lemon party

Ingway/Mercedes (Odin Sphere)

Ingway remembered Queen Elfaria, dimly: a tall statuesque woman, heavy at the breasts and hips, with lovely grave eyes and an elegant hand. She’d handled her crossbow with careless ease, but there had been no calluses upon her palm that he could feel when he pressed Titrel into her grasp. He remembered how her expression had never changed though she must have been surprised, only touched a finger to her full lower lip and thanked him gravely. There were traces of that ethereal beauty in her daughter’s face, but Queen Mercedes was still soft with youth, her cheeks pink as her mouth and her eyes wide and maybe a little frightened.

She was so very young; Ingway couldn’t remember ever being quite so young. He thought perhaps he’d never been: because he could remember his grandfather’s bared teeth as he watched his own hands on his daughter’s throat, and he could remember the speculative gleam in the old man’s eyes as he watched his granddaughter dance, and the bruises Velvet would never explain. He’d known all these things from childhood as a litany forever drilled into him, and he could not unlearn that, not even for the sake of this tiny soul in his arms.

He could take her and she would not fight him: she would very possibly welcome him. He could find the cleverly-hidden fastenings of her green dress — so plain in comparison to Elfaria’s long gown — and slip them down; he could spread his hands against her white skin and learn the taste of her throat and the gossamer-soft flutter of her wings against his wandering fingertips. He could show her a proper kiss, lip to lip and tongue to teeth; he could lay her upon the damp wet stones of the Titanian sewer and have her for his own — and she would let him. Gladly, in fact, if her bright shining eyes were any indication, the way she leaned slightly into him.

But he had much work to do before he could lay his burdens down, and none of them could be allowed to touch this tiny brave queen; it surprised him a little to know how much he wanted to keep her away from the dark business he had to come, how little he wanted the end to touch her. There had been much in his life he’d wanted and been denied, but this once, he thought, he would bleed himself dry to see his wish come true.

He touched her cheek briefly and found the thin skin softer than spidersilk against his fingers, let his knuckles brush the warm gold of her hair before he drew away and bid her farewell, ignoring her calls after him as he turned and walked into the rest of his story.

++++++

Medicine Seller self-cest (Mononoke)

They fit together, he and his Other: they have since the day of their birth, two halves lying in the cradle of their mother’s arm. Like the two halves of a whole, they are always one — closer than life, closer than death. If he opens his mouth and breathes out, then his Other breathes in and vice-versa; he knows better than anything the taste of another’s air in his lungs. He knows the strength of sword-callused fingers and the sting of fangs upon his throat.

He knows nothing other than this, and he knows it to be good.

++++++

Kantarou/Haruka (tactics)

The problem is that Kantarou likes showing off: somewhere along the way, he’s learned that he might not be handsome in the light of day, but that moonlight forgives his pale coloring and makes him mysterious and attractive (his words, naturally). He likes to talk, too, babbling a litany of agreements and encouragements and gasping and mewling. It’s really kind of embarrassing.

“Stop that,” Haruka mutters, his fingers tight on Kantarou’s hips. He’s flat on his back and squinting up through sweat-damp hair at Kantarou, arching high above him and straddling his lap. “You sound ridiculous.”

Kantarou tosses his head and bites on his lower lip, eyes heavy and dark. He gives a little shimmy against the pressure of Haruka’s hands and he laughs, his voice dropped husky and low. “Ehh, but Haruka,” he breathes. He reaches down and flutters one hand on Haruka’s against his hip and the other pulling at his cock, rocking into his own touch. His breath catches in a soft hitch. “It feels good, I like it, Ha~ru~ka~~”

Haruka growls low in his throat and lifts his hips, moving with the same rise-and-fall action of Kantarou’s body. “It’s,” he starts to say, and has to close his eyes for a moment, “annoying. Whining like that.”

