title: professional russian roulette
fandom: Yami no Matseui
characters/pairings: Muraki/Oriya
rating: Mature
warnings: sex, bondage, blood, bloodplay
summary: Oriya is drawn to Muraki, who finds Oriya useful.
notes: for round 2 in the stages of love challenge, Exploration of a Relationship Through The Five Senses.


School had started over an hour ago, but he walked into the classroom as if it were perfectly normal. His long, messy hair was loosely tied back in a ponytail, he didn't have his school jacket on his person at all, and his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, leaving the impression that he would be better suited to more traditional clothing.

The teacher sneered at him, clearing recognizing him right away, despite the fact that it was his first time in the classroom. "Mibu-kun. How kind of you to join us. Of course, if you had been attending class for the last three days, as you were supposed to, you might know that school begins at eight in the morning sharp."

Mibu was a name that Muraki remembered, but he couldn't place it. At any rate, Mibu was clearly unconcerned entirely with the teacher. He just pushed some loose strands of hair behind his ear, and grinned. "It's all right, sir. I, er, spoke with the principal already." He smirked, and pushed his hips out a bit, striking a suggestive pose. There was general snickering throughout the room, which only served to annoy the teacher more.

"Take a seat, Mibu-kun, and don't expect anyone to help you catch up." The teacher turned his back, shuffling the papers he was holding around.

"Don't worry, sir, it wasn't a concern of mine." He winked to the teacher's back, and turned to survey the room. All the girls in class straightened up and stuck their chests out. Even some of the guys looked eagerly at him.

Whoever he was, he was desirable. And influential. It clicked just then. Mibu was the name of the family that ran the 'restaurant' whose services were most sought after by politicians and power brokers throughout Japan. Interesting.

Not surprisingly, then, the juvenile attempts at seduction of the girls in class were not impressive to someone whose family trade was sex. It was clear, however, that Mibu was going to be choosey about where he elected to sit.

And then, Mibu looked directly at Muraki, and after a second, he grinned.

Interesting. Mibu came toward Muraki. The desk next to Muraki was occupied, but the desk next to him was not, so Mibu picked up the other boy's things, and put them on the unoccupied desk, freeing space for his things next to Muraki. The other boy scooted quickly away, ceding his desk to Mibu.

Muraki expected him to try to talk during class, or in some other way bother him, but he just sat there, and, after a while, fell asleep.

He had to admit. It was interesting.


The electric sizzle of blades wielded by artists, not just athletes, called to him. He strolled around to the back of Kokakuro, unsurprised to see Oriya sparring with someone familiar, though he'd never been formally introduced. He meandered behind where the women had gathered to watch. Oriya wore a simple yukata, the top slipped off his shoulders and flapping behind him, the arms waving as Oriya elegantly sliced the air, slipping past his father's defense, his blade only sparing his father's neck by the grace of Oriya's sportsmanship.

There was a light smattering of applause, but Oriya had yet to inherit the house, so none were keen on celebrating their master's defeat too loudly. Oriya held his blade in position for a bit longer than necessary, silently keeping his father's gaze. His father chuckled bitterly, and pushed Oriya's blade away. They spoke to each other in a hushed buzz, and then turned their backs to each other.

Oriya glanced his way, winking, but he headed for the girl who was preparing his pipe. Oriya bent down to take his pipe, his hand slipping inside the girl's kimono to cup her breast. His hair trailed down in silky ribbons, hiding his face as he kissed her.

Muraki went back further in their garden, to find the large rock that Oriya liked. He wasn't kept waiting long.

"This must be a special day, if the future's greatest doctor has deigned to sit and visit with a humble person like me," Oriya said, sitting down next to Muraki and stretching out his legs.

Muraki smiled indulgently. "Your sword was singing to me. Though I think I'd like its sound better if it would cut."

"Should I slaughter my father so you can have the pleasure of listening to my blade's song?" Oriya took a drag from his pipe, amused.

"Mm," Muraki shrugged. He looked up at the full moon. "I killed a man today."

"What?" Oriya looked at him, concerned. "At the hospital? A patient?"

"Not at the hospital," Muraki hinted dreamily.

Oriya shook his head, and leaned back against the sloping flat of the rock. "At the hospital. Well. Did he sing you a song as he died?"

"He did," Muraki chuckled. "Though, he was a bit off-key."

"How disappointing," Oriya remarked dryly. "You staying here tonight?"

"Can I afford a room here?" Muraki joked.

"You can have my bed for free," Oriya teased right back.

"Can I?" Muraki looked down at Oriya, smoking the pipe, his eyes closed, his hair around him, trailing over his bare chest. "Are we sharing, then? What if I decide to do something terrible to your body in the night? I might cut out your heart to hear it beating."

"Are you going to steal my heart? How romantic..." Oriya grinned. "Just wait until I finish my pipe, and you can do anything you want."

Muraki hummed and turned his eyes to the sky, seeing the moon colored red with blood.

What an exciting night.


"Aren't you supposed to wash your hands at the hospital after surgery?" Oriya lazily asked, puffing on his pipe.

The sink was stained with pink water. Muraki looked over his shoulder at Oriya. He'd really gotten decadent since his father's death. To be expected, perhaps. Though, this teasing denial was getting old... "You don't mind if I spend the night here, right?"

