuki laughs, nervous and forced, sweat at his neck. “K-Kitaro, move. I’m going to bed. You should, too.”

“You’re a homo, aren’t you?” Kitaro continues, a strange look in his eye.

“Kitaro, enough!” Mizuki shouts, and he pushes– shoves against Kitaro’s chest again, harder this time, but to no avail.

Kitaro grabs him by the front of his shirt, throws him down to the floor like a ragdoll, and Mizuki winces as he lands ass first against tile, knowing he’ll be feeling that in the morning. He moves to get up, starts by moving onto his knees, but before he can get back on his feet, Kitaro grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls his head to the front of his pants, nose into his zipper. Mizuki freezes, feeling a bulge already there, and his breath catches in his throat. No. No, no, this can’t be happening. Frantically, he tries to claw at Kitaro’s arm, blunt fingernails dragging down his skin. Kitaro’s free hand wraps around his neck, squeezing hard enough to add to the bruises already staining his throat. Their eyes meet, fear against scorn.

“Quit,” Kitaro warns. “I mean it.”

Mizuki’s brain is foggy, desperate for oxygen, and Mizuki lets his arms fall in defeat. He’s rewarded with his throat freed, and his mouth hangs open as he pants for air. Kitaro’s hand lowers, and Mizuki flinches, expecting to be choked again, but his palm skips him entirely, instead taking his zipper between his fingers and slowly pulling it down. He reaches into his pants, carelessly pulling out his cock, and Mizuki is so close to it that he can see every vein. It’s so much bigger than when he was a boy, when they used to bathe together. He swallows, trying to suppress the urge to vomit, but Kitaro must mistake it for lust, because he laughs, moves Mizuki by the hair to drape his flaccid cock over Mizuki’s horrified face.

“I get it now.”

Kitaro hums as he takes his cock into his hand, guiding the tip to press against Mizuki’s chapped lips. Mizuki tries to pull his head away, but Kitaro’s grip is too strong.

“Am I your type?”

Mizuki parts his lips to object, because no, he’d never, but Kitaro takes advantage of the opening, forcing his entire length into his mouth. It steals all his precious air, and Mizuki’s eyes roll back in agony– it hurts, stretches his mouth and throat impossibly wide. He chokes around it, wet gags filling the room as Kitaro starts to move his hips.

“Mmn. I suspected it for a while. Even when I was a kid. The neighbors thought so, too, heh.”

Mizuki didn’t want Kitaro to talk. It hurts enough already– he didn’t need more salt in the wound. His first time with a man was already being stolen from him. He had to be realistic– no matter how hard he dreamed, fantasized, he’d never take a lover, but he liked to believe that this would’ve been more gentle.

“Always thought you might try touching me, but I guess you like them– ah, big.”

To emphasize, Kitaro thrusts hard, as deep as he can go, Mizuki’s nose buried in his unruly pubes. It brings hot tears to his eyes; snot runs down his nose. He can’t imagine he looks good. He prays the sight might turn Kitaro off, convince him to stop, but when he looks up, vision blurred by tears yet to spill, he makes out the shape of Kitaro’s crooked grin.

“Listen. I’m not into guys, buuuuut… your mouth is– fuck, it’s good enough. Nnh. It’ll make up for me not getting laid tonight.”

Kitaro grabs Mizuki’s head with both hands, holds it still as he fucks into his mouth, like he’s nothing but a toy. He wishes he couldn’t hear himself– hear how wet his mouth’s become to make the slide easier, the heavy breaths through his nose, the pitiful moans when Kitaro’s cock blocks his airway. Mizuki is horrified that he’s slowly gotten used to his size, and, even worse, his own cock twitches against his pants. Each drag of Kitaro’s cock against his tongue makes his cock throb, and he’s grateful that Kitaro is too selfish to notice. He doesn’t dare reach down to relieve himself, knowing that it’d just prove Kitaro right, that deep down, he wants this, he always has.

