I thought for sure he’d be home by now. But no, the house is empty when I get in. It used to be that the quiet was what I craved most. Now I hate coming home like this, with the sound of my own footsteps echoing down the hall.

All because of a damn stray cat.

There’s only a hastily-folded newspaper and some empty beer cans on the counter to let me know that Gain was here. Typical of him to not pick up after himself but I find strange comfort in it. I can’t help it. No matter how many months we’ve been together, every time I walk into the door and he’s not there, I can’t breathe for a moment; this feeling of panic seizes up my chest. So. These cans, that old newspaper, the crumpled up candy wrapper I find under the coffee table, they’re signposts on the long road back to my sanity.

I wonder if Gain knows; if he leaves them on purpose. I like to hope so. I like to think of them as kitty markings—the work of a cat claiming his territory, if you please. Otherwise, I’m reminded of just how little of Gain’s stuff there is here to suggest any kind of permanence. All he’s added to the house so far is a funky art-nouveau-ish poster and a tiny cactus that he always forgets to water, which is a good thing, considering that it doesn’t need much.

Maybe it’s time we went shopping.

The cans rattle as I toss them into the garbage. My hands are shaking as I light another cigarette. In that flicker of light, the ring on my left hand glints. God, I have to stop doing this to myself.

I’m not really hungry. Seyoung insisted on dragging the film crew to dinner after the shoot and I’ve more than eaten my fill. Still, I start cooking anyway. Hearty pibimbap [1] for Gain who lives off pretzels and cigarettes when he’s at the bar. It’s an extravagant dish and especially so at two in the morning. An exasperated sound gusts past my lips and I can’t help chuckling. I work 12 to 16 hour days and yet I rush home to play the wife. Me. Eunhee Kim, the coldest fucking bastard in the business (at least according to Seyoung). I start to think, “How have I come to this?” but the answer is too obvious for me to try to pretend ignorance.

Still, this new topsy-turvy world has its advantages, like the rave reviews I’ve suddenly been getting for a couple of low-budget independent films that no one was supposed to notice:

“Eunhee Kim in his most moving performance yet—”

“Kim shows astounding maturity and emotional range for a man once called the “prince” of commercial film.”

Ha. Road movies. Who would have thought?

I take my eye off the sizzling beef and vegetables for a moment to grab a bundle of clothes from the hamper for washing. When I raise the washer’s lid, though, I find a load of wet clothes already in there. I tug one of the shirts out and sniff it, wrinkling my nose at the faint moldy odor that indicates it’s been in here far longer than it should have. Gain must have thrown in the clothes early this morning and forgotten about them. Then again, for all I know, they’ve been there since yesterday. Well, so much for doing a new load. I sigh and turn on the washer. Why do I do this again?

Fuck. Who the hell am I kidding? but I’ll pretend a little, just for the sake of my pride.

All that’s left to add to the pibimbap is the kochu jang. Both Gain and I like a generous helping of the hot sauce with our meals but I’ll wait until he gets home before applying it. I don’t want the vegetables to get too soft from the heat of the rice. With the meal done, though, I’m once again left to my own devices. I try not to watch the clock. For the hell of it, I put on some tea. The hum of the washer helps distract me and I’m grateful when it’s time to put the clothes in the dryer.

I hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but looking at the clothes now, I see the total madness of what Gain has done. I swear he really is no better than a kid. Not only has he thrown together whites with colors and cottons with expensive silks, but as I take the clothes out of the washer, I realize that everything is tinged pink and/or mottled red. Damn it! I dig through the pile and find the culprits of this measles-inducing affair: the striped red and yellow socks Gain so happily bought me a few months ago. The outrageous, ridiculous socks I agreed to wear. Well, at least they’re as bright as ever, I mutter as I toss everything into the dryer. I don’t even know why I bother. They’re all ruined anyway.

My inner tirade is interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. The distinctive tone is one I still haven’t gotten used to hearing. Suddenly all my irritation washes away. That he called, that he remembered, that this is another blaring signpost on the crazy road to happiness makes me giddier than a kid with his first crush. Nothing else matters as I press the phone to my ear.

“Eunhee?” Gain’s voice comes over the phone, sweet, clear and a little self-conscious.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, we had a bunch of salary men here tonight celebrating a closed deal. We finally got them out of the bar a minute ago. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay,” I murmur, and it is. All I need is his sweet voice. I hop into the shower with a spring in my step.

______________________________

“Honey, I’m ho~me.” Gain grins as he waltzes in the door, and my heart speeds up. “Mmm, something smells delicious.”

“It’s pibimbap. I figured I should cook something edible before you came home and attempted it yourself. I saw the mess you made of the laundry. A brat who doesn’t know to separate whites from colors shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a stove,” I say drolly, puffing out a ring of smoke.

“Ah, you’re such a good wife. What more could a man ask for?” Gain teases cheekily, but his expression softens as he leans in to peck me on the lips. He doesn’t linger which is good, because my nostrils are already flaring at the alien smells clinging to him: smoke, liquor, the overly-affectionate bar owner’s cloying “floriental” perfume and even more annoying, a hint of that loverboy, Sukwa on his clothes. Gain knows. He slips into the bathroom before I can say a word. The shower comes on and I picture his wet naked body as I set the table.

Gain emerges not too long afterwards, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt. True to form, his golden hair is dripping water onto the floor despite the towel wrapped around his head.

“Idiot, when will you learn to get it right?” I growl, reaching for him. I snatch up the haphazard mess of a towel on his head and roughly wipe his hair. Then I can pull him close and bury my nose in that golden softness. Then, I can touch him, kiss him and make him mewl. It’s not about sex, though we have plenty of that and very good sex besides. That is not why I wrap my arms around him now. I miss him when he’s away and I am happy he is home. That’s the long and short of it.

Gain sighs and nuzzles closer. Even like this, with his eyes heavy lidded, his sensual mouth reddened from my kisses, there is always that little something about him, that bit of distance in his gaze that makes it impossible to take him for granted. I want to bind him even tighter to me. I want him to say that he knows this is home.

So many emotions are crowding my heart, but when Gain twines his fingers around mine, I am quieted. There are no words. Instead we cuddle on the couch with the pibimbap and the tea. The meal is damn good, if I say so myself.

After dinner, Gain suggests putting on another of my old movies, but we’re both too tired to get much past the opening sequence. I’ve had enough of road movies for one night anyway. We stumble to the bed and Gain immediately curls up against my side. His slender body is hot against mine. His scent is sweet and familiar. Gain, my sleepy-eyed cat. But only around me.

Sleep: amazing how something so ordinary has come to take on such significance in my life. Before Gain, the hours I spent in bed were nothing more than a footnote to the whirlwind of my day. Now they are proof of something. Something which fills my waking hours and only finds completion when Gain is near. Even more important, I see the same proof in the dark circles under Gain’s eyes when I come home at five in the morning and he’s still awake—run ragged from waiting, restless. That makes me think: Maybe it is not about sleep at all. Maybe it’s more about finding a place to rest.

I pull the covers higher about us. Outside, the sky is already turning the gray of impending dawn. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got my sleepy- eyed cat and he’s got me.

End

______________________________

Notes:

[1] Pibimbap: One of the classics of the Korean kitchen, a one-dish meal consisting of a mixture of rice and an assortment of cooked cultivated and wild vegetables, perhaps some meat, a fried egg, and topped with a generous dollop of kochujang. Traditionally served in a very hot earthenware bowl with a raw egg, which cooks from the heat of the bowl. [http://www.rao-osan.com/osan- info/korea/korean_food.htm]

Pedigree
by Michalyn
for T-chan for the prompt, “Kunimasa and Norio. Jealous Kunimasa scenario.”
Notes: Sorry Kunimasa turned into an introspective sap on me >_<

The purpose of identifying a mate is to bear one’s child. It is not a matter of love but survival. Superior bloodlines must be cultivated or else they become contaminated. Contamination is weakness and only the weak are prey. Every Madararui knows this. Kunimasa especially understands this. So why does the sight of Norio napping on the couch, hand resting on his rounded belly make him him feel so damn helpless? Worse, when did he start to wonder if weakness was not such a bad thing?

End

Twilight
by Michalyn
Pairing: Cesare x Chiaro
For liriaen for the prompt, “Michelotto-centric, your choice of Souryo Fuyumi or You Higuri, with a prompt of ‘twilight’ ” .

Gray light spills onto the marble floor. In the mess of shadows Chiaro can just pick out a familiar silhouette. Cesare is half-turned towards him and the breeze from the window is ruffling his hair. He is not sure, but he thinks there is a ghost of a smile playing about Cesare’s lips as his master beckons to him. The moment stretches between them, quivering as the world hovers between light and darkness. Is the golden gleam he sees the dying sunset or a more sinister fire? Chiaro can’t seem to catch his breath. He rushes forward, love in his heart and his sword half-drawn out of its sheath.

End

——————————————————————————

Soi Fon’s tabi-covered feet moved soundlessly over the wood floor as she hurried to her mistress’s room. Yoruichi had charged her with ferreting out information about a renegade shinigami group that in recent months had become a political threat to the thirteen squads. It was a dangerous mission, one involving highly classified information and the fact that Yoriuchi had entrusted Soi Fon with it, spoke volumes about her mistress’s trust in her.

That knowledge had pushed Soi Fon to work harder than ever before and not only had she completed the mission ahead of schedule, but she’d even managed to uncover the identity of the leader of the group—crucial intelligence that had been unknown to the thirteen squads until now.

Soi Fon’s heart was pounding in anticipation of Yoruichi’s praise. Already, she imagined her mistress’s smile, pride shining in her golden eyes as Soi Fon told of the success of the mission and … dare Soi Fon hope… perhaps even the warm touch of Yoruichi’s hand on her shoulder. Soi Fon pressed her report to her chest as she approached Yoruichi’s quarters. She knocked softly.

