The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Nonexistent Sexual Tension

Mar
13

Fushimi was surrounded by idiots.

“I’m not in love with Yata Misaki,” he stated, enunciating each word carefully for the two clan members exchanging glances in front of his desk. “I’m not flirting with Yata Misaki.”

They had been joking about cutting the sexual tension with a knife, literally, and if there was a worse pun to use, Fushimi didn’t want to know, but it was a fact of life that Misaki was physically incapable of experiencing sexual tension without blushing, running into a wall, or falling on his face.

They looked unconvinced. He thought he was getting a headache.

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Eat Up

Mar
12

“What are you making?” Saruhiko suddenly asked, sounding highly alarmed and less than enthused.

“Shut up. You’ll like it.” Yata shot him a grin over his shoulder.

Saruhiko only looked more alarmed. Possibly because of Yata looking ever so slightly sniffly (he wasn’t crying, it was onions, okay?), possibly because the smell wasn’t the kind that was easy to mistake.

“I don’t like onions.” Saruhiko frowned as he pushed up his glasses and even ignored the pinging of his computer.

Yata waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll survive one meal a week with vegetables.”

And like it too.

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Never Admit a Thing

Mar
09

Dazai really didn’t like Chuuya’s taste in clothes, alcoholic drinks, or battle tactics. Riling him up was fun, but working with him—no matter how well they did it—was not fun.

So he told Chuuya that, salvaging whatever he could out of the situation by prodding at Chuuya’s pathetically, entertainingly short temper, and Chuuya was justified in believing every word out of Dazai’s mouth about hating him.

(He did hate him. He did.)

But Chuuya would never know, Mori would never know, even Ranpo would never, ever know that Dazai loved him just as much as he hated him.

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Wistful

Mar
09

Whenever Dazai looks wistful, Chuuya notices it’s in moments they’re talking about drinking or a certain intelligence officer in the upper echelons of the Port Mafia or a certain lowest-ranking member of the same.

It’s never for things, like innocence or goodness or family or anything others seem to allow it to cross their face for. It’s never for someone like Chuuya.

He’s met them both, considered Sakaguchi Ango competent and professional. Oda looks at Chuuya like he’s listening with everything he is or, gently, doesn’t really look at all.

Chuuya isn’t Dazai’s friend. But then, he’s always known that.

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Virgin

Mar
09

Losing his virginity was a big deal, not because of the act itself but because who he was doing it with.

Saruhiko’s mouth was hot against his ear, his fingers warm on Yata’s cock, and it was a shock through his system but so, so good and worth every embarrassing shudder and moan that came out of his mouth.

Saruhiko’s eyes were bright and intense. Yata wanted to take his glasses off to see them better. He only managed to slide his hand over Saruhiko’s jaw and watch him shudder at the contact.

Yata grinned fiercely. They were both virgins.

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Simple Pleasures

Mar
09

Simple pleasure, taken in a night, left behind in the morning.

Dazai isn’t immune to pleasure, and he sees no reason to deny himself a night of soft, warm woman and beauty that doesn’t inspire him to pursue something that lasts.

Things that last are delicate. Things that last are prone to breakage and loss, pain piling upon pain, suffering piling upon suffering. Family gone, innocence broken, his only friend dead, and his partner something he won’t even reach for when he comes with a blaring bullseye in the middle of his Ability and an expiration on his life.

Fleeting.

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On the Matter of Clothes

Mar
07

“I hate everything about you. Your hair. Your clothes.”

Chuuya could almost believe it with how intent Dazai was on getting those clothes off him. A glove on the floor, thrown with venom. The jacket. The cardigan. The shirt. As if each item had personally offended him. Chuuya hadn’t let him remove the hat and now was glad of it.

Dazai’s fingers lingered against the choker, and Chuuya shot him a skeptical look when he left it.

“Everything?” he asked, finding a reason to grin smugly.

Dazai huffed with that disgusted look he reserved for Chuuya. “Everything.”

The choker stayed.

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Heat

Mar
07

Neither were ever going to admit they’d wanted this, Chuuya’s teeth ripping through bandages and Dazai’s nimble fingers stripping off every single piece of clothing he hated. They buried hands into each other’s hair, Chuuya might have put some effort into tearing it right off Dazai’s scalp, and let the intensity of their combined heats drive them to do things no one should have to with someone they hated.

“I hate you,” Dazai whispered like an endearment.

“Shut up,” Chuuya hissed back, but didn’t stop touching.

It’s not like there was anyone else they could be this vulnerable with. Partners.

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More than a Warm Body

Mar
07

“Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice was warm and husky, the syllables of his name curling around him like a tangible thing. Dazai’s mouth was on his neck, even warmer, and Chuuya wasn’t exactly trying to free himself from being backed up against a wall.

But this wasn’t what he wanted. It’s what he told himself as Dazai kissed him, reminded his body despite times he’d imagined things like this. His partner didn’t actually care about Chuuya, and Chuuya wanted more than a warm body and mock intimacy.

“No.”

He pushed back.

Dazai blinked at him, surprise slowly filtering through the lust.

“No.”

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Hands

Mar
07

Saruhiko is good with his hands.

Typing is one thing, and some people might complain that he’s too attached to his computers and gadgets, but Yata loves it, loves seeing the things he’s good at it and what he can do with any system, given enough time and plied with enough food to keep him going. (Saruhiko claims he doesn’t need the food actually.)

Knives is another, and even when they were at each other’s throats, Yata found his eyes drawn to the flick of wrist and fingers, the twirl of blade, silver flashing.