Kitaro doesn’t speak now, thankfully, just moans and curses as he loses himself in the heat of Mizuki’s throat. Mizuki can sense that he’s close, animalistic and rough as he thrusts, and Mizuki reluctantly works his tongue against his cock to finish him off. It works like a charm; Kitaro buries himself in his throat, it’s all he can taste, and Mizuki isn’t even given a warning when he cums. Kitaro groans through it, and his grip loosens, and Mizuki’s finally given the chance to pull off, though not without his face dirtied with the rest of Kitaro’s release. He coughs up spit, bile, and cum, and he instinctively moves to wipe his face, but Kitaro doesn’t even let him have the privilege of cleaning himself.

“Nu-uh,” Kitaro chides, as if Mizuki’s a child. He grabs Mizuki’s face, forces his mouth open with a thumb. “You can’t waste it.”

Kitaro collects his own cum on his fingertips and wipes it on the flat of Mizuki’s tongue. It’s slimy, salty, and gross, like overseasoned fish. When Kitaro pulls his fingers away, Mizuki closes his mouth, desperate to spit it out, but he fears what Kitaro would do to him if he tries. Kitaro watches him expectantly, and Mizuki sniffles, eyes squeezed shut, as he swallows.

Kitaro laughs as he strokes his cheek, then his hair, and Mizuki keeps his eyes closed, shuddering through the affection. The gentle touch feels like a joke after all he’s done.

“You’re not too bad.” Mizuki opens his eyes once Kitaro’s hand pulls away, and he watches Kitaro unceremoniously tuck himself back into his pants. “You can thank me for the meal later, heh.”

It’s over. Just like that. It happened so fast that Mizuki can almost pretend it didn’t happen at all. If only there wasn’t evidence– Mizuki can still taste cum in his mouth, and he reaches to pull a pube out from between his teeth. The ghost of Kitaro’s fingers around his neck still lingers.

Mizuki doesn’t know how long he sits on the kitchen floor, legs weak, mind numb, hard as a rock.

Mizuki tries to pay it no mind. Kitaro was just drunk, angry, and horny. It isn’t… okay, but Mizuki can… move on, even if no matter how much he brushes his teeth, he still feels a gross, disgusting film in his mouth. They don’t speak of it the next day, and it brings Mizuki hope that, perhaps, Kitaro’s memory of it vanished after his hangover, but Mizuki isn’t so lucky.

The moment Mizuki gets home, the door shut and locked, the two of them away from prying eyes, Kitaro pounces on him, shoves him onto the doorway floor, face down and hips up. Kitaro presses himself against his ass, already hard, and Mizuki’s hopes of last night being a one time occurrence are shattered in an instant. Kitaro must have been waiting to do this, and the premeditation is somehow worse than what happened before.

“Stop! Stop it!” Mizuki shouts. Squirming and kicking does nothing to shake Kitaro’s hands off of him. Kitaro manages to pry his legs apart and wedges himself between the gap. He tugs Mizuki’s pants down, his briefs next, and Mizuki shivers at the cold air on his skin, completely exposed and at Kitaro’s mercy. Mizuki won’t win through brute force, so he tries something else, begging. “Kitaro, stop… Please! I don’t want this!”

“Shut up,” Kitaro grumbles behind him. Right, if Kitaro cared about Mizuki’s consent, then this wouldn’t be happening in the first place. He makes a low noise, as if he’s pondering something. Mizuki grimaces as he feels Kitaro groping his lower half, fingertips tracing up his calves to his ass. “Wow. From behind, you almost look like a woman. I can work with that.”

“No, I–” There’s a way out of this. Mizuki just has to think. Right– bribery, that always worked, appeal to his desires. “L-listen, Kitaro. We can find you a, um, a call girl, whoever you’d like. Wouldn’t that be better? You don’t want to do this with a man, right?”

Kitaro’s hands leave him, thankfully, and Mizuki lets out a sigh of relief. He shifts forward, just an inch, but he’s pulled right back, even closer now, and a thick, fleshy weight rests against the slope of his ass.

“Nah,” Kitaro replies. “You’ll be fine. Don’t have to worry about money or you getting pregnant. A hole’s a hole, nothing gay about it.” Mizuki can’t understand his logic, but he has bigger problems than Kitaro’s strange way of thinking. Kitaro’s cock slides down, runs down his crack until the head meets his hole. Mizuki struggles again, anything to delay the inevitable. Kitaro holds him down by pressing his palm against the back of his neck, and Mizuki’s head turns to rest on his cheek, gritting his teeth. He hasn’t been prepared at all, it’s too dry, it’ll hurt, it’s–

It’s agonizing, sharp and hot and painful, not even the small amount of precum from Kitaro’s tip brings him any relief. It hurts so much that Mizuki can’t even find the energy to protest anymore, just tiny huffs and whimpers passing through his lips. Each inch is worse than the last, something tears as Kitaro pushes forward, he smells the blood before he feels it ooze down his thighs. By the time Kitaro’s fully inside, tears wash down Mizuki’s face. Men didn’t cry like this, but it’s the only thing his body can manage to do.