“Yes?” Yoruichi’s firm voice called from the other side.

“Soi Fon, reporting back from Rukongai, Yoruichi-sama,” Soi Fon barked.

“Ah, Soi Fon, come in, come in.” Yoriuchi’s commanding tones relaxed considerably once Soi Fon revealed her identity. In fact she sounded more than relaxed. Yoruichi seemed mellow, languid and if Soi Fon didn’t know better, she would have even said sated. Whatever quality she heard in Yoruichi’s voice, however, when Soi Fon entered the large room she quickly discovered the reason for it.

Yoruichi was sprawled on the bed, her long legs tangled with another woman’s. Shiba Kuukaku: the crass woman who made fire bombs and lived in that ridiculous house with the arms. Both women were naked and in the soft afternoon light their limbs seemed to glow.

Of course Soi Fon had known. It was common knowledge in Soul Society that the two were lovers. Yoruichi certainly never hid it and yet … Soi Fon had hoped. For what even she could not say exactly. Kuukaku’s hands were lazily roaming Yoruichi’s skin but even the casualness of the motion was not enough to disguise the possessiveness in her touch, or in the gaze she leveled at Soi Fon.

It was like someone had trampled cruelly over the tender shoot of Soi Fon’s hope. All of the quivering excitement she had felt earlier vanished, leaving her cold and alone. Soi Fon squared her shoulders, her back ramrod straight as she faced the two women. The fact that Yoruichi didn’t notice her pain only made it worse and the colder Soi Fon got, the more that pain was transformed to anger.

“Pardon me, Yoruichi-sama. I did not realize you were occupied,” she said in a clipped voice. Soi Fon bowed stiffly. “I’ll return later. If you’ll excuse me…”

Yoruichi waved her hand absently. “Stay. Didn’t you come to share your report? Then let’s have it. And what have I told you about dropping those damn honorifics?”

“I’d prefer to share my report when you’re alone,Yoruichi-san,” Soi Fon gritted. She cast a derisive glance at Kuukaku. “With all due respect, this information is classified.”

Something like amusement flitted across Yoruichi’s features though Soi Fon was sure she was mistaken. “Kuukaku has been one of our contacts from the beginning of this operation. Anything you share with me you can share with her.”

That was not what Soi Fon wanted to hear. She pressed her lips together. “But…”

Kuukaku gave a bark of laughter. She raised an arm behind her head, her ample breasts swaying as she did so.

“So this is the busy little bee you’ve been telling me about, Yoruichi?” Her gaze travelled from Soi Fon’s head to the tips of her toes and back up again before coming to settle on her chest. Her message was clear: Yoruichi liked a certain kind of woman and Soi Fon obviously was not it.

The younger woman flushed in spite of herself. Defiantly, she notched her chin higher. Soi Fon knew she didn’t have either Kuukaku’s or Yoruichi’s lush curves. She was lean and compact and while that would never make her a vixen, it was just one of the things which had made her the best fighter in her class.

Kuukaku’s grin spread. “Oh, now I definitely see what you meant, Yoruichi,” she purred and Soi Fon frowned, confused not only by the enigmatic comment but by the look in Kuukaku’s eyes. It was almost as if…. Soi Fon shook her head. That was impossible.

Yoruichi had been quiet until now but when Soi Fon turned, she saw that she too was smiling, albeit a bit more gently than her partner. Soi Fon had valiantly kept her eyes fixed above Yoruichi’s neck but with her mistress’s golden gaze so warmly upon her, Soi Fon (who, somewhere, deep in her heart of hearts admitted that she’d yearned to see Yoruichi just like this) couldn’t help staring at the dusky peaks of Yoruichi’s breasts. And once she’d braved that territory, she moved lower to the firm stomach, the shapely hips and the shadowed area between Yoruichi’s thighs.

Soi Fon drew in a sharp breath. Heat prickled her skin and there was a dull ache between her own thighs. Beneath the concealing folds of her uniform, her nipples were tight, nuzzling the soft material of her shirt.

“Excuse me,” Soi Fon blurted. She skittered backward and turned abrupty on her heel.

She didn’t even make it to the door.

Using the flash steps that had earned her her nickname, Yoruichi blocked Soi Fon’s path. “Soi Fon, I’m still waiting for that report,” Yoruichi murmured huskily, tilting Soi Fon’s face upwards with just the tip of her finger.

Soi Fon’s fists clenched. “I need to make some, corrections,” she gritted, trying to angle her face away.

“Which corrections?” Yoruichi breathed, leaning closer.

“I… it’s….” Soi Fon froze as Yoruichi drew closer. The way she was moving, it was almost as if … almost as if … her mistress wanted to ki— Soi Fon gave a soft cry as Yoruichi’s lips brushed over hers, then became more insistent, coaxing her mouth open. Yoruichi’s tongue slid along hers and Soi Fon moaned, clutching at the older woman’s forearms. Yoruichi-sama was kissing her … Yoruichi-sama was kissing her… Soi Fon’s dazed brain chanted over and over. Joy swelled within her. Then, she remembered Kuukaku. Soi Fon tore her mouth away.

“Stop making a fool of me!” She cried raggedly, struggling in Yoruichi’s grasp, but her mistress held her fast.

“Who’s making a fool of you?” Yoruichi purred. “I’m not. Kuukaku certainly isn’t.” Yoruichi nodded towards her lover who was staring hungrily at them. When Yoruichi spoke, Kuukaku made a sound of approval.

Soi Fon’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand,” she rasped.

“Don’t you?” Yoruichi reached out and circled Soi Fon’s nipple through the dark cloth of her shirt. Electric sensation raced out from that tiny point and Soi Fon cried out, jerking beneath Yoruichi’s touch.

“Don’t!”

“Hmm, come here.” Yoruichi began tugging Soi Fon towards the bed. “Kuukaku and I think you deserve a reward for completing your missing so quickly.”

“What are you—? Yoruichi-sama!” Soi Fon growled, digging her heels in. It was no use, though. Before Soi Fon knew what was happening, she was tumbled onto the large bed and Kuukaku was immediately upon her.

“Finally. You’re a stubborn little thing aren’t you?” she tsked. While she spoke, Yoruichi kissed Soi Fon’s wrists, then raised her hands above her head, trapping them there.

Soi Fon bucked, but Yoruichi held on, following Soi Fon’s movements with an ease that made her attempts at escape seem even more ridiculous. When Soi Fon finally sank onto the bed, panting and exhausted from her struggle, Yoruichi smiled.

“Shh …. relax, Soi Fon. We’ve been waiting quite a while for you to join us and I know you feel the same way … at least about one of us.” Yoruichi gently captured Soi Fon’s lips. “Am I wrong?” she murmured against her mouth. Yoruichi’s eyes bore into hers.

Soi Fon flushed. “I don’t—”

“Liar,” Kuukaku taunted. Her hand hovered on Soi Fon’s ribcage, just beneath the curves of her breasts.

Soi Fon felt the movement and went absolutely still, her heart thumping against her chest.

Kuukaku laughed huskily and moved her hands to either side of Soi Fon’s ribcage. Her fingers closed around the material of her shirt and slowly pulled it taut until the rigid peaks of Soi Fon’s nipples were outilined clearly against the dark material.

Soi Fon gave an embarrassed cry and twisted violently. A hot blush burned it’s way from her face to her neck.

“No bindings?” Kuukaku purred, avidly watching the gentle swells and hungry peaks of Soi Fon’s breasts. “What a naughty little bee you are.”

Soi Fon’s face was aflame. “I’m not … I didn’t need them,” she protested weakly.

“No? So you run about all day with these brushing against your shirt like this?” Kuukaku loosened her grip on the soft cotton enough to drag it over the tips of Soi Fon’s breasts.

Soi Fon moaned and arched desperately as heat burst through her. She tried to say something, but the words caught in her throat as sensation zinged from her nipples to between her legs, causing the moist ache there to grow.

Kuukaku’s eyes widened at her sensitive reaction, and a moan of her own escaped the older woman’s lips. “Well now, if you’re that sensitive I can see why you do it. It feels good every time you move doesn’t it or don’t you even realize your own sensual nature?”

Soi Fon shook her head. “What are you talking about?” she groaned. “Stop this!”

“Then I’ll show you,” Kuukaku breathed. She nodded towards Yoruichi.

“Soi Fon, give me your mouth,” Yoruichi commanded. She pressed her lips to Soi Fon’s and Soi Fon blindly obeyed, swept up in the tide of passion. When Yoruichi released her hands for a moment, she didn’t realize what was happening until she felt the wash of cool air over her breasts. Mortified to be so exposed, Soi Fon squeezed her eyes shut but she could do nothing to stop the heated words Yoruichi whispered in her ear.

“You’re so beautiful, Soi Fon.” Yoruichi’s tongue hotly traced Soi Fon’s ear. At the same time, she captured the taut rosy peak of Soi Fon’s left breast between her fingers, tugging and rolling the sensitive nipple.

Soi Fon writhed, unconsciously arching into Yoruichi’s touch. She was whimpering and crying out with each sensuous movement of Yoruichi’s fingers and just when she thought she could not take any more, Yoruichi homed in on the delicate point of her nipple, fingering and rubbing that sweet center until shudders wracked Soi Fon’s body.

On her right, Kuukaku was making rumbling sounds of pleasure as she watched the two women. Instead of Yoruichi’s direct approach, her strategy was a much more teasing one. She focused on the dusky circle of Soi Fon’s aureole, tracing it lightly, but never quite touching the nipple itself. The contrast between the electric sensation on the one hand, and the light, maddening touches on the other left Soi Fon fevered and aching.

