Well, I'll be. Apparently, I’m writing fiction again. I have Saezuru on the brain and I am unconsolably depressed. So, fair warning, this is some sad bastard storytelling.
And here's not-really-a-spoiler since the first line gives it away: Yashiro is dead. Doumeki is haunted. There's no sex. (Because I am terrible.)
Please don't read this if all of the above will make you sad.
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“Every love story is a ghost story.” -David Foster Wallace
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He's being haunted. Sometimes Doumeki sees him in periphery – a flash of honey-gold in a world gone grey. He shifts to get a better look, but whenever he fixes the place Yashiro stood, the dark, grey world creeps back in and the man disappears.
They’ve been playing this game fairly often in the two weeks since the funeral. Boss’ ghost is every bit as adept at hide-and-seek as the man himself was, it seems.
Doumeki would be pissed if he didn’t miss him so much.
He wonders whether Nanahara and Sugimoto could help. Like him, they were left behind when Yashiro went to confront Hirata. They’ve also been saved against their wills. Could they be chasing the same pale shade? Doumeki braves a trip to the Shinseikai offices, to grieve together if nothing else. He enters quietly, not knowing what to expect. But his brothers don't notice him. They're busy shredding documents and lobbing insults at a missing supervisor. In another world, one that's not grey, Doumeki would smirk, silent and fond. But in this world, their obscenities sound like lost prayers, as if calling Boss a "slut" might somehow summon him in a cloud of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.
It appears they're not being haunted. Not like he is. And when he considers it, they wouldn't be. They didn't break Boss, after all. There’s no reason for Yashiro to torment them. Doumeki leaves as soundlessly as he came, guilt causing a gaping maw to open up in the floor beneath his feet.
He wishes it would swallow him.
I can’t pay my respects here, he thinks. It’s my fault. I failed again. He slinks into the elevator, vowing never to return. The metal doors slide closed, and reflected there is a gorgeous blond who grins in a familiar, all-knowing way. Boss is bright and golden, and close enough to touch.
Can ghosts read minds? Doumeki asks himself. He knows better than to Yashiro, though. He knows the other man will run if caught.
There’s one obligation he can’t quite shake. Even so, fulfilling it makes him sick. He barely keeps his stomach from spilling out of his throat as he bows low to Kageyama. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect Boss,” he whispers, shocked by how steady he sounds. Doumeki presses his palm to his chest, right above his heart. He holds it fast, because that will most certainly break if he doesn’t pull it together.
Kageyama tries to alleviate his burden. He prattles on about tragic yakuza endings and how Yashiro was always a spectral sort of person who floated here and there, and got himself into every trouble. Doumeki can’t make out many words past “I expected this.” After that, his vision runs red. He bolts without taking his leave, before rage overtakes his reason, before he sends Kageyama’s teeth scattering.
Once outside the back door, Doumeki doubles over, gripping his knees for support as his fights for breath. His hands tremble. His head spins. And all the items littering the grimy alley blur – cigarette butts, used condoms, and so much grey. Eventually, his long lost guilt resurfaces. He’s thankful. It'll keep him from acting out in anger, though Kuga would probably forgive him for punching the doctor.
Yashiro wouldn’t forgive him, he doesn’t wager. He caught Boss’ disapproving glare in the clinic's windows.
Do it for Nanahara-san and Sugimoto-san, Doumeki tells himself as his pulse hammers in his ears. Sweep away any incriminating evidence, leave some rent money, and get out. The stairs leading to his apartment have taken on an ominous aura. And were there always so many of them? He hasn't come home since the night he spent with Yashiro. He crashed on Aoi’s couch for the first week. When his grief started affecting her too, he got a cheap hotel. If anyone’s going to be haunted, better him than her. Better him than anyone.
And better anywhere but here. His demons live here.
It doesn't matter. You can't fail again, Doumeki rallies. Clear the evidence. Fear of causing more pain to his superiors compels him to move. He lumbers up the stairs, counting each and reminding himself to breathe. He’s not carrying anyone today, but there's warm weight against his shoulder. Silken hair tickles his chin as he clumsily fits the key into the lock.
Doumeki's police training takes over. He opens the door and braces himself for a strike. If Yashiro were alive, he’d let him strike. He’d let him kill. But Boss is dead. Unfortunately, the man's ghost is far more terrifying than someone so beautiful has any right to be.
He steels himself across the threshold, gently closing the door behind him. Closing them both in. The air is stale and heavy, suffocating almost. His apartment doesn’t look different. It doesn't look haunted. But he’s not fooled. Nothing and everything has changed; this is seeing his home from inside his worst nightmare.
The tatami creaks under his socked feet as he steps further inside. He meant to have that replaced, back in the world before. It doesn't matter anymore, he supposes.
Suddenly, the floor does give way – or so Doumeki feels, what with how his heart crashes through it. He'd forgotten until he sees: Hanging exactly where he’d left it is Boss’ shirt. It's rumpled where he couldn’t smooth it out properly. For a blissful moment, he's transported to the time before. He even chides himself for being a lackluster bodyguard. The wrinkles have dried; it’s impossible to stretch them out now.
Minutes pass in a forgetful haze before his rationality catches up: This isn’t a dream anymore. It’s a nightmare. Nightmares have long memories and he's doomed to never, never forget.
The heaviness washes over him once more. Doumeki sighs and reaches towards the stark, white cotton, his fingertips barely glancing the fabric. He recalls how stunning Boss looked, buttoned up in well-cut suits and designer shoes. Yashiro was sexier dressed than most men were naked.
Air shifts, silent but firm. From somewhere, a lazy chuckle resounds. It echoes in the stillness. “Thinking about how sexy a dead man is? And they call me the pervert.”
Whatever breath he had left leaves Doumeki’s lungs in one heaving rush. He whips around, desperately searching for the source of that poison-sweet voice. There. Behind the rice paper screen leading to the bedroom. His eyes narrow. Late evening sun filters through the small window on the far wall. Everything is awash in an orange light. Sunset throws the shadows into sharp relief; the silhouette lying in his futon is unmistakable.
