Because DM wanted to know how Hirato compensates for all those bruises he leaves on Akari during their more… spirited encounters.
And because I wanted to know too…
Guys, this drabble hints at smut and contains some BDSM themes (but no explicit BDSM). You've been duly warned.
Akari looks sublime under the early morning rays, particularly when they filter through Airship Two's high windows. From aloft, the sunlight seems rarefied somehow—like it's unfiltered and ethereal, untouched by the world it suffuses. In terms of refinement, then, it is exceedingly well-suited to the surreally beautiful man who slumbers amongst the captain's rumpled sheets. Both the bedding and the blond are practically afire as the light hits them, and Hirato can't help but stare, the curve of a smirk twisting his lips.
The doctor is far more agreeable when dreaming, too. No grumbled rebukes, irritated jibes, or biting insults, although Hirato would be quite put out if Akari should refer to the distinctly amoebic intellect of another. He's claimed that epithet for himself, after all.
Akari stirs as though sensing his lover's thoughts, and when the sheets slip low on his waist, Hirato stifles a gasp. He knows he ought to be used to this by now, but he'll never grow accustomed to the sight. Bruises—myriad, blue-black blotches striking against pale skin—cover the sleeping man's back, some from the pressure of the commander's fingertips, some from the vehemence of his bite. They are resultant of pleasure-seeking of the highest order, no doubt, but such an impetus does not assuage Hirato's guilt.
He loathes marking his beloved with this sort of brutality. Unfortunately, Akari craves it—being pressed roughly into the mattress, being bent and bowed to Hirato's whims, being served bliss at the very edge of pain. The blond never climaxes as intensely as he does when he's being handled with violence—measured, never careless violence, to be sure, but violence nonetheless. On those nights, Hirato is far more exacting in his ministrations than on most occasions. One wrong move, one unrestrained push or a snip of teeth a touch too forceful, and the spider's thread between ecstasy and excruciation breaks.
He'd never forgive himself if that happened.
He scarcely forgives himself regardless. The only thing keeping him from sinking into a never-ending spiral of self-flagellation is the next morning's memory of Akari moaning the syllables of his name between haggard breaths.
Despite the other man's obvious permissiveness (or rather, his solicitation), Hirato wakes from each such romp believing that he must make amends. So when he sees the countless bruises scattered along his paramour's porcelain flesh, he sinks back into bed, violet eyes searching for a suitable place to start.
A small, purplish mark mars the base of Akari's spine where it dips into his hips. It's a thumbprint, left behind when Hirato splayed steadying fingers on the small of his back as his other hand yanked at bound wrists with vigor enough to effect robe burn. The brunet's smirk lengthens and he pulls the sheets lower, prompting the doctor to shiver unconsciously. He leans down and presses his mouth against the bruise, feather-light and barely making contact. Another spot—this one bluish in color—is several inches away. It betrays Hirato's proclivity to taste his lover even while acceding to fervent pleas for harder and faster. This time the captain's lips drag across the damaged skin, causing Akari to twitch. He brackets the blond's hips to keep him still.
Akari cracks an incarnadine eye, fixing the captain with a look of utter disdain. "You don't have to apologize every time, you know." His voice is rough from sleep, but it conveys a trace of impatience. "It's what I wanted."
Hirato ignores him, continuing to slant slow, soft kisses against all visible mementos of their tryst. Lovers learn from one another, and from his prickly physician, he's learned that even the most minute stimulation can prove too much if applied consistently. All one requires is a bit of patience. So, after nearly an hour of this meticulous attention, Akari is attempting futilely to arch into the touch, his body instinctively seeking friction. An amused rumble of laughter against a tense shoulder blade is enough to send desperate fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheets.
"I wonder," Hirato says, nuzzling the other's nape and enjoying the hitched breath it earns him, "why you insist on being treated so crudely when a lighter touch is just as effective." As if to demonstrate, he licks the shell of Akari's ear, eliciting an involuntary shudder.
In the interim, the researcher has gone scarlet in either anger or frustration, likely both. "Goddamnit, Hirato!" he huffs, trying to sit up unsuccessfully. The brunet's muscular limbs have him pinned in place. It's a testament to Hirato's prowess that being trapped thusly isn't uncomfortable. In fact, Akari barely registers the loose grip circling his wrists. He's not fooled, though; escaping the commander's grasp is impossible.
Another bemused chuckle. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm not opposed to sex first thing in the morning," Akari growls, "but can we get on with it?"
"No." Gentle worrying essays a new bruise along the physician's neck as a searing tongue and hardly-there scrape of teeth drive the other man's desire to a fever pitch—that is, if the form struggling underneath Hirato is any indication. He lets up long enough to tease: "Fair is fair, doctor. It's my turn now."