“Please … please!” she moaned, her legs moving restlessly as her arousal grew. She ached so badly she thought she would die from it.

“Shh … shh, little one. I’ll help you,” Yoruichi said soothingly. She slid down Soi Fon’s body, tugging her pants and socks with her as she went. When Soi Fon was left in only her panties and the heat of her lovers’ gazes, Yoruichi’s hand slipped between Soi Fon’s legs and curled possessively around the triangle at the apex of her thighs.

“Don’t, Yoruichi-san! That’s….” Soi Fon cried out in shock. But Yoruichi didn’t stop. Her fingers moved, tracing the contours of Soi Fon’s softness, pressing between delicate folds until her fingers glistened with wetness and the sweet musk of Soi Fon’s desire perfumed the air. She found the hidden node of the younger woman’s clit and waves of pleasure radiated through Soi Fon’s body. Whatever original protests Soi Fon might have had evaporated under the scorching ecstasy filling her veins. Her hips rose, moving seekingly and Yoruichi answered her silent plea, increasing the movements of her hand, doubling the pleasure. When she slid Soi Fon’s underwear past her hips, the younger woman barely noticed. By then, her thighs had fallen open, submitting her to whatever Yoruichi wanted even as her hips moved in a hot sensuous rhythm.

Soi Fon was already on the edge, every muscle quivering with tension but when Kuukaku’s mouth closed about her nipple and began a strong suction, Soi Fon gave one last wild cry and orgasmed. All the while, Kuukaku and Yoruichi caressed her, enveloping her in the fire of their touch. When it was all over, they enclosed her in an embrace of another kind, this one infinitely more tender as they wrapped their arms around her and gently stroked her hair. Soi Fon trembled.

“Why?” she whispered gruffly, when she finally caught her breath.

“We’ve always wanted you,” Yoruichi explained, “But you were so busy trying to hide your feelings for me, and shooting venom at Kuukaku whenever she came by, that you never took the time to notice all the little hints we were sending your way.” Yoruichi laughed. “We finally got fed up and decided to take matters into our own hands.”

“But…” Soi Fon began, but Kuukaku interrupted her with a fierce kiss.

“Both of you talk too damn much,” she cursed, even as she slid down Soi Fon’s body. Grasping her legs, she spread her wide, baring Soi Fon to her gaze. “There are other ways of convincing reluctant little spies.” Kuukaku grinned. She began lowering her head between Soi Fon’s already trembling thighs.

“Let me show you my way of courtship, then you can decide if you want us or not.”

End

Tempus
by Michalyn
Fandom: The Real Adventures of Johnny Quest
Pairing: Benton Quest x Race Bannon
Rating: MA

1AM: or 01:00 hours as Race would say, precisely.

Except Race has not yet returned.

Benton sips his cognac and listens to the crackle of the fire in the brazier. It never occurs to him to go to bed; it is an unspoken rule between them that they have never broken. Whoever arrives first must wait. Whether for half an hour or till the first fingers of dawn are streaking the sky with dingy color, it does not matter. As a young man, expecting Race back from an assignment, he would have paced, perhaps busied himself in the lab to burn off his nervous energy, but at fifty, Benton has found that the greatest paradox of aging is the slowness of his days, the utter companionableness of the ticking hours that lends the sense that one has all the time in the world. No, he is neither impatient nor perturbed. Race’s return is as certain as the clock’s measured circle.

Benton is on his second glass of cognac when he hears the other man’s footsteps on the stairs. Race stops, blinking in the darkness for a moment before moving to the bar and downing a shot of his own. Whiskey. No ice.

It must have been a hard night.

Wordless, he comes to stands before Benton. His boots are powdered with dust and there are dark sweat rings under the arms of his t-shirt. In the dark, Benton can barely make out Race’s features; rather, he perceives Race’s living heat and the dark odor of perspiration heavy in the space between them.

His cock stirs.

The ice clinks against the glass as Benton stands. When he leans forward, condensation runs a slow trail down Race’s neck and the indentation of his own wrist. Cool. Wet. Glistening. Race’s pulse jumps and Benton leans forward to lick the the salt from his skin. He can hear the heaviness of their breathing, but not once do they speak as they move toward the bedroom. They have never put a name to this thing between them, preferring to leave it as it is: nameless and undefinable, not continuous, but constant, sidestepping marriage, wives and children, to fuse together now again in these mellowing years.

Their knees bump against the mattress and Benton gently pushes Race backward. Naked, he goes down in a ripple of muscle. Benton leans carefully over him, himself still vigorous but with a softening pouch of stomach and — as he runs his hands over the tickle of hair on Race’s calves — hands starting to show the first faint signs of arthritis.

Race’s hair gleams in the moonlight spilling onto the bed — pure and unchanging as hammered metal. Even in his youth it was that startling glimmer, as though the man before Benton is a being neither young nor old. The sleekness of the body beneath Benton’s fingers seems to confirm this. Years of activity have honed Race’s body to efficient hardness, yet, Benton also knows there is a deep vulnerability to him, as he fondles Race’s soft penis. As always, it is shy to emerge from its hood of foreskin, but Benton is patient, calling forth a single milky drop from the opening at its tip. When he touches it to his lips, Race makes a sound as fierce and unintelligible as the bond between them.

In the morning they will put on the old familiar faces — bodyguard and scientist, husband and father — but for now, Race’s body is welcoming, his arms a hot vise around Benton’s abdomen as they move together. Race’s hair glints against the pillow and all Benton can think of is constancy: the inexorable progression of age, the soft ticking of the clock downstairs in the foyer….

And the slow companionship of time.

End

The Scent of Orchids
by Michalyn
Fandom: Viewfinder by Yamane Ayano
Pairing: Asami x Feilong
Rating: M

Asami swirled the brandy around in his glass. The bar was dimly lit and smoky, completely ordinary to the untrained eye. Of course, Asami Ryuuichi was no ordinary man. He was aware of his guards lurking near the exits, blending seamlessly with The Lotus’ wealthy patrons. He was also aware of a second set of guards who had arrived shortly after his contact had left. It was thus no surprise when, with a rustling of fine silk, the seat next to him was taken.

“I would have thought you much subtler than that, Fei Long. Your cockroaches have been swarming about since I got here. Were you so desperate to see me?” Asami drawled, blowing a ring of smoke out in front of him.

“Come now, Asami. We both know that subtely has very little to do with why you’re here. Do you always linger at a meeting point over an hour after your client has left? No, we both know very much what this is all about,” Fei Long intoned. He smoothed a hand over hair softer than even the shimmering silk he wore. The perfume of orchids mingled with the smoky- sweetness of opium rose from his clothes as he moved.

Asami’s nostrils flared at that scent: familiar and cloyingly addictive. He saw the other man’s graceful profile and the fact of Fei Long’s beauty washed over him almost dispassionately. No sentiment was required to recognize it. It simply was. Even as Asami thought so, however, fire began to pool in his veins. He rose, setting his unfinished drink on the counter.

Fei Long’s mouth curved upwards in a smirk.

Asami did not have to wait long. They struggled in the darkness of the stairwell, cold metal jarring elbows, biting into hips and thighs—a fitting counterpoint to the coppery tang of blood in their mouths as teeth scraped against lips. In the moonlight spilling from the window at the top of the stairs, Fei Long’s eyes were luminous. He was beautiful in a brittle haunted way. It was a beauty that always made Asami’s chest ache, made him want to cradle Fei Long and protect him.

So he was rough with him instead.

Asami shoved Fei Long forward. Tangling his hands in his hair, he fucked him over the railing. Fei Long grunted but he never cried out. His hands were white-knuckled as he gripped the balustrade and slammed his hips backwards to meet Asami’s thrusts. Whatever refinement there was in Fei Long’s features twisted into a grimace of pleasure. The fine silk of his shirt was crumpled and the perfume of orchids was replaced by the baser smells of sweat and sex.

It was always like this between them: hard, fast and brutal. Asami preferred it that way. Somehow it made Fei Long more real to him; less the beautiful broken doll and more the ruthless predator he was—that they both were. With a final grunt he poured his seed into Fei Long. Asami withdrew and tossed the dirty condom onto the floor. He straightened his clothes and began walking away. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Fei Long had righted his own clothes and was already disappearing into the darkness until the next time.

The next time….

Asami strolled out of the club into the cool night air. He dragged deeply on his cigarette. He had come but he felt irritated, hollow, unsatisfied. Fei Long’s scent lingered on his skin and the memory of his hair was alive on his fingertips. Asami ground the burnt-out fag end of the cigarette beneath his shoe. He needed a change, a different kind of sex. He wanted something that didn’t arouse conflicting feelings in him. A sweet little fucktoy who wouldn’t break when he played with it.

Asami sighed. Shinjuku glittered with a thousand lights before him and he stepped forward, ready to leave this little interlude behind and return to the world he’d created. Just then, his cell phone vibrated.

“Yes?”

“Boss, it’s Takaguchi. We found that punk photographer sniffing around again. The one who’s friends with that cop Yamazaki. Should we let Norita dispose of him?”

Asami smiled and began moving briskly towards his car. He suddenly felt completely invigorated. “No … no… I think I’ll take care of this one myself….”

End

The Wonder of Love
by Michalyn
Fandom: The Guide of Love by Yamane Ayano
Rating: M

Summary: Hirotaka and Akira have found the perfect love, but what happens when a beautiful young scientist walks into the dating agency and demands Hirotaka for herself?

Pairing: Hirotaka x Akira

Rating: R for romance, humor, sap and a touch of lime.

Notes: Unlike in the west, (or at least the US) where people often joke that one can tell a man’s intimate … proportions … from the size of his hands, in Japan, it is commonly thought that the larger a man’s nose, the more well endowed he is.

[1] Pocari Sweat is an electrolyte drink rather like Gatorade and is reputed to be excellent for hangovers.