Yashiro crosses one impossibly long leg over the other and turns his head. Doumeki knows Boss can see him through the screen. His blood turns to ice in his veins. Unlike the phantoms he’s met elsewhere, this ghost is solid. He’s real.
No way, he thinks. It's a dream. His brain screeches a warning behind his eyes. He can only blink it away, transfixed.
“Come here,” Yashiro purrs.
The man sounds like sin, even more so than he did when alive. In that suspended instant, Doumeki learns why he’s avoided coming home. The same instinct prevents weaker animals from unwittingly wandering into predators' dens. Yet here he is, willing prey.
Truth be told, he doesn’t much care what he loses here (he's already lost everything here), but Aoi’s expecting him for dinner. He promised he’d take better care of himself. He promised to come around more, to let himself be saved for once.
“You're really going to refuse?” Yashiro asks, sharp tongue slicing clean through such promises. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Coming, Boss.” Doumeki smiles, a little rueful. They both know he can’t stop himself. He never could.
He opens the screen door to find him there. Like a dream, he thinks. The man lounges in the rumpled bedding, sleek body spread out in artful disarray. Yashiro's flaxen hair spills across the pillow. His skin, flawless as ever, glows like alabaster in the dying light. Expensive cologne and cigarette smoke suffuses the room, the scent forever trapped in the sheets.
“You’re so beautiful,” Doumeki says, sinking down to the futon. He lets himself stare. His eyes rove over every inch of the other man's body. There’ll be no orders to keep them trained on the road. There'll be no one else to see him like this.
As if reading his thoughts, Yashiro’s eyes gleam with a copper fire. But his expression betrays a deep affection. The bedding rustles underneath him as he sits up and leans close. “What will you do, seeing this beautiful person naked in your bed?” It's a tease, lips brushing against Doumeki's ear and breath hot against his neck.
You should leave, his mind tries feebly. He's not human; he can’t be Boss.
Yashiro starts humming a dark, mournful tune, seemingly out of nowhere. Called by siren’s song, Doumeki smothers the last of his hesitation. He reaches forth to cup the other man's cheek. Boss is warm in his hands, like he’d always been. Nothing and everything has changed. He knows he’ll be permitted the tenderness he’d selfishly stolen before. This realization elicits a secretive, indulgent smile as he draws them closer. “I’ll stay at your side,” he promises.
“You idiot.” Yashiro admonishes, murmuring against his lips - a gesture carrying something of the old Boss. This, finally, settles Doumeki’s heart. “Don’t you know what I am?”
for my beloved azii ( @thelxinoes ) , the last installment in seven deadly sebastians, and the first piece of fanfiction i have written in two years. to rediscovering ourselves, our writing, and our friendship ♡
Wrath is the sweetest of all sins, for demons. It is easy to cultivate, and the culmination of flavors is, shall we say for irony's sake, divine. A finely aged whiskey, sherry oak barrel and a hint of cacao distilled under magnolia trees. Gentle, if you will.
As the flames they set curled higher towards stars they could never hope to reach, Sebastian draped his suit jacket over his newest master's shoulders. Even with the mutilated corpses of her late husband and son at her feet, she did not flinch. This woman, made of stone and pieces of broken soul. A vague smile graced the demon's lips, and he took his place beside her, fire alight in his eyes. Smoke coiled in hers, their color mulling to a burnished opal. They would never look lovelier until the day he watched the light drain from them.
"Shall I take you home, now, Mistress?" he purred.
"This past will die," she said without looking at him. "I will kill it if I have to."
"Yes, Mistress." Sebastian bowed low at the waist. "May God have mercy on your enemies."
"I won't."
Wrath, pride, gluttony, sloth, envy, greed, lust.
A woman with nothing to lose, not even her soul, and an insatiable hunger for vengeance. Yes, wrath was the sweetest of sins, but it came as the dessert for a seven course meal, and this woman was a feast.
Alexandra Nikolayevich. All you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach. I will raise you to heaven, and mightier will be the fall...
ok but azii as an Academique™ what would (perhaps in a college au?) mikorei’s majors/fields of study be?
For you, my dearest: college + coffeeshop!AU. I’m a little rusty at fiction, so apologies if this isn’t up to standard. I need more practice.
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The King’s Scepter coffeeshop was near-empty. A biting gale had driven campus denizens into their dorms and offices. Most students had taken their orders to go, cradling their hot drinks between gloved hands as they again shuffled into the storm.
Reisi didn’t mind. The fewer customers, the more time he had for studying. It was finals week; he needed all the time he could get.
Only his soccer teammate, Suoh Mikoto, remained in the café, his scarlet head bent over a pile of engineering textbooks.
Reisi watched, captivated by the way the man tapped a pencil to his lips and scratched out a few notes. The afternoon sun reflected off the snow outside, filtering through the windows and suffusing everything in a soft, whitish haze.
In this light, Suoh looked positively radiant. He looked peaceful, even – deceptively so, since everyone knew he was brusque, short-tempered, and constantly seeking trouble.
It’s like being in the eye of a hurricane, Reisi thought. Breathtaking. And then he chided himself. They were friends, yes. But that was most likely on account of their unparalleled talent on the field. When you intimidate everyone, you tend to be lonely. Reisi knew Suoh had friends off-campus, a life rooted here in Japan that had nothing to do with him. It was this fact that prompted him to masque his feelings for the other man.
Reisi had planned his whole future, after all. He’d finish his political science degree and move to Paris for law school. When he returned in a few years, he’d be well-trained to work in government or law – he’d make a difference.
His attachment to Suoh was nothing when compared to all the good he could do. Big dreams shouldn’t be ceded to small crushes.
Is it merely a small crush? he wondered briefly, before choking off the thought. It hardly mattered anyway. Instead, Reisi strolled over to Suoh’s booth and took in the scene. Various books strained under the pens and pencils the man had stuffed them with in order to mark his place. Strewn about were other office supplies with no rhyme or reason. Even Suoh’s red, red hair lay in artful disarray, clearly having been scrubbed through in frustration several times.
Reisi refilled Suoh’s coffee cup. “You probably need this,” he said drolly.
The redhead nodded his thanks without looking up. “Study with me since no one’s around.”