Yata loves to watch those hands.

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Change of Plans

Mar
07

He had a plan, a perfect plan even. All it required was Chuuya to cooperate.

Dazai considered that and changed the plan. The only part Chuuya would cooperate with was the one that ended with Chuuya’s fist or foot through the middle of Dazai’s chest, and he wouldn’t fake it, so Dazai would have to think of another way to leave the Mafia and take Chuuya with him.

He didn’t need to drug his partner’s drink, kidnap him, and blow up his car to cover their tracks.

On the plus side, death by Chuuya was still a very real possibility.

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Early to Bed

Mar
07

“Dammit, Dazai, you are nothing but skin and bones!” Chuuya complained as he shoved his extremely bony elbow into Dazai’s side to shove him over some.

“Chuuya!” Dazai ignored the hypocritically bony elbow in his gut and wrapped his arms around his short, hot-tempered partner. If he was getting shoved to the floor, he was taking Chuuya with him.

It was a brief struggle, which Chuuya normally might have won, but somehow he ended up flushed red and under Dazai.

“Stop hugging me, you bandaged octopus bastard!” Chuuya muttered.

“I think I’ll sleep here,” Dazai disagreed to Chuuya’s futile sputtering.

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Beta

Mar
06

Mikoto had never had alignment testing. It was usually obvious from appearances whether someone needed comfort when hurt or needed to give it when someone else was.

But his family hadn’t cared and neither had he, and somewhere along the way he realized he didn’t feel either.

But he let them comfort him, Tatara and Izumo, when they noticed him brooding, let Tatara try and amazingly succeed at drawing him out of his worst aftermaths. And he let them draw comfort, Anna sitting next to him, claiming his attention with a small hand.

He didn’t feel broken for the lack.

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Watching and Waiting

Mar
06

Rhezere’s been staring after Cor from the moment he first saw him.

Kasuru never interfered beyond the reminder that future pilots shouldn’t interact with future integrates. It kept Rhezere from speaking and safeguarded him for the moment they might meet mind to mind.

But he never stopped staring at the way Cor threw himself over the wings and under the bellies of the spaceships he repaired, the way he streamed to practice flights, the way he honed his body in anticipation of his affinity for war.

Cor would be a warship one day, no doubt. Rhezere would be his pilot.

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Denial

Mar
05

“Early stages,” the doctor went on and Chuuya barely heard him, still stuck on such completely unexpected results.

It was his second annual hanahaki screening. Kouyou had insisted from the time he hit puberty that he use a fake identity and show up dutifully at the hospital a city over to get them.

He also wasn’t in love.

“There isn’t anyone,” he cut impatiently into the doctor’s rambling. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

The doctor blinked. “Well, you’re a teenager. It may be puppy love and go away.”

“Familial love?” he asked hopefully. Maybe it was Kouyou.

But no.

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A Fishy Proposition

Mar
05

“So what kind of fish are you?” Dazai asked skeptically.

Chuuya shot him a rude glare and a ruder gesture. “I’m not a fucking fish, mackerel.”

Dazai’s eyes widened. “Could you? Fuck me, that is?”

The look on Chuuya’s face was priceless, clearly torn between killing Dazai on the spot and his stated desire to never give Dazai what he wanted. “No,” he finally settled for saying.

But his face was a little red. Was he angry or— “Did I make you blush?” Dazai asked leaning in.

Chuuya pulled him into the water with a splash. “I’m not fucking you.”

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Thirsty

Mar
04

His mouth went dry, as if he were suddenly parched.

Saruhiko had seen Misaki without his shirts before, had yanked the collar down himself to see what was going on with the mark of Mikoto’s aura, but this was the first time since they’d reconciled that Misaki had tossed off all the layers aimlessly, complaining of summer heat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make dinner.

Saruhiko watched as he had always watched his friend, but there was definitely something different than just “summer” heat making him flushed and thirsty.

“What do you want?” Misaki asked.

Saruhiko shrugged. You.

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Memories of Us

Mar
02

Anna took the camera out a year after Tatara’s death. Mikoto wasn’t there for her to wake up with it or make memories with. There was no Tatara to absolve her if they damaged the camera.

Even so, she wanted to add her own memories to HOMRA again, so she took the camera in her hand and went out to find Misaki.

He sucked in a breath when he saw it but pasted on a smile as he waved. Fushimi stared at her a moment.

“It’s good to see you,” she said softly.

He was part of their memories too.

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Butterflies

Feb
27

Izumo never used to mind butterflies. They weren’t important, pretty enough when one floated by on a breeze. Now, he looks at them like they hurt him personally.

It was just the three of them once upon a time, before Clans and Kings and the Dresden Slates changed everything. It was Tatara and Mikoto and Izumo—friends.

The butterflies he sees now aren’t made of fire and red aura. They don’t rise from Tatara’s hands like proof that flame can be beautiful and not deadly, wielded by the right hands. Everything is gone—Tatara, Mikoto—leaving only Izumo and butterflies.

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Quieted

Feb
27

She woke him from a world ending in fire.

Mikoto opened his eyes wide in the dark, heart still hammering, aura still thrumming under his skin and in his blood with the ever-present urge to Burn them. Anna’s serious face, her grim mouth, and intent gaze were mere inches away.

He sat up. “Anna.”

“Nightmare,” she said quietly, simply. It disarmed his desire to brush her off gruffly.

Instead, he allowed her to clamber into the bed beside him and tuck herself under his arm, fingers clutching his shirt over his ribs.

They fell asleep like that, his nightmares quieted.

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