“Ow, fuck. This hurts,” Kitaro has the guts to say, as if Mizuki’s insides aren’t being ripped at the seam. “Can you relax? I don’t need you choking out my dick.”

Mizuki doesn’t respond. The pain made him numb to it all, nerves too overworked for his poor brain to comprehend. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend this is just a nightmare, and when he wakes up, he’ll be back to that dark place, with no body to be defiled.

Kitaro must not want a dead fish of a partner, because he brings Mizuki back to the present by sinking his teeth into his shoulder. Reality is a cruel beast, but Kitaro will always be crueler. Using blood as makeshift lube, Kitaro’s able to fuck him like a wild animal, all lust and no technique. Even still, Kitaro manages to brush against a spot that makes Mizuki keen every so often, his cock hanging uselessly between his legs, dripping onto the floor. Kitaro ignores it, once again.

Fuck. It’s a good thing I got you a new body, heh,” Kitaro’s hands go to his waist, much thinner than Mizuki remembers. He’s smaller than before– perhaps his old body could’ve bore the pain better. “Bet your old one was fucked loose. Is– is, ah, that how you got food on the table? Skank.

“I–” It isn’t true, but maybe, just maybe, this is part of Kitaro’s depraved fantasies. He’ll play along, degrading as it is. He doesn’t want this to last longer than it has to. “Yes, I…. Nnhg. I did what I had to. For– for you.”

“Yeah?” Kitaro sounds way too excited. He swears Kitaro’s cock feels bigger now. “Then… then I’m taking your virginity, yeah? At least in this one.”

Yes,” Mizuki sobs. Admitting it stings. He never got the chance to do this right, and now he never will. Kitaro’s taken everything from him. “You are, you are.”

Just like before, Mizuki can tell when Kitaro’s about to finish, his moans become pitchy, his hips become unsteady, and he digs his nails into Mizuki’s skin to keep him conscious and still. Kitaro fills him to the brim, an uncomfortable, hot sensation at the pit of his stomach, almost like he ate too much. Mizuki groans as Kitaro pulls out, and he’s glad that it’s over.

Kitaro flips him over onto his back, and his cock sharply presses into him again, making Mizuki cry out in half surprise, half agony. As if that isn’t enough, Kitaro carefully shifts Mizuki’s legs around his waist, as if they’re lovers intertwined. Kitaro starts slow, working his own cock to hardness again while inside him, but it isn’t long until he’s back to splitting Mizuki open.

The mess inside makes this round easier on his body, and his skin tingles with heat and sick pleasure. Mizuki avoids Kitaro’s eye, but he knows Kitaro is watching his face, how his expression twists every time Kitaro fucks him right. It fills him with shame, even worse when Kitaro’s mocking grin occasionally catches his eyes.

Mizuki doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing his body is enjoying itself now, but his cock leaks against his stomach, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop the croaked moans forced out of his lungs.

“I– I wish,” Mizuki musters all the hate in his heart, venom dripping on each and every word, “I wish you had died that day.”

“Aw,” Kitaro coos, completely unbothered, and he mockingly kisses along the bruises on his neck. “I love you, too, old man.”

Mizuki stops getting out of bed after the sixth day. He thought that by then, Kitaro would surely get bored, but it happens every night now, over and over and over again.

He can’t bring himself to get up for work anymore, not when he knows what’s waiting for him as soon as he steps foot inside. Kitaro makes enough money for the two of them, even if he complains about Mizuki being a leech. He doesn’t have to keep hiding the bruises, not when no one sees him anymore. Fucking on the futon hurts less than against the floor, too. Mizuki can prepare himself before Kitaro gets home, though Kitaro still finds ways to make things painful for him.

