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Akira's arrival at the manor is precipitated by a downpour. It is a frightening gale, the kind that makes even the sturdiest of foundation's tremble. It feels like an omen, one that is desperate to be heard before the one it was meant for befell a great tragedy. It is then quite a surprise that the man who knocks upon the manor's door appears as harmless as a drowned cat.
The lord of the manor is the one who answers. Perhaps, had the figure taking shelter beneath the eaves been able to think of more than the cold turning blue his trembling lips, he would have considered how odd it was to be greeted by such an esteemed figure when he was nothing more than an uninvited guest on a dark, stormy night. As it was, he could do nothing but blink away the rain drops that clung to his dark lashes and through chattering teeth plead, "May his gracious lord grant me shelter for the night?"
The Lord Goro Akechi stares upon the intruder to his grounds, an inscrutable expression painting his lovely face. It is neither offended nor sympathetic—if it is anything, 'inquisitive' might be its appellation, but even that feels insufficient. A long quiet envelopes the two of them with only the continued rain as company.
Only as Akira begins to force his tongue to move once more does Akechi dare speak. As if a spell has been cast over him, the blank canvas of his mien is painted with the colors of a prince of fairytale, gracious and overflowing with generosity. "What monster would I be to turn away someone in need? Come, come. You've arrived at the perfect moment. The table has just been set for dinner."
Though Akechi is not so uncouth as to pull him by his wrist into the manor's vestibule, Akira stumbles through its threshold as though compelled. The muddy fabric of his water-logged cloak drags upon the floors, stains their pristine shine with his filth. A tremble wracks Akira's body, as if fearful that whatever kindness had possessed the lord would flee just as quickly as it had arrived.
Instead, Akechi merely smiles and ghosts the tips of his gloved fingers upon the broach holding the cloak together, pinned at Akira's neck. "May I?"
The gloves are white, a snow white that dare not be sullied. Is it more rude to allow a lord to stain himself upon someone inferior or to deny a lord's request? Akira's eyes perform a panicked dance across Akechi's face, shoulders curled to make himself seem small. As his eyes turn to the ground, his throat bobs with an uncertain swallow. Words do not come, so instead he can only offer a hesitant nod.
Akechi's touch is as gentle as his smile, yet as confident as his status would demand. He unhooks the clasp with deft fingers and slips both hands beneath the fabric of Akira's cloak, letting it slide from Akira's shoulders and puddle on the floor at his feet. Though the cloak has done its best to protect Akira from the rain, there is only so much that such fabric can withstand. The clothes beneath cling to Akira's figure, soaked and almost translucent. His curls have plastered themselves to his face. A stray rain drop slips free, trailing past his cheek, along the curve of his jaw, down the long column of his neck. Akechi's eyes intently follow that droplet as it makes its journey.
His hands, still resting upon Akira's shoulders, slip away to gather up Akira's trembling fingers within his own hands. A small smudge of something dark has stained the tips of his gloves, though he does not seem to care.
Akira stares at that stain, then down at the cloak at his feet. He stumbles when Akechi uses their connected hands to pull him deeper within the manor.
"Don't fret, one of the servants will be by to clean up the entryway. Shall we head off? Or would you prefer to change first?"
Akira's eyes venture up to Akechi's face and hold there. His teeth bite into the flesh of his bottom lip. "I... wouldn't dare keep the lord from his meal after he's been so kind to offer me shelter."
Akechi's smile dares to split his face in two. "Then at least allow me to offer you something to keep you warm."
As they arrive at the dining room, Akira swaddled in the lord's warm furs, a noise of shock cannot help but slip from his lips. The table is set for a feast, hardly meant for one man alone. Succulent meat is piled high onto platters; some glazed with a dark sauce, others roasted and glistening in their own fat. Plates filled with side dishes surround a basket of rice, still steaming hot enough to ease the chill from weary bones. A grandiose chair finds its home at one end; beside the plate in front of it, a carafe filled with a dark red liquid waits for its master's return.
Akira scans the room with a careful eye, then cautiously glances towards Akechi. "Am I intruding, my lord? This seems a feast hardly worthy of someone like me."
"Of course not. I did invite you in, did I not?" Akechi replies. He leads Akira by the hand towards the table, denying him the chance of sitting anywhere but at his side. Already a plate and utensils have been laid out for him, though no trace of the servants who might have left them remains anywhere in the silent manor. As Akechi takes his seat, his grip upon Akira's hands finally slipping away, he speaks in a soft, almost vulnerable voice. "In truth, you're doing me a favor. It is rather... dull to dine alone as often as I do. A new face at my dinner table is hardly a common occurrence, and while I hope you don't find it rude, I cannot help but be intrigued to know what led someone like you to wander in such tumultuous weather."
Akira does not answer, racked suddenly by a full body shiver.
Surprise colors Akechi's cheeks. "Pardon me, where are my manners?" He reaches for the carafe and pours the fragrant liquid into a small glass in front of Akira. "You must still be cold. Drink. It'll warm you."
Akira’s hands seem to tremble in resistance as he reaches out for the glass, fingers wrapping around the stem. It is spiced and heady, when he tips it oh so carefully into his mouth, it paints his mouth with a dark red.
"How is it?" Akechi takes up his glass already filled from before he had welcomed Akira in. He takes a sip of his own, though his gaze does not leave Akira.
"As you said, my lord. It is-" Akira's tongue darts out to swipe at the stain of red, white teeth flashing from between his parted lips, "-warm. Thank you for your graciousness. I am not sure how I can repay you."
"Your company is enough, I assure you." Akechi smiles once more, wide enough to crease his eyes into crescent moons. When he places his glass back down, he reaches for his gloves, the ones smudged with dirt. As he pulls them off, it reveals long, slender fingers and fine, manicured nails; the rough calluses that cover his palms and fingers a jarring inconsistency. "Then shall we begin?"