“Sure,” the brunet replied, leaving the coffee pot on the table. He walked behind the counter and gathered up his things. While doing so, he admonished gently, “You need a babysitter to make sure you work, don’t you?”
Suoh shrugged, completely unconcerned he’d been found out. “Caffeine only helps so much when the material’s this boring.”
Reisi slipped into the booth, pushing aside Suoh’s mangled books to clear a workspace for himself. Among the heavy textbooks, a small, tattered paperback caught his attention. It was well-worn and dog-eared, but thankfully, it hadn’t been stuffed with makeshift bookmarks. After glancing at the title, Reisi canted his head in mild surprise. “La Belle et La Bete, Suoh? Really?”
“’s for French class.”
“I didn’t realize engineers needed French.”
“Don’t,” Suoh shrugged again, attention still monopolized by the sloppy notes under his nose. “Wanted to learn since you’re always reading shit in French.”
Sometimes, he makes even less sense than usual, Reisi groused internally. “Pardon?” he asked, opening his notebook and taking highlighter in hand. “Why would you bother with what I read? We’re in vastly different fields.”
Suoh finally looked up, that gleaming golden gaze pinning his companion to the chair. “You can be an idiot sometimes,” he said, the tiniest hint of irritation underscoring his words.
The name-calling was familiar, and typically, all in good fun. It was part of their dynamic. But Reisi couldn’t remember Suoh ever questioning his intelligence. He immediately bristled. “Excuse me? Surely a philistine like you hasn’t the audacity to in—”
“Je t’aime,” Suoh whispered, cutting off the brunet’s tirade. He moved in a flash, leaning across the cramped table to press their lips together for the briefest of instances. Then he pulled away, a predatory grin curving his lips. “You idiot,” he repeated.
Reisi’s mind, understandably, stalled out amidst a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts and impressions: shock that his feelings were reciprocated; shame that his mask hadn’t held; the vague taste of too-sweet coffee on Suoh’s lips; and desire, humming through everything like a current. One thing emerged from the murk, clean and sharp. “You kissed me?” he asked, the statement turning into a question before it was out of his mouth. Oh God, I am an idiot, he thought.
Suoh laughed, slow like honey. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”
“You-“ Reisi tried again, desperately willing his intellect to kick into gear. He stopped, breathed. And then breathed once more before asking, “How long have you known about my feelings? Wait, how long have you had feelings for me?” How much time have we wasted?
Another shrug. If Suoh shrugged again, Reisi was going to throw hot coffee in his face. But the only man scratched his chin, looking at the ceiling as though discussing something as inconsequential as the weather. “Dunno, really. Been waiting a while for your big brain to figure it out.” He sighed and looked at Reisi, expression soft, open. “You were planning to run off to Paris alone, so I figured I’d say something.”
“You said you love me,” Reisi pointed out. At the very least, he should confirm the idiot before him hadn’t mistranslated. “That’s not just something.”
“Guess not,” the redhead shrugged. Again.
Oh, Reisi was going to kill this man. Most definitely. How Suoh could be so insufferably nonchalant about something so – so, massive – was beyond the brunet’s intellectual faculties. His sharp violet eyes narrowed in pure annoyance. No, no, he wasn’t mollified a bit. “Who the hell confesses their love in the middle of finals week, on a whim, in French, no less?” he hissed. And for good measure, he threw an eraser at the other’s chest, buoyed by the satisfying thump it made as it bounced off and landed on the floor.
That certainly got Suoh’s attention, affixed now on Reisi’s lips and morphing into something playful. “Oh, you want chocolate and roses, Your Highness? My bad. Next time, I’ll romance you properly.” He licked his lips, electric eyes traveling over Reisi’s body as if in a dare.
Reisi might have continued seething, but that delicious stare stopped him short. So many promises in those hellfire eyes, and Suoh hadn’t uttered a salacious word. It was seductive, but something else lodged in Reisi’s throat like a trapped hummingbird. Something sweeter than hunger, and far more tender. “Next time?” he asked, quiet and hopeful.
“Next time,” Suoh affirmed, resuming work as if nothing had transpired. “Might be a while before I say it again, though,” he joked. “Maybe when I visit Paris.”
Rendered speechless, Reisi sputtered momentarily. A war waged behind his mask, lingering questions racing one after another until he forced them all to still. The future would come, whatever that meant. But right now, they were here, together, on a clichéd coffeshop date. Reisi smiled and surreptitiously slid his foot forward under the table. He rested his ankle against Suoh’s – just so, no intent, no demand. Just to touch, to prove to himself that he could. “Je t’aime aussi,” he whispered as he returned to his reading.
Big dreams shouldn’t be ceded to small crushes, he thought, something warm settling in his chest. But neither can they withstand the veritable hurricane who is Suoh Mikoto.
I know it’s taking a while, but I really am working on the next chapter of Karnevalesque. Remember the prompt is ‘A Lifetime, in 51 Valentine’s Days.’
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Their first Valentine’s Day as a couple is spent apart. Hirato is away, deep cover on a mission to infiltrate yet another front company for Palnedo. These sorts of endeavors are tedious beyond measure, in his opinion. They also exacerbate his nihilistic tendencies more than a legion of varuga ever could. He doesn’t want to be here; he barely wants to be alive. What’s the point when they are fighting a losing war with man-eating monsters who stand at the pinnacle of evolution? Everything he is has been subsumed under the SS-rank that Circus bestows upon its favorite toys. His life is endless drudgery, one mission after the next, and frankly, even the struggle isn’t his. It belongs to Executive Tower.
He’s lost in the sheer nothing of it all when he receives a text from Tsukitachi. It’s a picture. The First Captain managed to snap it at the precise moment Akari entered his office to find it overrun with lurid flower arrangements and balloons (and airship captains). Far from surprise, the blond’s otherworldly eyes are narrowed in abject fury. His lips are a tight line. And he’s clearly on the verge of flying into a thunderous rage.
“Isn’t he cute?” the redhead types.
“Exceedingly,” Hirato replies in earnest. For the first time in a long time, he wants something for himself. He wants to go home.