“Ehh,” Kantarou purrs, and Haruka’s fingers are sweatslick enough to slip, letting him move and move and move. “Eh, Haruka likes it, he’d miss it if I stopped.” His breath catches and his hand moves faster on himself; he arches in the moonlight coming through the bedroom window and Haruka can do nothing but stare as Kantarou whimpers and mewls and cries out, and his own orgasm takes him by surprise: he chokes on Kantarou’s name and clutches his hips tightly enough to leave bloodied bruises. (Later he will lick them in not-apology with one hand around Kantarou’s cock, and Kantarou’s fingers will knot tightly in his hair and his voice will break on the syllables of Haruka’s nameas his toes curl in the sheets.)

Later, smugly, Kantarou draws circles on Haruka’s chest with a fingertip and grins into his shoulder. “See,” he says. “I knew you actually liked it.”

With a snort, Haruka turns his head into Kantarou’s damp hair and closes his eyes.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m going to sleep.”

++++++

Medicine Seller/Kayo (Mononoke)

“Honored customer,” the medicine-seller says. His voice is low and steady and follows a strange rhythm. “I have many things that … you might be interested in.” His lips, lined in purple, pull into a sharp-toothed smile. He opens one drawer of the box he carries upon his back. From inside he withdraws several scrolls. He hands them over.

The woman in the scrolls is dusky-skinned and smooth, with long dark hair and cherry-blossom lips. She sits with her head turned demurely to one side even with her kimono pulled loose around her slim body; her breasts are heavy and soft with youth. White hands hold her at shoulder and hip and she arches her neck for her lover, unafraid of the sharp teeth near her throat. She spreads her legs and the kimono folds are in the way, but her lover is pressed close behind her, his knees pale against her darker skin. A curl of golden-brown hair falls across his cheek to her shoulder. She has her hands on his wrists now, clutching as she moves against him, and her hair flares dark and damp when she tosses her head and her lover looks up and smiles with thin violet-painted lips.

“Honored customer,” says the medicine-seller again. “Will buy? Will you not buy?” He spreads long elegant fingers, which are still so very white even when they are not spread against a girl’s soft dusky skin. He gathers up his papers and tucks them away out of sight again. “The price is … very high, after all.” He sweeps his hand and the pictures are gone. “I have … many very fine medicines instead, if that is your preference.”

He looks up, with his eyes lined in red, and smiles.

++++++

Doumeki/Watanuki (xxxHOLiC)

Watanuki makes sharp startled noises when he’s touched; he jerks and flinches like he’s not used to contact, but follows if Doumeki pulls back. His ears turn bright red when he’s embarrassed; they’re warm against Doumeki’s tongue. When he bites, the flesh is soft to the pressure of his teeth and there’s another trembling noise in response. He presses his lips to Watanuki’s cheek, round and blushed pink; there are sweet crumbs of anpan at the corner of his open mouth.

Doumeki himself is no cook and never will be, but he knows a choice pink when he has one.

++++++

Sebastian/Riff (Black Butler/Godchild)

Riff has never liked nor trusted the Fantomhive butler: he dislikes how the man looks at young Master Ciel (hunger and wanting and unkind laughter and–), he dislikes how he looks at Master Cain and Miss Merryweather (cold speculation and sneering amusement and–), he dislikes the way he allows the other servants of the Fantomhive household to run amok without ever chastising them for their poor work. He knows he’s not the only one; Miss Merry, bless her brave heart, will duck behind him whenever Sebastian passes and makes only the barest attempts to be polite either to him or to Master Ciel. Riff does his best to protect her from Sebastian’s eyes — Master Ciel she can handle well on her own, but Sebastian frightens her, and Riff dislikes that.

Yet at the same time, there is very little he can do to vocalize his misgivings without seeming petty or foolish; Sebastian runs his household impeccably, even if he is sloppy in taking the rest of the staff to task.

He dislikes when they’re alone in the kitchen together (because God forbid that the Fantomhive servants actually do their given work properly, so it falls to the two of them to bring the lords and lady their afternoon tea) and Sebastian crowds up against him, a cold breath against his ear and a thin chest pressed to his back, laughing as he always is. I know what you don’t, he whispers, and the palm of his glove is smooth against Riff’s belly and his fingers are strong enough to hurt around Riff’s cock, but the friction and speed are perfect, just like everything the damn man does is perfect, and his teeth are sharp and his voice whispers, over and over and mocking, I know what you don’t, I know my master’s face even at moments like this, I have tasted what you’ll never let yourself take. I know. I know.