Akira is not given the chance to say otherwise before he finds his plate filled. What an odd sight it is to see: the lord of a manor so carefully serving his guest while his own plate remains empty. There is a panic in Akira's wide eyes as they flutter from Akechi's face to the food. Even once Akechi has moved to serve himself, Akira is still frozen like a doll.
It is only once he hears Akechi's voice that he moves, the invisible key upon his back turning to bring to life this static puppet. "Since I've shared my own secrets, I feel it's only fair you share a bit of your own, mysterious stranger. We can start somewhere simple. Won't you give me your name?"
"That... It's-" Akira's face is pale, his gaze wavering as he watches Akechi lift a piece of red meat to his lips and bite down, "-Akira." His mouth parts on the name, as though it had been pulled from him by force. His fingers twitch from where they rest upon the table. They rise to brush his thumb against his traitorous lips, then fall to his lap as if burned. "I am... familiar with his lordship's name."
"Akira," Akechi repeats the name, seems to savor its syllables upon his tongue even more so than the food. "It's a lovely name." Akechi props his elbow onto the table and cradles his cheek in his palm. If he notices that Akira's plate remains untouched, he does not mention it. "What has brought Akira to my manor? Beyond the weather, of course."
This at least seems to be a question that Akira does not struggle to answer. "Chance, nothing more. I'm a performer by trade and found myself separated from my troupe. Desperate, I decided to wager upon your mercy, Lord Akechi. I'm lucky that you overflow with it."
"Chance? A rather dull mistress to give thanks to." Akechi lifts his glass up towards the flickering lights of a candelabra. "Maybe something else brought us together."
Tension draws the line of Akira's spine straight before it allows him once more to curl back within himself. A soft laughter escapes his throat. "Then is the Lord Akechi a devotee of Fate?"
Akechi hums but does not answer. Instead, he replies, "You called yourself a performer, correct? I don't suppose you'd grace me with a show."
"I fear I'd only insult with my performance tonight. The weather has done a number on me." He tilts his head to the side, lowers his lashes in supplication. "May I ask the lord to request again in the morning? I'll make it worth the wait."
An inscrutable expression flickers across Akechi's face; he conceals it in part with a sip of his wine. Akira's eyes trace the bobbing of his throat as he swallows, before returning down to his still untouched plate. Akechi's glass makes a solid clink as it finally returns to the table. "I suppose I'll have to content myself with the pleasure of your company."
"I can only hope that Lord Akechi finds me entertaining."
The remaining hours of the dinner continue on with little fanfare. Akechi is enamored with the sound of his own voice, and as such seems hardly affected by the way Akira's responses to his questions remain vague. He speaks of everything and nothing—Akira learns more than he could ever want of noble gossip and very little of import. It is only as the candles have burned low and Akira's yawns have grown impossible to obscure that conversation turns to lodging for the night.
"We should have a free room ready. I'll have the maids prepare a bath and change of clothes. I don't suppose you'll be opposed to that?" Akechi says, already pushing himself up from the table. With a trained grace, he slips his gloves back on, obscuring once more those delicate hands and harsh calluses.
"It's more than I could ask for." Akira is swift to stand by his side. Though he still remains damp, he is no longer the sopping wet cat who had pathetically pawed at the lord's door. The blue of his lips has faded away at least, even as his complexion remains pale.
The sound of heels striking stone is the only accompaniment as the two of them travel deeper within the manor. Akira is careful to keep an eye out for any other bodies, the elusive 'servants' the lord speaks of, but finds no trace of them. He does, however, find the walls lined with tapestries and paintings. Most of them are the average scenes of battles of legend, but some go so far as to depict Akechi himself. One—a large portrait of the lord in full regalia—looms at the end of a hall. It is as true to life as though it were a mirror held up to the man who guided Akira deeper in, down to that smile that never quite seems to reach his eyes.
Akira races past it, head bowed low, lest a stray glance reveal its eyes follow.
Akechi explains him, as he opens the door, that the room Akira will be staying in tonight is a guest room in the wing opposite of where his own room resides, though on first inspection it appears rather... much for a mere guest. A plush bed with a draping canopy sits in the center, its curtains parted just enough to reveal dark red linens and soft feather down pillows. A large wardrobe is tucked away to one side, though with Akira as an occupant it will find itself unused. A vanity is placed against one wall, a small chair awaiting a figure to sit upon its cushion and admire their own reflection in the mirror. It as well would find itself no companion during Akira's tenure. At most he finds interest in a small bookshelf next to a fine writing desk, where a book has already been placed upon its table. He wanders over, idly listening to Akechi ramble.
"That way will be the washroom. Everything you might need should be supplied, so you won't need to worry about hunting down a servant. Then over here-"
As if the reader had been plucked from the earth in the moment of action, the book is halfway open, in the middle of the story. A stray pressed flower lies gently across its pages; Akira's fingers dance across the fragile, dried petals. His eyes catch upon the words at the tip of the stem.
'I feel only that I made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a right to your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we were destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. I wonder whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to you; I have never had a friend—shall I find one now?'
"Intrigued?" Akira had not noticed Akechi following behind him, his presence a looming shadow over his shoulder. An exhalation tickles the fine hairs of Akira's nape, as a gloved hand rests against the table next to Akira's own.
"I was merely curious, my lord." Akira shifts his head, finds it brings him almost nose to nose with Akechi. He's been, even if unintentionally, corned. "Are you not surprised I can understand it?"
"Hardly, it's just one more of your mysteries." Another smile, though this time he is graced by a flash of white teeth. "Feel free to enjoy all of the books we've provided."