In which I tried to write a short, playful PWP and it turned into a hulking monster. I even included some plot. Apologies; seems I can’t be concise now that I’m back on my academic bullshit. Sorry fandom, I’m garbage. But you likely already knew that. There’s a ‘Karnevalesque’ Easter egg here. Bonus points if you can find it.
This is a graduation (not birthday) gift for my first online love @faikitty. I had birthday on the brain, apparently, though, so happy birthday to Hirato, I guess?
Content warnings include, well, sex. Be warned.
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Hirato frowned and checked his watch. He’d been asked to meet Akari in one of Research Tower’s old offices, but the blond had not showed as of yet. He assumed his lover had a birthday celebration planned, but when the captain took in his surroundings, he wondered if he’d misread said lover’s intentions. The office in question was not bare so much as it was abandoned – as was the entire hallway, ostensibly. Moreover, it was gloomy. A sturdy desk sat towards the far wall, the accompanying leather chair undoubtedly idle for years now. Matching mahogany bookshelves lined the chamber, all empty and having acquired an impressive layer of dust. Only the lilac moonlight filtering through the windows hinted any life whatsoever, and even that gave the whole arrangement a rather forlorn air more suited to a funeral as opposed to a birthday.
Akari rarely failed, but if this – whatever it was – was his idea of a birthday gift, then Hirato found it markedly less than impressive and more than disappointing. I suppose we’ve hit the limits of your imagination for romance, he lamented, albeit fondly. I’ll see to matters myself, then.
The captain sighed and settled at the desk, fingers deftly shifting through the screens on his communication device. He considered making reservations at an exclusive restaurant and informing Akari of the change in plans. But as he vacillated between a rustic Italian villa outside Minastaran and a popular French eatery in Vantnam, a hesitant knock sounded against the door frame.
“Hirato-sensei, I have some questions about my exam,” Akari said, rare insecurity inflecting his tenor.
Hirato looked up and promptly dropped his communication device. It landed on the carpet with a muted thud, but he hardly noticed. All he could process was his lover, clad in the distinctive uniform worn by Kuronomei attendees. The grey wool skimmed Akari’s frame. His thighs looked especially lean and inviting. Twin amethysts were riveted to the band of black circling the right pant leg, his mind overrun with visions of those lithe thighs wrapped around his waist or slung over his shoulders. True to form, Akari had dressed conservatively: jacket closed, shirt buttoned against his throat, and his tie impeccably knotted in what must be a cheap nod towards propriety. In Hirato’s opinion, the man looked anything but decent. Even the rising blush on his cheeks only added to the ensemble, completing the picture of forbidden fruit ripe for the plucking.
Akari rarely failed, yes, but he had soundly outdone himself tonight. Hirato mentally applauded: although he’d been forthcoming about his scandalous imaginings of sensei in his Kuronomei days, he’d never explicitly revealed that one in his lengthy catalogue of fantasies included a reversal of roles, a trade in authority whereby he would be the one bending the blond over his desk. Evidently, there had been no need; his lover intuited these wants regardless. A gentle affection bloomed in his chest for a moment, for the man who granted his desires before he could speak them. And for a suspended instant, he was breathless.
Crystalline eyes flashed in stylish silver frames – their ruby fire the only light in an otherwise monochrome scene. “Did you hear me?” Akari demanded, adjusting his glasses for good measure. “I said it would please me to review my exam results. Are you so unconcerned with your students’ futures that would ignore my request?”
He couldn’t help it, charmed as he was. Hirato laughed and removed his gloves. “Mea culpa,” he breathed, placing the gloves in his overcoat pocket before shrugging it loose. Wordlessly, he folded the coat onto a bookshelf and resumed his perch. Only after performing these gestures in a deliberate, unconcerned fashion did he turn his attention to his charge, crossing his legs and steepling his hands. Hooded irises darkened further as he drank in the other man’s appearance. Still, he said nothing, taking his time in committing this to infallible memory; he didn’t want to lose anything.
Clearly, Akari took this pregnant silence for teasing. He huffed and dropped his masquerade, immediately defensive as a result of what he perceived to be disinterest. He crossed his arms before rounding on the captain. “Oh, I see. It’s fine for you to be an intransigent, insubordinate schoolboy menace, but should I attempt the same, you—”
“—sensei,” Hirato interrupted, pure deviltry underscoring his tenor.
Akari sputtered, unaccustomed as he was to being cut off mid-tirade. “W-what?”
“Not ‘you.’ It’s ‘Hirato-sensei,’ Akari-kun.” Hirato smirked. A ravenous hunger was working its way through him, slowly unmooring his composure and turning him into a lethal predator bent on devouring his prey. That he’d been invited to feast in just such a fashion only piqued his appetite. He continued in a bored drone that masked this hunger, “And had you focused in lecture, you’d not have made such blunders on your exam.”
For a brief eternity, nothing moved. Even the air seemed frozen in anticipation – dust motes ceasing their swirl, two sets of heartbeats in deferral, both breaths caught somewhere between chest and throat. When the duo resumed their game, they did so with nearly imperceptible tells. Tension unspooled from Akari’s shoulders while a bright gold warmth softened his gaze. He offered the faintest of smiles – gratitude for Hirato’s indulgence, relief that his overture was appreciated. For his part, the captain assumed a more rigid posture in order to fully adopt his role. He stiffened his shoulders in the manner of a certain long-suffering professor he knew intimately. Let’s play, he entreated. Let’s be frivolous. Let’s be reckless. Let’s leave them all whispering scandal in our wake.
“The problem isn’t my inattentiveness, but a failing in your pedagodical method,” Akari recommenced their conversation with trademark hauteur. “I always understand the material and reproduce it faithfully, and yet you marked a number of my answers incorrect.”
Hirato cleared his throat and waited for his lover to apprehend the mistake he’d made.
“I always understand the material, sensei,” the blond emended after a spell, his irritation flaring, though whether it was genuine or feigned was difficult to assess. “But sensei marked my answers wrong.”
“Better, Akari-kun. How can you claim to learn from me if you cannot so much as address me appropriately?” Hirato leered, amusement spiraling to new heights at the incredulous sniff his doctor gave to that little riposte. “I am not unreasonable, you know. Bring your exam and we’ll review your score.”
