Chapter Text
This should be a familiar situation, really. Akira’s spent countless hours and days doing this exact same thing before—it’s his natural duty as sworn knight of his prince. He’s accustomed to it.
Patient and attentive in Goro’s chambers, Akira watches.
He watches Goro move in anger and frustration, every back and forth pace through the bedroom accompanied by a continuous rant. He observes Goro’s features like his eyes can somehow trace every detail, careful to focus on furrowed brows and snarled lips. He listens and listens, no more than a pious beggar clinging to sweet scripture of curses and snarls.
He could spend hours, eons, at Goro’s altar. It’d never be enough. Nothing ever feels like enough when it comes to Goro.
Nevertheless, Akira watches and listens like he’s used to. Just as any other knight would.
He’s done this all so many times before; it should be familiar. It should, yet the dreadful pit churning uncomfortably in his gut is anything but normal. It feels utterly sickening.
“That fucking piece of shit,” Goro hisses while his hands curl into fists.
Akira shares the sentiment.
Standing in Goro’s room as always, Akira’s heart practically spills onto the polished floor. It’s like a waking nightmare. It's as if he’s been stabbed in the chest by an unforgivingly jagged blade, cold and serrated steel cutting into his flesh before it twists and turns. There’s no salve or wrap that’ll possibly mend the gaping wound, his poor heart left bare and unattended to drip, drip, drip.
Akira imagines the crimson trails throughout long castle halls. He pictures himself following it to the room he was carved open in, his own thick blood and viscera taking him back to the throne and its resident bastard. He thinks of how he can make things even, envisioning a show of how superior he is with a blade compared to the beloved king.
It wouldn’t fix any of this, but at least it would be satisfying.
Besides, Goro’s what’s actually important here. If he needs to vent his feelings out like this, Akira’s more than happy to help. He doubts it’s sufficient enough to last, but it’s a start.
They both have to settle with this for now.
“Does he expect I’ll take this lying down?” Goro snarls, his voice overtaken with raw hatred.
He obviously isn’t expecting an answer, which is completely fine with Akira. Goro needs this, and Akira’s always been a better listener anyway.
“Of course he fucking doesn’t. The bastard wants me to make a scene.”
Oh, how Akira wishes they could make a bloody scene.
He wishes standing here didn’t feel so alien now. He wishes the two of them never stepped foot in that room. Goro should’ve never stood before his stupid crowd of infatuated nobles while that bald fuck opened his bastard mouth and delivered the news.
Akira wishes Goro was simply complaining about how hideous the throne is instead of this.
Instead of his own marriage.
Because Goro has to get fucking married.
It’s not happening immediately—as if that’s any consolation—but likely within the next short few months. Akira suspects that’s entirely by design since it’ll create all the more time for anticipation to spread and their torment to worsen. Shido is a rotten and miserable creature.
Why else would he announce it with such a large audience present to hear? Goro can’t refuse, and word will undoubtedly spread like a wildfire—or a plague, considering the sickness Akira feels.
Two birds, one stone.
And oh, how excitement will spread and build.
Nobles from all over will scratch, kick, and crawl over one another as they compete for the darling prince’s hand. They’ll tear into each other’s flesh and offer it up as a dowry. They’ll do anything for it.
For Goro’s hand in marriage.
Akira can’t stop repeating those two words in his head. Goro. Marriage. Goro’s marriage. Goro’s to be married. He hates how it sounds every single time, and yet he can’t stop. Every time is worse than the last.
Goro’s getting married.
It tastes like bile on his tongue. Bitter and putrid.
“I should have fucking known he’d pull something like this,” Goro growls. “Fucking fuck…”
Akira can’t help but agree. How stupid and naive were they to end up like this? How can they have been blindsided by something so obvious? Akira hates himself for not seeing it.
He hates himself for the only excuse that makes sense too. He hates knowing he just didn’t want to see it.
…Maybe it’s the same for Goro, given where the two of them stand now.
Because this was always bound to happen some day, wasn’t it? Goro is the royal prince. The only heir to the throne was never going to escape this duty, and trying to believe otherwise is laughable. Akira wants to laugh himself to madness.
How twisted is it that this fate has always been a step on Goro’s path? Akira can hardly even wrap his head around the truth of it, knowing that Goro was all but promised to another person since the day they met. Since before they even met.
The mere thought of it splits through his skull.
How can he have not always been Akira’s? How can he never have been?
Just because of who he is? Just because it’s his responsibility?
Akira’s mutilated heart cracks and fractures with every bitter thought. It’s a miracle, really, how the ruined thing remains somewhat intact after all of this. It’s a vicious cruelty too.
It doesn’t matter what Akira feels or wants, and it was never going to.
Goro was never his.
All Akira’s ever had is a look. All he’s permitted to do is watch. See, and never hold.
Still, Goro is a beautiful sight to behold, isn’t he? Radiant, and ever out of reach. Illicitly forbidden. A flame so bright and powerful that Akira cannot help but yearn for the sting of his burn. He wants Goro’s heat to utterly engulf him.
”He just wants to piss me off,” Goro spits out with a deadly sharp look in his eyes.
Akira watches the tips of honey-brown hair sway as Goro walks to a stop in front of him, one step or two away. Selfishly, Akira thinks of edging his finger closer and closer to the flickering ends of the gorgeous inferno until it sears into his eager flesh. How long would he tolerate its sweet pain, he wonders?
Unaware of Akira’s depravity, Goro continues to scorn his father, “He could’ve picked some damn bastard himself if he wanted to. The fucker wants me to suffer through courtship.”
An arrow strikes through Akira’s heart, its wood a splinter through every nerve. How many will seek out Goro’s hand? How long will Goro have to bat his lashes at them and pretend?
Akira’s eyes flick down to Goro’s lips, imagining a faceless stranger’s own foul pair on the soft pink skin. His jaw grinds, quietly seething at the ideas his own mind formulates. It’s self-inflicted torture at this point, but he just can’t stop.
He forces his eyes to blink up at Goro’s, finding a stern look in the bloody red he so worships. They peer at him intensely, carrying an unwavering air of expectation.
Goro’s waiting for his response.
Heat simmers beneath his skin. Akira isn’t sure if it’s from his masochistic imagination, or just from having Goro near. Those eyes are like a leash to Akira, so how will he ever survive its chain being severed? How will he breathe without his warmth beside him?
Akira meets Goro’s stare equally.
“That doesn’t mean it can be anyone,” he says in a gruff voice.
Goro bites out a clipped laugh, “No fucking shit, Akira.”
He scowls, crossing his arms and angling himself a bit away from Akira to the room, the look on his face softening up from that pissed off irritation to something almost… regretful. Goro’s eyes visibly lock on something, but Akira can’t be bothered to look at whatever it is—Goro is the only sight that he cares for. Everything else pales in comparison to him.
Akira watches him shake his head slightly, struck by the sudden disbelief. What did he…?
“God, you’re so…” Goro murmurs.
Crimson eyes flick back to silver ones, so similar to thousands of times before and yet… different, somehow. It feels heavier than usual. Thicker, or just teeming with something new. Raw with some feeling so inexplicable, Akira isn’t sure there is a word to possibly describe it. There are none that he knows to suffice, that’s for certain.
His breath stills, bewitched. Akira thinks he could forsake breathing for the rest of his days and all of eternity if he were allowed to just keep staring at Goro like this. It’s like this quiet moment is all that exists. It’s like eternity itself.
He wants to—
But god, does he want to—
He could just—
Then, just as quick as it happened, just as quick do their eyes flit away from each other. It feels as if Akira loses a piece of himself every single time they stop peering into one another’s soul.
Goro blinks away first, stepping back from Akira and disrupting the impulsive thoughts he was so foolishly starting to form about—what, exactly? It never helps, does it? These ceaseless thoughts of taking Goro’s hand and pulling him into a kiss. The incessant urges to tell him he loves him. To tell him that he would give him the whole world if he could. That he would burn it down for his sake alone.
None of it ever helps.
Akira swallows the blooming lump in his throat as he watches Goro walk over to his wardrobe. He’ll drive himself insane one of these days.