And he can’t stand how afterwards, he’s left shaking and weak-kneed, his tie and shirt askew and his trousers gaping open in a most unseemly fashion, and Sebastian is neat and poised as always — even his damned white gloves are clean and dry! — raising a mocking eyebrow at him as he says, Shall I bring them the tea while you compose yourself, Mister Rafael? and Riff is left to struggle into some semblance of neatness because he won’t let that man near his master and his lady without him there to watch out; even if he hates the shuttered look that flickers through Master Cain’s eyes when he picks out the subtle signs of dishevellment, he will not

Sebastian laughs and straightens Riff’s tie, solicitous and smiling, but there in his eyes is that same spark of malevolent good humor, a sharp snap of amusement as Sebastian glances up at him through his lashes and says, There you go.

God help him, he can’t stand that man.

++++++

Clair/Daisuke (Heat Guy J)

“Give me a reason,” Clair purrs, eyes bright. “Just give me one reason, Daisuke Aurora.”

Daisuke tips his head back and tilts it; Clair just follows the movement of his head with the gun’s muzzle, jabbing it hard against the soft flesh of the underside of his chin. His grin is tight and a little strained. “No thank you,” he says. “I’m not looking to get my head blown off, Vampire.”

“Oh,” Clair hisses; he rocks up onto his toes and to be eye-level with Daisuke, “Oh, I think you came here looking for something. The question is what is it — and will you get it?” He giggles, staccato-fast, and jabs his gun again. Daisuke’s pretty sure there’ll be a bruise later. “What’s your secret, then? Daisuke Aurora?”

“I know my own name,” Daisuke says. He tries to shift a little and gets a bony knee jabbing dangerously high up on his thigh. It wouldn’t be that hard, really, to break Clair’s grip — though he’s quite strong for all his wiry build, he’s got no idea how to properly pin a guy and hold him, but the gun is hard and cold and the trigger is already half-cocked. He’s pretty sure that Kyoko would hound him to write his reports with half his head blown off, so he’d rather save himself the trouble and stay intact. “I’m a pretty honest guy, you know. I don’t have secrets.”

“I think you do,” Clair tells him. His smile is all bared teeth. “I think you do. And I want to find them.” The gun trails up, the rim of the muzzle tracing the line of Daisuke’s jaw, warmed now to skin temperature. “What aren’t you telling anyone?”

“Didn’t we already try something like this?” Daisuke edges a little to the side and gets blocked by another jab of the gun to his jaw; it’ll leave a bruise for him to find later. “If there was anything I was going to tell you, I would have already.”

Clair hums; his breath puffs warm against Daisuke’s throat. “I think there’s a lot you haven’t told me,” he whispers, each word shaped in damp motion and the occasional brush of metal against Daisuke’s skin. “A man is someone who must keep a few cards close to his heart, don’t you think?”

It startles a laugh out of him, wry and a little annoyed. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re not quite good enough to pull that off.”

“Like your machine?” Clair presses in closer. He giggles again, suddenly, and nuzzles right into the crook of Daisuke’s neck; the hand pinning his wrist to the wall lets go so that the arm can snake around his waist, a hand pressed wide to the small of his back. The gun to his chin keeps his head forced up and he’s left to blink stupidly at Judoh’s semidark nighttime sky and contemplate the sheerly ridiculous revelation that he is being cuddled by Company Vita’s Vampire. Clair laughs again, but it’s lower this time, less a rattle in his throat and more like genuine amusement. “There are things, Daisuke Aurora, that your machine could never be good enough to pull off.”

“J’s top of the line,” Daisuke says, his own voice dropping in spite of himself. “You could program him to do anything.”

Anything?” Clair draws the word out, rolling each syllable in his mouth before letting it go. “Anything at all?”