With that, Akechi steps back. Akira allows himself a relieved sigh when the lord has turned his back to study the rain pelting the window.
"What about the other door?"
"Hm?"
"The door next to the vanity. You never spoke of it."
"Think nothing of it," Akechi says in a tone that makes Akira wish to do nothing more than disobey. "In the case that we have a couple staying with us, we'll set them up in these rooms, as they have an adjoining door. Given you are the sole guest tonight, that room is unoccupied. I must ask you not to request entry. It has yet to be cleaned to the level I'd find suitable for a guest."
The lie falls off Akechi's tongues with a natural ease. Before Akira can decide if he wants to call him out, Akechi turns back towards him. Akira's hand is caught in Akechi's own and lifted upwards as though it were something delicate. Lips graze across Akira's knuckle and travel down his ring finger.
He feels the words "I shall see you tomorrow morning, my dear companion," against his skin.
And then Akechi leaves, swinging shut the door behind him.
Akira is frozen in place for some time. He listens to the sound of Akechi's footsteps as they echo down the hall, hears them fade away before they return on lighter steps back to where Akira rooms. A door opens and closes, far closer than the 'opposite wing of the house' Akechi had claimed.
It's no matter, Akira tells himself even as he rushes towards the door connecting his room with the other and checks that it is in fact locked. It is, and though for a moment Akira considers fixing that to confirm a suspicion in his mind, he decides that the dirt and mud drying to his skin is the far bigger problem.
His clothes peel off his body, and with no one to care for propriety, he tosses them to the ground. The room is colder, bereft of the warm fur, but he does not shiver. Bending down to rummage through his things, he pulls out a small bundle of parchment.
Unraveling it reveals a map of the manor, blessedly untouched by the weather, and a small bundle of thief's tools tied with a simple red ribbon. It takes him only a moment to determine where he is, and it reveals what he had suspected.
He is not within a guest room, unless his lordship is so fond of guests as to keep them right by his bed chamber. Akira studies the map for a moment longer, before rolling it back up. On careful feet, he makes his way over to the bed and slips the map beneath it.
With things in order, Akira finally dares to venture past the door Akechi had called the washroom.
It is as grandiose as the bedroom had been and too much for just one person. The bath is more akin to a pool, white marble and gold filigree. A small set of stairs disappear down into the depth of the already steaming water, a sculpted railing off to one side to keep one from slipping. At the edge of the pool, a tray has been set, filled with bottles filled with oils and bars of fragrant soap. White and red petals float atop the water, infusing the air with the scent of a garden.
It makes Akira want to bare his teeth and growl, but for all his subservience has been feigned, his exhaustion isn't. There is no use in denying himself this leisure, especially when the night has only just begun.
Slipping into the water feels like heaven. It bleeds away the chill that had seeped down into his bones. He allows himself to wade into the deeper end of the pool, to slip beneath the water, and let the world fade away into nothing.
By the time he emerges, it is with a clear head and a battle plan. With the back of his hand, he wipes away the droplets falling into his eyes and swims to the edge of the pool.
It is almost intimidating to sort through all of the jars and bottles that have been laid out for him. He is not unfamiliar with a more... involved bath time routine; he has on occasion taken advantage of his companions' fondness for the more luxurious things in life, but at some point, there is a line to be drawn between "indulgence" and "excess".
It takes a few uncorked bottles and cautious investigations before Akira successfully finds something that will suit him. Everything is heavily fragranced—most with the same spicy citrus note that makes Akira scrunch his nose up. It is not unpleasant, but it is present . For a man who prefers the shadows, smelling of a bouquet is only a liability. But he reminds himself, if he's lucky there will be no need to worry about running into anyone who could notice such a thing.
So, he allows himself to scrub away the dirt and be doused within the perfume. His thumbs knead at the sore muscles of his arms and legs, pulling relieved little noises from his throat as the tension that has been coursing through his body fades to a background ache. By the time he's clean, he has grown unwilling to leave and allow the chill to creep into his bones once more.
He sinks to his chin beneath the water, watches the red and white petals floating along the surface. With a soft puff of air, they dance around. A stray petal clings to his wrist as he pulls himself up, stark red against the pale of his skin. Akira drags his thumb across it, before plucking it off and letting it return to the others.
Once he's emerged from the bath, he resists the urge to shake off like a dog and instead takes advantage of the soft towels lined up by the door. Already, he can feel the cold entering his bones, and so it is a small relief to be able to swaddle himself in the warmth of the towels.
Once he's dry enough that he does not fear tracking puddles, he emerges out into the bedroom.
The first thing he notices is that his clothes are gone . True, he'd had no particular longing to return to those muddy things, but he'd also had no intention of leaving them when he inevitably disappeared into the night. He was meant to be the thief on this night; not the victim who found themselves robbed of their things.
The second is there is something new upon his bed. As though it were a snake about to strike, Akira's steps towards it are cautious. He reaches for it, feels the soft silk of that snow-white fabric between his fingers. Akira, so used to the old, faded off-whites of thrice used hand-me-downs, has never seen something so pristine . Through the scant moonlight that can force its way through the rain, it seems to glow.
Fuck no.
With far less hesitance, he stalks towards the wardrobe and throws it wide open. It is predictably barren, as if the foolish lie the lord had spoken that this room was merely a guest's room held any water. There is nothing that would suit his mission more, nothing dark enough to fade into the shadows and tight enough to not be caught upon a stray corner.
Akira returns to the bed with a sigh. After checking beneath the mattress, he returns his gaze to that lacy nightgown.
Fuck the lord. He should rob him naked.
