Crooked As

Yozak tries to focus on the Maou, on Gwendal’s long and boring speech about Shimaron, on anything but the young man lounging in the corner, all black silk and gold trim and deceptive youth. He tells himself to pay no mind to the pale, unblemished skin that taunts him from above the starched collar of Murata’s shirt. He swears to himself that he isn’t staring at long, lean legs, and even if he is…

Even if he is, it definitely isn’t turning him on.

Gwendal is still talking. Something about treaties, or treatises, he’s never bothered to learn the difference. Yuuri is enthralled. Conrad is cautiously optimistic. Murata is brushing the hair away from his eyes.

He slides his gaze off that seventeen-year-old body, away from the know-it-all smile and eyes that have seen more than he’ll ever dream of, though they’ve forgotten most of it.

When Gwendal finally stops talking and the gathered trickle and disperse throughout the winding castle hallways, Yozak pulls Murata into the shadows and tears his clothes off, tastes that perfect skin, tests the limits of that young body. He is rough, he is insatiable, and he knows he’ll do it all again tomorrow.

***

There’s no reason for him to be here. This new treaty needs no input from the tattered remains of a sage, nor wisecrack comments from a cheeky teenage boy. He fiddles in the corner and tries steadfastly to ignore his own insignificance, heavy in the silent air around him. He shouldn’t have bothered coming. He wouldn’t have, except…

Except Yozak is here. Yozak who will strip him bare and fuck him until they can no longer stand. Yozak who makes him feel like a person by treating him like an object. Yozak who is staring at him already.

He tries not to fidget as he counts the minutes in his mind. He imagines he can feel that gaze on him, following the lines of his body, lingering upon his neck. Yozak always lingers on his neck, and Murata doesn’t know why. The clock in his head ticks on. He brushes the hair out of his eyes. Unnecessary. Calculated. It’s like a game, a little challenge to himself, seeing how much he can make Yozak want it. His score is always not enough.

The meeting is over. Neither of them has said a word.

He makes it halfway to the temple before Yozak grasps him by the elbow, pulls him aside, fucks him unceremoniously in an empty room. Hard, fast, Murata resists even though he burns for it too. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know anything because he stopped caring about the answers when he forgot all the questions.

***

He lifts his arm in a weak wave goodbye as Conrad leaves to find his precious King. Yozak groans, rubs his shoulders. He is sore and bruised and buying drinks tonight, but it is far too hot to care. Wind blows through the courtyard, kicking up clouds of dust that he chokes on, gasping in the acrid summer air. There is grit gathered into all the curves of his body, clinging to every strand of hair and fold of clothing. He picks up his shirt and tries to shake the dirt from it, fails. He flings it over one shoulder with a sigh and heads off to the baths to soak away the grime and the aches and the small blow to his pride.

He does not even make it out of the courtyard before he spies Murata stretched out on one of the low walls fencing in the area. Yozak catches the slight turn of the young man’s head as he glances in his direction.

He forgets about the bath and the bar and the beer he owes his friend.

“What did you think?” he asks, grinning, light hearted, like he isn’t thinking right now about running his hands up and down Murata’s naked body, like he isn’t thinking that all the damn time.

The sage chuckles quietly, soft exhalation of laughter minus sound. “I think he’s better than you.” And there is something in the way his lips stay curved upwards in mocking half-laugh, his head titled ever so slightly, that sets Yozak’s blood thumping red-hot against his eardrums.

“I guess he is,” Yozak says, flexing his fingers, trying to wriggle out the tension, the urge to spring and grab and claim and devour. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Murata still wears his half-grin. “Perhaps I shouldn’t point out the obvious.”

Unthinking, Yozak grips Murata’s shoulders (haughty fucking shoulders) and slams the boy hard against the post he’s been leaning on before violating that mouth (smug fucking mouth) with nothing short of absolute dominance.

He is certain he never used to be a jealous man.

Murata struggles against him, pushes at him, kicks his legs. Always the scuffle, always the resistance, but never once has Yozak heard him say no.

***

He had it planned from the second he saw Yozak direct that intense gaze at his Captain across the tips of their blades, lost in their world of precision and sharp edges. It is the same gaze that runs up and down his body when Yozak thinks he’s not looking, all heat and desire.

Murata has always been a jealous man.

His plan is flawless. Perfect act. Perfect provocation. Perfect reaction. He knows all the buttons to push because he is the one who crafted them.

He takes no joy in bringing a kind, honest man to ruin. Every time they play this game Yozak becomes a little more possessive, a little more irrational, a little more bestial, but Murata finds he cannot be remorseful when he has that want.

Murata gasps and digs his fingers into Yozak’s back. Their moans echo across the empty courtyard.

Perfect

.

***

The door clicks shut behind Murata. He locks it, deadbolt sliding into place with a dull and unmistakable thud. “Do you always keep your door unlocked?”

“You never know when nobility’ll come wandering in,” Yozak replies, propped against a pillow, staring. His eyes glint cold steel blue in the moonlight that filters in through the small, dirty window. They watch each other for several long, silent minutes.

“I saw you with Wolfram today.”

“I know,” Murata says, crawling onto the bed to straddle Yozak’s hips, “you were supposed to.”

Yozak’s fingers twist around coal-dark hair, mark of their difference. “Why?”

Murata bites back the explanation. “I don’t know,” he says instead.

Tomorrow, there will be hot looks and veiled mockery and secret fucks in darkened hallways, but tonight Yozak is gentle and tender and there is something not unlike love in his actions. Murata clings to him, arms circled round, welcoming, begging, and Yozak springs and grasps and claims and devours as they twist together atop the sheets.

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