Disclaimer: Kazuya Minekura owns Wild Adapter. I do not. If she wants to make a doujin of this fic, however, I would love her until the end of time.

Warning: Language, implied violence, blatant sexual content.

Notes: This story is getting really fucking long, isn't it? Shit...

Beretta 13

brkstrtrcr

June 2009

"You're not thinking this through, Kubo!"

Ryoji is thundering after you, damned near slipping on the wet slush that covers the ground like your rage is suffocating your willingness to humor logic and reason. He doesn't make the mistake of attempting to physically restrain you though.

Tokitoh, on the other hand, knows absolutely no fear where it concerns you, and he rushes in front of you, planting his hands against your chest and digging in his heels to stop you. For an insane heartbeat you almost punch him, deck the fierce worry out of his beautiful violet eyes. Your fury knows no bounds right now.

"Kubo-chan, stop! You're just going to get yourself killed!"

You do not want to listen to this. You shove him back a step and dodge around him. "So be it," you growl. Your goal is clear. No one is going to stop you from finishing this new little personal crusade.

You curse as something connects solidly with your lower back, knocking the air from your lungs, shoving you forcefully into the side of a nearby building. When you turn around, gun-in-hand, Tokitoh is glaring at you for all he's worth. "I'm not going to let you do this," he says boldly, but you both recognize the tremor of trepidation in his voice.

You smile your scary smile and dare him with your eyes to try to stand in your way. He hesitates.

Ryoji doesn't. "Kubo, listen to him, man. He's looking out for you. Running into Izumo Headquarters and shooting the place up isn't going to help us find out about Tokki's past, or deal with Sekiya." Against his better judgment he steps forward and lowers his voice so that only you can hear him. "That kid will die if he loses you," he sighs in frustration. "He won't last a fucking day on his own. Trust me. I saw him lose his whole fucking mind the last time you did something uncharacteristic and stupid, remember?"

His brown eyes are as honest as always and it takes the edge off of your anger, holds your bloodlust in check like floodgates straining under violent storm-surge. You look over his shoulder at Tokitoh, the dejected set of his mouth and his eyes, and those turbulent waters quiet, settle, abate. Ryoji's right. It pisses you off, but he's right.

"Okay," you concede, shoving your Glock back into your coat pocket. "What now?"

You don't need to elaborate on that question. They both know what you're asking. How do you handle this information about Sanada? What does this mean for your little pact to protect Tokitoh? Does Sekiya know about any of this, and if not, would it be wise at this point to just fucking defect to Tojou? Would they even entertain the idea of taking in the man that devastated their offices two and a half years ago?

For the first time in your young life, you feel your mind wearing down under the strain of so much critical thinking, and it reminds you of the first time that you played mahjong against your uncle.

"I vote that we call it a day. You're going to give yourself a goddamned aneurism, man," Ryoji chuckles good-naturedly, clearly relieved to see you talking sense again. "Give me a few hours and I'll meet you at the Toukohan. I think that we could use your Chinese pal's input on this one. Hell, call your copper uncle, too."

Team Braintrust, unite.

As you can't seem to come up with a better idea at the moment, you nod and watch Ryoji ruffle Tokitoh's hair affectionately before heading up the street.

That leaves you and your cat standing on the sidewalk in the snow, staring at each other in an entirely new light. You broke some unspoken rule with what you've just done, and you can't help but feel in the proverbial dog house, so-to-speak.

Today is turning out to be chock full of new fucking experiences and situations, isn't it?

And you really aren't certain of what to say to him. You're torn between apology and ignorance. "Tokitoh--" you start to say, and and you stumble over his name for the first time in two years.

"Don't," he interrupts. He rolls his eyes and takes your hand and starts the long walk back to Chinatown, grumbling for the entire twenty minute trek about how stupid you are, but you're pretty sure that he's never held your hand quite this tightly, this desperately.

Once inside the dry warmth of Kou's shop, you let Tokitoh inform him, rather rudely, to expect company, and your roommate practically drags you up into your tiny bedroom. He takes the liberty of calling your startled uncle himself while you both shrug out of cold, wet clothes and try to chase the chill out of your bones. He hangs up from his abrupt and brief call, flops down onto the mattress with a boneless grace all his own and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly, and you pause in the middle of pulling a clean shirt down over your head to understand that he's addressing you and not some figment of his internal monologue.

"Getting dressed?" you ask vaguely.

Scarred hands fall to his sides to reveal an annoyed violet glare. "No, idiot. Why are you doing all of this? The Yakuza, Sanada, your apartment, me," he clarifies. "Why the fuck are you dealing with all of this? It really has nothing to do with you."

You frown down at him. "I'd say that it does."

"Yeah, only because you made it your problem. The minute Izumo came after me you could have left me in an alley, or put a bullet in me."

Touche.

You suppose that you've never thought about the 'why' so much as the 'how'. So why, dear Kubota, are you risking life and limb for this stray cat?

Because you're bored? Because it's exciting? Because you've been hopelessly in love with this kid since the moment he broke your goddamned arm?

That sounds a bit masochistic, and a bit fucking gay, even for you.

"Nevermind," he grumbles at the ceiling. "You're just going to make another one of your smart-assed wisecracks. It doesn't matter."