“Only the best for the City Safety Management Agency’s Special Unit,” Daisuke says. The hand on his back is creeping fingers under his shirt, and if he swept his leg out and twisted he could get away; Clair is good, but he’s not combat-trained and he’s distracted. It would be easy.

He stays still.

“Oh, of course,” Clair says mockingly. His hand is now completely up Daisuke’s shirt, cold thin fingers pressed to his skin and leeching warmth. “Only the very, very best for Daisuke Aurora.” He leans back a little so he can look up into Daisuke’s face, lashes swept coyly down. “I’m used to having the best, too.”

Daisuke grins, not quite humorless. “Well,” he says. “Aren’t we just a pair of special guys.”

“I was born special,” Clair hisses, and something lights up in his eyes. He doesn’t look away as he pulls his hand from under Daisuke’s shirt and begins to undo his pants. “Papa always said — he always told me I was special, there were signs at my birth–”

“Hey!” Daisuke jerks back. “Right, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not into backalley groping–”

“Then break away,” Clair says. He sounds almost reasonable. There’s a clicking noise by Daisuke’s ear — his finger relaxing on the gun’s trigger, though he keeps it pressed into the soft spot right behind the angle of his jaw. “Break my arm and get out, Daisuke Aurora, because otherwise–” He makes a brief noise of triumph as the button-fly slips free. “Otherwise …”

Daisuke swallows; the motion presses the gun harder against his jaw for a moment. Both of his hands are free and Clair stands there patiently, lips to his throat and hand pressed low over his abdomen and not quite touching anything important yet.

He lifts a hand, and knows Clair has to have sensed the motion, close as they are, but the Vampire just remains where he is, his breath the only movement there against Daisuke’s pulse. He takes a breath and lets it out as a wry laugh.

“Well,” he said, “your father might’ve said you’re special, but my brother’s always said I’m good at leaping before I look.”

He curves his hand around the back of Clair’s neck. And Clair laughs that same low pleased noise as before, and his hand dives down into Daisuke’s pants to find his cock and draw it out, and he opens his mouth against Daisuke’s throat to bite down. It hurts — Clair’s teeth are sharp — and he jerks with a grunt. Clair doesn’t bother to soothe; he bites again, his tongue sweeping against the trapped fold of skin and his hand closes loosely (too loosely) around Daisuke’s cock and begins to move. There are no niceties to bother with: Clair is biting hard random patterns into his neck and his hand is smooth except for a scattering of calluses on the fingertips and top of the palm, and Daisuke grabs onto his shoulder with his free hand, locking his knees to keep upright.

Distantly, he is aware of a stream of words muttered straight into his skin: tell me, tell me, tell me, and he wants to point out that there really is nothing to tell, but heat and friction shut his voice down to incoherent choked noises and low moans. His hips move in stutters and jerks and he clutches at Clair’s hair in desperate attempt to find some sort of balance; it’s oddly soft and fine against his fingers. Teeth rake sharply down his neck and he wonders dimly if this time has drawn blood before Clair pulls back. His hand is still moving and when Daisuke slits his eyes open, he finds Clair staring at him, face aglow with some freverent strange emotion.

“Show me,” Clair breathes, and he giggles again, high-pitched and sharp. “Show me,” and Daisuke arches helplessly, his breath strangled in his throat as he comes, and Clair’s hand feels like it’s pulling more than that out of him — he feels like he’s been had, like he’s slipped up somehow, but he can only shudder and gasp for breath, coming down slowly, almost painfully.

“Ahh,” Clair mutters. He lets go of Daisuke’s cock and licks his fingers thoughtfully before flicking the excess off and lowers the gun. He’s smiling, though he keeps his gaze downturned and coy. “I see now.”

Daisuke lets his head loll to one side, smirking. He’s more tired than he’d like to admit, and instinct warns him that there is something he’s missing in this, and it’s ruining the buzz of the afterglow. “Got what you wanted?”

Clair glances up at him. He grins, Cheshire-like. “Oh yes,” he says. “Yes, I think I have.”

