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fic_promptly's Yami no Matsuei, Muraki/Oriya, Opium is the least of Oriya's vices.
He had heard some Western foreigners refer to the kiseru as a "dream stick" on account of the substances one traditionally partook with it; not a bad image, for all its boorishness, and while Oriya made full use of it -- to help him sleep on particularly rough nights, to take the edge off the residual pain left by old injuries, and especially to quiet the prick of his conscience -- he had other means to help him sleep at night. Means just as addictive.
Unfortunately, the source of that means lived in a mansion in Tokorozawa City or when the duties of his clinic called him there, in an apartment in Tokyo, though he came to call once a month for a few days, over some matter involving a former professor of his.
Muraki's arrivals sometimes could not come soon enough. Even still, when he saw the pale man in white cross the threshold of Ko Kaku Rou, he could not help but cringe within himself.
Muraki must have sensed something, for he paused in his tracks, almost with the stillness of a tiger pausing when it discovers a prey animal in a clearing before it. "You look at me as if you would rather that I did not darken your door," he said, with a hint of amusement.
"Can't say that I'm always pleased to see you," Oriya said. "I provide a service, but sometimes I get the feeling you come here only for the convenience and the girls."
Muraki chuckled, deep in his throat. "You could always ban me, but we both know that you won't do that any time soon." He stepped in closer, then speaking in a lowered voice, he added, "You need me as much as I need your services. You've not been sleeping at night, have you? And I smell opium on your clothes."
Oriya sighed, turning away his gaze. "Your room is ready as usual: the maid will take you there. I've got a bath drawn for you and she'll bring you a meal, if you want."
"Hmmm, you can spare the meal: I believe I will be busy processing something more nourishing," Muraki said, a small but dangerous smile crossing his face.
"I'll be there later, when I've settled the rest of the guests," Oriya said, reminding Muraki of his status here, despite the history between them. No one could know the extent of their relationship, not beyond their high school and college years together.
No one could know that, while the rest of the guests held trysts with the maidservants, their host had slipped away as well, to a room in the rear of the old house, overlooking the river. A room where a pale man with hair and eyes like moonlight lay pretending to drowse on his futon, the coverlet slipped down to bare one shoulder as white, in the moonlight, as the silk suits he favored. Oriya paused, almost ready to turn back, nearly letting his thoughts wander to the voices in the other rooms: his grandmother chiding one of the kitchen maids, the sighs and murmurs and gasps of pleasure from other chambers. But he drew in a breath, drew in a whisper of the almost incense-like aroma that rose from his guest's dozing form. He approached softly, undoing the sash of his kimono and slipping out of it and his undergarments, letting them drop to the tatami before kneeling beside Muraki's bed.
The pale creature turned over under the covers, lifting his gaze to Oriya's face. Time and time again, Oriya had tried to avoid meeting that gaze, but every time they came together, he found himself drawn in by his guest's eyes. The one that could see promised him comfort and solace, while the other that stared glassily to one side reminded him of the inhuman darkness within his friend. Even still, he slid beneath the comforter, laying beside Muraki, drawing him close.
In the darkness, Muraki's form rose up, a pale shadow blotting out the moon as he leaned over Oriya, his mouth finding the taller man's throat, gently kissing the pit before he ran his tongue over the pulse just above it. A hint of sharp teeth drawn across Oriya's skin, reminding him of the danger involved, that if Muraki chose, he could bite out his throat and consume his life to the core. Instead, Muraki left a burning trail of kisses down the mid-line of Oriya's chest, stopping only at his groin where he nuzzled Oriya's secrets, quickening his shaft before taking the length into his mouth. Oriya tried to remind himself of what this meant, of the darkness within his friend, which fed on the lifeforce of others. He's a vampire, he needs this, he would think. But those thoughts never lasted for long, eased away by the fire that Muraki enkindled in his flesh, a fire that grew till he felt it burn away his inhibitions and his cares, till he found himself with his hands entwined in Muraki's hair, emitting a gasp of release. Till his friend settled again by his side, back to him, drifted off into a contented doze, while Oriya had already fallen asleep beside him. Till the moonlight that bathed them turned the color of poppies...
fic_promptly's Yami no Matsuei, Muraki/Oriya, Opium is the least of Oriya's vices.He had heard some Western foreigners refer to the kiseru as a "dream stick" on account of the substances one traditionally partook with it; not a bad image, for all its boorishness, and while Oriya made full use of it -- to help him sleep on particularly rough nights, to take the edge off the residual pain left by old injuries, and especially to quiet the prick of his conscience -- he had other means to help him sleep at night. Means just as addictive.