—————————————–

“You see,” the young man wailed as he wrung a sopping handkerchief, “the problem is my nose. I know it. One look at this elephant’s trunk and women immediately quail.” He paused to blow the offending organ. “It’s such an indelicate feature for a businessman to have. It’s as bad as announcing one’s net worth down to the very cent at the first handshake. My friends say they envy me, but it does me no good, I tell you, no good.” When his handkerchief could no longer service him, the young man fished about his pockets for something to wipe his nose with. Akira hurried over with a box of tissues.

“Please, Mr. Hanaoto, don’t give up. We’ll find the right lady for you, no matter what!”

Akira’s brows lowered and determinedly, he hit his palm with his fist. “You are the best perfumer in Tokyo, your knowledge of flowers is encyclopedic and you can distinguish any scent at a single sniff. Any woman would be delighted to have a man like you for a husband. Think of how special she would feel knowing the fragrance she wears has been uniquely crafted for her.”

“No sir.” Akira shook his head. “You must think positively if we must succeed. It’s all about attitude. Women are drawn to confidence. If you don’t believe in yourself, how can she? From now on, I want you to think of your nose not as a liability but as what it truly is—a connoisseur’s instrument.” Akira grinned. “If you start believing in yourself I am sure things will turn around.”

Hanaoto raised hopeful eyes. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Akira bowed. “So please cheer up and let us do our best.” He put an arm around Mr. Hanaoto’s shoulders as he led him to the door. “Shall we meet again next Wednesay? I have a list of promising new candidates I’d like you to look at.”

Hanaoto agreed and Akira continued to reassure the young man as they stopped at the receptionist’s desk to finalize the appointment. When Mr. Hanaoto walked out, Akira saw that his client’s shoulders had straightened, and he thought he noticed a new sprightliness to his step.

He returned to his office and put Mr. Hanaoto’s file away with a sigh. Dealing with this case was always a bit difficult and Akira inevitably felt responsible when his clients were disappointed. Still, he brightened. No one ever said cupid’s work was easy!

“Hey, Yoshizawa,” a fellow agent called as she walked past his office, “new client in room two.”

“Ah!” Grabbing the registrant’s file, Akira bounced up from his seat. “Thanks, Yukiko, that must be my eleven o’ clock. I’ll be there in a minute.”

All the interview rooms were decorated in soft pastel hues intended to create according to management, an ambience conducive to inspiring and cultivating love. Akira, who had witnessed as many failures as successes in these rooms was not so sure about that, but the bright colors always made him cheerful and at the very least helped his clients feel more comfortable than a cramped, darkened space might. Akira peered at his file.

“Ms. Morishita Kyoko?”

“Yes, that’s me.” A slender woman with reddish-brown hair rose to shake Akira’s hand. Adjusting her glasses, she looked around disinterestedly. “You will be my agent?”

Akira nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. Won’t you have a seat? First, let us get to know each other by reviewing your file.” He flipped the folder open to the first page of the application to which Ms. Morishita’s photograph was pasted. She was full-breasted and well proportioned, and though not a classic beauty, her brown eyes were expressive. Even with only a cursory glance at her credentials, Akira thought her prospects were good.

“All right … let’s see … speaks English fluently … handsome salary … wow.” Akira looked up, beginning to develop a sense of deja-vu. His thoughts immediately went to Hirotaka, whom he had left poring over tabulations in the laboratory. Akira knew he’d been getting underfoot, but his lover had been as gentle with him as always, leaving his work to greet him with a kiss. He was so lucky to have Hirotaka, and considering the way this day was progressing, Akira couldn’t wait to go home to him. He smiled at the young woman seated across from him.

“It says here that you’re an animal behaviorist at the Homura Institute. They’re the premier research facility in Japan! We should have no problem finding a match for an intelligent sophisticated lady such as yourself.”

Ms. Morishita met his enthusiasm with a blank look and Akira bit his lip. This one was a tough cookie! He would have to try harder.

“Why don’t we begin by looking at some candidates? We have both videos and printed profiles with photographs. Won’t you have a look? I’m sure that you will find a number of them quite interesting.” Akira went to the nearby cabinet and returned with an armful of videos and a catalogue of profilees. Ms. Morishita barely stirred.

“All right.”

Together they went through the videos and when none caught Ms. Morishita’s interest, Akira waited as she rifled through the profiles. It seemed they would have no luck when having studied the candidates arranged by surname from A through S, the scientist remained unmoved and unimpressed. Akira’s spirits fell.

“Forgive me, Ms. Morishita,” he said, bowing deeply. “If you’ll spare me a moment, I will find you a better selection right away. We have—”

“Who’s this?”

“Oh.” Akira squinted at the characters printed on the file tab and a lump of ice settled in the pit of his stomach. “That’s … that’s … that is Mr. Takaoka Hirotaka,” he croaked, clutching the edge of the paper. “A very popular candidate.”

“He’s a client of yours?”

“Ah.” Akira swallowed. What was he worried about? It did not matter if Ms. Morishita or a hundred other women scientists were interested in the professor. Hirotaka loved him, Akira reminded himself. Hadn’t he told Akira so just this morning?

Still, Akira’s conscience plagued him. This was why the agent’s handbook strictly forbade relationships of this sort. Wasn’t he honor bound to find his clients loving, healthy relationships (his dear Hirotaka included)? Ms. Morishita and Hirotaka obviously had much in common. Akira’s fists clenched. Why must everything be so difficult? He only wanted to do the right thing.

Ms. Morishita’s demeanor had undergone a noticeable change. She straightened in her chair and pierced Akira with a look. “It says here that he has been a member for six months. I find it hard to believe he hasn’t found someone yet.”

Akira smiled weakly. “Like most scholars, Professor Takaoka is somewhat introverted. In addition, his research keeps him working long hours. Also…” How could he say that much of the professor’s failure was due to the fact that he had stopped looking? Akira shifted from foot to foot. “Though it has been a challenge, I am confident…”

Ms. Morishita smiled. “I’d like to meet him.”

“O…of course.” Akira turned. As he moved to gather up the files, he tried to prevent his face from crumpling.
——————————————

“Akira, are you home?”

Akira peeked beyond the kitchen and saw Hirotaka taking off his shoes in the entryway. The professor’s tie was loose and his hair mussed as he stepped onto the tatami. With his lab coat discarded, Hirotaka looked tired, serious—and incredibly attractive in his shirt-sleeves.

Akira’s heart beat faster and he ducked away before Hirotaka could see him. He scooped some rice from the cooker, tapping the spatula until the steamy mound plopped into one of the bowls he had set aside. He wanted to transfer the meal to a tray, but his hands were trembling so badly the miso soup sloshed over his fingers.

This was how it always was. A single look at Hirotaka—that was all it took to set his blood racing. Akira had expected the impossibility of it—the sheer wonder of being on the receiving end of Hirotaka’s love—to fade with time. Instead, only his ability to resist it diminished.

“Ah, there you are, my Akira.”

Hirotaka was leaning against the door-frame, eying him with that mixture of pleasure, amusement and a kind of fierceness that always seemed to warm over the older man’s expression whenever he encountered Akira. It was recognition, affection and something else that left Akira’s stomach bottomless. Hirotaka never seemed to just look at him; he lingered, taking in all of Akira in a way that made him feel at once exposed and cherished. Akira shifted, his collar prickling with heat.

“Welcome home!” He smiled. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Ah.” Hirotaka pushed his glasses up his nose bridge. He did not budge but continued to watch Akira. “I was hoping to make love to you before dinner.”

Quiet and uttered as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. Maybe it was the scientist in Hirotaka which always allowed him to view things with such equanimity, but Akira was not so fortunate. The dishes rattled loudly in his hands.

Hirotaka’s response was soft, mellifluous laughter. “Silly boy, does that still shock you?”

Akira bit his lip. His ears were so hot he was sure they were glowing. “Th…that’s…”

Hirotaka pried the tray from Akira’s fingers and tucked it into the oven. Akira stumbled after him, trying to regain control of his senses. It was difficult with the blood roaring in his ears and his heart racing a mile a minute. Their eyes met and familiar heat settled beneath Akira’s belt. Hirotaka studied him, his lips twitching.

“You’re quite adorable in that apron.” He plucked the ruffled bodice. “Shall we take it with us?

“But…” Akira floundered—gurgled. It was his mother’s apron. For them to … in her…! He couldn’t.

Hirotaka blinked back at him, unperturbed and with a great deal of expectation. “Shall we?”

Did he mention how powerless he was to resist Hirotaka? Not calculation or seduction, not even persuasion, just the very gentleness of Hirotaka’s voice and the warmth of his arm as it curled about Akira’s waist was enough to have him trailing the older man to the bedroom.

Such was the wonder of love … and how he found himself pressed into the mattress with his socked feet bobbing over Hirotaka’s shoulders.

The apron was hiked about his hips, its frill of candy-pink lace crushed between their bodies. Akira squeezed his eyes shut as his breath hitched from another of Hirotaka’s sinuous movements. It was too embarrassing. What a picture he must make and the crowning ignominy was the perfect little bow knotted at the base of his neck. “Precious,” Hirotaka had called it. Akira’s face flamed. He preferred not to describe it at all!

“Whatever is going on in that head of yours?” Hirotaka paused to consider him.

Akira would have liked to answer, except with Hirotaka nudging his prostate, he could only moan and protest the older man’s immobile weight above him, keeping him from release.

Hirotaka, who never sought to deny Akira anything, obliged him. Lacing Akira’s fingers with his, his thrusting assumed a more urgent pace. He kissed Akira’s face and throat, never faltering in that sensuous rhythm, and Akira clutched at him, savoring the play of muscle beneath Hirotaka’s skin. It ended in short order, with Hirotaka securing both their releases in a rush of warmth.

