Chapter Text
No ordinary love
I gave you all the love I got
I gave you more than I could give
I gave you love
I gave you all that I have inside
And you took my love
You took my love
No ordinary love, Sade.
Translation: Althariel Tasartir
To IG and JP. I am not sure what it gave us...
I. Didn’t I tell you
He doesn’t like men. He knows it, stands by it, lives by it. He doesn’t like men. Not out of spite—it simply means nothing to him. It’s just that he doesn’t like them. Too much testosterone. He, on his own, is already all eros.
He laughs. He always laughs, but he prefers laughing in someone’s face—just to get under their skin. That, that is the kind of laughter he enjoys the most.
All it takes is a flicker of doubt. He knows now—doubt is a risk. The kind that forces a choice: snuff out the fire, or let it burn out of control. Wild, ravenous. And he likes fire—the fever that blazes through the soul and scorches even good judgment.
Nope. He doesn’t like men.
But that one—the one burning, tearing through everything in his path—he liked. He liked his fire. Liked the fever it sparked in him.
He burns.
Youth, swelling in that body that’s not even his, is a violent truth. There’s something filthy in knowing he was reborn into stolen perfection, and the despair of that four-hundred-year-old man inside it is unbearable.
His cursed energy is more than magnificent—it's savage. Brimming with desire, with hunger, with the kind of force only those ready to die can channel. Kashimo Hajime is ready to give everything.
Hakari knows this is a bet he should stay away from. He sees the danger right away. But he’s already decided to jump in. Because every bet is a chance to win—and he always wins.
They talk. They trade insults. They lie.
They say they’re fine. They’re not.
It’s Kinji who stops holding back, who lets his gaze roam from head to toe. There’s… something. Something no one else notices: his hands. The ones gripping the ceremonial staff—the sage’s staff. Big, calloused hands. Kinji can’t help but wonder how they touch, how they grip—how they kill.
He wants him to gut him. And a second later, he wants him to pull out his cock too.
He tells him he likes his fire—but what he’s really saying is he wants to take him somewhere untainted, far from this cursed, filthy dock reeking of death and curses.
No one escapes Kinji’s executioner’s stare. Because his eyes say it all. And somewhere between the blows, he’s already said it: that he wants him. That he wants to rip down those white pants, soaked in his blood, just to see if that pale skin tightens under his touch, to grab that firm ass that clenches right up against his pelvis.
He doesn’t like men. But him—he does.
He likes monsters.
Hajime plays dumb. But he knows. That sharp look is dissecting him, judging him. And it's saying—clearly, sincerely—that Kinji wants to f-u-c-k him. Hard.
He’s offended.
To have his power questioned, his supremacy reduced—to be treated like some dockside whore.
He shatters his face, his arm, rips out his guts. And for a nanosecond, he thinks—maybe he shouldn’t have. A shame. That bastard had a beautiful body.
Kinji has already won. Hajime hesitated.