The stone is cold against Akira's bare feet as he tiptoes through the silent manor, ears pricked in search of any sign of an obstacle. Each movement causes the skirt of the nightgown to sway against his legs, brushing his thighs ever so gently. In the end, he'd chosen to set aside the idea of completing his mission in the nude, no matter how petty he might have been feeling. The dress was a rather fine thing; in truth, he was considering keeping it once he'd made his grand escape. Payback for stealing his own things, he reasoned. May the lord have his fun with the tattered rags that were Akira's clothes, if it so pleased him.
The manor's halls, winding and labyrinthine, are unnaturally empty. He has been searching through these halls long enough for a grandfather clock deep within the manor to bellow out, and yet has found himself without a need to duck into the darkness to hide from a wandering witness.
Many times has he snuck through the halls of a rich lord, and even when their guards had lain in wait to capture him, there had been evidence of their existence scattered throughout. The rustle of fabric, patterns in dust, the jingle of weaponry, detritus left from a meal hastily shoved into a starving maw. But even though Akechi had spoken of servants, it seemed little living inhabited these walls. It was as if someone had cast a spell upon the manor, had blanketed it in silence—his only companion, the ever-present rain drumming against the stone walls.
A crack of lightning flashes through the window, painting strange shadows across a portrait of the lord. Perhaps it is only a trick of the light, Akira tells himself, but he swears the grin upon that lovely face turns sharp as a blade. For a moment, Akira considers defacing it, but it would mean spending even a second longer beneath that auburn gaze.
Instead, he slinks into the darker shadows of the hall and pulls out his map once more. His eyes take a moment to adjust back to the gloom; he can almost hear a familiar voice scolding him about how he'd surely grow blind for trying to read in the dark.
If his maps are up to date, his second-best bet for information is likely a room on the third floor. The lord's office. His actual best bet would be the lord's bedroom, and while perhaps-
No, Akira has had far too many sour experiences in that area of espionage. Perhaps if he can lure the lord out, he might be able to swing back around and investigate while he's distracted, but for now the office will do. Akechi isn't a main target, only a detour for information. Leaving with a name alone would still be a success in Akira's books.
Even with that reminder, Akira cannot shake the unease that trails him like a ghost. It's as if the play has changed genres without his permission, that he's been recast from the daring thief to a hapless victim. It is not the role he knows the lines for; it leaves him stumbling through his part like an amateur.
Had the lord known he was arriving? It seems inconceivable when not even his own thieves had been aware of his plan, or at least the scope of it. And yet, from the table set out for two to the room so carefully prepared for a guest, it was hard to deny the signs that Akechi had expected someone to arrive at his door this evening. Even if he had not expected Akira himself.
It was looking more and more as if Akira had unwittingly stumbled into a spider's web.
Only time would tell if he could unwind himself before it was too late.
The lord's office is as meticulously a crafted stage as the man himself. Pristine and orderly. Nary a hair out of place. Akira cannot help but compare it to past heists, rooms filled with signs of life. Papers stacked clumsily in a tower, the scuffs of use marring desks and chairs, ink stains faded on rugs. It is unsettling how absent those seem to be in this scene. Even in a portrait, the painter is inclined to infuse traces of humanity's existence into their masterpiece.
Akira lets the door slip shut behind him, bathing the room in darkness. A single window provides a glimpse out to the storm raging outside. Footsteps gentle as they pad across the floor, Akira allows himself to peek outside the window. His fingers reach for the latch, rusty with disuse. It takes a bit of force to open, but he's able to push it wide enough that he can fit his body through the opening if need be. There's a ledge just off to the side, wide enough he might be able to walk across it one foot at a time, but it's slippery with the rain. One wrong move and it'll send him falling; he is not so confident that he won't dash his skull open upon the stone of the courtyard below. Not ideal, but if the situation turns dire...
He shakes away the thought. For now, he is alone, and there are things he needs to find.
A candle sits upon the lord's desk, a set of matches nearby. It's burned low, dried wax pooled along the wide rim of the candelabra, the one trace of humanity in this scene of perfection. An image comes to mind of Akechi bent over his desk, shifting through missives by candlelight long into the night. How often does he find himself in this room? There had been no dark circles marring the lord's face, but it’s possible he favors the powders and creams that Akira's own crew tends to wear before a performance. Or perhaps he had been blessed in a way that would have Panther cursing his name. He would not know; the answer was not what he had come here to steal.
Such information he was in search of, he hoped, would lurk somewhere within this room, stuffed away into desk drawers or slotted in hidden compartments (he knew how ever so fond lords were of their hidden compartments). With a flick of his wrist, he strikes a match and sets the candle wick alight. A warm glow paints the room in oranges and red.
Akira does not expect to find much as he searches the more obvious drawers, and not much he finds. There are correspondences from names he recognizes; he skims them for any sign of coded messages. They are dry and dull, beyond one from a woman desperate to pawn her daughter off on the lord, with verbose and flowery language bemoaning on how hard it must be for a young, handsome man to maintain an estate without a wife by his side. The edges of the paper are wrinkled and torn; he can almost see the indents of the fingers that had grasped it within a fist. He almost mourns that he cannot snoop upon the reply, to see how the lord had struggled to decline with that same overly polite facade he had greeted Akira with.
With the drawers a bust, he slips beneath the desk, running his fingers down the sides. His nails catch against a seam, almost invisible to the naked eye. Knocking along the wood confirms his suspicion of a hollow compartment and a bit of tinkering reveals the mechanism needed to open it. The puzzle itself takes Akira far more time than he'd like to admit, but thankfully no one is there to witness his shame.
The end is still the same. Once the final indentation is twisted into place, the panel slides easily open and reveals a treasure trove of documents.
