The gun is in his mouth, and there’s something about the glint in Chuuya’s eye that makes Dazai react by smiling around the barrel (more…)
Mikoto stood in the doorway to the bar, and Kusanagi just looked at him for a long moment before Mikoto shrugged and dropped onto his usual seat at the front.
It wasn’t his way to apologize. Kusanagi had been the one to tell him that ages ago.
“You’ve had that in your system for years,” Kusanagi commented. His voice was just slightly sharper than usual, more disappointed.
Mikoto leaned his head back. Kusanagi was too close to this, too close to Mikoto’s inability to protect Totsuka, and he’d be the first hit when Mikoto left him holding all the pieces. There wouldn’t have been comfort in Kusanagi’s bed.
Munakata should know this was the only warning he was going to get.
“Did you find the gun?” Mikoto asked.
Kusanagi studied him for a long moment, seeming to pack up his pain, his disappointment, his face and tone smoothing out to something both casual and dangerous. “Yes.”
Kuroh’s heartbeat was warm under her head. Kukuri hummed softly under her breath in time with the feeling. It was the first time they’d gone beyond kissing, and the first time she’d ever woken in the warmth of another’s arms. She felt it when he woke, slight tension, but not immediately speaking.
“What are you humming?” he finally asked.
“Nothing.” It was nothing, no particular melody or tune. She sat up just enough to slide up and kiss him properly awake, enjoying the freedom and feeling of doing it.
It was nothing, really, but the quiet sound of her contentment.
He was lighting a cigarette when Seri asked curiously, “How precise are you with that?”
Izumo stopped, stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “How precise do you want me to be?”
She shot him a look he could read easily, Don’t get too cocky. But her expression turned speculative, finger running over the lighter cap. “Hot but not painful.”
Which meant getting very close but not touching her skin. He glanced appreciatively over her skin again as she stretched out on the bed.
“You sure?” he asked one more time.
“Get on with it,” she commanded.
Yata would never in a million years admit he liked the uniform. No matter Saruhiko actually looked good in it, he looked good in anything, and Yata hated everything that reminded him of the Blues stealing his best friend away.
It was just because Saruhiko always wore one now that Yata saw it in his dreams. Only because it was Saruhiko, not the uniform, that most of his more private fantasies saw the buttons half undone, Saruhiko looking disheveled, but not actually undressed. Yata didn’t actually want to imagine Saruhiko naked.
Then it wasn’t a dream anymore.
“Leave it on.”
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.
“I’m not eating that,” Saruhiko said flatly without bothering to look up from typing.
Yata scowled. “It’s just dip!”
Saruhiko shot him an even flatter look. He pushed up his glasses with the most condescending sigh. “I know what’s in guacamole.”
Fate seemed determined to saddle Yata with a partner that wouldn’t know how to take care of himself if someone explicitly taught him how. “Fine,” he snapped. “Sleep by yourself tonight.”
Saruhiko looked startled, then narrowed his eyes, deciding how much Yata meant it.
Yata stared back.
Saruhiko weighed vegetables against chastity and clicked his tongue. “Fine.”