Akari closed the door and locked it – an indication of intent. He strode towards the seated man with hesitant steps. Doubtless, his natural imperiousness was quite at war with the posture of a subordinate. Even so, he adopted the mantle of beseeching student admirably, standing before Hirato and unfurling an old exam paper against the mahogany before reaching to turn on the desk lamp.
Incandescence pooled, illuminating the desk’s surface in diffuse yellow light. Hirato’s eyes went wide when the paper came into focus. The test was his, from ages ago – the very one he’d brought to sensei under similar pretenses of protesting a grade unfairly rendered. He’d stolen his first kiss from the blond that day, much to the latter’s abject fury. In spite Akari’s incredulity, though, he’d not attended office hours for the sole purpose of harassing his instructor; he merely took opportunity as it arose – something about extraordinary effort resulting in extraordinary marks. Hirato had therefore essayed the extraordinary effort, so to speak. Afterwards, he’d been harshly reprimanded by Tokitatsu. At the time, he hadn’t complained. It was worth it, he’d decided then. You’ve always been worth it, he reaffirmed now, touched by the unexpected sentimentality.
Akari coughed, drawing him from nostalgia. “Here.” The doctor pointed to the corner of the exam where a young brunet had written a nonsensical answer in cramped, indecipherable handwriting. “I explain varuga mitochondria here, and you claim I didn’t in my essay.” A beat. “—sensei.”
“Irrelevant,” Hirato dismissed with an elegant wave. “Your penmanship is atrocious. Did you expect me to read your mind instead of your exam?”
“As if a protozoan fool could possibly comprehend the subtleties of my mind.” The acerbic reply was automatic, Akari reverting to his typical hubris in the face of Hirato’s provocation.
The captain raised a brow, quirking his lips in delight. He tutted in disappointment.
Starting, Akari averted his gaze, probably preferring to stare at his feet instead of the smug purl adorning his lover’s face. He demurred with a sigh of defeat. “What I mean is, if I explain the answer to you now, could I have some of the points back?”
The captain wondered if Akari’s uncertainty was a result of maintaining the pantomime or temporarily lapsing in his execution. In either case, Hirato would have to impart to his horrible actor of a paramour the importance of preserving a convincing façade. “No,” he replied simply.
Akari was affronted on multiple levels, in all likelihood. While he expected some mock resistance, he’d surely not predicted this level of reticence. He pursed his lips and swallowed, tonguing back what would have been a spectacular litany of vitriol. “Why?” he blurted instead. “You just said you’d review it!”
“Ah, I’ve changed my mind. I have more pressing matters which warrant my concern,” Hirato said airily, bending to retrieve his communication device. “Instructor’s prerogative. You may not believe it, given how cute I am, but I’m a searingly brilliant researcher whose work is critical to national security. I’ll not deign to entertain just anyone.” He perused through successive screens of high-end luxury goods and elite vacation venues, the contents blatantly visible to the blond who now loomed over the desk in a state of steadily-increasing vexation. Humming a jaunty tune, the captain followed a promising link to a pair of handsome, hand-stitched leather shoes. Hirato eventually continued while inputting his credit card information. “So, convince me you are worth my time, Akari-kun. Convince me you’ll do the work.”
Akari’s patience was a fickle thing at the best of times, everyone knew. And Hirato always skirted its edges with expert finesse, even presently. Much more of this charade and the doctor was sure to exact satisfaction. He would demand to be slammed against the desk and fucked into oblivion. Given to the occasional magnanimity, Hirato would oblige, but only after hearing the man plead for him like his sanity depended on the captain’s cock. It was his birthday, after all.
Unbelievably, Akari did not react in his rash, entitled wont; instead, he tugged Hirato forward by the silk of his tie and crushed their lips together in a slow kiss that blistered white-hot between them. The lenses of their glasses collided, prompting the brunet to break long enough to remove both pairs and place them out of harm’s way. Having seen to that, he once again chased the flavor of tea on his lover’s tongue, delving to sample that elusive sweetness with the unyielding fervor of a starved man. Akari moaned faintly, angling deeper and drawing them close.
“Marginally improved,” Hirato hushed against the blond’s lips. “But I’m afraid I’ll need to see an extraordinary level of effort to consider changing your grade, Akari-kun. I’m sure you remember my standards.”
Never one to balk, Akari withdrew, his opaline eyes practically aglow with the conceit that made the man so impossibly sexy. Oh sure, Hirato could delay their mutual gratification, could eviscerate the other man’s composure, could have him falling magnificently apart, but one truth had always obtained – Akari knew how to get results. It was this singular characteristic that made him so formidable a researcher, and surprisingly, it was one of the things that made him so ravishing a bedmate. Levy a dare, summon him to a trial, and you’d be left in thunderstruck awe as the blond exceeded your wildest expectations with astonishing ease.
Case in point: Akari swiftly tossed aside his frustration and replaced it with a novel tactic, one more amenable to success. “Hirato-sensei,” he simpered, now completely absorbed by the challenge, “Please let me show you how dedicated I am.”
“A moment ago, you were insulting my intelligence. Why should I believe you now?” Hirato asked. He feathered his thumb along his lover’s bottom lip, enticed by how red and swollen it had become from kissing alone.
Akari took Hirato’s thumb between his teeth with a cheeky grin. His eyes glittered, pupils blown open, a ring of cherry red drowning in fathoms-deep black. And then he sucked, lips wrapping around the flesh of the captain’s thumb, tongue searching the grooves of his skin. “You’ll never believe me if you don’t give me a chance,” he pouted, saccharine sweet. “I’m poised to be the top student in the Circus course; you wouldn’t want to dismiss me outright, would you? Tokitatsu-sama, for one, would be so upset.”
“Well, since it’s for the good of Circus, I suppose I could be favorably inclined… if you demonstrate your sincerity.” What else could he say when he was being regaled with such a performance? Akari, coy and petitioning, and downright pleading to be spread out underneath him, his touted professionalism in tatters, his pride sacrificed to a greater god. Hirato could not ask for a more meaningful gift, truly.