It's more than Akira expected. Years worth of exchanges, dating back further than Akira had even guessed. His eyes scan over the words. He can tell there's some kind of code, though Akira had no hope of deciphering it on his own. Oracle might have a chance, but it would mean getting these documents to her first.
What he could pick up was an odd phrase here and there, a few names he knew of people who had disappeared or now found residence within a tomb. But the one thing that caught his eye, the one thing that repeated in every single letter…
A seal, like the wheel of a ship, imprinted where a signature should have been.
Akira would never, until the day he finally found rest, forget that seal. A ring emblazoned with it had struck him across the face, moments before-
"Enjoying yourself?" A voice whispers, too close to his ear. Akira whips his head around and finds himself face to face with dark red eyes and a smile sharp enough to cut. He'd not heard the door open. How had Akechi managed to sneak up behind him?
Akira does not have time to think any more than that before a gloved hand reaches out and yanks him from beneath the desk by his hair. He is slammed into the ground, his head colliding with the stone floor. It makes his ears ring, pain exploding out from his skull throughout his body. Blindly, he swipes a kick in the vague direction of the lord; a hiss of pain and a loosening of the fingers gripping his hair announces his aim true.
The papers between Akechi and his mysterious benefactor have scattered across the room; Akira's footing slips against them as he tries to skitter back to his feet. He has just enough time to dodge another swipe. It tangles into the fabric of the dress. A sick tearing noise fills the air, leaving Akechi with a handful of fine silk.
Pity, Akira had hoped to keep it.
Akira stumbles backwards, eyes flickering around the room for an escape route. Akechi is blocking the window, and while the desk is between him and the door, Akira has a sneaking suspicion he'll find it locked.
Oddly enough, Akechi remains in place as well, making no move to corner Akira further.
Gone is the princely white that Akechi had worn to dinner; in its place, form fitting black attire, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are covered by dark gloves, the lace still clutched between his fingers stark against the leather. When he straightens his spine, it pulls him to his full height. He is only slightly taller than Akira himself, and yet there is something imposing in his stature, nonetheless.
"You know," Akechi says, venom dripping from his tongue, "I expected... more from you, Joker. This is rather pathetic, don't you think?"
"You know me then?" Akira says. He allows a smirk to curl his lips, adjusts his footing to better escape if need be. "I'm almost flattered someone in your position keeps track on little ol' me."
"Oh, I know you plenty." Akechi reaches up to tug at his gloves, letting the scraps of lace fall to the floor. He narrows his eyes as he stares Akira down. It is a world of difference from the frankly disgusting reception from before, too fake, too saccharine. "You've made yourself quite a pest to several people who concern me. Though you usually come with a crowd, don't you? Should I be flattered or insulted that you couldn't spare the whole motley crew?"
He takes a step forward; Akira mirrors it backwards. "Consider it a compliment. I wanted you all to myself."
"Is that so?" Perhaps it is only the tension hanging in the air, but Akira swears he hears something covetous in the way those words fall from Akechi's lips. He does not allow himself to think about it any longer.
Instead, Akira breaks the stalemate—turning on his heels to sprint towards the door. He hears the sound of Akechi in pursuit and waits until he is in just the corner of Akira's eyes to pivot towards the window. Akira's strong suit has always been agility; he is quick and nimble. But it is hard to dodge with grace when there is little room to move .
He makes do with what he can. It gets him as far as the window, fingers gripping the edge, body halfway through. Rain pelts his skin, cold as ice. He does not know where he is going from there. Only that it is far away from the manor.
And then he is dragged back in, hauled from his escape like a misbehaving kitten and pinned against the wall. He struggles in Akechi's grasp, but it is futile—Akechi's full body weight holds him in place. A low growl escapes from Akira's throat, answered only by a laugh he can feel rumble through his chest.
The hand that had pinned him down, stripped of dark gloves, caresses along the column of his throat with a certain reverence. It cradles his chin, a mock tenderness in the way it tilts Akira's head to meet Akechi's gaze. Warm breath tickles the cold skin of his neck, he shivers as deceptively soft lips drag along his flesh and sees a flash of white as Akechi grins.
"Did you really think you could escape," Akechi hums, a feral beast in his dark, red eyes, "little vampire?"
Akira gasps. Enough of an opening for fingers to slip past his parted lips; they taste faintly of leather and sweat. Curious as they explore inside his mouth, careful to never dip far enough to make him choke. The soft pad of a finger swipes along his teeth, grazing along the sharp fangs he'd been so careful to hide all night. It taps, thoughtful, against a canine, and then...
Sweet blood explodes onto his tongue, and Akira's mind goes fuzzy along the edges. His body shudders, knees going weak. His lips wrap around Akechi's fingers, desperately lapping at the blood that spills forth from the cut. It's not enough, not-
He whines as the digits slip from his mouth; another bout of laughter rumbles through the chest pressed against his back. When Akechi steps away, Akira's legs give out; he collapses to the ground in a heap.
Akira can still taste the blood in his mouth, sweet and addictive. He had never expected it to taste like that, feels drool pool on his tongue. A part of him screams, desperate for more. A hunger he has been ignoring, that has been growing in him for ages, is desperate to be sated. Another wants to wretch until the sweet taste is covered by rancid bile. He had been so desperate, so very desperate to not let that monster win.
"Are you insane ?" He manages to hiss. "Do you know what you've done?"
"Of course. you don't think I'd have let you into my manor without knowing exactly what to do with vampire trash?" Akechi crouches down beside Akira's trembling form. A still gloved hand reaches for his chin, forces Akira to meet a face twisted into a mockery of the expression he'd greeted Akira with at the door. "You're a bleeding heart, Joker; you won't hurt me. For all your heart hasn't had a pulse for... oh, how long has it been?"