Knowing it’ll just further push the knife in, Akira’s legs still carry him a step closer to Goro while the other carelessly flings open the wide doors of his large wardrobe. However little it is, this still feels like Akira’s taking something. However much this is—this pitiable facade of closeness—it does not begin to scratch the surface of what Akira yearns to have.
It’s enough to allow. It’s enough to make him feel selfish.
“So, what’re we gonna do?” Akira tries, because talking will help distract from how desperately he wants to feel Goro’s warmth. “Any ideas?”
Goro pauses in response, his raised arms frozen in place amidst their search through obnoxiously expensive clothes. He shifts a bit.
“We?” Goro asks, eyes glued to a blazer.
His hand hovers over its long sleeve, his gloved fingers brushing over the cuff for a brief moment before he snaps back into the search. Outfit after outfit, Goro looks and looks, never satisfied by a single one. There’s seemingly endless clothes to choose from, every single piece worth a fortune and tailor-made for him alone, and none enough to satisfy.
It befits royalty. It befits a prince.
Anyone else would look at the treasure trove and be jealous of Goro’s obvious wealth, but all Akira sees is distraction. It may as well brush Akira off itself.
“We’re going to the training grounds,” Goro tells him, avoiding Akira’s questions. “You’re going to let me use you until I’m satisfied. I need to get all of this bullshit off my mind.”
The idea of Goro using him tugs at his perverted mind, but Akira expertly maintains a neutral face despite the fantasy of being ridden without a hint of mercy. He even turns away the moment Goro finally finds his change of clothes and turns back around, not sparing Akira a glance as he begins to undress himself. Obviously he has no worries about being seen bare skinned by such a noble and virtuous knight like Akira.
Obviously. Why else would he always do it?
…Akira swallows and ignores the stirring in his pants.
The sound of rustling and a familiar irritated huff of breath behind him pulls Akira back in. Judging by the clearness of the noise, he’s certain Goro’s still facing him while he continues to undress. It makes Akira’s fists beg to clench at his sides, but that will just give Goro something to look at.
Akira won’t give him the satisfaction.
Why should he when this is as far as they ever go? Goro’s only ever done this—he never takes the step forward. Why should Akira?
“Stupid fucking…” Goro’s voice hisses in a quiet tone, evidently struggling.
Equal parts sadist, the sound brightens Akira up a bit. His lips tug upwards with fond amusement, picturing how Goro must look as he fights some stubborn button or the like. Slightly turned to the side, Akira waits for Goro to speak up, attentively following every noise.
It should be right about…
“I can practically hear the smile on your fucking lips, Akira. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Sick bastard.”
Any second now…
“Goddamn stupid thing- fine. Get me out of this contraption so I can burn it to ash.”
As satisfied as Akira is with being asked for help, he can’t help but feel that Goro conceded defeat far too soon. Maybe he just knows he’s a bit too incomposed at the moment to deal with the finer details of his clothes. Maybe he wants to go and get to cutting into Akira that much. Maybe he just wants Akira to undress him.
Whatever it may be, Akira turns around.
The sight of a half-dressed Goro is far from being new to him, but fuck does it take away his breath every time. Standing in only the upper half of his suit, Goro looks like the very picture of beauty.
He’s like a glimpse of the heavens themselves. It feels like gazing upon divinity beyond his mortal comprehension. He’s temptation and sin.
He’s his gorgeous prince.
The soft and bare skin of his milky legs seem like it goes on for miles, their curves perfectly crafted to wrap around Akira’s neck and strangle the life out of him. Soft strands of honey-brown locks flit around with every shift of movement, his head of hair slightly disheveled and poking in ways Goro would never allow if he saw. Bare hands rest at his sides, defeated after an undoubtedly valiant effort and ready to throttle Akira for the audacity of smiling. A scowl of pretty features glares with utter murder as if the corset containing him was Akira’s doing.
Akira’s favorite part is his eyes. Always his eyes. Maroon, and fixed oh-so-intensely on him. Deep red. Sharp and brilliant. Stubborn and fierce.
He’s perfect.
Walking over to Goro, Akira quietly fights against the urge to glance back down at the smooth skin exposed to him. It will only distract him. It will be something he can’t reasonably excuse, because the first look? The first can at least be written off as an instinct after turning around. One can even say it’s a reflex, or a natural reaction to the sight. An understandable side effect of taking in all of his surroundings.
A second look isn’t any of that. Unlike the first, a second is purposeful.
Not that the first wasn’t. Akira is far past the point of lying to himself, and he knows Goro is too, so why? Why are they still where they are? Why do neither of them budge? He lets Akira do virtually everything he’d hate someone else for doing, so why doesn’t he just go that little bit further? What stops him?
It doesn’t matter, ultimately. If Goro insists on not being the one to do it, then neither will Akira. The utter torment of his heart simply has to deal with it. He won’t fold.
Akira can’t allow himself the selfish indulgence of looking a second time. He’s allowed too much, if anything.
Why does he stop himself? Why? Why won’t he just—
Akira bites his tongue until the thoughts dissipate into the back of his mind.
Acquiescing to Goro’s orders, Akira steps over in his direction. It takes no more than a few breaths for him to stand in front of his prince, and yet his every move manages to be of interest to Goro’s piercing eyes. Dark crimson oceans watch Akira in heavy silence, thoroughly studying him with no subtlety. Shame has never been Goro’s thing.
Akira wonders how it’d feel to drown in his eyes. Maybe it’d help him understand what Goro sees when he looks at him like this. Maybe he’ll never get the chance to now.
“I’d like to see you try and get yourself out of one of these,” Goro comments bitterly. “You wouldn’t be so cocky then, would you?”
Akira lifts a brow, “Oh?”
He considers Goro’s clothes closer. It's certainly a pretty corset, though it’s really more of a vest in actuality. Solid black with gold accents of ornate curves and swirls, its matching jacket and pants are left abandoned on the floor as if they’re not worth hundreds. The only other piece of cloth left on Goro is his undershirt, creamy white and with ruffles in all the right places. Lavish and princely, it’s as intricate to wear as it is priceless.
Not to mention how fucking well it accentuates all of Goro’s fine figure.
In Akira’s silence, Goro smirks at him. “I imagine that even you’d struggle with it,” he says, clearly thinking he’s won.
The response comes to Akira’s lips as naturally as breathing. His eyes blink back up to look into Goro’s, no longer caring about the fabrics worth more than what even half the land’s nobility can afford. He only ever cares because of Goro.
Red, red, red. Such a beautiful red, those eyes of Goro’s.
“But you’d help me out of it, wouldn’t you, Goro? So long as I beg?” Akira breathes with a voice far too innocent for the words doing little to mask his desire.
Averting his eyes near immediately, Goro clears his throat and fixes his gaze on Akira’s shoulder instead. He doesn’t even try glancing at Akira as he stands there, which Akira would take offense to if this wasn’t exactly the response he wanted and hoped for. His gamble paid off.
Goro is so fucking adorable when flustered—the risk of bodily harm is always worth it.
“I doubt it’d suit you,” Goro lies, reaching around to the back of his shirt after apparently deciding Akira isn’t worth the trouble. “Isn’t that armor of yours fucking glued to you, anyway? It’s hardly fair that I never get to—” Goro freezes. Muscles visibly relax once he drops his hands back to his side. “Just get me out of this thing.”
Akira’s mouth twists up into a smile just as smug as the one Goro wore mere moments ago. In an obvious gesture, Akira pointedly twirls his index finger once in the air.
“As you wish, my prince,” he teases.
Goro eyes the finger and flips Akira off before he promptly turns around anyway.
Finally faced with Goro’s back, Akira takes a look at the trouble. The corset’s strings have become slightly knotted, which is likely why Goro couldn’t manage to undo them himself. Akira isn’t exactly a tailor, but it should be easy enough to deal with by the looks of it. This is far from the first time he has been faced with a stubborn corset, from both Goro and the women he hooks up with alike.
Carefully removing his gloves, Akira leaves them in his pocket before reaching towards the cords keeping the corset snug and tight. They’re made of silk, cool and soft on his skin as they flow like water between his fingers with every tie and knot that comes undone. It feels like a delicacy.