And you realize as you watch him that it really does matter to you, though you don't know why. But you can't explain it, so you lower yourself onto the mattress over him and kiss him instead, because it's a language that you both understand. It's a common ground between a man who hides behind his wit and sarcasm and this kid who wears his heart on his sleeve and shields it with brash, blunt honesty. You can't explain your feelings and he can't stop feeling.

What a fucked-up pair you make.

Soon the why's and how's and what's blend into the background, though, and all that matters is his lips against yours and his strong, thin body held tightly against you and the way his voice vibrates through your chest as he murmurs against your mouth that he loves you, that he hates you, that he doesn't need you, that he'd forget to breathe without you.

You kiss him with more force, practically shove your tongue down his throat because you don't want to hear him confess to you like this, plead with you for something that you've already promised him. You tell him with your lips, your hands, your hips that you aren't going anywhere. The way that he arches against you solidifies your resolve. This addiction that you have to violet eyes and sharp teeth and this lithe, slender frame of his is dangerous, but you've always been attracted to volatile things.

His deft fingers have your shirt over your head and your jeans unzipped, shoved haphazardly down your hips before you can protest, but with Tokitoh's wicked little teeth on your collarbone and his fingers stuttering up your bare ribs, why would you want to? He's fierce in his contact with you tonight, possessive and nearly desperate. It's got you rock-hard and grinding down mindlessly against him. This shift in power, control doesn't phase you at all. You're so tired of having to make the right decisions, in the correct order, fast enough to stay alive that giving into him is like lifting the weight of these past two years from your shoulders. This trust is second-nature.

"Kubo-chan, look at me," he breathes into your ear. His eyes are feral as he gazes up at you and it drags a deep groan from you as you push your hips down against his. Something in the back of your overworked intellect supplies you with the vague notion that you're going to let him fuck you if he keeps this up. The dangerous smile he gives you translates directly to the coiling sexual tension in the pit of your stomach.

"Hm?"

Tokitoh reaches between your bodies without warning and grabs your dick through your underwear. Your eyes widen by a fraction of an inch and you choke on a low, heartfelt moan, staring down at him. "Even if we can't find a way out of this," he says roughly, his gaze steady and his voice confident, "I'm with you."

To hell and back. But you've known that all along, haven't you?

And something about the brutal honesty in his eyes and the conviction in his voice breaks down the last of your inhibitions. Fifteen minutes later he's balls-deep in you, sweat creeping down the side of his face, teeth gritted and hands holding onto your hips hard enough to bruise. You don't care. You've never let anyone claim you like this, mark you as their own, but the possessive dedication in his breathless groans spurs you to new heights of depravity. His inexperience bleeds into the act in the form of his erratic rhythm, his jerky movements, but it makes this entire encounter that much more intense.

Tokitoh is slamming into you like a crazed man, and it's because of you. He's trying to prove a point to you. He's loyal to a fault, to the end, and you mean more to him than anything else that he knows. The kid's only got a two-year memory, but this is still an enlightening reality.

It hurts, this desperate, do-or-die sex, but you won't tell him that. This is pure, unadulterated, and very real, so you bite your tongue, draw blood, and memorize the way his half-chewed fingernails feel slicing little crescent moons into your hipbones, the way his too-thin chest curves over your back, the sound of his labored breathing against the back of your neck.

You know that he'll lose it soon from the tremors running through the arms that he locks around your waist and shoulders. He pulls you upright, back against his chest, and the change in angle of entry drags a breathless curse from his lips. The words 'stamina' and 'endurance' probably don't exist in his underdeveloped personal dictionary, yet. He's probably three or four good heartbeats away from plummeting over the jagged edge of orgasm because of a pure lack of experience. Just the knowledge that you've done this to him, driven him out of coherent thought, is enough to push you over that razor-sharp precipice, and you fall willingly, gladly, groaning loudly at the ceiling, head thrown back against his shoulder, staining the sheets beneath you.

Tokitoh's voice is a strangled half-cry of surprise as you tighten spasmodically around him and he rams into you one final time with enough force to knock his head against yours with an audible 'crack', but he's beyond caring. So are you. Every muscle in his scrawny frame tenses like a violin string as he blows his load into your already-aching body, holding you so tightly against his heaving chest that you might suffocate. Your mind is too fuzzy to contemplate the literary ironies of dying in his arms, so instead you slide wearily from his lap, his shaking thighs, and slump against his sweat-soaked chest.

Words are outside of your comprehension right now. He's having a difficult enough time remembering how to breathe. You have the hazy notion that your ass is going to hurt for several days. And before you can find something appropriate to say after taking your cat's relative virginity, he pushes you down onto the mattress, heedless of the mess you've both made of these sheets, and starts all over again.

You don't have the heart to tell the kid 'no'.

Toki-boy's a damned monster!

Yeah, I know it took them all of thirteen chapters to finally get around to the sex, but that's plot development, my friends. And I just can't picture Kubota 'on top.' Honestly. He's too laid-back and generally lazy.

And he's a complete fucking pushover when it comes to Tokitoh. -.-;

On a literary note, I understand that the exact wording during their little recreational activities sounds a bit crass and not at all flowery, but in my opinion Wild Adapter is one of the grittiest series I've ever read, and I respect it for that edge of jaded realism. To quote a friend, "this ain't your grandma's love story." Lmao.