He swipes his still bleeding fingertip across Akira's lips, watches with amusement as Akira's tongue darts out to chase the blood coating them red.
Akira resists the urge to beg when the finger is pulled away when he doesn't respond. He grits his teeth as he spits a reply, “Six months."
"Oh," Akechi coos, his fake sympathy grating to Akira's ears, "how pitiful. You've been resisting that long? It's almost impressive."
Akira bares his teeth, feels the pain in his gums at the fangs elongating. "What do you want?"
"Let's make a deal." Akechi's smile is caustic. "We share a common enemy, if that look in your eye at my letters tells me anything. Let me be frank: You have no chance of beating him on your own. But I need a pawn, and you'll do just fine."
"What do I get out of this deal?"
Another swipe against his lip; Akira resists the urge to capture it between his teeth. "Beyond killing the one who made you like this? A willing blood donor. One you won't be wracked with guilt to drink from."
Akechi leans in, lips a hairs breadth away from Akira's own, still smeared red with his blood. "How long have you suffered? Resisting the urge to feed? You're so desperate, aren't you? Have your-"
Whatever words Akechi might have uttered are swallowed as Akira lunges forward; his fangs graze Akechi's bottom lip, a pinprick to draw blood to the surface. A smirk twitches the corner of Akira's mouth as he feels Akechi make a noise all too close to pleasure. He laps at the blood that spills from the cut, allows his tongue to slip past Akechi's parted lips, and forces him to taste the copper in Akira's mouth.
Is it sweet to you too?
You did this.
Akechi loses his balance, falls backwards until he is splayed onto the ground in front of Akira. His pupils are blown wide, the red of his eyes subsumed by a black void. Lips shiny with spit, a smear of blood paints them red to match Akira's own. There is a flush to his cheeks, pink dusted across the bridge of his nose and dots of freckles, a sunlight kissed boy at whims of a boy cursed to the moonlight.
"You're better looking when you don't speak," Akira hums as he crawls onto Akechi's lap.
Akechi's hand scrambles from where they'd fallen at his side, but it is not a desire to push Akira away that moves him. Instead, one hand slips beneath the torn fabric of the nightgown to rest against his thigh. Akechi's palm is warm against Akira's skin as he digs his nails into the flesh, and for once, Akira allows himself to lean into the heat. He has been cold for far too long, and if Akechi is foolish enough to offer, who is he to deny?
The other hand tangles into Akira's curls, pulls him down to crash their lips together. Their second kiss is rougher than the first, Akechi determined to control its flow. Akira, in turn, does not hold back the urge to nip at Akechi's lips. It is only a harsh tug on his hair that pulls him away, his unbreathing lungs content to swallow every last bit of air from Akechi's own. A string of pink-tinted saliva connects the two of them.
"Can I assume you agree to our deal?" Akira can feel the rumbling of Akechi's words where their skin makes contact. It sends a shiver down his spine. There is something rougher in the way the words fall; Akira finds he likes it more than he expects.
"What did I say about you talking?" Akira replies. He shifts his body, pressing his weight down onto Akechi's hips. He feels something hard digging into his thigh and stifles a laugh.
"You're awfully cocky for someone in your position," Akechi grumbles as if he is not the one splayed out on the ground, long hair a halo around his head, flushed a pretty, pretty red, at the whims of a vampire he’d welcomed eagerly into his home.
"I'm not the one who got hard from just a little kissing." Akira smirks. With a swipe of his thumb across Akechi's bitten and bloody lips, a noise of pleasure ekes itself from Akechi’s throat. Akira brings his thumb up, drags his tongue across the bloody surface. "I haven't even bitten you properly yet."
The hand in his hair forces his head down once more, this time against the warm, thrumming pulse in Akechi's neck, his head tilted to bare the unmarred skin for Akira's teeth. His heartbeat jackhammers against Akira's lips; he knows it’s not from fear.
"Well, then?" A taunt, a dare.
Akira's fangs sink into Akechi's throat as though they were made to.
He does not know if the moan that rips through the air is from his own chest or Akechi's, knows only the mindless buzz as the blood flows onto his tongue. More intoxicating than the sweetest of wines, he cannot help but indulge in every drop that spills down his throat. It feels like he is floating, the only thing grounding him are the fingers intertwined in his curls.
He whines as his head is forced back; he resists the tug and finds his neck wrenched at an awkward angle.
"And you mocked me?" Akechi laughs. Akira wants to argue, wants to sink his teeth back into that neck until Akechi cannot speak another word but to beg for Akira's fangs. "Look at you, pathetic little thing."
He feels lips against his own neck, a mirror to the place he'd bitten down. The teeth that sink in are not sharp enough to draw blood, but Akira shudders all the same at the feeling of canines bearing into his throat. In place of a bite mark, Akechi seems determined to leave a bruise. Akira wonders if his own cheeks are flushed as well, if Akechi's blood is enough to bring color back to a body long dead.
He feels warm, warmer than he has in a long time; perhaps it is that desperation that moves his hips to grind down onto the bulge he feels in Akechi's pants. His own cock has dampened the fabric of the nightgown to translucence, the weak friction of his hips not enough to compare to the euphoria of his teeth deep in Akechi's neck.
His fingers, clumsy in their desperation, reach down to tear away the fabric separating him from Akechi's bare skin. He hears a muffled protest against his neck. "Do you know how expensive these are?"
Akira makes sure to tear a few extra buttons, just for good measure. When he dives to bite down on a muscular shoulder, the hand in his hair allows him. The blood that spills onto his tongue is no less intoxicating as he indulges anew. His eyelashes flutter closed, savoring as he drags his tongue across the punctures. He senses only distantly the hand intertwined in his hair leave, and then the feeling of a weight wrapping around his waist.