It isn’t good, but it’s… easier. Manageable. He’s become nocturnal, since Kitaro keeps him up all night. Mizuki is moments from falling asleep, exhausted from their morning “quickie”, when he hears a small, shrill voice.


“Oh–” Mizuki sits up with a start, pulling a blanket over his body, hoping to hide the hickeys littering his skin. He looks around to find the source, and his eyes land on a tiny walking eyeball near the foot of the futon. “Ah… hello. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Mhm. It has.” Kitaro’s father crosses his arms, unphased at Mizuki’s appearance. “It’s nice to see you. Kitaro didn’t tell me you were living together again.”

Mizuki frowns. He thought that Kitaro’s father would be the first to know. Why would he keep it a secret? Maybe Mizuki’s presence just wasn’t important enough to mention. Kitaro certainly acts like he’s nothing but a nuisance.

“It’s good that he’s making his own choices,” Kitaro’s father continues, pacing back and forth in a small circle. “I suppose I’m just a little surprised.”

It’s obvious what he’s talking about, how their relationship has crossed the boundaries of father and son. Mizuki feels disgusting and guilty. He should know better, he should have done more. Now it’s just… broken. They can’t come back from this.

“I–” Mizuki clears his throat, curls in on himself. Something about Kitaro’s father makes him feel like a burden, a mistake. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Kitaro’s father is way too calm about this. Shouldn’t he be angry that Mizuki is taking advantage of his son, or is a relationship like theirs nothing of concern to yokai? He’s not sure if he wants to find out. “I’m thankful for all that you’ve done for my son. As long as you’re both happy, I can’t complain.”

Kitaro’s father isn’t understanding. He thinks this is a mutual affair, that Mizuki’s shame is just out of being so underdressed. It’s much worse than that– so deep and permeating that it stains Mizuki’s soul.

“I’m– I’m not. Not happy.” Mizuki confesses, furiously shaking his head, and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It opens the floodgates, brings forward feelings he’s tried so hard to suppress. “I didn’t… I don’t want any of this. I didn’t ask to be brought back. Kitaro is–” He clenches his fists, feeling his chest collapse in on itself. His body trembles as the memory of the past week washes over him. Kitaro is what? Raping him? He can't bring himself to tell the truth, not in front of Kitaro’s father. “Kitaro is, um. Confused, I think. He’s not… ah. I’m not the best for him.”

“Hmm.” Kitaro’s father tilts his head, taking it all in. He takes a few moments to think, then nods. “Well, that’s a shame. I suppose that makes sense. You’re a human, after all. In that case, you should leave, no?”

“Leave?” Mizuki parrots, because he hasn’t… considered it before. Why would he? It couldn’t be that easy. Kitaro wouldn’t just let him go. It was the same when Kitaro was a boy, he couldn’t abandon him, something much worse would befall him for it, surely. If it was so simple… then what had he suffered so much for?

“Yes, leave,” Kitaro’s father repeats, like Mizuki is stupid. “If you’re worried about my son’s feelings, then you can leave this weekend. There’s a yokai gathering I’d like him to attend then, anyway.”

Mizuki doesn’t respond, too caught up in the idea that he could have avoided all of us by taking a chance. Staring blankly at the wall, Mizuki’s entire life replays in his mind, wondering just where he went wrong.

Kitaro’s father, seemingly satisfied with their conversation, says his goodbyes, gets no reply, and leaves the way he came, through a tiny crack in the front door.

Mizuki has a way out. He’d be a fool not to take it.

Mizuki doesn’t make his decision until that Sunday. He weighs the pros and cons, and he comes to the conclusion that there’s not much worse than what he’s already been through.

As he collects his things, he hears it. The front door lock clicks. The doorknob turns. The door creaks open. Mizuki doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is, even though Kitaro’s supposed to be out until tomorrow morning.

“I knew it,” Kitaro huffs, slamming the door shut. Mizuki flinches at the sound. “I knew something was going on. Did you and my dad plan this? Sneaky.”

“I’ve… had enough.” Mizuki moves up, taking his briefcase in one hand. It’s light, there’s not much that he owns, besides his personal documents and a few changes of clothes Kitaro begrudgingly bought him. It only confirms that he doesn’t belong here. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“What?” Kitaro glares as Mizuki stroll past him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To Tokyo,” Mizuki answers, calculated. It isn’t the truth, of course, but what Kitaro doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “My company is willing to transfer me to another position.”

