Because BSkiT dared me to write a Karneval version of 'Raising the Stakes', and because I would move mountains for my self-professed "#1 Fan"….even when on a three week hiatus.
Also, sorry to those of you who hated the last chapter. In my defense, I did say that 'Karnevalesque' was soul-crushing in places.
Tap.
Ebony snaps dully against white marble and vermillion irises glitter with rare mischief. Akari's resultant smirk is so inviting that Hirato has to dig his hands into the armrest to restrain them. How they long to touch; how he longs to taste. He can practically feel the other man's skin against his own. It's an intoxicating image—enough to tempt—but the night is young and he is an uncommonly patient man.
"I've just captured your rook," Akari says happily. "Strip." Besides, the doctor is impossibly alluring when issuing directives.
Hirato chuckles softly and dutifully obliges. Given that the evening's dénouement is a foregone conclusion, he has no problem delaying gratification. Circus' Second Commander is a tactical genius, after all. He'll be amply rewarded in due time. He slinks out of his overcoat with fluid grace and places it upon the dining table alongside his discarded hat and gloves.
Akari only leans back in his chair, chin in hand, unwavering stare afire with prurient hunger.
"You seem to be enjoying the show," Hirato teases. "If you want, we can dispense with the game altogether."
The blond smiles contentedly—a trick he adopted from his rakish paramour. "I much prefer to take you by cunning." For a rumored prude, he certainly relishes perverting the pastime of kings with such salacity.
Hirato positions his piece. Tap. "Ah, but you know, doctor," he whispers dangerously, "Cunning is my forte."
Akari doesn't wait to be asked (or ordered). He sheds his lab coat without further ado and folds it over the back of his chair. A calculating gaze rakes over the chessboard as the scientist considers his limited options. Without his bishop, the previous fourteen possibilities of victory have been whittled to eight—at least by Hirato's count.
Tap. "Hubris must be won," the researcher quips as he plucks a white knight from its square.
A rush of air, and before Akari even registers the movement, ungloved fingers curl under his chin. Hirato bends low to nip at his earlobe. "I'm not in the habit of losing," he murmurs, taking note of the slight hitch in his lover's breath. He then straightens up and removes his necktie, draping it around the other man for good measure. The blond tuts dismissively and places it amongst the small pile of abandoned clothes.
Tap.
Akari's smirk lengthens. "That was terribly foolish of you." He removes Hirato's bishop from play. "I think I'll have your jacket."
"As you wish." Unperturbed, the brunet rises again from his chair. His heliotrope-colored eyes level on the seated man in pure, unadulterated carnality. A deliberate, measured finger glides under the crisp edge of a lapel, creeping lower and lower down his torso until it comes to rest against the button. Hirato unfastens his suit jacket. The way he peels the wool off his long, lithe frame is designed to solicit images of the most deliciously depraved sort—of that powerful body, that honed weapon, aimed solely at pleasuring his partner. Having conjured such thoughts, he resumes his seat, crossing one lean leg over another and looking distinctly nonplussed.
He feigns contemplation and slides his queen forward. "Check."
Clothing is only surrendered when a player takes damage; that was the agreement. Nevertheless, Akari loosens his tie and assays the board. In the meantime, amethyst orbs rove over him, missing neither the intermittent twitching of the doctor's leg nor the awkward clearing of his throat.
Tap. Akari removes his king from harm's way.
Tap. Hirato places his knight into harm's way. Deliberately.
"Despite your bravado, you seem destined for defeat," the blond declares while casting aside the sacrificed knight.
But we are not playing the same game, Hirato thinks. He says nothing, once again standing to disrobe. If seduction is artistry, then the commander is nothing less than a savant. He unbuttons his shirt in an agonizingly languid fashion, fingertips slipping along alabaster flesh as more and more of it is exposed. Sparkling opals follow their dance, Akari's wide pupils anticipating his imminent discomposure.
Seated yet again, he takes his turn. Tap.
Hirato then waits for Akari to make a move, in more than one sense. The physician scrubs his hands through his hair, allowing it to fall haphazardly into his face. Admittedly, the effect is irresistible, and under different circumstances, he might be enticed to surrender. Not tonight, doctor.
Sometimes Akari forgets precisely how patient Hirato can be.
Restless fingers drum against glass as the blond lets out a tiny frustrated sigh. He's clearly vacillating between taking Hirato's queen or taking Hirato. In either case, Research Tower's resident genius will lose tonight. What's wonderful about Akari, however, is that he acts boldly once he resolves to act. So, the pilot is unsurprised when his companion shoots to his feet, shoves the pieces off the chessboard, and strides purposefully towards him.
In the next instant, Akari's tongue is trailing down Hirato's chest while deft hands reach for his belt. "You conniving jerk," the researcher mutters before sinking to his knees. "You lost intentionally."
The conniving jerk is far too preoccupied to acknowledge the accusation.
Hours later, a gratified brunet finds himself mesmerized by the pattern of moonlight playing along his bedmate's porcelain skin. Akari is fitted against him, his labored breathing betraying a sated sort of exhaustion. "Your methods are merciless, captain."
Belying the charge is deep, unyielding affection, Hirato knows. Even so, he can't resist gloating. "I warned you, Akari. I'm not in the habit of losing."