Akari released him and walked around the desk, the cant of his hips accentuated by his choice of clothing. The blond typically moved with an oddly efficient grace, true, but not like this, not calculated to seduce. When he came within striking distance, Hirato crooked his fingers through his belt loops and pulled him near. He guided him into his lap, unsurprised to find them both already half-hard. Their foreplay had always been largely mental, ultimately. Akari settled atop him, inhaling sharply as their arousals pressed together. He ground down in a maddening rhythm. “Good,” the captain murmured with a gentle hitch of breath. “Just like that.”
Without warning, the doctor’s hand grabbed a fistful of sable hair, yanking Hirato’s head back and exposing the pale column of his neck. “Yes, sensei,” came the muffled reply before the man worried a patch of skin directly above his shirt collar.
Hirato chuckled. Irritated, are we? It was not his lover’s habit to mark him so visibly, but evidently this particular courtesy had been dispensed with tonight. He made to needle the other man further, just a bit, but his words were stolen by Akari’s free hand slinking into his pants and deftly curling around his cock. He hissed as pleasure thundered up his spine, all teasing immediately forgotten, all provocations dissolving into aether. Short, tight strokes moved over him, so fast and so fierce that he briefly wondered if the blond planned on finishing him so perfunctorily. Part of him didn’t care, his want for satisfaction urgent and bordering on aching. The part of him that wished to prolong their romp had him roving over his lover’s frame, searching for advantage and finding it between his legs.
But as soon as Hirato gripped him, Akari pushed away with a broken moan. He took a moment to regain himself through heaving breaths. “Let me show you,” he said, slinking to his knees.
Hirato swallowed, suddenly parched. Appetency flooded his veins, overtaking his faculties one by one. A low white noise rushed in his ears, mild buzzing like the hum of current under his skin. He was only marginally aware of Akari’s careful hands gliding up his thighs and unzipping his trousers. But what he couldn’t register in terms of intelligent thought, he certainly felt. Once he was fully freed, he sighed in relief, cock heavy and leaking when exposed to cool air. He’d just recognized how marvelously wonderful it was to have the nation’s most arrogant bastard at his feet when all remaining coherence was obliterated by the tip of Akari’s tongue sliding over his crown and dipping into the slit. Hirato moaned, hips seizing and head falling back heady ecstasy.
Mere minutes of this delicate torture and the captain’s fingers curled into the armrests. Had he been wearing his Circus ID, the whole chair would be in splinters. He thanked whatever serendipitous happenstance caused him to stow it in his coat pocket. Akari then engulfed him, exquisite heat covering the head of his cock and sinking over him, lower and lower, until he was almost completely enmeshed. Hirato groaned and twitched again, trying not to buck. His muscles creaked with the effort. Akari only encouraged him to fuck his mouth, though, scratching lightly over his thighs and tilting his chin to accommodate him fully.
The blond’s throat constricted, rippling down Hirato’s length and causing his toes to crimp against the threadbare carpet. Akari then pulled back to work up and down, randomly pausing to lap or suck the head. He growled in annoyance when Hirato stopped thrusting. The resultant vibrations skittered over the captain’s skin, embers blooming into inferno. Everything – the rumble of the air conditioner, the weight of his clothes, even the contours of their game – everything receded in his consciousness, replaced with the draw of tongue and the confounding heat of Akari’s perfect mouth.
Hirato’s abs flexed, fire coiling low in his gut. Whatever facility for equanimity he owned had been handily ruined. When before he’d have been content to let their farce play out for countless hours, now every nerve in his body was screaming at him, begging him to satiate his need. If he didn’t do something, he was sure he’d lose whatever tenuous control he yet commanded.
He hauled Akari up, ignoring his small noise of surprise at being interrupted. “Enough,” he barked. It was with uncharacteristic haste that Hirato attacked his lover’s uniform jacket, hands fumbling with the buttons. Seams rent as he ripped the garment away and haphazardly discarded it. He felt altogether too frantic to contend with the viciously tiny buttons of Kuronomei-issued dress shirts, so he wrenched at the fabric, sending shell fragments flying across the desk. Having freed his present from so much damnable wrapping, Hirato immediately latched onto Akari’s clavicle, searing his brand vehemently enough to score.
The doctor gasped, rough handling spurring him to equal hunger. Akari shoved at his trousers, not bothering to remove the belt from the loops before pushing the wool down and unceremoniously kicking it aside along with his boxers. He pawed at Hirato’s clothes then, fingers feverish against his tie and shirt and removing them with less force than the captain, certainly, but not with less desperation.
Absent further comment, Akari clambered onto the desk, leaning back on his elbows. A sheen of perspiration covered his skin, luminous under the dimmed light. He was flushed and panting, and Hirato couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man so wildly unhinged. “Come on,” he ordered, impatience making him sound nothing like the persona he was meant to play.
As ardently as Hirato wished to partake of the ambrosia on offer, he hadn’t forgotten his lines. He leaned down, deliberately allowing their cocks to slide against each other. Glutted and sticky, he gathered them in hand, stroking with lax fingers and a lazy pace. It was enough friction to inflame, but not nearly enough to satisfy. Akari, as expected, attempted to take his own pleasure, only to have his wrists pinned to the table. The blond snarled in complaint. “Oh, are you upset, Akari-kun? Is there something you want?” Hirato asked in a voice he didn’t perceive as his own. Ordinarily, the mischief would be manifest in his rich baritone, even this far gone. But somehow, he sounded anemic and needy. Nevertheless, he was determined to earn his prize. You will beg for me, my dear. He stilled his hand, squeezing harshly to emphasize his point.
Akari’s head dropped against the desk, but those nectarines affixed to his lover, frantic and hazy, far too clouded for much higher-order thought. None the less, the nation’s most illustrious genius was the nation’s most illustrious genius for a reason. He blinked away the murk long enough to rise to the occasion. The man never backed down from a challenge, after all. “I want you,” he said, lifting his feet and resting his heels on the desk’s edge. “Please fuck me, Hirato-sensei,” he implored, allowing his knees to fall open in invitation.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Hirato realized Akari’s capitulation had been too easy, that there hadn’t been sufficient begrudged grumbling. But that revelation was jettisoned in favor of ogling the unprecedentedly erotic scene before him. Here was his lofty and somewhat prudish lover, writhing and naked atop a teacher’s desk, and quite literally begging to be taken. Happy birthday indeed, the captain thought, regretting that there could be no besting this as far as subsequent celebrations were concerned.