Given the menial task, Akira’s thoughts begin to wander.
Knowing Goro’s stubbornness, he is not going to just sit back and let this happen to him. This isn’t some petty jab or passing inconvenience—this is his whole fucking life on the line here. His entire future.
He has to do something. Akira has to help him.
His fingers work slower than they ought to. Akira chews his lip despite himself, deliberating how to approach this with Goro.
It’s hard enough to convince Goro to let him help with even the smallest things, but this? This is far bigger than anything else they’ve ever faced. It’s far more personal. It’s… more likely to shine light on everything they dance around.
Akira’s heart pounds. What other choice do they have now?
They have to figure this out together. They will.
Akira sighs softly in thought. He gently pulls at a ribbon through one of the corset’s loops.
“I mean it, Goro,” he says in a calm and sincere voice. “Whatever you decide to do… I’ll help.”
Akira is met with only silence and the gentle slide of silks between his bare fingers. It’s not really a surprise.
He continues his work without another word until the last thread of pretty silk comes loose. Akira’s hands grab the two ends of the garment, then he unceremoniously drops it to the floor after a little tug, leaving Goro in nothing more than his white undershirt. A part of Akira wishes it was his own shirt running down to Goro’s upper thighs.
It somehow feels softer than the silks, this hidden final barrier. It feels like the one thing maintaining any semblance of normalcy.
Because this? This level of undress should only ever be seen by a lover, or maybe a servant on a rare occasion. But for someone like Akira to see such an intimate and precious sight? Someone not only meant to protect Goro, but also lacking in the nobility and status to be worthy of him?
It’s sacrilegious. Profane. A desecration of all the land holds dear.
Damned soul that he is, Akira wants more. He so desperately wants to stay this close and dare to be even closer. He wants the hot sin of desire to burn him when he tests the limits of how far they can go before something irrevocably breaks. He wants to further blur this line they have edged for years until it’s undeniably crossed.
But, like every time before, he doesn’t.
Akira drops his hands back to his sides, his work done and his heart ever-so-yearnful. He begins to move away from Goro despite the aching pain in his chest demanding he get closer, every effort and inch of distance feeling like a fresh cut to his too cold skin. He needs Goro’s warmth far more than is remotely sane, and he does not give one damn about it.
Too bad for him that he will not allow himself the relief.
Goro can handle an undershirt, Akira reasons as his heart is lashed. There’s nothing more for him to do this close. No rationale or excuse this time.
“Where are you going?” Goro asks, interrupting Akira’s self-flagellation. His voice is hushed and careful, almost as if not to fracture the moment suspended in time. “My shirt is still on, isn’t it?”
Fuck.
Akira pauses. He blinks and fruitlessly attempts to calm his pounding heart. Goro is going to be the death of him, he’s certain of it. Akira doesn’t mind that one bit, but fuck, this is so…
Goro’s head turns slightly, capturing all of Akira’s attention with one small movement. Completely bewitching, he is.
“Well?” Goro says, his intent obvious. This is all so obvious.
Without so much as a word, because maybe his hands can succeed where his words have lacked before, Akira reaches his hand back up to Goro’s shirt.
He starts with the strings at top, easily untying a knot or two before watching the fabric ends part open. It’s easy work. Too, too easy. All he needs to do is tug the loose shirt off of Goro’s shoulders and his task will already be done. It’s not much of a task if it’s this simple though, is it?
All Goro would have to do is give his own shirt a simple pull, were he the one doing this.
Even still, Akira’s hands find their place at Goro’s shoulders, positioned as if for a massage. Using both hands, he dips his middle and index fingers into the shirt’s opening enough for the top of his knuckles to feel the dizzying touch of skin. Akira has to pause.
Warm. So, so warm. Burning, it feels like. Like it’ll splinter every point where they connect.
Somehow intact, Akira’s hands start to slowly run their way down the length of Goro’s shoulders. It feels like an unfair trade in his favor, every patch of fabric that’s pushed down unveiling a precious sight of skin in return. As if starved, Akira’s eyes latch onto every centimeter like it’ll somehow be the very sustenance he’s been deprived of. Goro may as well be a feast.
He wouldn’t mind, would he? Not so long as it is Akira alone that tastes him?
What should have been done with a few seconds and a singular swift movement turns into feather light touch upon touch, drawn out and careful. It’s not like Akira is doing more than sliding the ends of his fingers against Goro, but it may as well be like he’s worshipping him. Reverent admiration is nothing new to him.
Goro deserves it. Akira’s heart beats for it.
Unsurprisingly, Goro doesn’t say a word as Akira cherishes him. They both don’t say a thing. They don’t utter a word even when their touch lingers far longer than it should. They don’t produce any sounds other than soft breaths even as more and more skin is exposed to the room—to Akira.
What is there to say?
Once he reaches the edges of Goro’s shoulders, Akira pauses. Just one more push and…
God, he loves Goro’s freckles.
They’re barely visible, a light and sparse dusting across Goro’s shoulders that’s so easy to miss, but oh how Akira adores them. He loves every bit of Goro he gets to keep to himself—loves every detail, blemish, and inch of him. Every secret is a sacred thing only he’s privy to.
No one else gets to see the freckles, or the little mole at the nape of his neck. Akira’s eyes alone have the privilege of seeing the bare skin of his hands. Nobody else comes close. No one.
Only Akira. Only ever Akira.
…Maybe that thought is exactly what possesses Akira to stroke a thumb along the curve of Goro’s bare right shoulder. He didn’t even stare at it that long before giving in to the impulse.
And even though it’s entirely Akira’s own doing, it still manages to catch him off guard. The same is certainly true for Goro too, given how he tenses.
“I—“ Akira starts, instinctively pressing his thumb down without thought.
He’s not sure what he had planned to say, really. It’s like all thought escapes him the second Goro makes a small gasp at the contact. Akira swears he fucking shivers too.
Akira manages a breathless “Goro…“ before he trails off into silence.
They both stand in silence. Akira’s mouth waters when he sees the tremble of Goro’s body. How can such a simple touch…
The moment doesn’t last much longer.
“I can do the rest,” Goro expertly deflects with a slight shake in his voice, taking a step away from Akira and actively pretending he had no reaction to anything at all. “Give me a few minutes, then we can go.”
Goro takes what remains of his shirt from Akira and holds it in place at his chest, mimicking the way he holds a towel. Given his state of undress and missing gloves—which he left neatly folded on his drawer unlike the other clothes—he looks nothing short of scandalous. Were Goro anyone else, Akira could be persuaded to think he was just caught mid-fuck.
But then, like nothing happened, Goro goes back to changing his clothes.
Biting his tongue, Akira turns around as soon as Goro pulls at the undershirt without the slightest hint of trouble. It’s an easy task. Effortless. Small work for his hands alone.
Akira won’t think about it. He won’t fucking think about it.
The first thing Akira eyes when Goro inevitably walks back into view are his hands, still as bare and risqué as a maiden’s exposed legs. It’s not unusual for Goro to forgo his gloves to undress, but Akira can’t help but indulge in the sight every single time anyway. He wants nothing more than to hold them.
Goro is wearing his usual sparring gear, a set of dark and lightweight leathers not too far off from Akira’s regular attire. It’s not traditional, but reach and flexible movement is far more of a priority to them than dull defense.
Akira watches Goro examine his appearance in the mirror on his wall, its well-polished glass and ornate frame a testament to his expensive taste. Stylishly grand and luxurious, the massive thing was personally designed and crafted for Goro’s use alone. It’s not too big, but it’s certainly larger than any normal bedroom mirror; Goro says that he needs to capture every angle.
It’s always been one of Akira’s favorite little facts about Goro, his genuine love of luxurious things. Akira only wishes he could really spoil his prince as he deserves.
Another little detail Akira loves: the mirror gives him just as much of a damn good view of Goro from nearly every angle he’d like too.
“The yard is going to be crowded. More so than usual, that is,” Goro comments as he picks up an absurdly expensive hair brush.
One of his many.
Watching Goro brush his hair is a soothing thing for Akira. Those pretty fingers of Goro’s work as meticulously as Akira’s do, each digit working to tame the strands of stray hair along with the soft bristles. He uses such a gentle touch. He makes sure to be so careful.