"You're asking? You shouldn't wear so much white if you're going to get so filthy... in surgery." He yawned, and leaned against the counter.

Muraki narrowed his eyes. He wiped the back of his hand, still bloody, on Oriya's chest. It was his fault for wearing his yukata so open.

"H-Hey! What did you do that for?" Oriya pouted, looking down at his chest. "Whose blood is this, anyway?"

"Like a pimp should be so worried about that," Muraki yawned.

"I'm not a pimp," Oriya growled, narrowing his eyes.

Muraki tugged on Oriya's obi. "Come on. If you share your luxurious bath with me, I'll clean you up."

Oriya turned red. When his hair was neat, like it was tonight, he looked like a doll, really. Muraki liked that. "Cl-clean me up? Isn't that unnecessary?"

"Why would you say that?" Muraki chuckled darkly. "Aren't you the one who is in love with me?"

Inhaling sharply, Oriya looked away. "You're really a bastard."

"No," Muraki corrected. "That was my brother. Now, do you want me to wash you...?" He wrapped his fingers in Oriya's hair, licking his lips.

Oriya shivered, and started to undress.


He blinked, aware he had been sleeping foggily. He wasn't sure where he was at first, but the silk sheets were familiar, as was the thick, sickly stench of the air. He wrinkled his nose and turned over, looking up at Oriya, who was lounging in the window, smoking his pipe.

"That's disgusting. When are you going to quit that horrible habit?" He sat up, grateful, at least, that he still had on his pants.

Oriya exhaled, blowing a slithering trail of sinuous smoke out to deepen the thickness of the air. "Mm. I doubt you're telling me that as a medical professional. So, Prince Charming, how did you sleep?"

Muraki furrowed his brow. He... somewhat remembered... coming to Kokakuro afterward, of falling on the front step. He looked down at his hands. Clean. "Deeply. You didn't drug me, did you?"

"Dis~trust~ful," Oriya chided absently. He wasn't even looking at Muraki. Something out in the horizon had his attention, or perhaps he was just staring out into space because his thoughts were crowding out his sight. "You should have been more careful, anyway. Last night. There's a serial killer out there. They just released some details on the murders this morning. It sounded... pretty brutal. Vicious, really. You should take better care of yourself."

Muraki stood up lazily, stretching out before he went over to Oriya. He pulled the pipe out of Oriya's mouth, and snuffed it out. He ran his fingers through Oriya's hair. "You changed shampoos. I don't like the way this one smells."

"Sorry, you weren't around to consult." He sighed, and dipped his head back. "Will you be around long enough to bother with changing?"

"Were you worried about me?" Muraki smiled, pushing open Oriya's yukata.

"Of course. I'm always worried about you. And you never think of me. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of wood?" Oriya complained.

"Do you?" Muraki countered.

"No, but I'm sure the maids are cursing your name as they scrub the front steps," Oriya joked.

"The maids love me," Muraki confidently stated, unwinding Oriya's obi.

"Of course they do," Oriya smiled, holding up his arms to give Muraki access. "That's because I'm always in a good mood when you're around." Oriya quietly informed him. He was looking up at Muraki, so Muraki looked down into his eyes.

"Beautiful doll..." Muraki murmured, removing Oriya's obi and opening his yukata completely.

"Doll?" Oriya questioned, but he wasn't protesting, or resisting. He let Muraki bite his lip as Muraki kissed him.

Muraki wound a strand of Oriya's hair around his fingers. He smirked. "Don't get huffy. I've called you worse. Come on. Let's wash you hair. I can't stand this smell. It's not mine."


Oriya strained against his restraints, his gorgeous body taut and aching with need. The ball in his mouth was wet with his saliva; he hardly looked human at all like that. His blood stained the black leather straps that criss crossed his chest, making them look darker, thicker.

The blood looked the best on the clamps on Oriya's nipples, though.

He bent down, being careful to keep his white tie from dipping down. Couldn't get any of this blood on him. Had to stay spotless or else he might as well get naked, too.

He flicked the clamp on Oriya's right nipple with his tongue, eliciting a gorgeous scream. It tasted sweaty, bitter, and metallic.

"Yummy," he murmured, moving down. He brushed his hair out of his eye. Oriya's cock was quivering, purple, wet, and so gorgeous, choked off in black leather. He slipped off his white leather glove, running his hand down the inside of Oriya's thigh. His back must be hurting; his legs had been in the stirrups for over an hour now.

He stuck his tongue out, and just barely tasted the tip of Oriya's cock. He spit it out, though, on Oriya's stomach. "I could never get used to this taste. But oh, so pretty..."

Oriya whimpered. Muraki chuckled.

He stood up, and slipped his glove back on, and straightened out his perfect, completely white suit.

"I'll be back. I'm a bit hungry. I hear your chef has some really fine red snapper. You know how much I love it. Stay right there." He laughed as Oriya angrily convulsed, unable to do much more in the restraints. "Don't worry. When I get back, you'll be even more beautiful, and I won't be able to resist. You'll be my desert."

He ran his finger over Oriya's stomach, and then he turned, and walked away.