.

Damp, tangled sheets. The feel of sweat and stickiness on cooling skin. The smell of sex in the air.

These were the things Miyavi was used to. He couldn’t imagine anything else.

Why would he want to?

***

Miyavi liked his job, he really did, and for the most part, he liked the people he worked with.

Only sometimes, Yoshiki really got on his nerves.

“Have you been eating alright? You look a little pale.”

Miyavi rolled his eyes and turned to face his boss, one hand already pulling open the Garden office’s front door. Cool, dry air rushed in around his legs, crept up his spine, made him shiver. It was not quite past summer, but the nights were starting to get cold.

And lonely.

“I’m always this color, Yoshiki,” he said, plastering on a smile he didn’t feel. In the back of his mind repeated a litany: Stop it stop it stop pretending…

Yoshiki hesitated. “I worry about you sometimes, Miyavi. I just want to be sure you’re okay with everything—“

Miyavi gave the door a shove, throwing it wider than he actually needed to walk through. The shivery wind yanked at his hair, tried to steal into his clothes without his permission. Setting his shoulders, he thrust out into the night.

“Stop pretending to care,” he whispered. The wind stole his words and dashed them apart.

Yoshiki didn’t hear.

***

Tonight was a housecall, as Toshiya liked to call them, meaning that Miyavi was meeting the client at the client’s residence rather than someplace neutral. Most of the… artists… at the Garden didn’t do housecalls; it felt too risky, and, truth be told, too intimate.

Miyavi didn’t care.

The apartment was nice; not anywhere near as nice as some of the Level-spanning Interior residences, but still pretty damned nice for someplace verging on the Rim neighborhood. The catwalks here were broad and free of graffiti, and there were even potted plants flanking the wide, polished metal doors. Over near the edge of the roofed platform a windchime clinked and clanged fretfully to itself.

Stepping close to the door, Miyavi touched the alert-chime, then waited. The wind continued to creep into his clothes, and he pulled his too-large jacket closer around himself, shivering.

After a few long moments the doors slid open soundlessly (well-maintained, Miyavi noted approvingly), and his client stood framed in the doorway.

Lovely eyes—blue—and a mouth just made for kissing. Nice body, too, from what he could tell while the man still had his clothes on. Miyavi’s approval skyrocketed.

“Gackt, I presume?” he said, smiling slightly, feeling the greedy power deep inside stir and waken, like a languid cat. He could see as it took hold of the other man, could discern the exact moment Gackt’s eyes darkened with magic-induced lust.

“You must be Miyavi,” said the other, standing slightly aside to let him enter. “Come in.” Those blue-as-winter-sky eyes were piercing, almost too intent.

Miyavi slipped inside, brushing against Gackt as he did. He could feel the other man’s arousal spike at the bare whisper of contact, and he hid his triumphant smile deep down.

So easy.

***

Heat. Skin on skin. Heavy breathing and not enough air. Miyavi made a strangled noise as Gackt licked up the line of his back; he arched when Gackt bit (too gently) at the side of his neck. He moved impatiently against the satin sheets, wishing things would hurry along.

Gackt was pressed close now, breathing things in his ear that he didn’t want to hear. “Beautiful, you’re so beautiful…”

Stop pretending to care.

“Fuck me,” Miyavi hissed, reaching for his power, pouring it over Gackt like scalding water, flinging it at him like a sudden gust of wind. “Dammit, just shut up and fuck me.”

Gackt moaned, a helpless sound, and pressed Miyavi down into the sheets. Miyavi made encouraging noises and spread his legs, hoping Gackt would take the hint. Come on, come on, need to let it OUT--

Gackt was breathing so hard it almost sounded like sobbing as he entered Miyavi in one hard thrust. Miyavi arched his spine, dug his nails into the frivolous sheets, made noises that were too loud and too needy. He tossed his head as Gackt bent to kiss his throat, tried to get Gackt to move more, faster, now. He wanted to fuck, he wanted to come, he wanted to stop pretending…

“Unh, shit, you, ah--!” Miyavi had no idea what he was saying, and didn’t particularly care. Gackt was moving in and out now, hitting all the good spots, making the bed thump against the wall with each thrust. Miyavi closed his eyes and felt his power wash through him, burning-hot, twining with the very edge of his orgasm. Almost, almost, almost, PLEASE…!

He screamed too loud when he came, dug his nails into Gackt’s skin too hard, drawing blood. Gackt hissed but didn’t seem to mind the pain; his eyes were lust-glazed and distant, his concentration lost in the almost-to-climax haze. Miyavi bit his lip and took each stroke, used the last dwindling wave of his power-rush to nudge Gackt just so, knowing in a second he’d tip over the edge--

Gackt panted, gasped, lost his rhythm. His arms gave out and he collapsed on top of Miyavi, hips stuttering frantically as he came. Miyavi felt wetness and shuddered, moaning softly. Finally, Gackt stilled, breath coming in gusts and gasps.

After a few minutes he rolled off, and Miyavi found himself irritated at the trailing fingers that smoothed down his hip.

“That was… so good. So very good.” The warm breath tickled his ear, made him shiver.

Miyavi rolled onto his side and smiled, lazy and feline. “You’re wonderful. I want more…”

Gackt pulled him close and kissed him, deep. Miyavi made a little sound, wrapping arms around his shoulders, trying to wriggle closer. More, more…

Stop pretending

Stop pretending

Stop pretending you care, Miyavi.

end