Akira swallows as he watches. The length of it is practically begging to be run through by his own touch. The sight of it all being carefully gathered into a short and loose ponytail doesn’t deter his thoughts at all.
It’s a practical style. Ideal for grabbing sparring.
Shifting around slightly, Akira tries to get his dick to relax for once. He was having a conversation here.
Akira clears his throat.
“As soon as word spreads you’re there?” he says with obvious cynicism. “We may need to go into hiding.”
Goro scoffs. “As if that’d stop them. Half the land probably already knows how ready I am to marry and spread my legs for the first lucky person who comes begging.”
Akira’s vision blurs a bit. He isn’t going to survive this, is he? At least he can drag down the ‘lucky’ man Goro’s talking about into the pits of hell with him. It’ll give him something to pass the time until Goro joins him one day.
Pushing all of that out of his mind, Akira watches Goro do his usual routine. He twists and turns in various angles, judging his reflection with enough scrutiny to make a person tremble. Akira doesn’t think it’s necessary—Goro is effortlessly beautiful without trying.
“If nothing else,” Goro continues with a firm tone of spite. “I am going to actually enjoy the rest of today. My time is still my own.”
Finishing his inspection and proper adjustments, Goro gives himself a curt little nod in the mirror, seemingly satisfied at last. He grabs his gloves before anything else and begins to pull them on, the black leather slowly covering more and more of his hands. They disappear before Akira knows it.
He finds himself mourning the warm skin.
Akira wets his lips. He dares to steal a glance at Goro’s eyes, only to find the other already staring back at him in return.
The red really does remind Akira of blood. Deep and captivating, like the very thickness that flows through their veins. They’re like pools he can get lost in. Oceans and tides fit to drown him. He can imagine choking on the iron taste as it consumes all that he is.
Sometimes the bloody pools are frigid, biting cold and paralyzing. Sometimes they reflect a molten warm heat at Akira, comforting and perilous all at once. They’re always something. Vivid.
They’re so different from his own dull grey.
Right now, the crimson glimmers with a mischief that promises a good time. Akira’s heart pounds that much faster when a sly smile reflects at him in the mirror’s glass.
“Now then,” Goro says, a flash of fangs making it through the smile. “Are you ready to get your ass kicked?”
Akira lights up at the clear threat. A hot feeling of adrenaline floods his body, set off by instinct. It’s familiar. It’s oh-so-Goro.
Happily taking the lead, Akira walks to the locked bedroom door and eyes his new competitor with every step. It’s imperative to know thy enemy, he reasons. How else will he find Goro’s each and every weakness? Strategic recon is all this is.
Having reached the door, Akira places a palm on the handle. Unlike Goro, he has neglected to put his gloves back on, but it’s of little importance to him. He can always put them on whenever.
He feels the ghost of a smile haunt his own face, his heart racing with excitement. It feels juvenile, and Akira adores it. It’s fun. Goro is so much fun it makes his heart flutter.
“Feeling confident, then?” Akira asks, smug and shamelessly teasing. “You haven’t been able to take it all recently.”
Goro meets him at the door, eyes no less vibrant and hungry than before. He makes a show of his eyes scanning the length of Akira’s body, clearly wanting his own recon to be known. Game after game, they play.
“You win twice in a row and then you become an insufferable ass,” Goro sneers at him. “Hold onto that, Akira. It’ll make the look on your face when I win that much sweeter.”
Akira feels like he may just start purring in sheer delight.
“I won’t go easy,” he tells Goro in a low voice, his hand absentmindedly stroking the handle.
“Good,” Goro answers, an almost seductive edge to the word. He gestures towards the door. “Get moving. I need to fucking stab something.”
~~~~
They spar and duel for the rest of the day.
It’s easy enough for Goro to avoid attention with the excuse of training, which allows them to truly immerse themselves into the base physicality of it. Allows them to ignore the audience who watch from a distance and focus on the satisfaction of something so raw and primal.
It does absolute wonders for them both. It gives them something to think about instead of what awaits. Distracts them.
Goro needed this. It’s written all over the brutal swings and visceral grunts he makes. Hell, Akira needed this, and he’s not even the one who’s to get married.
Slashing at him mercilessly, Goro snarls, “Is this what you call a challenge, Kurusu? You’ve barely even scratched me.”
He’s lying, of course. Akira’s nicked him more than a few times by now with his sparring sword, but he knows Goro has a point. He’s not at his best at all.
It’s not like Goro’s faring any better though.
Akira feels the coiled tension throughout Goro’s body whenever they touch and press up against each other—taut and frustrated, like he’s fit to blow any second now. Lean muscle desperately cries out for any relief at every point of contact, which he clearly plans to take from Akira.
‘Use him,’ as it were.
Personally, Akira can think of far better methods they could employ, but his approach may leave Goro more sore than relieved. Sore and relieved, if he’s to be accurate. Akira is nothing if not an absolute giver in bed.
Goro’s vicious behavior feeds into Akira—drives him near feral, truthfully. A predatory look gleams in red eyes, dark and fit to kill. There’s unyielding focus in every inch of him, mind and body fixated on taking his beloved prey. He wants to rob Akira for all he’s worth. He wants to pillage him.
Akira knows he looks of the same mind himself: driven by pure instinct and adrenaline. His blood screams at him to ravish his prince. His thoughts are nothing but those of devouring him.
It’s like their senses are heightened by one other, flooding all they know with the thrill and danger of the hunt.
Akira relishes being Goro’s prize. The thought of being to Goro what Goro is to him makes him run hot as molten lava. It’s always so, so, so obvious in these moments; their bodies and fists say all that lips cannot. Because Goro, his beautifully clever, unapologetically cruel, and infuriatingly stubborn Goro, is his. Wholly perfect, fangs and all—he is the sole prize Akira could ever wish for, and the one he can never have, all the same.
Goro’s taunting is a clear trap intended to distract him. Akira doesn’t play into it; he isn’t going to be baited into losing by such a cheap trick. He says not a word as they clash, the only noises to leave him being the grunts and huffs of a duel. Impact after impact, lunge after lunge, they pull sound after sound from one other. Guttural and violent, every snarl is a symphony. Strained and weary, every groan is a reward.
Goro sounds so fucking good. Whether he’s the one striking or the one being hit, it’s all the same delectable harmony to Akira.
And god is this addictive. This feeling of bruising and being bruised. Of striking and being struck. It is fucking exhilarating. Goro is exhilarating. He’s a drug Akira can’t ever have enough of. He’s the very reason any of this feels the way it does. The very thing that completes him.
But none of that changes the fact that Goro’s still going to get fucking married.
There will be a wedding. A honeymoon. Children. All with a damn stranger, when it should be Akira who—
“Wide open,” a voice hisses.
Akira grunts as his legs are kicked in, dropping to a knee before being farther pushed down onto the hard ground. It’s a violent blur of swift and rough attacks, each hit aimed at exactly the right spots to take full advantage of his slip in focus. A brutal strike disarms him, sending Akira’s sword uselessly clattering away. Bested, he’s left prone and completely defenseless.
It’s not a position he’s used to, either in training or real battle. But then Akira feels a pair of warm and plush thighs straddling him, which is a very familiar thing. There’s a bit more clothes on than usual, and they’re a little too public, but Akira is hardly picky.
Especially not when Goro is the one practically riding him.
Goro sits on him with all of his weight, and all it makes Akira think of is how much he wants to hold him up and fuck him senseless. He’d grip and guide that curvy waist as his beautiful prince learns to bounce on cock. He’d squeeze and test how far his hands reach around Goro, leaving his imprints to bloom on flushed pale skin. He’d run his hands across every inch of Goro and praise him endlessly.
The ground is rough beneath his back. The warm thighs around him are ample and firm. Dizzying, all of it. It makes Akira’s head spin. They’re lean and toned, just like the rest of Goro’s perfectly trained body. He could easily suffocate a man with those thighs alone.
Akira wants to be smothered by them.
There’s a sharp prick at his sweaty neck, merely one good push away from becoming lethal even despite its relative dullness. Their blades are not as sharp as real ones, but still far more pointed than what is appropriate for training. Where’s the fun in a riskless venture?
