The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Fight Instinct


One minute, there was a knife grazing his skin; the next, a knife ripping through his shirt; and it only made Yata’s face light up with a more ferocious grin than a moment before.

Aura on aura, they wrestled and tumbled, and the manic gleam in Saruhiko’s eye only found an answer in Yata’s—not a protest.

They didn’t plan it, didn’t make any conscious decision one way or another, just cut through clothes, bit through skin, and pressed mouth to mouth and hips to hips, and suddenly neither of them were fighting each other but fighting for their pleasure.

More than a Warm Body


“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.


He pushed back.

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




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.

Watching and Waiting


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.



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.