He withdrew and rolled off Akira. Lifting the sheets, Hirotaka drew them both beneath the covers before taking Akira into his arms again. Akira sighed, even as he snuggled closer against Hirotaka’s chest. The apron was in complete disarray about him and there were two large wet spots below its heart-shaped buttons—mute evidence of Hirotaka’s earlier attentions.

Hirotaka ruffled his hair. Following Akira’s gaze, he reached over and idly fingered the tiny points of Akira’s nipples peeking beyond the edges of the scrunched bodice. Akira made a shivery sound as Hirotaka continued to pluck at him.

“Are you pleased, Akira-chan?”

Akira made a noncommittal sound. He was thinking. “Takaoka-sensei—”

“Takaoka-sensei?” Hirotaka repeated, his fingers stilling. “How long has it been since we discarded that formailty?” He pressed his lips to Akira’s forehead. “You’re nervous again, my love. Won’t you tell me what has you so preoccupied?”

“Nothing.” Akira squirmed. He fiddled with the sheet. “Well … nothing too important.”

“Important enough to worry you,” Hirotaka countered.

“I met a new client today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes and—” Akira’s face crumpled.

“Akira!” Hirotaka sat up and pulled him onto his lap, rubbing his back in soothing circles. “What is it?”

“She’s a scientist,” he hiccuped, “speaks three different languages … and really … you know … she’s pretty … and…”

Hirotaka sighed. “Is this about a client who picked me for a date? Akira, it doesn’t matter if ten women pick me.” He kissed Akira on the nose. “I only want to be with you.”

“But you don’t understand, she asked specifically for you.” Akira wrung the sheet between his fingers, twisting it into a tiny column. When he released it, a spray of wrinkles radiated across the cotton.

Hirotaka made it seem so simple but he could not help being scared. Could he ever offer Hirotaka the stability found in a hetrosexual relationship? True, Hirotaka kept irregular hours and spent most of his time in the lab, but what if one day the work was not enough? Wouldn’t he want children, a family to come home to every night? No matter how much Akira loved him, these were things he could never provide. Akira sniffled.

“Plus, as a certified agent, it is my duty to make sure that the customer is completely satisfied,” he said. “What she wants, I must provide. Even if…” Akira lowered his head, “even if what she wants is you.”

“Then I’ll just go out with her.”

“What?”

“I’ll go out with her,” Hirotaka repeated. “You know how I am with women. It will only take one date before she loses her fascination for me. Besides, this is not necessarily a bad thing for us. Mother has really been pressuring me lately to bring someone home. Inviting this woman to dinner should throw her off the scent for a while.” He stroked Akira’s hair. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

He had not thought of it that way, and though Akira had his misgivings, he had to admit, it did make things much easier for them. He released a shuddering breath. “Well, okay….”

“Hmm mm.” Hirotaka’s face was buried in the crook of Akira’s neck. “One more round before dinner?”

Akira wound his arms around Hirotaka. Smiling, he surrendered.

————————————————-

Akira straightened Hirotaka’s tie. “There she is, over there. Now, don’t forget what we practiced. She’s a very intelligent woman and I think the two of you will get along marvelously. Do you have your keys? Your cellphone? Yes? And the—”

“Akira?”

“Yes?”

“You’re babbling.”

Akira raised a hand behind his head in a sheepish gesture. He flushed. “Sorry, you’re right.” It wasn’t his fault he was a little nervous.

Smiling, Hirotaka leaned close and discreetly, his fingers brushed Akira’s cheek in a fleeting caress. “I’ll see you tonight, then?” It was not a question, but a promise. Akira nodded, his heart thudding in his chest.

“Have a good evening,” he waved, watching as Hirotaka strode over to Ms. Morishita and took her arm.

Tonight, her hair was coiled upward and she was wearing a smartly tailored suit that showed off her long legs. Contrasting her pastel prettiness, Hirotaka was masculine grace in the charcoal suit Akira had chosen for him. The depth and breadth of his shoulders was impressive under the dark material and when he tilted his head to answer some question Kyoko had murmured, the light caught his glasses and the sensuous curve of his profile. They made a handsome couple, and a number of people stopped to admire them as they moved across the lobby.

Akira’s hand flopped to his side. He put on his best smile as he hurried to put away his files and shut down his computer. He was alone in the halls. It was Friday night and well past eight o’ clock so few agents were still in the office. Save for the distant whir of a printer and the jubilant calls of the last team members heading out for the evening, nothing stirred.

Akira shuffled about his desk, gathering up the last applications and the discarded coffee cups that were littered about the table. He dusted his hands off with a sigh. Everything would work out just fine. He had absolutely nothing to worry about. He turned off the lights and grabbed his coat.

But first, he was going to get thoroughly drunk—just to make sure.

Akira awoke to an unremitting throbbing in his head. Hirotaka leaned over him, pressing a wet compress to his temples and Akira gingerly eased himself up against the pillows as he was handed a bottle of Pocari Sweat[1].

“You overdid it, didn’t you?”

Akira winced as a shaft of light pierced through his pupils. “A little,” he admitted groggily.

Hirotaka sighed as he watched Akira down the electrolyte drink but refrained from saying anything. It was unnecessary in any case, for Akira was pretty sure he knew what Hirotaka’s thoughts were. There was no logical reason for him to have been so panicked, but it was the sight of Kyoko slipping her arm in Hirotaka’s that had suddenly sent Akira tumbling into despair. How could he explain the yearning it inspired in him? Of course Hirotaka could not understand it when he was the one slipping through Akira’s fingers.

As was his response in any difficulty, Akira faced Hirotaka with a smile. He asked him about the date, the scent Kyoko had been wearing, the food they had consumed at a restaurant Akira, as their matchmaker, could never afford. And all throughout, he listened carefully, concealing the pangs in his heart.

Hirotaka’s weight sunk onto the bed, but this time Akira did not allow himself to become lost in the embrace. His nails dug deep into Hirotaka’s shoulders and he bit down at the junction of his lover’s neck with a passion that was almost savage.

————————————————-

Hirotaka and Kyoko were on another date. This time, Hirotaka had taken her to meet his mother. His mother! The woman whose mere existence threatened Hirotaka’s and Akira’s relationship. Akira had never met her and it was safe to assume he never would, given the woman’s determination to find her son a wife. A wife. Not a lover or god forbid, a boyfriend. That was the crux of the matter, the final, gut-wrenching turn of the knife. What was he to do? Akira knew he should pack his things before the final blow came, but no matter how he tried to gather his courage the thought of leaving rendered him immobile.

Ne pleurez pas, ma chere, an athletic Frenchman was crooning to his lover on the television. They had satellite TV, and in the week since Hirotaka had begun dating Kyoko, Akira had become quite familiar with the cheesy international soap operas that played on evenings between seven o’ clock and ten. Akira curled on the couch and glumly brought a spoon of caramel-fudge ice-cream to his mouth. Condensation dripped from the tub onto his shorts and slid into the crease of one leg. The Frenchman’s lover clung to him, her hair falling in a rippling cascade down her back. She was insisting on something quite urgently but he did not have a clue what they were saying. Akira sighed. Kyoko probably understood French.

The soap operas came and went. Akira flipped through the channels numbly, knowing he should go to bed. Still, he watched and worried and waited. Hirotaka would return soon and Akira knew instinctively that this night, in one way or another would end everything. Yet, the body could only take so much upheaval. Akira had been in a state of agitation since he arranged the first meeting between Hirotaka and Kyoko, and he was tired, stressed and distraught from his own fearful musings. He needed rest—physical, mental, emotional… Akira’s eyes drooped. He was already half asleep when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Akira? It’s me. I’m here with Kyoko. We’re coming over. I have some important news I want to share with you.”

“Akira?” Hirotaka’s voice was loud in his ear, but Akira could not answer, could barely breathe against the icy hand that had dipped into him and squeezed the heart out of his chest. Of course it was coming. Wasn’t he expecting it? Yes, of course—but knowing was one thing, being faced with rejection was something else entirely.

Hirotaka’s voice, tiny and frantic bubbled from the receiver as Akira returned it to the cradle. He switched off the television and returned the ice-cream to the freezer. What now? Akira turned about the room. Shower. He would shower. The least he could do was not make a fool of himself by appearing in his ratty t-shirt and boxers when the dismissal came.

Akira bathed, carefully brushed his hair and returned to the couch. The minutes ticked by with such agonizing slowness that it was almost with relief he heard the key turn in the lock.

“Akira?” Hirotaka’s voice and a woman’s softer tones filtered from the entryway, followed by a third voice even more muted, though definitely masculine in timbre. Perhaps Hirotaka was so determined to evict him he had already contacted the landlord to officially make sure that not a trace of Akira was left.

“Ah, you’re here.” Hirotaka appeared in the doorway. “Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

Akira jerked to his feet; tears were already smarting behind his eyelids. He had been wrong. He could not do this. It hurt too much—too much for him to pretend to be calm when inside he was in agony.

“If you’re going to leave me, just say it now! I … I love you but I can’t take anymore of this horrible suspense. Just tell me to leave and I’ll do it, but don’t … don’t leave me hanging like this.” Akira covered his face with his hands.

Hirotaka hurried to his side. “Akira, you’re wrong! This is not—”

“Hirotaka-kun, Is everything all right?” Kyoko wandered into the room. Over her shoulder, a tall dark-haired Westerner was smiling, his arm locked tenderly about her waist.

—————————————————

“Yoshizawa-kun, this is Mark, my fiancee.” Kyoko’s expression was contrite. “I see that I’ve caused you a lot of trouble and I feel terrible. Please—” She took Akira’s stunned hands in her own. “You must allow me to apologize.”

Akira’s legs wobbled. “I … I think I need to sit down.”

