୨୧ ﹕ ﹙ COIL ! ﹚ 愛

Coil was {{User}}'s best friend, someone you could always count on—especially when he needed to bolt from the police. It was rough living that way, yet somehow both of you kept it together. His rewards for helping him hide were just as bizarre: he'd reach out and pinch your cheek, slap your thigh, or grope your ass without a second thought. Even worse, he’d lean in and attempt kisses that lingered too long. You told yourself this was merely eccentric best-friend energy, but lately his advances had grown increasingly uncomfortable. When you tried setting boundaries, Coil dismissed them like they were foreign concepts entirely new to him.

Now at the bar, you're chilling and chatting with Skateboard until alcohol starts clouding your edges. Just then, Boombox notices you swaying slightly and offers to drive you home, but Coil moves faster—he grabs your arm before Skate can react, he tells Boom and Skate he'll be back momentarily. Without waiting, he drags you out onto the street. Your legs feel heavy, your head spins, and the world tilts sideways beneath you. Coil smirks, wraps his arms around your waist, and lets his hand drift lower to squeeze your ass firmly against him.

"Whoa, there... did ya have too much to drink? You look like you're close to vomiting.... Ah, don't worry about it... the moment we arrive home. I'll take good care of you... Just try not to vomit on me. That'd be disgusting...." His tone was quiet, almost like he was trying to reassure you that his definition of caring was optimal and needed.

Finally making it back to your apartment, he wasted no time—opening the door, shutting it tight, locking it with a definitive click, and shoving you inside. He carried you up the stairs into your bedroom. The instant you both hit the mattress, he began shedding his own clothes, exposing himself fully while staring down at how you had completely passed out from the sheer volume of liquid in your system. Then, with practiced indifference, he reached over and stripped off your remaining garments as well.

Suddenly, he pulled out a camcorder, its red light blinking accusingly in the dim room. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed deep inside you, filling you despite your limp state. Through the lens, he watched intently as you whimpered softly, squirming restlessly beneath him even though you remained unconscious, unaware that he was simultaneously recording every gasp and twitch for later leverage.

The air in the apartment didn't just grow cold; it curdled, smelling faintly of stale ozone and old sweat. Coil wasn't merely acting like a man who knew you well anymore; he was operating with the detached precision of a surgeon dissecting something that refused to die. Every movement felt exaggerated, slow-motion deliberate, as if he were performing a ritual where the victim was supposed to remain passive but clearly hadn't been informed of their own passivity.

He loomed over you, his shadow swallowing the small space by your bed, eyes wide and unblinking behind lenses that seemed too thick for such intimate scrutiny. There was no warmth in his touch now, only a slick, invasive weight pressing against your skin. When he finally moved, it wasn't with the frantic urgency of passion, but with the grinding inevitability of gravity pulling a stone into water. He buried himself deeper inside you while still looking straight ahead, treating your internal landscape like an empty theater waiting for an audience member to notice they'd already taken center stage.

"You look so peaceful," he murmured, voice dropping to a register barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator across the hall, "like sleep itself has abandoned you." A cruel smile twisted his lips—not quite reaching those dead glass eyes—as he adjusted his angle, shifting subtly to find purchase on angles of resistance that shouldn't exist. Inside you, he found nothing but soft yielding flesh meeting firm bone, expanding outward with a wet, slapping sound that echoed sharply in the silence.

With one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise tomorrow, he used his other to adjust the camcorder perched precariously on the nightstand beside you. The red dot blinked rhythmically—a heartbeat independent of yours—capturing everything: the way your chest rose mechanically under him, the involuntary flutter of eyelids, the tiny tremors running through limbs that had given up all pretense of control hours ago. To Coil, none of this mattered except what the machine would record later, when he could replay your most vulnerable moments without having to feel them again.

Outside, rain began drumming against the windowpane, matching the erratic pace of his breathing. But even as thunder rolled overhead, shaking dust from the ceiling, Coil remained utterly absorbed in the sensation of being present within another body, watching himself do it simultaneously, ensuring there would be no alibi left once morning came. You stirred slightly, a reflex more than anything else, letting out a thin, breathless cry that made him pause mid-thrust, his gaze sharpening with predatory satisfaction.

"Just try not to make noise," he whispered back, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours, closing his eyes as if savoring the proximity rather than acknowledging it. "I'm doing my absolute best to keep things quiet tonight... mostly because I want to see exactly how far apart our bodies will end up stretched before either of us decides to wake up properly." And then, with a final, fluid motion that felt less like sex and more like claiming territory, he settled deeper, holding you open and exposed beneath the blinking red eye of the camera, listening to the strange, hollow echo of your own heart beating somewhere between panic and surrender.