And then his world flips.
Akira makes a noise far too embarrassing to recount, finds it smothered against a harsh crash of lips and knocking teeth. His back is pressed against the stone floor, still warm with the traces of Akechi's body heat. The man himself looms over Akira now, his brown hair a veil that casts a shadow over the two of them when he pulls away.
His grin, smeared with his own blood, is beautiful. "You're a rather selfish lover, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't say that," Akira pouts, pink tongue darting out to swipe across his lips. He shifts his thighs to squeeze at Akechi's hips, wraps slender legs around them and tugs until they're flush against each other. He grinds against Akechi, watches the way pleasure paints itself in the noise forced from his still bleeding throat, how his lashes dance across cheeks. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."
The glove hand on his waist slides down the plain of his stomach, slipping beneath the fabric of the nightgown until he feels a palm wrap around his cock. The heat of the leather sends a shiver up his spine as Akechi's deft fingers stroke along the length. His thumb smears a bead of wetness along the tip. A garbled moan tears itself from Akira's throat. His body feels electric, too sensitive. The blood coursing through his system—Akechi's blood—more powerful than an aphrodisiac.
He reaches up to wrap his arms around Akechi's neck, pulls him down so that he can drag his fangs against whatever skin he can reach.
"Look at you," he hears, feels the rumble of the words as he mouths at Akechi's throat. "You could cum from just drinking my blood, couldn't you? Pathetic."
Akira does not have the words to respond, can't find the will to argue with Akechi when he feels the truth of them in the way his body trembles as he prepares to sink his teeth into Akechi's neck once more.
"Too bad I won't let you." His teeth close around solid air as Akechi pulls back; even the hand around his cock is gone, leaving him with only want and ache. He whines, tries to push himself forward, but a hand against his throat keeps him pinned to the floor. "Ah, ah. Be a good boy."
Fingers dig into the bite mark Akechi had left against his neck, and even that makes Akira's hip chase a pleasure denied to him. He struggles against the hold, but Akechi only squeezes tighter, as if it could steal air from lungs that haven't breathed in ages.
Only once Akira has stilled, once a clarity has returned to his eyes, does Akechi's fingers loosen their grip. The hand slips up his jaw, until a leather-clad finger taps against his frown. It slips between his lips, a silent command. "Ready to behave?"
"Fuck you," Akira says, even as he parts his lip to drag his tongue along the leather's surface. It's musky, salty from his own precum staining the glove. It's a taste unlike the blood that had spilled from Akechi's throat, but Akira finds he doesn't mind it, almost savors it just as much. In one fell swoop, he envelopes the finger entirely and drags his lips up until they reach the loose tip. He bites down, tugs until it relinquishes its claim on Akechi's hand. With a flick of his head, he pulls the glove free, letting it fall to the floor to be forgotten alongside the scraps of fabric and paper surrounding them.
When he turns back, he drags his tongue along the bare skin and calluses, grazes his teeth along the length of Akechi's finger—not enough to cut, but enough to remind Akechi of their presence. At the tip of his finger, he presses a ghost of a kiss and smirks, fangs and all. "Gonna fuck me already? Or should I do all the work?"
Akechi's flush really is so pretty, Akira thinks as it bleeds down his neck, all the way down to his chest.
Akira laughs as Akechi’s hand is ripped away from him, and hears a belt loosening, the shuffle of fabric as Akechi shoves his pants to his thighs. A clinking noise fills the air as a vial slips from a pocket, misses Akechi's groping fingers, and rolls across the floor.
Akira whistles, plucking the vial of oil from the ground before it can truly run away. He dangles it in front of his face, watches embarrassment and annoyance war for right to Akechi's expression. "Eager, aren't we?"
"I prefer prepared," Akechi grumbles, snatching the oil from Akira's hand. He uncorks it, uncaring where the lid goes. It's clear, as he spills it onto his fingers, he doesn't intend to let a single drop go unused. “And may I remind you who kissed whom first? Really, if anyone was eager , it was you."
"After you shoved your fingers into my mouth, which I'd say is the more forward-" Akira loses the rest of that sentence to the feeling of slick fingers dipping between his thighs, grazing along his still leaking cock, and down, down...
Akechi's fingers are a contradiction of gentle and rough as they rub at his entrance, teasing just enough to allow a single digit to slip inside. It's not painful—the oil coating Akechi's fingers helps enough to ease the glide inside, but it's odd. Present. His body narrowed to a point, to the thrust of Akechi's finger in, out, in, out.
Akira bites his lip, urging himself to relax as another finger slips inside. He can feel the stretch as they move, his body unused to being filled. He has dabbled in the past, certainly, but it has been a long time since he had been willing to accept the presence of another in his bed. Too scared of what he might do, stripped of inhibitions, fearful they might call him a monster. But if Akechi were to call him one, Akira fears it might be said with affection.
Akechi leans down, brushes his lips against Akira's own. The cuts from before have stopped bleeding, but it takes only another nip to open them once again. It's not enough to sate him, but the taste alone lets his body melt into Akechi's fingers inside of him. When a third is added, he whimpers into Akechi's open mouth and rocks his hips to meet the thrust. A moan tears itself from his throat as Akechi grazes against a spot that sends a shiver up his spine, only to retreat before Akira can describe the feeling enough to beg for more.
Somehow the absence, Akira thinks once Akechi's fingers slip free, hurts more than the first breach. Akira feels empty without the stretch of Akechi’s finger. Desperate for something, anything, he finds his mouth roaming from Akechi's lips down to his jaw, trailing to his throat. He can feel Akechi's pulse; he imagines if he had one of his own, it would beat just as fast. He digs his heels into Akechi's back, the only plea he can muster with his saliva and blood-coated lips incapable of speaking.