“Yes, do. Mark, please get him some water.” Kyoko waited as Hirotaka, who would not leave Akira’s side, directed the American to the kitchen. He returned shortly and handed the drink to Akira before taking his place once more next to Kyoko. He had a kindly face and his hazel eyes were warm behind his glasses. At the moment, however, his features were sharpened with concern.

“All right, where to begin.” Kyoko sighed, lacing her fingers through Mark’s. “It’s really quite simple. Hirotaka and I were in the same situation and I took advantage of him. I could tell from the first day you were lovers by your reaction, Yoshizawa-kun and that made Hirotaka even more the perfect candidate for what I had in mind.” Kyoko raised her hands as Akira’s eyes widened. “I swear I never meant to cause any trouble between the two of you. I just wanted to borrow Hirotaka for a little while to appease my parents until Mark came.”

“I don’t understand,” Akira said, blowing his nose quietly into a tissue.

“Oh,” Kyoko bit her lip as she watched him. “Oh, I’m so sorry to have caused you all this suffering! From day one, Hirotaka told me he was not interested, but I begged him to continue until the end of the week, though I did not tell him why. I knew Mark was coming and my parents were threatening to arrange another o-miai and well—” Kyoko showed Akira the ring glittering on her finger. “You can see why that just would not do.”

“Like Hirotaka’s mother, my parents have been trying for years to match me up with someone but last year at the Behaviorists Convention in New York, I met Mark and we’ve been secretly carrying on our relationship ever since. I come from a very traditional family and I just did not know how to tell them I’d fallen in love with an American. Mark and I discussed it, and we agreed to break the news to them together, but then my father was threatening another o-miai and he already had the son of a business associate lined up.”

“That’s when things became more urgent. The marriage would be instrumental for both families and I knew if I ever met this guy, there would be no refusing without causing grave loss of face to either side. I needed someone who wasn’t looking for love and who would be willing to go out on a few dates. Even without your involvement, Yoshizawa-kun, everything in Hirotaka’s file said he fit the bill. He was smart, wealthy, handsome—and completely uninterested in me. I was hoping to distract my parents with him long enough for Mark to arrive.”

Akira stirred, his voice hopeful. “So…”

Hirotaka’s arms tightened about Akira. “And that’s when Mother complicated things.”

It was Hirotaka’s turn to sigh. “You know how Mother is. She had been calling the agency to check up on me and when she found out I had been seeing Kyoko for a week—longer than anyone before—she didn’t waste any time. She demanded to meet her. I’m afraid I followed the same line of logic as Kyoko. I thought how tiresome it was to keep hiding our relationship from her and if Kyoko could throw her off the scent, well … all the better.”

Hirotaka had told Akira just these words this morning, but everything was so much clearer now that he had the full context. Akira was so convinced Hirotaka was about to leave him that he had been unable to see beyond his own fear.

“Hirotaka was always polite,” said Kyoko, “and you were right about one thing. We do have a lot in common, at least professionally. It was the only reason he kept going out with me. We spent all of our dates discussing research. When he explained the situation with his mother, though, I knew this could not go on any longer, especially since Mark had finally arrived.”

“Hirotaka had helped me so much already without him knowing it, that now that he was in a bind I could not refuse him. After meeting his mother though, I confessed everything to him. I told him about Mark and that I knew about his and your relationship and that I would never judge him for it. It was then Hirotaka-kun admitted how worried you had been these past few days and I just had to come up here and apologize to you in person.” Kyoko’s eyes were pleading. “Will you forgive me, Yoshizawa-kun?”

By the time Kyoko had finished her explanation, Akira was too dazed from relief to answer anything but yes. They spent a long time afterward laughing at their own folly and talking about Mark’s work and how he and Kyoko met. It turned out he was a scientist as well, working for one of the top universities in the States. The American was well-traveled and his Japanese was excellent. For a good portion of the evening, he, Kyoko and Hirotaka debated the finer points of animal behavior in a jargon that went completely over Akira’s head.

Akira didn’t mind in the least, however, too drunk on Hirotaka’s arm around him, so warm and sure—and the surprising, wonderful turn the evening had taken. He was exhausted from the rollercoaster of euphoric highs and soul-wrenching lows the day had propelled him through, and the chattering voices around him had a soporific effect on his senses. Akira dozed a little, his head resting on Hirotaka’s shoulder.

When he awoke, it was dark and he was lying in their bed. At some point Hirotaka had undressed him and Akira was curled into the other man’s arms. Kyoko and Mark had left.

Hirotaka kissed him softly and with great tenderness. “Better now?”

Akira nodded, suddenly embarrassed by his earlier desperation. He always made the same mistake when all he needed to do was trust in Hirotaka’s love. How many times did Hirotaka have to convince him? Here he had been so preoccupied with his own insecurities that he’d never given a moment’s thought to how he might have hurt Hirotaka with his doubts. Yet, not once had Hirotaka reproached him. It was more than he deserved. Akira closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Hirotaka. You told me. I overreacted. I … I was just so scared.”

“I’m sorry, my love.” Hirotaka pulled him closer. Beneath the covers he found Akira’s soft penis and stroked it to hardness. “I knew you were worried, but I would never have gone out with Kyoko if I had known you were this upset.”

“Sorry … sorry, I just—” Akira moaned as Hirotaka slid down his body. He spread Akira’s legs and began to suckle him. It felt so good, so good, and not just the pleasure of it, but the warmth of Hirotaka’s body against Akira’s—the wonder of it. His love for Akira palpable in every caress. How had Akira ever come to doubt it? He was a fool and he told Hirotaka so with every cry that burst from his lips.

“Shh, shh, no more recriminations.” Hirotaka moved up to embrace him. Rolling them over so that Akira was above him, Hirotaka caressed Akira’s hips. He made a questioning sound deep in his throat as Akira leaned over him.

“What is it?”

Hirotaka frowned. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Hmm?” Akira shivered as Hirotaka pressed into him.

“It’s about time you met my mother.”

End

Villa Vacation
by Michalyn
Fandom: Sorcerer Hunters
Pairing: Gateau x Marron
Rating: MA

Summary: Frustrated at not being able to spend enough time with Marron, Gateau arranges a special vacation just for two to rectify the situation.

——————————-

“Oi, Beautiful!” Gateau banged on the door. “What the hell is takin’ you so long in there?”

He pressed his ear to the wood, but there was no sound, nothing to let him guess what was going on within. What was he doing?

As Gateau waited, sunlight filtered through the waxy magnolia leaves outside the window, speckling his skin. Glancing over his shoulder, he found his broad back hazily reflected in the glass and Gateau couldn’t help flexing just a little. Muscle rippled. Damn, he looked good. He rested a forearm against the door frame.

“Do you need help putting on that sun block? Let me in and I’ll rub it all over.”

The door flung open and a rather flustered Marron emerged, clutching a broad-brimmed straw hat. In his other hand he carried a small travelling sack.

“Must you be so impatient?” he demanded, smoothing the hem of his shirt a little self-consciously.

Gateau heaved an appreciative sigh as took in his lover’s attire. Marron had traded his austere robes for summery trousers and a loose, pea-green shirt. The splash of color emphasized the fairness of his skin and his dark hair gleamed against his shoulders. Even his feet were exposed, slender toes crisscrossed by the leather thongs of sandals.

Hell, if he had known this would have been the result of Marron’s preparations, he would have been even more insistent. This was a change Gateau could definitely get used to.

“Oh, Baby you look … wonderful.” Gateau’s hands clenched and unclenched. He reached for Marron who stepped nimbly out of his grasp.

“Perhaps we should not leave. It does not seem wise for my brother to be unsupervised for such an extended period. One can only guess what trouble…”

“Oh no you don’t,” Gateau drawled. He was well prepared for this. “I’m sure Chocolat and Tira will keep Carrot well occupied while we’re gone. You can’t spend your life looking after your brother—an elder brother at that.” Gateau raised an eyebrow for emphasis. “Besides, Signor Fettucini’s car should be arriving in ten minutes. There’s no turning back now. We have seven, sunny, perfect days ahead of us and you’re all mine.”

Signor Fettucini was a wealthy parsoner whose daughter they had saved from the clutches of a maniacal sorcerer out to steal the souls of maidens. When they would not hear of accepting a monetary reward for vanquishing the villain, Fettucini had insisted on showing his gratitude to the Sorcerer Hunters by allowing them free rein of his estate including one seaside villa. Then, in an unbelievable stroke of luck, Big Momma announced there were no immediate assignments and that they were free to do as they pleased.

Gateau enjoyed the comforts of the mansion, but what he really wanted was time alone with Marron. That was not going to happen with Marron sharing a room with his protective older brother. He might be too noble to take advantage of an emotional old man, but Gateau wasn’t above a little manipulation. So he and Chocolat had a talk…

She would keep her “Darling” occupied while he and Marron headed off to the villa. Gateau would get some much-needed time with Marron, she and Tira would have an enitre week to play bondage games with Carrot and everbody would be happy. Pure genius, really. Gateau didn’t have a moment’s guilt over it. In fact, he slept better at night. If it weren’t for him they wouldn’t be going anywhere—period. Because Marron was Marron and when he woke up in the morning his first thoughts were protecting his brother, strengthening his magic so he could protect his brother and then maybe Gateau would enter somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness.

Still, convincing Marron had been surprisingly painless. He’d listened, patient as always, as Gateau unveiled his proposition (leaving out the part about his deal with Chocolat and Tira, of course. He wasn’t a complete idiot.) Marron had frowned, told him he would think about it.

So Gateau let him think.

He spent most of the next day in the gym. The workout was good and it kept Gateau’s mind off things he’d rather not think about. He was just rising off the mat for another pushup when Marron’s feet appeared in front of him. Gateau rolled over and Marron had blushed and said something like: “I accept your offer,” which was a lot more than Gateau had been expecting. Which made him hope he was more than just a blip on the radar.