“You’re leaving? Just like that? Don’t bullshit me. There’s no way you’re getting transferred after skipping work for so long,” Kitaro cackles, and, well, Kitaro isn’t wrong. “All you’ve done is mooched off of me, and now what, you’re gonna find some other guy to whore yourself out to?”

That he’s wrong about, but Mizuki doesn’t care to correct him. He can think whatever he’d like. He doesn’t turn around as his hand wraps around the doorknob, voice cold. “Goodbye, Kitaro.”

“...Huh? You’re serious? Hey, wait!” Mizuki hears the panic in Kitaro’s voice, and he stutters before he settles on a single word. “Dad.

Mizuki’s heart sinks, like a rock in water. He hates how his entire body comes to a complete halt. His grip falters as guilt eats away at his bones.

“Dad, don’t go. Don’t leave me.” Kitaro pleads, soft and pitiful, and it sounds so genuine that Mizuki doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I don’t wanna to be alone...”

How long had Kitaro been alone? No– he can’t ask questions like that. It’ll weigh on his conscience; he doesn’t need it to be heavier. He can’t take it, he needs to leave, but a pair of arms circle around his waist, keeping him still, keeping him trapped, captive, prisoner.

“Dad, please.” Mizuki wishes he’d stop.

“I missed you. You don’t get it.” He really doesn’t.

“I thought about you all the time.” That can’t be true.

“I spent so long trying to get you back. You can’t go.” He has to.

“Dad, please–” Kitaro whines, so soft that he sounds like Mizuki’s little boy again, and– Mizuki is smarter than this. He knows Kitaro is just saying what he thinks Mizuki wants to hear. It’s always been like this. Dad, Dad, Dad until Kitaro gets what he wants. He hasn’t changed. He never will. “I love you.”

…But Mizuki won’t ever change, either. He gives up, because it’s easier. He knows that his fate is no longer his own, that Kitaro will follow him to the ends of the earth until he takes everything Mizuki has to offer. He might as well accept it while Kitaro’s feeling kind.

Mizuki drops his briefcase, lets go of his freedom. Frigid lips press against his own before he hears his luggage meet the floor.

“Dad,” Kitaro moans against his skin, suckling on his throat like it’s honey sweet. “Daaad. Dad. You’re tighter than usual. You’re gonna snap my dick off.”

He expects this, too. Though, surprisingly, Kitaro is gentle with him. Mizuki anticipated a punishment of some kind, how dare he try to run, but Kitaro takes his time fingering him open, he doesn’t bite, and he keeps their hands intertwined as he slowly grinds into him.

For the first time, Kitaro takes care of Mizuki’s own arousal, stroking him in time with each intentional thrust against his prostate.

“Feels good,” Kitaro pants, and he covers Mizuki’s lips with his own, tracing the shape of his mouth with his tongue. When he pulls off, a line of spit connecting their lips, he runs a hand through his sweaty bangs, and Mizuki gazes at his injured eye. Perhaps, in some sick way, this is his burden for leaving his son forever scarred.

“I’m– close, gonna–”

Mizuki pulls his son down for another kiss, arms draped over Kitaro’s shoulders. Kitaro takes it as a sign to speed up his hips and hands, and Mizuki moans into Kitaro’s mouth, leaning into his body, letting his son’s body envelop him.

Kitaro cums inside like he always does, but Mizuki does too, his cock spilling between their stomachs. The night is long, and Mizuki readies himself for Kitaro to move him into another position, insatiable as he is, but, instead, Kitaro simply pulls out and turns Mizuki onto his side so he can take Mizuki into his arms, curl around him like a lazy cat.

“Goodnight,” Kitaro yawns, digging his bony knees into the back of Mizuki’s wet thighs.

Mizuki knows that a night like this won’t happen again. He should leave the moment Kitaro is asleep. This is the only chance he’ll have again, he thinks, but he stays put. He lets their two cold bodies be warmed by the dirty blanket covering them both. He reaches an arm behind him to comb through Kitaro’s hair, unaware of the wicked, knowing grin hidden in the dark of their bedroom.


End Notes

sorry for tormenting you so much mizuchan. it's out of love.

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