He feels the press of Akechi's cock against his hole, allows his eyes to close as he drags his teeth along Akechi's throat. With the first thrust into him, Akira sinks down.
It is heaven, or at least as close as Akira thinks he might ever get. The dual pleasure of Akechi's sweet blood, of the thrust of his cock along the bundle of nerves inside his body. He feels full, complete. A hunger sated as Akechi's cock hits deep within his body.
Akira wraps his arms around Akechi's chest, claws into his back and feels the fabric tear. Akechi does not go slow. Where his preparation had something of a lover's tenderness, he fucks into Akira now as though with the intent to devour Akira whole. His hands have found their home against Akira's waist, finger digging into his hips as if he's determined to make him bruise. He drags Akira down to meet his thrust, and through the haze of pleasure clouding Akira's vision, he swears he sees a pleased smirk on Akechi's lips when Akira shrieks.
Akira allows Akechi to chase his pleasure, to use his body like it is nothing more than an object suited for the task. He does the same, his teeth biting down into whatever he can find. The blood he does not greedily drink smears across Akechi's skin, stains the white of the nightgown Akira still wears, skirts pooled at his hip. His tongue drags against the plains of Akechi's chest, his teeth grazing against a dark nipple.
He smirks as he feels Akechi's rhythm stutter, and wraps his lips around that nub. With a harsh suck, he flicks his tongue across it and scrapes his teeth just enough to feel Akechi press his chest against Akira's mouth. The moan it tears from Akechi's throat is more growl .
Not one to let Akira hold the high ground for more than a moment, the hands on his hips move. Harsh fingers dig into the flesh of his thighs as he is bent almost in half, knees pressed to his chest. The new angle drives Akechi deeper, a feat Akira thought impossible.
Brutal, Akira thinks, might be the word to describe how Akechi fucks him in this position. He can hear the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of every thrust. The air smells of blood, sweat, and musk.
He feels his head slam against the stone floor as he throws it back, lets his mouth fall open to a scream. He thinks he is babbling; his mouth is moving but he cannot begin to say what words leave it. All Akira knows is the pressure, the building heat low in his gut, spreading like a fire throughout his body, and then-
Cum splatters against their chest as Akira feels the pleasure consume him. His body slackens—if not for the way Akechi still presses him down, he'd surely lay spread out upon the floor.
Akechi shifts their position again—lets one of Akira's legs fall to the side. It changes the angle once more; Akira did not know he had the energy enough to cry as his oversensitive body accepts each thrust. Akechi does not slow, does not allow Akira time to recover from the high. Only continues to fuck into Akira's pliant body.
He does shift to press his wrist against Akira's lips. Akira blinks—there are tears, he realizes, clouding his vision. When his eyes clear, he sees the look on Akechi's face.
The expression on his face is wild, possessive. A crazed look consumes his eyes—more a monster than Akira thinks he might ever be. Yet there is something almost delicate there: the way his hair clings to his cheeks, the flush so lovely against his skin, the cuts on his lips Akira knows Akechi will run his tongue across for days and days after. Even Akira finds that smile, more teeth than anything, gorgeous.
"Drink," Akechi hisses, pressing once more his wrist against Akira's lips, "while I fill you."
Akira resists the urge to laugh. Instead, he cradles Akechi's arm like something precious, kisses the fluttering pulse of his wrist, and bites down.
He feels Akechi's cum, hot as the blood on his tongue, spill inside him, as Akechi rides out his orgasm buried deep inside Akira. Akechi's voice is beautiful as pleasure consumes him; he can almost taste it in the blood on his tongue.
Sweet, so sweet. How can a man like Akechi taste like sugar?
When Akechi finally slumps forward onto him, Akira accepts his full weight without complaint. His softening cock is still buried deep within Akira's body, though Akira makes no move to disentangle them. With the adrenaline finally and officially fucked away, the siren song of sleep sounds far too tempting to ignore. He closes his eyes, humors the idea of falling asleep right there on the floor.
He feels Akechi stir, and when a callused palm is pressed against his own, he does not resist the tug of Akechi's hand. He expects to feel their fingers intertwined, a strange sort of domesticity he does not find himself arguing against, almost finds a sort of pang of longing for that tenderness.
Instead, what he feels is warm breath grazing across his knuckle, and then a sharp pain radiates up from the base of his finger.
His eyes snap open.
There Akechi is, a lazy kind of defiance in his eyes daring Akira to complain, teeth digging into the ring finger of Akira's left hand. Though his teeth are far duller than Akira's, he bites hard enough to draw blood, determined it seems to leave his mark.
It's going to scar, Akira knows, when Akechi finally pulls away and allows Akira to study the strange mark.
Akira holds it above his head, examining it like the treasures he so often steals, turning his hand this way and that to study the ring of teeth marks etched into his skin. His eyes flicker down to Akechi—or rather the top of Akechi's tangled mess of hair. It seems instead of discussing whatever this strange "gift" he's bestowed upon Akira means, he'd decided to fall asleep. Bastard.
How strange, this little lord.
With a sigh, Akira lets his hand fall to rest on Akechi's head. Too tired to resist his impulses, he cards his fingers through Akechi's long hair, still so soft even dampened by sweat. He twirls a finger within a strand, then drags his nails across Akechi's scalp. Akechi, inhibitions lowered from exhaustion, leans into the touch without a complaint.
To be honest, Akira wouldn't mind more of this.
With that last thought bouncing around in his mind, Akira closes his eyes and allows exhaustion to finally welcome him to sleep.
...But not before asking the most important question, of course: "Should I call you Goro, or do you prefer darling?"
His only answer is a disgruntled groan.