Unfortunately, the source of that means lived in a mansion in Tokorozawa City or when the duties of his clinic called him there, in an apartment in Tokyo, though he came to call once a month for a few days, over some matter involving a former professor of his.
Muraki's arrivals sometimes could not come soon enough. Even still, when he saw the pale man in white cross the threshold of Ko Kaku Rou, he could not help but cringe within himself.
Muraki must have sensed something, for he paused in his tracks, almost with the stillness of a tiger pausing when it discovers a prey animal in a clearing before it. "You look at me as if you would rather that I did not darken your door," he said, with a hint of amusement.
"Can't say that I'm always pleased to see you," Oriya said. "I provide a service, but sometimes I get the feeling you come here only for the convenience and the girls."
Muraki chuckled, deep in his throat. "You could always ban me, but we both know that you won't do that any time soon." He stepped in closer, then speaking in a lowered voice, he added, "You need me as much as I need your services. You've not been sleeping at night, have you? And I smell opium on your clothes."
Oriya sighed, turning away his gaze. "Your room is ready as usual: the maid will take you there. I've got a bath drawn for you and she'll bring you a meal, if you want."
"Hmmm, you can spare the meal: I believe I will be busy processing something more nourishing," Muraki said, a small but dangerous smile crossing his face.
"I'll be there later, when I've settled the rest of the guests," Oriya said, reminding Muraki of his status here, despite the history between them. No one could know the extent of their relationship, not beyond their high school and college years together.
No one could know that, while the rest of the guests held trysts with the maidservants, their host had slipped away as well, to a room in the rear of the old house, overlooking the river. A room where a pale man with hair and eyes like moonlight lay pretending to drowse on his futon, the coverlet slipped down to bare one shoulder as white, in the moonlight, as the silk suits he favored. Oriya paused, almost ready to turn back, nearly letting his thoughts wander to the voices in the other rooms: his grandmother chiding one of the kitchen maids, the sighs and murmurs and gasps of pleasure from other chambers. But he drew in a breath, drew in a whisper of the almost incense-like aroma that rose from his guest's dozing form. He approached softly, undoing the sash of his kimono and slipping out of it and his undergarments, letting them drop to the tatami before kneeling beside Muraki's bed.
The pale creature turned over under the covers, lifting his gaze to Oriya's face. Time and time again, Oriya had tried to avoid meeting that gaze, but every time they came together, he found himself drawn in by his guest's eyes. The one that could see promised him comfort and solace, while the other that stared glassily to one side reminded him of the inhuman darkness within his friend. Even still, he slid beneath the comforter, laying beside Muraki, drawing him close.
In the darkness, Muraki's form rose up, a pale shadow blotting out the moon as he leaned over Oriya, his mouth finding the taller man's throat, gently kissing the pit before he ran his tongue over the pulse just above it. A hint of sharp teeth drawn across Oriya's skin, reminding him of the danger involved, that if Muraki chose, he could bite out his throat and consume his life to the core. Instead, Muraki left a burning trail of kisses down the mid-line of Oriya's chest, stopping only at his groin where he nuzzled Oriya's secrets, quickening his shaft before taking the length into his mouth. Oriya tried to remind himself of what this meant, of the darkness within his friend, which fed on the lifeforce of others. He's a vampire, he needs this, he would think. But those thoughts never lasted for long, eased away by the fire that Muraki enkindled in his flesh, a fire that grew till he felt it burn away his inhibitions and his cares, till he found himself with his hands entwined in Muraki's hair, emitting a gasp of release. Till his friend settled again by his side, back to him, drifted off into a contented doze, while Oriya had already fallen asleep beside him. Till the moonlight that bathed them turned the color of poppies...