++++++

Raitei/Ban (GetBackers)

“If you’d just promise to never return,” says the lightning-brat who pretends to be an emperor, “we’d let you go.”

Ban spits lazily; it flies in an arc and splats at the kid’s feet. He shakes first one chained fist, then the other, and shrugs. “I go where I want, when I want,” he says. “And no fucking kid with an entitlement complex is going to tell me otherwise.” His entire body aches from bruises and cracked bones, but the healer in his blood works fast: in another hour or two, all he’ll be is stiff.

The lightning-brat doesn’t rise to the bait. He walks to Ban and he’s just a little taller, which is irritating. He meets Ban eyes without blinking or flinching — even knowing what threat there is in the Jagan — and that’s irritating too.

“I’ll fight you again,” he says. Sparks rise and crackle around him, in the folds of his clothes and in the upswept spikes of his hair. “You’re hurt. You won’t win.”

Ban shows all his teeth in his grin. “Try me,” he hisses, straining forward. The snake in his blood is stirring, sensing blood and hungry for it — starving for it — and sees a matching lust in the brat’s cold gaze. He acts well enough, but it’s there, rising, and Ban is willing to rip it out of him with his bare hands.

The brat touches each cuff with his fingertips and they snap open. Ban, tense and waiting, leaps.

He gets his hands around the brat’s throat for a few solid seconds, squeezing the flesh and hearing the rattle of breath before a knee connects with his stomach. He lets go on reflex, grunting for lost breath before the brat’s on him and they tear at each other with fists-feet-teeth, and Ban can feel skin tear under his hands as his own body absorbs blow after blow; the brat’s fast enough to keep up with him, especially when he’s injured like this.

He might lose.

He fucking hates to lose.

So he cheats: he aims a kick for the brat’s leg and grabs for his throat again. When they go down he has his fingers around the brat’s windpipe; if he yanked his arm back, he could tear this throat out without effort.

Instead he leans down. The brat tenses, baring bloodied teeth, but Ban’s got his throat and the advantage, and he licks blood from the corner of the brat’s mouth gently, like Yamato had once showed him, drunkenly laughing. It tastes funny; it makes his tongue tingle as though shocked. The brat makes a strangled noise, his eyes open so wide that they might bug from his head at any moment; he breathes through sharp fast pants. Ban grins, feeling his own bruised lip split from the pulling motion.

The kid’s knee rises and he tenses. However, instead of an attack, it presses between Ban’s legs with deliberate pressure. The brat still looks on the verge of panic, but there is a confidence in him, a sort of knowing in how he rocks with his breath quick and hot against Ban’s arm.

“Is this what you want, then?” he asks. His voice is thin from lack of air. “You want this?”

Ban almost retreats. This isn’t a response he counted on. The brat stares at him still, bruised and bloodied and the only person who’s ever really matched Ban for strength or speed. He is completely fearless, even with Ban’s fingers digging into ihs throat, even without madness in his eyes. There is something in those eyes that even Yamato had not matched, and in spite of himself Ban lets go.

“You tell me,” he says. He curls a lip and he leans down into the steady press of the brat’s leg. It feels good, like the fighting did, like very little has for a long time.

The brat stares at him, then reaches up. Ban tenses — he doesn’t like hands near his face, no matter — but they settle on his shoulders instead and pull him down.

++++++

Raikou/Kantarou/Haruka (tactics)

“A what?” Ichinomiya stared. “One short of a what?”

“A double date,” Raikou said brightly. He rested his chin on his hands, bright-eyed and sincere. “I could call Edwards, perhaps, or Ibaragi–”

“No,” Ichinomiya cut in quickly. “No, that’s quite all right, you don’t need to do that.” He glanced sideways at the Oni-Eater, bound and trembling. “If you really wanted, what you could do is let us go–”

“Eh,” Raikou said, sounding disappointed as a schoolboy denied a treat. He reached out and placed his hand flat on the exposed vee of Ichinomiya’s chest, running down. “But Sensei, why would I do that?” He smiled sweetly, his gaze flashing down, and then back up. “You just got here, after all.”