He attempts to steady his breath. His chest falls to an even rhythm, stabling out after the brutality they shared.
Akira blinks his eyes into focus and takes in their surroundings now that the duel is over. It’s gotten dark out—early enough in the evening to still be out, but late enough to have missed dinner. The audience has dwindled to a sparse crowd, every curious onlooker scattered around the outer yard waiting to see how the match unfolds. Waiting to see what their darling prince intends to do with his knight.
They’re not the only ones. Akira may as well stop breathing in anticipation.
Goro pays none of it any mind. The world around them doesn’t even exist as he leans down and over Akira, close enough for the loose strands of ponytail to brush against Akira’s face. It’s almost like a caress.
“Disappointing,” Goro whispers in the small sliver of space between them. “Is this all you have to give me?”
Akira was distracted. He can do so much more if Goro desires. He can give him everything if he’d just ask.
As Akira opens his mouth to defend himself, the pressure at his neck presses down the slightest bit more. It feels like Goro holds Akira’s very life in his pretty hands, one snip away from cutting it in its place. One cut away from ending all Akira has ever been. And if that isn’t hot enough, the weight of Goro on his groin is overwhelmingly obscene.
Fuck, Akira hopes his boner isn’t that noticeable to feel beneath their clothes.
Every shift of movement feels like sin. Deliberate and rough friction is like salvation and ruin itself. Their breath falls in sync, nearly close enough to intermingle. The night sky glimmers behind Goro, illuminating him as if he were an artist’s muse. A muse, captured in a beautiful moment of time in which he was Akira’s, and Akira’s alone.
Warm. So, so warm.
Goro looks down at him with a smug expression, clearly happy about something. Akira doubts it’s from this supposed victory. The Goro he loves so much would never count it when Akira was as distracted as he was.
But Goro just looks so infuriatingly pretty as he presses the blade’s length to Akira’s vulnerable neck. He’s always just so—
“You’re beautiful, Goro,” Akira whispers, the cold metal scratching against his skin with every word of reverence.
Goro’s lips part open in shock. He sucks in a bit of breath from disbelief. His eyes widen only so slightly, speechlessly blinking at Akira. It's so like Goro to barely make a show of being caught off guard.
It’s so unlike Goro to not have something to say.
Akira’s lips barely part when Goro reacts, and a part of Akira knows it’s to keep him from saying another word. Goro removes the sword at Akira’s neck without so much as a nick, then straightens himself up and practically jumps off Akira like he was burned. The movement on his crotch nearly wrings a moan from Akira, but he manages to stand back up unscathed.
When Akira tries to meet his eyes, Goro clears his throat and pretends to busy himself with his gear. It stings. It pierces. A part of him feels bitter while the other regrets.
“I didn’t—”
“You’re dismissed, Kurusu,” Goro interrupts. He feigns interest in his gloves and doesn’t look at Akira. “It’s quite late, so I’ll retire to my quarters for the night.”
Akira hates it when Goro talks like that. He hates it when Goro pushes him away.
“I can-“ Akira starts, only to quickly correct his behavior, “Allow me to accompany you, my prince.“
Hypocrite that he is, Akira wears his own mask too. He hopes it irritates Goro just as much as he does Akira.
“That won’t be necessary,” Goro waves him off, and god does it frustrate Akira. Everything about Goro frustrates him. “I’d like some time to myself to think.”
“Right,” Akira grits his teeth. He knows they won’t get anywhere with this. “You know where to find me. I’m only a—“
“Door away. I know, Akira.”
Akira? Goro never calls him by first name when they’re not in private. Neither of them do. It’s not proper for their stations.
In the quiet space left from the words, Goro looks up at the night sky. He breathes a sigh of its cool air, wordlessly admiring the twinkle of stars and galaxies. Akira is sure it's quite a sight, but Goro is all he wants to gaze upon.
“The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Goro says, melancholic.
A heartbeat or two later, Goro blinks back down to meet Akira’s eyes. The sight of them alone is almost enough to make Akira forget the hurt and frustration. Almost.
“Don’t let it go to waste,” he finishes.
Before Akira gets the chance to reply, Goro turns around and walks away. Step after step, Akira watches him leave. He doesn’t acknowledge any of the people he walks past, but judging by the looks on their faces, they’re still overjoyed to see him that close anyway. Ignoring them all, Goro simply keeps a steady pace on his way out that Akira can’t take his eyes off. The way Goro’s hair sways nearly distracts from the curve of his hips and the perfect bounce of his ass, but Akira has a talent for appreciating everything Goro.
Goro disappears through the corridor. Akira is left with nothing but the remains of the audience, the mess of their duel, and his furiously pounding heart.
Beautiful, Goro said. Don’t let it go to waste, he said.
Nothing with Goro has ever been simple, but this little encounter of theirs is making Akira think that maybe it should be. Akira meant what he said. It only scratches the surface of what he wants to tell Goro—he can never regret that.
No, what he thinks he’s beginning to regret the most, is not doing it sooner.
~~~~
Akira has built up a kind of routine over the years he’s spent guarding Goro’s door at night. It’s not particularly robust or strict, but more like a set of steps. Guidelines for his needs. Specifically, the need to get himself the fuck off after spending a long day with Goro.
The most important step is that it must be late enough at night that he’s unlikely to be caught in the act, either by Goro or any passersby. Goro’s chambers are in a fairly isolated wing, so there’s very little foot traffic here to worry about, but it’s not like it’s an impossibility. Sure, no curious and over entitled noble could make it this far on their leisurely stroll like they may in the gardens or ballroom, but that much isn’t true for the castle’s staff.
The room is private, yes, but the hall isn’t. Maids and guards have a job to do in every part of the castle, after all.
It’s a risky venture, but Akira finds that only adds to the appeal. He never finishes harder than he does outside Goro’s door.
Another possible visitor to worry about is Mona.
Akira has no clue where Morgana is from. If he’s a stray, he’s certainly well-kempt for one. If he’s a pet for someone around the castle, he’s definitely not being loved as he should be considering how often he visits. Whatever the case may be, Akira adores the little guy.
Aside from being an absolutely adorable cat, he is basically Akira’s second-in-command for guard duty. Mona does it all. He helps Akira keep eyes and ears out for anything amiss. He shakes Akira awake from a nap if someone is coming near. He curls up so cutely on Akira’s lap and keeps him entertained with conversation.
Akira knows he’d sound insane if he were to ever tell anyone, but he swears the cat meows like he is actually talking. Whenever Akira speaks, Mona responds in perfect cadence. He likes to believe that there’s some truth to it.
So as far as Akira is concerned, Mona deserves every single piece of fancy sushi and fatty tuna that mysteriously disappears from the kitchens. He’d never rest well if some other guard stood at Goro’s door. No fucking thank you.
“Mona?” Akira whispers into the quiet hall.
To his relief, he gets no response other than the still breeze and rhythmic chirp of crickets outside the windows. It’s not too surprising; Mona makes a habit of showing up later in the night. Akira can only guess he’s either stealing his own fish from the garden’s ponds or climbing walls far too high for him.
Still, he always checks just in case.
Then there’s the matter of Goro himself. He can be something of a night owl, but Akira hears not a thing past the door. It’s just silence. There’s no flicker of a candle to be seen. No rustle of paper or sheets. No sound of a brush or muffled voice at all. Goro is out cold, undoubtedly. Exhausted in both body and mind.
Who can blame him? Akira feels worn too, which is exactly why he needs to beat it all out.
Akira leans back on his chair and takes a breath as he further manspreads. He’s in the clear, and so fucking pent up. From all the bitter shock and fury of the news. The sheer intimacy of slowly undressing Goro. The rough and feral delight of sparring. From Goro fucking straddling him.
It’s as if every single thing that happened today was a test to see how much he can take. It’s like fate itself wanted to see how far it can wind him up before he’d snap. Like he’s something to poke and prod at.
Akira can’t stand it. Can’t stand the utter lack of control.
But this? This he can control. Himself.
Relaxing his weight, Akira rests his head against the wall by Goro’s door and closes his eyes. He envisions the room itself. The massive bed and mirror. The antique furniture. The sleeping prince inside.