He surged forth, claiming Akari’s mouth in a savage, broiling kiss. The blond arched, sighing as their bodies fitted together, limbs precisely aligned after years of practice. Akari felt pliant and vulnerable, awash in a dizzy delirium of desire and love. Hirato withdrew long enough to admire how gorgeous the other man was, how like some ethereal, heavenly creature he seemed, all fair skin and flaxen hair afire under moonlight. True, said angelic being looked a debauched mess at present, but that only added to his allure. The captain smirked, overcome with emotion and hunger. All mine, and mine alone. Eager to feel those long, lean limbs wrapped about him, he dragged a palm down the other’s leg, lifting a knee and hooking it over his waist.
Now chest to chest, Hirato nibbled across Akari’s collarbone, tiny bruises welling in a neat line. The blond tasted like salt and sweat and something honied and verdant that belonged to solely to him. “I hope you’ve brought something to prepare with,” he said, teeth toying with an erect nipple. “Poor planning would disappoint me greatly.”
“Why doesn’t sensei see for himself?” The question was posed with customary pretension, like Akari had already won.
Hirato started. His cognition stalled out as realization struck, a bolt of lightning darting straight to his cock. He didn’t, did he? Reaching down, he carefully prodded the blond’s entrance, head falling against Akari’s shoulder when his fingers met no resistance whatsoever – one, and then another. A pleased rumble bubbled up in his chest. Adding a third finger, the captain marveled the tight, wet heat that awaited him. “So that’s why you’re so hot and ready for me, Akari-kun. Very good,” he choked out, words thick and difficult. His mind was hijacked by visions of his lover preparing himself beforehand, perhaps on their shared bed, knees spread wide and a wash of embarrassment turning his skin pink and splotchy. That the other man would condescend to such lewd antics for him… well, that caused a fluttering in his chest, not unlike the thrill of taking flight.
Hirato lined himself up, sliding carefully forward. He closed his eyes; even this bordered on too much. He would never grow inured to the furious rush of the initial press, he knew. Akari had ensnared him with the first taste, the first time. Looking for any discomfort, he withdrew so only the crown remained inside, its wide girth catching against puckered skin. Once confident he wouldn’t harm his beloved, he pistoned forward for a sharper turn. The doctor had stretched himself well; even now, there was only slick velvet warmth to receive him.
Akari took him in, deeper and deeper, over and over, Hirato’s balls slapping the bottom of that ass in an obscene staccato. He set a steady pace. They’d whittled away one another’s patience; he could no longer take his time. Each swing had the researcher squirming and whining, argentine hair spilled across rich mahogany and eyes clamped shut. “Hirato,” he tried, voice destroyed.
It was not without difficulty, but the captain found the wherewithal to tease, despite how he trembled all the way down to his toes. “What did I say about proper address?” he said with a well-aimed push. Clutching Akari’s waist, Hirato raised him off the desk and corkscrewed his hips, the sides of his shaft grinding against every millimeter inside him.
Akari yelped, eyes flying open. He unsteadily dragged himself up and took his weight on one hand in order to slant their mouths in a sloppy, quaking kiss. “Can’t keep up,” he admitted between forced gulps of air. “You make me stupid.”
This shift caused the full length of Hirato’s cock to glide along his lover’s prostate. Seizing opportunity, he gathered the man in his arms and dropped into the desk chair. It skidded, their combined inertia slamming it against the wall with a deafening clang. Neither took note. Akari planted his feet on the floor and looped his arms around the captain’s neck. He bounced, repeatedly impaling himself with heedless abandon and clenching every time he bottomed out. The sheer fervor was enough to devastate them both. Eventually, he leaned back for a better angle, snapping his hips at breakneck tempo. Perspiration streamed down his chin and jaw, pooling at the hollow of his throat. Hirato licked it away, tightening his hold and intentionally slowing their pace.
Akari whined at being denied his orgasm. He’d been close. This the captain knew from the way his body contracted, wracked with tremor after tremor as he mindlessly succumbed. It was in these moments, those when he edged oblivion, that he was at his most agonizingly beautiful, Hirato thought. So unabashed and unconcerned with obligations and duty, so feral and untamed. As such, the brunet was disinclined to end their evening so soon. “Do you trust me?” he asked, a deliciously wicked idea taking shape. He swept aside silvery hair and looked into fae eyes for any misgivings.
“With my life.”
Hirato nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else, truth be told. But he didn’t want his lover to be alarmed by his new plan, so he felt compelled to make doubly sure. “Hold on,” he instructed, taking Akari’s full weight in his arms. And then he carefully stood with paramount care so as not to slip out of him.
The blond’s legs went rigid around him, seeking some purchase now that he was suspended mid-air. Akari barely managed to drape his arms over Hirato’s shoulders before reeling, head thrown back as the added gravity put intense, unyielding pressure on his prostate. “My God,” he whimpered. “You feel incredible.”
You do too, Hirato thought, irreparably addled by how close they were. Like this, he could feel Akari pressed painfully against him, legs banding them together. He’d never been inside his beloved so deep, deep enough that the man’s every heartbeat pounded down the length of his cock, unmooring any and all capacity for restraint. There was nothing else for it: He had to come; he had to make Akari come. Now.
He nosed under the blond’s jaw. “Let go,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
Hirato had predicted a momentary hesitation. This was inviting disaster, in the end. Imagine Executive Tower’s reaction to learning how their precious SSS-rank was concussed as a result of such shameful activities. But he was pleased when Akari dropped away without a shred of doubt. He fell back and clasped the captain’s forearms instead, holding himself above the ground with the strength of his core muscles. His abs and his thighs strained against the angle, driving them even closer as he crossed his ankles over the small of Hirato’s back. In spite of this defenseless posture, he giggled like a carefree schoolboy, desperation somewhat ebbed while they got into position. “You’d better make me come before all the blood rushes to my head,” he said. And then added a caustic, “…sensei,” as if in dare.