Ichinomiya leaned back as far as he could, his lip curling. “You’re such an irritating brat,” he said. “Did you realize?”

Raikou laughed, hooking his thumb in the edge of Ichinomiya’s gi and pulling until he exposed a winged collarbone, then ran his fingers over its sharp rise under the pale skin. His gloves left faint red marks. “Sensei, you flatter me,” he purred. His gaze cut sideways, to meet Haruka’s unblinking stare, before he leaned forward and touched his tongue to the dip of Ichinomiya’s throat. Both master and youkai jerked at the contact, and the growl in the Oni-Eater’s throat just made Raikou laugh again.

“Like this?” he asked, and Ichinomiya jerked back at the breath on his damp skin. “Ahh, Oni-Eater, how shameful. You know better than anyone that a human and a youkai shouldn’t …” He licked Ichinomiya’s throat again, feeling the nervous flutter of pulse under his tongue. “But a human and a human, we could–”

“Don’t touch him,” the Oni-Eater snapped. His voice was gravel-rough and full of broken edges. “Let him go, Raikou.”

Raikou hummed low in his throat and pulled back. He placed his hand flat against Ichinomiya’s chest, and oh, how fast his heart was going!

“No,” he said. He looked at the Oni-Eater again and grinned. His other hand settled on the curve of Ichinomiya’s hip and traced upwards, finding the knot of the hakama’s bow and pulling. “I had to work very hard to get you both like this, you know. I called in so many favors, and I don’t know if Sakata will ever forgive me.” He tugged, watching the white skin revealed as cloth peeled away, smiling. “And you know, I’ve worked so hard, I deserve something good, don’t I?”

Ichinomiya snorted, though he remained very still as Raikou traced gloved fingers up his belly, along the narrow planes of his chest. “You’ve got really awful habits,” he said. “Whatever happened to a willing partner?”

“Those are too easy,” said Raikou. He tugged off one glove, and even his pale skin was dark in comparison to Ichinomiya’s own. “I prefer people who’re a challenge. Sensei, you know how that is, don’t you?”

Ichinomiya leaned his head back, and his next snort sounded more like a laugh. “You’re such an insufferable brat,” he said. “Heaven will punish you.”

“I have no need for heaven, Sensei,” Raikou said. He settled both hands on Ichinomiya’s narrow hips, pushing the hakama down. “I’m going to purify the world, and the rest will follow. I’ll surely be forgiven.”

Ichinomiya’s breath skipped and the Oni-Eater growled when Raikou leaned in, leaned up, and slid his teeth against the arch of Ichinomiya’s neck. “You really are arrogant,” Ichinomiya muttered, and turned his head away from the Oni-Eater, as though closing his own eyes would prevent his youkai from seeing — though his legs fell open easily enough when his thighs were palmed, and his hips lifted up to accomodate. He made low noises in his throat and whimpered like a girl when Raikou touched him, at the brush of teeth and tongue — and he muttered at how crude Raikou was, how this was an irritation and a crime and so many other things and the Oni-Eater strained against his bonds, staring with burning ice-pale eyes at the map of Raikou’s hands across Ichinomiya’s soft pale skin. There were at least three times Raikou himself counted that one or the other could have thrown him off or hit him with a spell, but Ichinomiya simply trembled under his touch and moaned while the Oni-Eater stared with obvious hunger and growled threats he never followed on.

Really, he was such a liar. They both were. Raikou smiled to himself, into Ichinomiya’s neck, and he met the Oni-Eater’s eyes over that bent pale head, smirking the whole time as he pressed into Ichinomiya’s body, as he moved, and the orgasm itself felt like a victory: he wasn’t interested in the games Ichinomiya and the Oni-Eater were playing with each other, but he’d still gotten his own satisfaction with Ichinomiya beneath his hands and the Oni-Eater’s eyes on his body like a physical touch.

It was easy to simply cut their bonds after he’d cleaned himself up and straightened his clothes, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

++++++

Haruka/Kantarou (tactics)

In the years that follow, the Oni-Eater forgets.