Their place of comfort. Their little sanctuary.
Settled in, Akira reaches into his left pocket. He pulls out the cream colored handkerchief stored away in there and runs a thumb over it. It’s such a pretty piece of fabric—easily the prettiest thing he owns. An ornate pattern of white lace lines its entire length, delicate and refined. Embroidered on a single corner, a deep red ‘A’ sets its claim in dark threads. The letter is encircled by additional handwoven details: a portrait of thorny vines that twist and end in pointed arrows.
Pretty and invaluable, like everything his prince owns. Owned, in this case.
Akira had never seen Goro use it before he gave it to him. He’s not sure if the letter is meant to refer to himself, Goro, or something else entirely. Akira could very well ask, but, assuming Goro would even tell him, he kind of likes the mystery of it.
It adds to the sweet scandal of how he uses it.
Every other night, Akira takes the precious thing, folds the pretty fabric around his throbbing cock, and fucks it like a sleeve. Like a rutting beast, he desecrates the lovely fabric jerk after jerk, thrust after thrust, until it’s sticky with a warm mess of cum. Like a man starved for touch, he slides his wet dick between its soft and rough texture like it can somehow sate his hunger.
The cloth. The lace and embroidery. Every part of it, utterly precious and irreplaceable. Treasure never meant for the hands of someone like him.
The perfect mimicry of what Akira truly aches to have around him.
Even still, Akira sets it aside on his thigh to keep it close. He loves using it, but tonight? Tonight, he is much more interested in the raw friction of wet skin on skin. The job unfortunately falls to his fist rather than a tight and warm body, but it’s not like he’d be interested in any man or woman he’d find right now.
Not when Goro—because it always comes back to Goro, doesn’t it? Not when Goro is who he’d think of regardless.
“Goro…” Akira whispers to the air, because he’s nothing but a lovestricken fool.
He doesn’t open his fly quite yet, denying himself the relief of touch. No, he wants this to draw out as long as the day itself did. He won’t be content with anything less.
Akira starts by merely palming his crotch through his armor. It’s mostly made up of studded leather and steel plates for areas like his shoulders and chest, which makes it easy to move in. Goro had it custom made for him by the finest smiths and armorers money can buy, because god forbid he wear something hideous or unprotected. It had to be perfect. The crown prince can’t have his one sworn knight in anything but the very best, can he?
From the many memories of today, one thing in particular stands out to Akira’s gradually clouded mind. The thought of the sweet little sound Goro made when Akira’s thumb pressed down on his freckled shoulder is enough to send a hot rush of blood to his cock. How pretty a gasp it was—one of shock and intimate vulnerability. How darling a shiver it was. How mesmerizing it felt for Goro to lean into the touch.
It makes Akira think of the nights Goro pleasures himself in that lonely room of his. Like Akira does now, he keeps his sounds quiet and muffled from the world. He’s never too loud, but that little gasp from earlier? It sounded exactly how Goro does just when he’s about to come.
“Fuck,” Akira mutters under his breath, his voice already turning husky with arousal.
Impatience and lust get the better of him. Like he will die if he waits a moment longer, Akira hastily takes off his gloves and unfastens his pants with little tact or grace. Goro would scoff at the sight; he would sneer at Akira for behaving like a beast in rut.
Akira only grows harder at the thought. He spits into his bare right palm.
A tidal wave of relief washes over Akira the very second he grabs his cock, a pleased little breath leaving his lips. He uses his fist to create just the right amount of hot pressure he likes. Spreading his spit along his length, the slick grip of skin on skin is exactly what he craves. Perfect, and yet nowhere close to being what he wants. What he needs more than air itself.
Akira wishes Goro was awake.
But there’s only the wet sounds of his fist and the ambience of the night. All there is, is himself and his desires. His filthy thoughts and the precious handkerchief ready to be defiled once more. The solid door and walls that lay quiet.
He thinks of Goro as he strokes himself. Steadily, more and more blood rushes down to fill his hard cock with every thought and memory of his pretty prince. Akira sees every moment as slowly as his hand works, savoring the details and feelings like he has all the time in the world. At times like this, he wishes he did.
He envisions the sight of Goro bent over a library table, studying a spread of scrolls and maps. The dark pants he wears are so fucking tight-fitting in all the right places. The way he positions himself shows off every slutty curve. It’s like Goro knows what clothes and angles do his body every favor, and by god is he unafraid to use it. Akira can still remember how full and grabbable that perky ass of his looked when he stretched out for a ‘break’ from studying.
Fuck, how Akira wants to be the one to stretch him out instead. He yearns to spread and stretch Goro like he’s never felt before. He aches to feel that stretch around him. Every touch and feeling that Goro couldn’t achieve on his own, Akira will eagerly give it to him.
It’s not even because of the goodness of Akira’s heart. At least, not entirely. Yes, he wants Goro to feel and writhe in every single sinful pleasure humanly possible, but just as much, he wants to show Goro exactly what he’s been asking for. It’s only fair, considering Goro takes every possible chance he can to drive Akira fucking insane with that flexibility of his.
Akira knows Goro is no fool. He knows what he’s doing every time he bends in front of Akira.
It would be such an easy thing to finally take hold of Goro’s shoulder. Akira grunts, imagining how a single hand would press Goro down against the hard surface before taking what he wants. Slowly moving his fist up and down in the slick grasp, he dreams of how damn good it’d feel to fuck Goro right there and then. Akira would show Goro just how much euphoria he can experience under the right hands.
His depraved thoughts start to shift. Would Goro love being fucked just as roughly as he enjoys to spar? Would his nails dig into Akira’s back just as deep? Would fangs draw just as much of Akira’s blood?
Then he hears it.
The quiet and rhythmic creak of a mattress. The telltale sound of springs and a rustle of sheets. It starts off slow. Hushed, like it's barely even there at all. Then it builds, steadily growing from a mix of inanimate noise to welcoming the voice of an angel. Needy moans and broken whimpers reach his ears without barrier—unrestrained by the silk pillows they always are. Uncovered and free like they’re beyond decency.
It’s a symphony in the dead of night. A melody of wordless gasps and cries into the cool air.
Because Goro’s awake. He’s awake, and fucking getting himself off too.
“Shit-“ Akira grunts, bringing his left hand up to his mouth in a fist. He hopes it’s too muffled to hear.
A cute moan rings out from beyond the door, and Akira nearly gives himself away with the groan threatening to leave him. The sound—the moan, was in perfect response to Akira’s cutoff words. It was; Akira isn’t fucking crazy.
“Oh, Goro…” Akira sighs into his clenched fist, picking up the speed of his other hand as quietly as he can.
It's another game, isn't it? They hear each other, and they both know it. They do this for the other and pretend they aren't. They can pretend, separated by the door and so much distance like this.
They can pretend. They can play.
More filthy sweet sounds spill through the crack of the door. Akira doesn't know how he'll manage to not come from the sounds alone.
Has he been awake this whole time? How long as he been doing this for Akira to just hear him now? What does Goro imagine as he moans? Who does he fantasize about as he fucks himself on silk sheets?
Akira nearly scoffs. Who, indeed.
Despite Goro’s noticeably louder voice, it’s still a wordless harmony. Even as the slick sounds of wet skin and the creaking of springs grows, Goro doesn’t utter a single word. Even as Akira’s fist grips harder and faster, all he hears are the pretty moans and wanton gasps.
It still works well enough for Akira. To the very sounds themselves, Akira jerks his hand in rhythm without shame. He pauses only to gather and add more spit to the mix, rubbing it over his leaking slit and long length. The saliva joins with precum, creating the perfect lubricant to keep on working his cock.
It’s not as perfect as Goro would be. His mouth would slick Akira up so much better than this. His ass would squeeze him so much tighter.
“Just like that…” Akira murmurs, though it’s hard to maintain a steady pace when Goro practically moans in his ear. How dirty and unbecoming of a prince.
Akira tightens his grip and moans himself. Goro’s so fucking hot.