No, a little manipulation wasn’t so bad after all.

Gateau hefted his bag onto his shoulder and Marron frowned in that way of his that managed to look contemplative but which really meant “I’m nervous.” Marron picked at the straw hat.

“I suppose you are right….”

“Of course I am.”

Gateau’s fingers brushed Marron’s elbow as they headed to the foyer and Marron flinched. He tried to cover it up by pretending to reach for the balustrade, but Gateau saw how his hands were shaking when he brought the hat to his head.

Marron was afraid of him.

Oh, not afraid in the sense of a weak warrior against a stronger; the mage could hold his own against the best of them. Marron was afraid of him—of that stolen night between them. He was afraid of Gateau’s hands and his mouth that had memorized Marron’s skin, the pulse-points at his wrists and the delicate spots behind his knees that made his passion spiral higher.

Most of all, Marron was most afraid of the thing quivering between them now they were alone.

Gateau was afraid too. What if in days ahead they discovered that without the distraction of battle, or Carrot’s shenanigans they had nothing to say to each other? What then?

Well, Gateau wasn’t about to let that happen. This was too special to be ruined by doubt.

The car was an ant in the distance, growing steadily larger as it mounted the hill. Marron squinted against the sun then turned to him with a shy smile. It was barely more than a curving of the lips but warmth expanded through Gateau’s belly like he’d swallowed wine. He grinned and tried not to think about the way his heart was pounding.

He had always been a sucker for a beautiful face.

============================

Fluffing a pillow behind his head, Gateau watched as Marron unpacked his clothes and replaced them with care in the nearby dresser. Marron had rolled up his sleeves, but with every item he folded they slipped past his elbows and tangled about his wrists. When yet another shirt fumbled in his grasp Marron made an impatient, clucking sound. Their eyes met just as he was reaching for a pair of briefs and Gateau grinned.

“Need any help?”

“No.” Color flooded Marron’s cheeks and he tried to fold the briefs so quickly his fingers caught in the waistband. The pair fluttered to the foot of the bed like a flag of surrender.

Gateau didn’t even have to get up. He reached over and hooked the stretchy cotton with his finger. “Drop something?”

“Gateau…” Marron pressed his lips together.

“What?” He waggled his finger. “Aren’t you going to come and get them?”

Gateau could see the gears turning in Marron’s head as he tried to figure out the best way to get what he wanted without losing face. Not that Gateau intended to cause him anything of the sort. He was just having a little fun. It still took a little getting used to, how little it took to ruffle Marron. Gateau had to admit, he was rather proud of that ability. Not because it was easy to catch Marron off guard. Oh no, not at all. The trail of sorcerers he had defeated would attest to that. The thing of it was—the crux of the matter, if you will—was only he, Gateau Mocha possessed this lovely gift. It meant he affected Marron and that was good because it hinted at things Gateau hoped for but didn’t dare say aloud.

“Well?”

“I will get them when I am done.”

“Suit yourself.” Gateau shrugged. “It’s not like you’ll be needing these much while we’re here anyway.” He draped the briefs across his lap and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the bug-eyed look Marron gave him.

“Wh…what?”

“Come over here,” Gateau patted the space beside him.

“Why?” Marron’s throat worked and his eyes were as round as saucers. There was a watercolor of luscious fruit on the wall behind him and the honey of his gaze seemed to echo the plump, golden pears nestled lovingly together.

“Why not?” Gateau moved over in the bed, making space for Marron.

And what a bed it was. Apparently Signior Fettucini wasn’t as naive as he’d thought. Arriving at the villa they discovered the servants had been given very specific instructions that Gateau and Marron were to share a room—and a bed. Gauzy canopy, crisp, sheets, plenty of down pillows to tumble in and large enough to accommodate even Gateau’s big body, it exceeded all Gateau’s fantasies—and Gateau’s fantasies were quite explicit. The trick now, was to get Marron in it with him.

“I know what you’re trying, Gateau and it is not going to work.”

“What am I trying? We had a long trip and I’m just concerned that a friend is well rested.”

If Marron was capable of anything so inelegant he would have snorted. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, but I am not tired.”

“No problem … ahh … this does feel good though.” Gateau let his eyes drift shut.

“I’m sure.” Marron’s droll tone drifted over to him. “Could you hand me those briefs, please?”

“Sure.” He yawned, dangling them just far enough away that Marron would have to come get them.

Marron eyed him warily. He approached the bed, darting forward like nervous gazelle.

Gateau smiled, all teeth. As soon as Marron was close enough, he looped his arm around his waist and hauled him onto the bed. Marron landed with a huff, legs falling open and making a cradle for him. Now this was much better.

“You!”

Gateau winced as Marron’s elbow caught him in the ribs. They lay tangled together and the feel of Marron’s silky soles against his calves was unbelievably erotic. Gateau shivered, burying his face in Marron’s neck. “Mmm … you feel so good.”

“Gateau….” Marron pushed at him, but there was no strength behind it. There was no mistaking though, the flush of arousal spreading under his skin. He was so desirable— so fucking gorgeous that Gateau could hardly breathe.

“You don’t want this too?”

Marron’s jaw clenched. He looked away.

Gateau cupped his cheek, reading his eyes. So that’s how it was going to be.

Somehow in Marron’s twisted logic it seemed it was only ok to give in to give in if he resisted first. It was probably part of the general martyr complex he had around his brother. Must be responsible, must be dependable or else the world will crumble and all that crap. The guy had abandonment and self-esteem issues a mile wide, but Gateau could deal. So Marron had some shit to work through. Hell he had a few things to work out himself. In fact, it sort of gave him a thrill knowing he was quite probably Marron’s first guilty pleasure, and considering how tightly Marron held himself, that was a damn heady status. As long as they both understood that this was about them here and now and not Carrot or anybody else, he could deal with a few quirks.

Gateau stroked along Marron’s sides, hands slipping beneath his shirt. Marron didn’t protest when Gateau drew it over his head to admire him.

Marron was all sleek muscle and pale, trembling limbs. So damn beautiful Gateau had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. Every part of him was delectable. Even his nipples were pretty little things. Gateau drew one into his mouth, stabbing it with his tongue. His thumb rubbed over its partner and Marron whimpered, arching off the bed. His eyes were scrunched shut and he was trembling something terrible. So so sensitive and he had barely begun. Gateau pulled away to survey his handiwork. He blew on a budded nipple and Marron made a needy sound deep in his throat, twisting like a flame in Gateau’s hands.

Gods, so hot.

“Oh Baby,” he groaned, ” If you could only see yourself.” Gateau palmed the rigid peaks earning another whimper. “You’re so hard. Though I bet not as hard as between your legs, hmm? Are you hard for me, Beautiful?” Gateau slipped his leg between Marron’s. “Ah, yes I can feel you … so perfect….” He nipped Marron’s lush bottom lip. Gateau dragged his tongue along his cheek. “So very, very hard. Slick too?”

“Gateau please…” Marron made a sound, half desire half protest.

Why the hell he would want to protest something so wonderful Gateau had no idea. He grinned. “Please, what, Sweetheart?”

Marron’s lashes trembled. His lips parted but no sound would emerge.

“You’re shy? Then I guess I’ll have to check for myself.”

Gateau slithered down the mattress, rubbing his cheek against Marron’s soft belly, breathing his scent. Marron always smelled so good. Soapy and warm … and even better down here where Gateau loved most. He contemplated the waistband of Marron’s pants. Lucky for him there were no buttons or zips to battle with, only a flimsy drawstring that dissolved beneath his fingers. Marron seemed to have other ideas, though. He grabbed Gateau’s wrist, stopping him mid-movement.

” Gateau, d…don’t.”

“Shh,” Gateau pressed him into the pillows with a kiss. “I just want to take a look.”

“But—”

“It’s all right; it’s all right. Nothing to worry about. Gateau’ll take care of you.”

He slipped the pants past Marron’s hips, hands shaking as he encountered the barrier of of his briefs. His mind might say one thing, but Marron’s body seemed to know exactly what it needed. Gateau saw the straining flesh bunched beneath the thin cotton and he moaned sympathetically. He began to ease down Marron’s briefs, inch by inch, mouth going dry as more pale skin was revealed.

“Gateau, I am serious.” Marron finally seemed to have found his voice. “I think we should stop. This is … inappropriate,” he insisted, managing to inject a thread of steel into this last utterance. It was shaky, but there all the same. Gateau paused; he leaned forward and placed an arm on either side of Marron, caging him.

“So you’re saying you don’t want me?”

Marron glowered. It would have worked, might have—except any intimidation he might have achieved was severely hampered by the fact that he was all but naked and clearly, tantalizingly aroused by Gateau’s hands.

“I did not say that I did not desire you, only that…”

“Marron.”

“That is…”

“Marron, there’s nothing wrong with thinking of your own needs sometimes. It’s just you and me. Are you going to try to convince me that this trip means nothing to you?” Gateau was very serious, as serious as he had ever been. He might be big but he wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t come here so that they could keep playing these games with each other. As much as Marron might need to believe his sexual denial was somehow virtuous, Gateau wasn’t about to reinforce it. He wanted to be honest and he needed Marron to be honest too. That night Marron had stolen into his room had been special; Gateau relived it every night in his dreams—and work up hard remembering—but it could be even better between them. Marron knew it too.

Marron was quiet, watching Gateau with wary eyes. Maybe he too felt that something was changing between them, that there’d be no going back to the old roles and the old comic patterns after this, regardless of whether he ended up in Gateau’s arms tonight.

Gateau held his breath—waiting, hoping—but Marron was quiet for so long that finally he began to withdraw.

Damn. He hadn’t expected it would hurt this much.