He forgets, and he forgets, and he forgets, and there are nights when he wakes with the grief of it heavy in his breast. Around him the world changes and he remains still, brooding on his mountain until not even his oldest friends seek him out any more, and he delves into his memory, trying to find what he’s lost. It all only comes in flashes, there-and-gone: of white skin and a brilliant smile; of red eyes and inkstained fingers. He remembers a night full of whispers, with a mouth on his and stroking hands on his wings, of desperate warmth that pressed close and swallowed him, and a shaking voice that whispered — something, words he can no longer remember but can’t forget hearing, and a tongue that carried away that tears that fell upon his skin. He remembers–

He forgets.

Many centuries later he returns to the place where he once slept. A building stands there now, the field and its shrine long since cleared away. He stands on the roof of the building stares out at the bleak hard lines of the landscape and wonders when things changed. He can remember being happy, but he can’t remember how it felt.

He curls upon himself on that rooftop and brings his wings up to shelter him from the smog. He closes his eyes and pieces together again the fragments of images: kisses across his face, teeth on his ear, hands on his face as red-eyes-white-skin looked at him and said, I release

He forgets, he forgets all of it, but he knows that this way, it will never leave him; until his dying day (and oh, youkai live so very long), he will remember this man, this person who loved him and let him go before either of them were ready.

It comforts him, and so he sleeps.

++++++

Haruka/Kantarou (tactics)

The thing is, women usually go for Haruka — it’s like an unspoken rule that he’s the one who charms them, while Kantarou feeds him prompts to get the information he wants. Haruka does it grudgingly, because it annoys him to be used that way, and accuses Kantarou of being petty and childish when Kantarou complains later about his popularity.

However, it seems that one Shinohara Mariko-san is most certainly smitten by the clever and slight Ichinomiya-sensei: she won’t stop hovering even after she’s served tea, hardly sparing more than a polite greeting for Haruka. And Kantarou, the bastard, is eating it up with huge cute eyes and affecting just a hint of a lisp to play on his baby-cute face and large eyes. It’s a bit sickening, but Kantarou’s getting the information about the ghost who lurks in the attic and has already scared one servant into falling and breaking his neck upon the stairs — which is what they need, after all — so Haruka glowers into his tea and glares at Shinohara’s back the whole time.

Later, as they’re poking through the attic, Kantarou laughs at Haruka’s bad mood. “What, is Haruka jealous?” he asks mockingly. “Did he want Mariko-san’s attention all to himself?”

“Mariko-san?” Haruka echoes. “You’re being awfully rude, using her first name like that.”

“She told me to!” Kantarou pouts. “Weren’t you paying attention? She said I could call her by name, and so it’d be rude not to. Ehhh, Haruka, it’s all right, you haven’t lost any of your charm! Sometimes the boss has to do the work, rather than rely on his right-hand man–”

Haruka turns and grabs the collar of Kantarou’s gi; it takes little effort to heave up and pin his irritating master to the wall. Kantarou’s voice dries into a squeak; he looks genuinely shocked at how fast Haruka moved.

“Idiot,” Haruka growls. “She was all over you.”

Kantarou licks his lips. “Um,” he says. “Eheh, could it be, Haruka, that you’re–”

“I don’t like it,” Haruka said flatly. With his free hand, he yanked out the knot of Kantarou’s hakama, ignoring Kantarou’s squawk and wriggle as the cloth sags, then drops to his ankles. “She kept touching you.”

“Not– not really,” Kantarou says, breathless. “She was just … just being nice, Haruka–”

“I don’t like it,” he repeats. He lets go of Kantarou’s gi, but the man stays in place, looking up at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks; that might be a smile playing on his lips, but he’s smart enough not to make it obvious. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”

“It’s not anything special,” Kantarou promises. His tone is almost gentle. He reaches up and slides his fingers into Haruka’s hair, kneading a little. “It’s just like when you flirt with women–”

“I don’t flirt,” Haruka growls. His hands are shaking a little, but he manages to get his own pants undone, watching narrowly as Kantarou’s gaze flickers down for a moment, then back up to meet his eyes. “You flirt. It’s irritating.”