He shuts his eyes and leans his head against the wall, growing unbearably warm at the fantasy of corrupting the sanctity and virtue of the people’s daring prince. Goro is no blushing maiden, but it hardly absolves him from the truth of not knowing the touch of anyone but himself. It's perhaps the one and only place Goro can be considered an ‘innocent’ in. A virgin, simply put.
Goro would definitely kick Akira’s ass if he ever said that to his face though. Akira smiles fondly at the idea.
Still, Akira can’t even imagine how pent up Goro must feel.
“Mmh, poor thing. Ah, fuck-“ Akira gasps out and shivers as he gets in a particularly good stroke along his flushed tip.
He winces afterwards. There’s still the chance of someone overhearing him; he can at least try to contain himself a little.
What does Goro look like right now? Now, and mere moments away, does he squirm in his soft sheets as he takes himself in hand? Does he bite those pink lips of his as wet fingers find their way inside him? Does he get on all fours and fuck himself out of sheer desperation?
Does he imagine what it’d feel like to have a real cock inside him instead? Does Goro think about being stretched like never before?
Akira can show him. He can use everything he’s learned, everything he knows and perfected from countless nights of debauchery to show Goro all of the heavens themselves. Endless bliss. Sinful delights for their damned souls to indulge in for eternity.
“Fuck, you’re so…” Akira hears. Hears. Because the pitched and needy voice doesn’t belong to him, but to his prince. To Goro.
Akira nearly comes right then and there.
He stops his hand and tries to calm himself. God, how is he not dreaming? Goro never says a word when this happens. If he ever has, it’s certainly never been loud enough to hear, even for Akira’s ears.
And now he’s just…
“Fuck, I-” Goro continues. There’s a frustrated huff of breath, then an almost incoherent ramble of broken words. “You… you fucking—“ Goro’s voice cuts off into a muffled whine, most likely into his pillow.
Akira’s mouth waters. Goro sounds so fucking filthy, utterly desperate and shameless. He starts to fist his cock with renewed vigor, quickly losing all thought and reason to the hunger sparked by Goro’s voice. It's like lust is all he knows.
Because what else is there to think about? What else possibly matters, other than the pleasure of his sweet prince? What further proof is there that Goro will only be satisfied once he’s fucked by a real, throbbing cock?
Akira is the one he needs. He’s the only one who can give Goro what he craves.
Goro would be so fucking tight around him. His soaking warmth would grip Akira’s dick in a way only a virgin can. It’d be torturous to not just bury himself into Goro’s tight heat the very moment he slips past that sweet ring of muscle, but he’d do it for Goro. Akira wouldn’t cast patience aside. He wouldn’t bottom out immediately and fuck Goro like he’s wanted for years without easing into it first. He wouldn’t drill into his prince just as rough and hard as Akira knows he’d like.
At least, at first. That’s key.
They’d have to work their way up to that inch by inch. Akira’s cock is way too fucking big for Goro to try and take it all at once, though he’d certainly try. Goro is an overachiever like that.
Oh, but when Goro’s body learns how to take it? When he learns how to take Akira? Then he’d pound Goro balls deep into that fancy mattress of his.
“Goro,” Akira groans, rugged and far too loud in the quiet night.
It’s louder than the slick rhythm of his cock, voice embarrassingly needy as it hits the walls. Louder than the words he’s whispered and moaned into the hall up until this point. Desperate. Akira isn’t even ashamed to call it pathetic. He may as well drop on his knees and cling to Goro’s legs like a man starved, begging and begging for a taste of him.
It goes quiet inside the room. The sounds of a creaking mattress and frustrated whines go like they never existed in the first place.
Akira’s whole body goes still. His heart beats fast in his chest, and it feels like it may be the one thing keeping him grounded.
A beat passes.
Then another.
One after the other. Thump, thump, thump.
Akira doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. He isn’t even sure what he expects to happen. He hasn’t a clue, and yet his hard dick aches impatiently. If he could just—
Thunk, he hears. His breath hitches.
There’s a rustle of movement just past the door beside him. The clear sound of weight pressing against the hard surface. Akira doesn’t need the soft breath that accompanies the noise to know what’s happening, but it’s still nice to hear. Goro is always soothing to hear.
Akira thinks he must have been an absolute saint in a previous life to be given this. How lucky is he to have Goro sitting against the door right beside him like this? In this fucking state? Goro is likely wearing little to no clothes at all. He’s probably dripping wet from fucking his own fingers into his tight little hole.
Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I…” Akira barely manages, faint and unsure of what to even say.
He grips the base of his cock to stave off his lust, forcing himself to think. What can Akira possibly say? The fact that Goro is so damn close while both of their dicks are out is still processing in the first place, so the right words are a bit beyond his reach at the moment. They have never been this close—never like this. It’s fucking amazing. It’s torture to not have more.
Akira wants to see what Goro will do next. Even now, he wants Goro to make the first move.
It doesn’t take much longer to happen.
The first thing Akira hears is a mix of wet strokes and the sound of Goro slowly sliding against the wall. Akira assumes it’s to better position himself, since he’d need the right angle to slip his fingers down, down, down… All the way until Goro finds that tight rim. All the way until he’s knuckle-deep in that lonely hole of his. All the way until he hits that sweet little spot of nerves inside him.
Akira imagines how beautiful Goro would look as his eyes flutter shut in ecstasy. He imagines how Goro would listen to the slick sounds of a fist as he does so—how he’d listen to every noise Akira makes. How he’d wait for more and more.
And how can Akira disappoint? He immediately goes back to jerking his leaking cock with a tight and slow fist, following the rhythm of Goro’s little sounds. It feels so fucking good; a pathetic moan escapes Akira’s lips. The wall may as well not be there, considering how raw this intimacy feels. It is like he’s never felt anything better, in either the body of another or otherwise. Akira feels like it’s impossible for them to be any closer—it feels like they couldn’t be farther apart.
It feels. Akira’s never felt so much.
He starts to move his fist at a rough pace, unable to resist the urge with how obscene Goro sounds just a few inches away. Akira imagines the sight of Goro fucking himself. He thinks of those pretty hands and fingers touching all the places Akira burns to. More than anything else, Akira thinks of how badly he wants to make Goro come entirely untouched—on his cock alone.
Akira’s filthy thoughts fixate on that very image. Imagine how beautiful Goro would look when he realizes what Akira can do to him? Imagine how he would convulse and shiver from all the untold pleasure? Imagine how he would arch and bend to Akira’s very touch?
“Fuck, I need—“ Akira hears through the door’s crack. It’s a whine. It’s a demand, because Goro has never begged for a thing.
They’re as bad as the other. Lost in lust. Clouded and desperate for more. So close to tipping over the blurry edge they toe. No better than animals wildly chasing their pleasure.
And god, is Akira close. Goro must be too, by the sound of him. He sounds so fucking beautiful. He is so fucking beautiful.
Akira continues to pound away at his cock, thick and hard in hand. He moans, imagining his fist is Goro’s virgin ass instead. He groans, thinking of the hot walls that would resist his tip at first, only to slowly pull him in inch by aching inch. Knowing Goro, he would beg Akira to go faster despite the clear tremble in his body. He would demand that Akira give him everything.
The obvious possibility here isn’t lost on Akira. If he wanted to, he could do all of this and so much more right fucking now.
All he’d have to do is open the door. He’s opened this exact door thousands of times; it wouldn’t be any different. They’d both get what they want. He can— Goro is waiting for him, isn’t he? What’s to stop Akira from crossing that line and fucking his prince into the floor? What’s stopping him from leaving Goro dripping with hot cum?
It would be so easy to do. One measly door is all that stands in the way.
“Oh, fuck, Goro…” Akira groans while he moves his fist up and down, low and throaty. He drops his head back against the wall. “You’re so fucking perfect…”
Then Akira hears the most beautiful thing to ever grace his ears. Goro sounds so pretty when he comes, and it’s only made better by the proximity they share. Shaky and muffled moans. Rapid wet filth. The lewd pitch of a drawn-out gasp as Goro fucks himself through the orgasm.
Akira hopes his words were what tipped Goro to the brink of pleasure.