“You might come so hard you pass out anyway,” Hirato retorted, before testing things with an exploratory thrust just as the man made to reply. Even with a cursory roll of his hips, the blond convulsed, a loud, glottal moan issuing forth instead of invective. “See what I mean?”
Akari’s cock wept, untouched, a stream of pearly liquid dribbling over the side. “There,” he rasped, ignoring the taunt in favor of more pleasurable fare. “Right there.”
“Here?” Hirato asked, fingers biting into bone as he moved in an halting, up-and-down fashion. He couldn’t manage more than a few centimeters, but it hardly mattered. Akari was open wide against him, wider than ever before. The meagerest touch was enough to have him practically howling as Hirato’s girth kept him prised and fluttering with incessant waves of rapture. Wherever he was, the doctor was completely lost, his sense of self dissipating in a pool of molten ecstasy.
Hirato greedily absorbed the scene. Since he held the higher ground, he could see everything – every pornographic detail, filed away for future reference. At this rate, he hoped he wouldn’t climax before he passed out. This would be an especially inopportune time to lose control of his motor skills, no doubt.
He needn’t have worried, though. No more than three minutes and Akari orgasmed, violently jerking and spasming and spilling himself. His nails dug into Hirato’s forearms, breaking the skin and leaving behind angry welts. A guttural, broken cry shredded his voice, raw and pulsing and leaving him a slave to pure animal instinct. His cock twitched, viscous ribbons of come dripping onto the flat of his stomach. “Fuck,” he said, tone gravel. “Fuck.” Akari righted himself with an exhausted groan. His body protested the overuse, unaccustomed as he was to this kind of physical exertion. He threw his arms around Hirato once more and tenderly sealed their lips, stealing the captain’s breath for his own. It was a profoundly loving overture, one very much at odds with the scandal of their situation.
Hirato couldn’t respond; he was too close to the edge. Seeking surer footing, he sat down atop the desk, knowing that orgasm might render him unsteady. Returning Akari’s kiss, he resumed their lovemaking, charily pushing up into his lover so as not to overstimulate. He came with little effort, the extended feeling of having his cock collared in a vice finally taking its toll. Even this comparatively tame sex was enough to blow every fuse in his brain, washing out his vision in blinding white. He held the blond as he crested, relishing the sense of completion that always descended upon them after so spirited a romp. “Akari,” he called, quiet and reverent.
Time stilled then, in that deserted room somewhere in the bowels of the Research Tower. Hirato closed his eyes and rested against the doctor’s shoulder. He inhaled the scent of sex and sweat, and his beloved, still so warm and satisfied in his arms. Sweeping a palm up and down the other’s drenched back, he nuzzled into his neck. “That was quite a gift,” he said, winded.
“Hmm.” Akari casually carded through raven hair, lust-hungover and not inclined to say much more. His breathing was as erratic as his pulse, thundering between them like a summer storm. It would take some moments before he regained his capacities, and so, at present he appeared content to bask in afterglow, touches delicate and tender as if in gratitude for everything they were to one another.
The captain smiled; brilliant his bedmate may be, but seeing his intellect stripped away was a revelation, each instance more captivating than the last. If Akari recognized how cute he was being right now, he’d surely threaten to gouge out Hirato’s eyes with a melon baller. He considered telling him, but he was thwarted by the stay of his lover’s fingers, now frozen against his scalp. The blond’s cognitive processes had returned to him, obviously. And he seemed unusually preoccupied for a man who’d very recently been fucked out of his mind.
“What?” Hirato asked, ear pressed to a yet-racing heart. “I can feel your anxiety.” Already, he did not say.
“The uniform,” Akari murmured, concern diminished by the fact that he was hoarse. “We ruined it. How am I going to get upstairs?”
So the prompt for the next chapter is “A lifetime told in 51 Valentine’s Days.” Here’s another preview:
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Hirato knows he shouldn’t be here. If Akari-sensei catches him sneaking into his office long after business hours, there’ll be hell to pay. Well, more likely, his fractious instructor will call his brother. And Tokitatsu, in turn, will use his trespassing as an expedient to have a meal together.
That would be disgusting, Hirato thinks. Two hours of pure torture. He picks the lock and carefully closes the door behind him. Socked feet move with quiet agility, like a predator stalking prey. I’d better not get caught, then.
Sensei’s desk is in the center of the room, its polished surface gleaming in the moonlight. Hirato places his wrapped gift atop a neat stack of papers. He hadn’t signed the attached Valentine’s Day card, knowing the blond would immediately discard anything offered by his least favorite student. Ordinarily, provoking Akari-sensei’s ire would be met with unmitigated glee on his end, but not tonight. Tonight, the young man wishes to do something meaningful for his overworked crush. He wishes to give him some small indulgence among those endless responsibilities.
It’s during the next office hours that Hirato notices sensei drinking the custom-blended tea he’d gifted. The brunet’s smile is knowing and fond, at least until his reason catches up to his emotion. Wait… Akari-sensei is drinking something without confirming its origin. What a reckless idiot. I see I’ll have to inculcate in him some instinct for self-preservation.
I’m writing a new chapter for Karnevaleque, believe it or not. Here’s a preview:
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It’s late when Akari returns to his quarters after having incinerated the last of his Valentine’s gifts. This year’s haul was less fulsome than expected, likely because Research Tower has been extraordinarily busy with the public launch of their varuga toxin antidote. Of his many achievements, this is the one that will matter most, he knows. After decades of trial and error, they’ve gained the upper hand against Kafka. Circus can finally develop an offensive strategy. And the genius researcher can finally catch his breath.
Or perhaps he might have done had he not stumbled upon his searingly beautiful lover, naked and stretched out over his bed. Hirato is reclined against the white sheets, his inky hair spilled across a pillow and his lean legs crossed at the ankles. He’s reading National Geographic without a care for his state of underdress or the fact that he is very obviously aroused.
“I got tired of waiting.” The captain gestures to the magazine as though this explains everything.
Akari loses all capacity for intelligent thought. He nods vaguely, but the only words he can form are a rather dumb, “We don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day.”
Hirato laughs as he stands and approaches. “No,” he says, helping the doctor out of his clothes. “But we do celebrate victories in battle. So, let me welcome you home this time.”