“Haruka,” Kantarou says. He licks his lips. “Haruka, you know, we’re in a client’s house and we don’t have anything–”

Haruka presses two fingers into Kantarou’s mouth to cut off his words, breathing hard through his nose. He presses his fingers down against the swell of Kantarou’s tongue. “Shut up,” he mutters, and with his other hand urges Kantarou’s leg up to hook around his hips. “Shut up, you no good idiotic worthless master–”

Kantarou moans around Haruka’s fingers and moves as he’s directed, almost before Haruka can push him. It would be gratifying in most situations, but now it only serves to ratchet his irritation higher, remembering how easily Kantarou had accepted Shinohara’s fawning, basking in it with absolute shamelessness. He uses his spit-wet fingers between Kantarou’s legs, and it can’t be that pleasant, but Kantarou whimpers and claws at his back and gasps his name over and over until it pounds in Haruka’s ears like a second heartbeat: Haruka, Haruka, Haruka.

“Idiot,” he glowers, as he cups Kantarou’s ass in both hands and lifts, his face pressed into the stretch of Kantarou’s neck, and Kantarou shivers at the brush of fangs over the thin skin. “You’re such an insufferable idiot–”

He sinks in and the roaring in his ears drowns out Kantarou’s voice, his yes and his please and his more, and he moves hard and fast, slamming them into the wall over and over; he bites down onto Kantarou’s shoulder, tasting blood on his tongue until the world whites out on the sound of Kantarou’s voice breaking on the sound of his name.

Haruka comes back to himself and finds they’re slumped on the floor, with him half-sprawled in Kantarou’s lap and Kantarou stroking his hair idly. He unhooks his jaws from Kantarou’s shoulder and licks the dried blood there apologetically; Kantarou makes a rusty noise that might be a laugh.

“Haruka,” he says. “You know I love you, right? Haruka is the only one for me.”

Haruka mutters and turns his face into Kantarou’s neck. There is a part of him that notes they’re still in their client’s attic, and there may or may not be a ghost hanging around watching — and if it is, Haruka will enjoy taking care of it, because he’s not happy with the idea of someone else seeing Kantarou’s face like that.

But Kantarou’s touch is soothing and his body has the heavy lassitude of exhaustion now.

“Five minutes,” he says into Kantarou’s neck, and closes his eyes.

And Kantarou just laughs, and drops a kiss on his hair. “Five mnutes,” he agrees.

++++++

Yuiko/Yayoi (Loveless)

“W-w-WAIT,” he squawks, embarrassed by how his voice cracks. “Yu–Yuiko-san, you mustn’t put your mouth there–!”

She blinks at him rapidly. She tilts her head to one side. “Ehh, why not? Doesn’t it feel good?” She licks her lips (which really isn’t fair, because now Yayoi can’t stop thinking about it) and looks at his cock like she’s never seen one before (lies, all lies, lies since the day she came to class in their last year of high school without her ears and Yayoi is VERY MUCH NOT THINKING ABOUT THAT NO). “Guys like this sort of thing, don’t they?”

“But, but,” he sputters and puts his hands in her hair — not quite pushing, but not quite pulling; it’s very silky and warm against his fingers. “It’s –” His voice lowers to a hiss. “It’s dirty.”

“But Yayoi-san just took a shower,” she protests. “Didn’t he clean down here, too?” Her hand moves a few times, pumping, and Yayoi nearly bites his tongue off with a squeak.

“I did,” he gasps. “I did, but, but still, Yuiko-san, that’s very–”

“Then it’s not dirty at all,” she says happily. She ducks her head and Yayoi’s breath strangles in his lungs. She glances up at him through her bangs, and that is a look he thought he’d never see on Yuiko’s pretty face: sly and seductive and coy, an adult woman who knew what she wanted and how she was going to get it, and it was for him. It was finally at last for HIM.

“I like you, Yayoi-san,” she promises with kindness in her voice. It makes his heart do a brief flutter before she opens her mouth and swallows him down, wiping all other thought from his mind.

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