On that thought, Akira groans and pounds away at his dick. He’s close. He can feel himself build and build and build to a coil, muscles tightening up as his body chases release. His eyes snap shut as if it’ll help, focused on Goro, Goro, Goro. He leans his head against the wall and bares his neck like it will bring Goro’s fangs to his sweaty skin. He tightens his grip and pictures it as Goro instead, those bare and pretty hands jerking his aching cock up and down, up and down, up and down—
“Mmh…” comes a short and content hum. “Like that, Akira…”
Of course Goro would know to say his name. He just barely remembers to grab the handkerchief on time.
“Fuck—“ Akira grunts, his voice shaky and rough as he finally comes.
It hits him hard. It feels like a tidal wave of relief and molten lava crashes through his body. Akira moans and watches his hot cum land on the soft fabric of Goro’s handkerchief. It’s a vulgar sight he never tires of: the contrast of his thick white spend on something so precious. Defiling such a pretty thing time and time again.
Some of it even lands on the ‘A’ embroidered at its corner. It looks like a stake of ownership. Like a claim to what is his.
“Goro,” Akira sighs. He doesn’t say it as a plea to him this time, but more as a prayer of worship. A treasured word he reveres to taste.
The waves of pleasure begin to subside. Akira’s sleeve slowly takes every last filthy drop from his now spent cock. He runs the fabric along the top of his flushed and leaking head, shivering from the feel of it on his slit. Akira doesn’t hold back a moan solely because he thinks Goro has earned a nice little reward for all of this. His prince did so beautifully. He always does.
Akira lazily tucks himself back into his underwear and wipes his hands with the clean parts of the handkerchief. Once he’s content with that, Akira crumples up the dirty thing and makes a mental note to wash it tomorrow when he can. That’s an easy fix, but right now? Right now, Akira has to figure out what the fuck to do next.
“…Goro?” he tries, angling his head towards the door.
Maybe he can help clean Goro, Akira’s hopeless mind thinks. Maybe he can carry him back to the bed and fuck him proper, his ever-present libido hopes. They can cuddle too, if Goro allows it. He would definitely fuss about it just to end up loving it in secret.
Goro’s breath is faint. It’s still there—still muffled by the door—but Akira can hear enough to tell it has a labor to it. It sounds a lot like Akira’s own, really. Winded. Spent. Sated. Impossibly ready for more.
If Goro could just—
Tap, tap, tap.
The distant sound of footsteps immediately takes Akira’s attention. He turns his head to it like he’s a cat, pinpointing it as just beyond the corner of the hall. It’s completely unwelcome and couldn’t be more horribly timed, but Akira doesn’t fall into a panic about it. Entirely, at least. This is far from the first time this happens, but Goro was never a few fucking centimeters away before, was he?
Still, that doesn’t change the fact that someone is coming by. He has to deal with it.
Akira does a quick once over of himself to make sure he’s presentable before shoving his used handkerchief into one of his back pockets with little grace. The thing has proven itself to be pretty damn indestructible anyway, it can take a little haphazard handling. Besides, with that bit of evidence gone, Akira’s uninvited guest will be none the wiser of what just transpired.
The footsteps grow closer, steady and clearly in no particular rush. Akira didn’t think it was any possible threat in the first place, so this just helps rule that out entirely. Someone could be playing the part to try and trick Akira, sure, but he’s not an idiot. Hell would freeze over before he ever let anyone hurt Goro.
Unsurprisingly, it turns out to only be a guard on patrol. Akira recognizes the man, so he assumes he just got bored of his usual routine out by the main library and felt like wandering. On a normal night, Akira would be okay with it for the sake of having some conversation, but nothing about this day is normal.
Akira skillfully makes the talk short without being rude about it. They talk about mundane things like dinner and the weather. Boring and horribly cliche; it couldn’t end soon enough. Though, not having to talk about today’s ‘special news’ makes it feel almost like a godsend.
“Oh,” the man says as he stops in his tracks. He turns to Akira and gives him a wide smile. “Give my congrats to the prince, yeah? Seeya.”
Well, so much for that then. Akira pulls one of the fakest, but entirely genuine looking little smiles in return. He rolls his eyes once the man turns back around and finally disappears through the hall’s archway.
At least he’s alone again.
No, not alone. Goro. Goro is waiting. He is right behind the door, and all Akira has to do is open it and… he doesn’t fucking know yet.
Akira steps in front of the door and reaches out to the handle. His hand hovers over it, fingertips less than an inch away from brushing against its cold surface. He needs to stop whatever this is and just do it. He has to. What, after all this, is stopping him?
Akira touches the handle, curling his hand across its edge. He begins to turn it gingerly as his heart races. Its mechanisms turn and click, too loud in the quiet and still night. Goro undoubtedly hears it; there’s no chance he doesn’t know what Akira is doing. Every slow tick is an offer to Goro—a chance for him to stop Akira if he so desires.
But one after the other, they pass. Nothing at all tries to prevent him from finishing.
The door creaks open, clearly in need of oiling or cleaning. Akira will deal with that some other day, but right now, all he does is peek through its new opening. Goro obviously moved at some point in Akira’s little conversation, but Akira’s heart drops when he finds exactly where. Though Goro being on his bed could’ve easily been an amazing thing for them, Akira can’t exactly talk to him while he’s asleep.
His fist tightens around the handle. Akira thought Goro would’ve- No, that doesn’t matter. Goro has made his choice clear, so why should he dwell in it? It’s not like he cares that Goro used him and went straight back into bed like there’s nothing to talk about. It’s not like he’s bothered by the fact that another chance slipped through both of their fingers again.
Slipped, Akira thinks bitterly. Goro seems to have never even wanted to try grasping it.
And yet, his foolishly hopeless mind thinks, what about everything that happened today? None of that could’ve been nothing. Goro is… He cares, whether he’d admit that or not,
Akira chews the inside of his lip. He looks down at where Goro had been sitting with a wistful pain in his chest. There’s not a trace of him left at all. Not the slightest mess or clothes left behind. Not the faintest crease in the carpet Goro would’ve brushed against. Lit only by the rays of moonlight pouring in from the balcony, it’s like Goro never sat there in the first place.
He looks back up to Goro. Akira has to try doing something—he’d never forgive himself for letting the night end like this. He has to at least try.
Akira takes a step into the room.
“Goro?” he says in a soft voice. It’s loud enough for anyone in the room to hear, but quiet enough as to not shatter the peaceful stillness hanging in the air.
There’s no response.
He wonders how long ago Goro fell asleep. The day clearly had quite the toll on him if he falls to sleep so soon after that little tryst. Akira tries not to let it sting too bad—he can only really expect so much… closeness, from Goro in a day. Being intimate, for lack of a better word, is not a strong point of theirs.
Akira lingers and allows himself to admire Goro’s pretty face. He looks adorable when he sleeps. A softness rests in his features, different from the fake looks he wears as the prince and the sharp edge he keeps with Akira. He looks at ease, truly and deeply. He looks like the stress of everything has entirely washed away.
He looks peaceful. Safe.
A familiar pitter patter of soft paws enters the hall while he pitifully pines. Mona, no doubt.
“Good night, beautiful,” Akira murmurs. He can’t help himself, and what’s the harm at this point anyway?
He steps back out of the quiet room and gently closes the door on his way. The small click of the handle has never sounded as loud to his ears as it does now. Akira breathes a tired sigh as he sits back on his chair. Today has been a long fucking day.
Morgana paws into view not that much later. The cat wastes no time in hopping on Akira’s lap and staring up at him. Vivid blue eyes blink at Akira before Mona meows at him, very clearly greeting him for the night. Genius, Mona is.
Akira smiles fondly and reaches a hand into the soft fur of Mona’s neck, petting him hello. Mona always gives him the stink eye at first, only to be purring the next moment.
“You give those fish hell, Mona?”
Morgana answers with a tentative nod that lets Akira know he most certainly did, then launches into the gritty details. Akira’s pretty sure one of them put up a tough fight based on a particularly rowdy set of meows.
His adorably soft friend stretches on Akira’s legs before making himself comfortable by curling up into a purring ball of fluff and warmth. Akira pets him through their conversation, happily taking the joy of Mona’s company and stories. He nods and says his own share too; Morgana has long since proven what a good listener he is.
It’s comforting.