“Gateau…” Marron’s voice was hoarse and the words were forced from his throat as though he were in a great struggle with himself. “Wait. You are right. I would like … a relationship with you.” Marron reclined against the pillows; his eyelids trembled. Red as an overripe tomato he spread his legs.

Offering himself.

Gateau stared. He could have wept. His heart gave a little leap (not to mention his dick thrusting painfully against his pants) and he wanted to say something profound but all that came out was a sound like a baby’s dyspeptic gurgle.

Marron’s legs wobbled; his knees began to cave inward.

Fuck profundity.

“Tut, tut.” Gateau slipped a palm between the inverted vee of Marron’s legs, preventing him from shielding himself. He had waited too long to have Marron like this to miss any part of it. He wanted to see Marron, smell him, touch him.

With the pads of his fingers, Gateau stroked from the pale beauty’s inner thighs all the way down to his knees. When Marron shivered and gasped, he repeated the movement. The skin behind Marron’s knees was soft and Gateau caressed him, kissed the warm indent behind each leg and spread Marron wide. Marron made a choked sound, hiding behind the curtain of his hair, but there was no need. Gateau inhaled raggedly. He was beautiful, beautiful—a feast meant to be savored.

Marron’s pale sex jutted in a graceful arc from his body, pink-capped and wet at the tip and just as lovely as Gateau remembered. When he stroked it, Marron slouched against the headboard with a cry. Slick heat dribbled over his fingers and Gateau had to support him, but that was okay. He was strong enough for both of them.

Reaching under the pillow, Gateau retrieved the lube he knew was stashed there. Marron’s eyes widened and he grinned. What? A guy had to be prepared. Getting Marron in his arms was a process too tenuous, uncertain and often downright dangerous for him to be caught without the right stuff when the moment was finally upon him. Circling the delicate swirl of Marron’s anus, Gateau probed shallowly, loosening the tense seal of flesh. Marron whimpered and Gateau soothed him, retreating and returning with care.

“I know, Baby, I know. I can feel how tight you are.”

He probed again and this time the way was easier. Marron accepted him, clasping around his fingers in a sensuous vise. Soon his breathing was ragged, his hips lifting to meet Gateau’s caresses. He tugged at Gateau’s tee shirt … the clasp on his jeans. Gateau helped him, their knuckles scraping together as he shimmied out of the pants. He saw the flex of his heavy flank against Marron’s thigh and it made him feel powerful, like he could conquer the world and put it in Marron’s palm. It was the feel, though, of those graceful hands slickening his erection that nearly undid him.

Gateau pressed against Marron’s entrance, easing into snug, sleek heat inch by careful inch. It was torture and oh so sweet … so sweet. Marron clenched experimentally around him and Gateau gasped as blood rushed southward, lengthening his cock in hot pulses. He held Marron close as he began to move. They fitted together so well it took his breath away.

Wanting to see Marron’s face, Gateau flipped them over so that he was resting against the pillows and Marron was above him, straddling his hips. His lips were swollen, his hair tangled about him; he looked wanton and wild and … Gateau didn’t have the words to describe the feeling in his chest. Cupping Marron’s buttocks, he pumped him on his shaft until the shy beauty began to pick up the rhythm on his own. When Gateau angled just so, aiming for the node of pleasure he knew was there, Marron shivered and folded onto Gateau’s chest, stunned.

So Gateau did it again.

He chuckled. “Giving up on me already, sweetheart?”

Marron was panting and his features were scrunched in intense concentration. “No, I just … didn’t realize—oh! Gateau…” He moaned. “I…”

Gateau thrust upward, meeting the sinuous movements of Marron’s hips even as he kissed him. “Don’t talk, Baby.” He pressed Marron’s hand between their bodies, placing it on his chest. “You don’t have to say anything. I can feel you here.”

Marron murmured something. It was soft, a whisper of sound barely spoken against Gateau’s ear as the slender body in his arms listed forward in release. With Marron’s seed hot against his belly, and his own orgasm stealing his breath, Gateau almost missed it.

But he didn’t.

Soft, a little hesitant, but very much real. Marron had whispered, “Me too.”

====================

A warm wind was blowing onto the terrace, bringing with it the scent of olive trees. Gateau gazed onto the salmon-tinted roofs beyond the balcony and wondered what Carrot, Tira and Chocolat were up to. He traced the curlicues in the wrought-iron grate at his knee. Whatever it was, Gateau was sure it could not compare to the discoveries he had made today. Sensually, of Marron’s body — and more importantly, of his heart.

They had just eaten dinner—Vitello alla Pizzaiola (1) courtesy of the Signor—and between this afternoon’s lovemaking and the sumptuous meal, Gateau was feeling heavy, sated and pretty damn pleased. So maybe he didn’t know what would happen next, but at the moment he was very optimistic.

Next to him, Marron was lapping at a cone of pistachio ice-cream while pretending not to watch Gateau. The younger man seemed to have developed a fascination for Gateau’s mouth and it was the second time Gateau had caught him staring. Gateau winked and red-faced, Marron returned to his ice-cream with an intensity usually reserved for his brother.

And now—Gateau smiled—for him too.

He scooted closer to his lover, tugging on Marron’s braid and whispering teasingly into his ear. Marron smelled of roses from their recent shower and Gateau wondered what were the odds of maneuvering him back into bed. When Marron rested a hand on his thigh, his golden eyes burning, Gateau swallowed audibly. With Marron in his arms—melting ice cream and all—they moved back towards the bedroom.

A full week… Who knew? It wasn’t all that long, but maybe, just maybe, it was enough for love.

End

Notes
1: Veal Pizzaiola. I found this scrumptuous recipe here (http://www.virtualitalia.com/recipes/tv0101.shtml)

Territorial
by Michalyn
Rating: MA/ NC17
Pairing: Yonekuni x Shiro
Author’s Notes: Springkink 2008 submission.

The problem was these jackasses were undoing all of his hard work. Yonekuni glared at the little coterie — no menagerie— surrounding his lover as usual. He despised Ouchou of course, but the others were equally irritating. At the moment, there was a high-strung canary gesticulating theatrically at Shiro, a long-faced greyhound holding a book and the two butt ugly monkeys who’d been Shiro’s friends since he entered high school.

Yonekuni hated winter because of the cold but lately he’d come to hate spring because of all the vermin who appeared out of the woodwork in the frenzy of the mating season, magnetized by Shiro’s delicious pheremones. His lover always seemed to attract the lowest common denominator too—light seed and mongrelized Madararui who’d become so unmeshed with the monkey world that their abilities were practically nonexistent. They couldn’t spot a scent-brand if it was staring them in the face. Every Madararui worth anything recognized Yonekuni’s claim for what it was(except Ouchou who hung around for spite). One whiff of Shiro and they gave his lover a wide berth. Not these idiots, though. They remained blissfully ignorant, yapping and prancing around Shiro, their soul’s appearances on vulgar display. They crowded and touched Shiro, tainting his scent and making a lie of Yonekuni’s claim.

It was true that with Yonekuni’s pedigree, his scent was pure perfume to their cheap cologne but that made no difference. It was the principle of the thing. Yonekuni did not want any other scent on Shiro besides his.

He stepped forward and couldn’t help the instinctive curling of his lip as he drew closer. He wanted to terrorize them all, wanted to wipe them off the face of the planet. He would have done it a long time ago too if not for one crucial factor: Shiro would be angry with him. Worse, it was possible he would be hurt and the sight of Shiro’s pained features always gave Yonekuni a feeling a lot like indigestion except the pain was much closer to his chest.

In the end he did nothing of the sort but only lurked a few steps from the lunch table so that Shiro could sense him. He rolled his broad shoulders, feeling the twinge of the bite there, a souvenir from last night’s fucking.

For most of Yonekuni’s life, Shiro had been the solitary boy who always seemed to be hovering around, craving Yonekuni’s attention. Yonekuni had assumed that if Shiro had any friends they could be counted on one hand. After all, Yonekuni was part of the popular crowd. It was literally unfathomable to him that any other group could exist or matter. Once he and Shiro became lovers, though, Yonekuni realized just how mistaken he was.

Shiro wasn’t solitary at all. Instead he was beloved. Everyone adored his intelligence and his gentle ways. Got a homework problem? Shiro could help. Need a shoulder to cry on? Shiro would be there to listen. Didn’t know how to talk to a professor about a problem? Shiro knew the best way to broach the issue. There was thus a constant pulse of activity around his lover. Yonekuni did not know how he could have missed it. In fact, the proof was in the nickname he used for Shiro himself. He wasn’t just Shiro, but “Pres”. People loved him enough that they had elected him student council president. If that did not say it all he did not know what did.

Not only that, Shiro’s popularity was to Yonekuni’s fame as night was to day. Shiro was surrounded by old friends who loved him, new ones who respected him and timid others who wanted to get to know him. Geeks, outcasts, misfits, the superbly well-adjusted—they all looked up to Shiro. Yonekuni on the other hand was mostly surrounded by opportunists attracted by his blood line, his wealth, his big dick (in those days before he was a taken man). They were fun to hang out with but there wasn’t a single one among them whom Yonekuni could count on. Lately, they had become even scarcer. Yonekuni’s scowl darkened. Who needed them anyway?

As soon as Yonekuni had begun approaching, Shiro had started turning towards him. He was trying to tell the canary that he had to leave but the twit kept chattering away. Yonekuni glowered.

“Pres.”

Shiro smiled. “Oh, Yonekuni. I’ll be right—”

“We’re going home.” Yonekuni yanked Shiro close and scowled at the little lunch group. In no time, they began to disperse. Finally they seemed to have gotten the message. Shiro was opening his mouth to say something but Yonekuni didn’t wait. He simply grabbed his lover and dragged him off to bed.

—————————————-