A/N: more or less writing practice. it doesn't make sense for now but it probably will be in chapter 3. all of your reviews and comments are helpful, everyone, thanks for always taking the time to submit them! *u*

So he has this working theory to explain the thing's presence in his office.

Let's just say that Kuroko Tetsuya had been pining for him ever since Teikō days ended. That's Premise A.

Let's also assume that Kuroko Tetsuya had sexual interest in him, and it tremendously multiplied over the course of years where his ever-able right hand couldn't help him. That's Premise B.

In conclusion, Kuroko Tetsuya's unhealthy sexual tension resulting from his constant pining has manifested into the form of an incubus, and said incubus is religiously sucking off his fingers with wet plops to clean himself from imaginary icing smudges.

How convenient.

Seijūrō goes over the hasty scrawls on his company's budget report and promptly scratches it out. That idea doesn't sound right, or even remotely scientific, no matter what angle he's tried representing it. He's contemplated hitting the buttons and telling his secretary to send Mayuzumi over, but knowing how Mayuzumi watched too many anime and had a sea of light novels stashed in his gym locker back in high school, Seijūrō can't bear the thought of the man coming up with theories more absurd than his. Pulling up a Google search on incubus, black magic, and sexual problems would have probably aided someone who believes in sacrificing a live chicken to an altar on a daily basis, but that's definitely not Seijūrō.

"I won't be a nuisance to you," the creature—Kuroko, he tells himself—says with a bat of his lashes. He's got his fingers laced together under his chin, scrutinizing how Seijūrō sits stiffly in his chair, and languidly floats over on the thin breeze like he's a shred of paper. "But I only need one thing from you," he continues, almost suggestively, and a smile lingers on the corners of his lips. "And that one thing isn't hard, but I need you to be hard for it."

Oh.

Oh.

"Your temptations mean nothing to me," the redhead bluntly rebukes, his thin lips twitching. "I've no interest in entertaining your whims or listening to your demands, so you can float right out of the window from where you came in." As if to make a point, Seijūrō busies himself with gathering folders of business minutes and rearranges his collection of fountain pens, starting from scaled rainbows (he nicknamed it Nijimura for obvious reasons) right down to fat, gilded ones that he prefers to use for signatures. Their dainty nibs do wonders for little curls on his insignia, especially when he signs them in romaji.

"But why not?" Kuroko asks, thin and high in a falsetto, now flitting over to Seijūrō's side in just a fraction of second. His hands wrap around the back of the leathery armchair, resting his chin cutely on the redhead's shoulder as his wings flutter to maintain his flight. "You won't complain about it when I'm done, Seijūrō. Just once every night will do. I'm not high maintenance like others."

"No."

"No?" he echoes, sickly sweet.

So sweet, it gags Seijūrō into stunned silence because the Kuroko Tetsuya he knows definitely won't do such a thing, even if he's paid a million grand.

Okay, maybe in milkshakes yes, but no. Nobody's rich enough to do that, except for him. This thing is just using Kuroko's voice and face to seduce, nothing else. As if that'll work in a lifetime, Seijūrō can't help but to scoff at the idea. Pointing to the mahogany double doors adjacent to his table, Seijūrō clears his throat and looks over his shoulder. "If you'd like to make your exit like a proper human, then you can use the doors. It doesn't matter to me, as long as you get out."

"You're unnecessarily mean, Seijūrō."

"You've no right to call me by my name, Tetsuya."

The thing hums methodically, his pointy tail tapping a steady rhythm on his tabletop. "But you call me Tetsuya, so I should be allowed to call you Seijūrō in return."

Oh, so now he's about to get into an argument with a Kuroko duplicate? It seems that their likeliness ends only on physical characteristics, and that's about it. The Kuroko Tetsuya he knows won't push his buttons like this, especially when Seirin's lost their Winter Cup finals against Rakuzan. Ever since then, he's stowed himself into silence and Seijūrō hears little from the shadow, aside from the snippets Ryōta feeds him every now and then in the form of pictures and instant messages. Come to think of it, after the Generation of Miracles went on their separate ways, he's drowned himself in his family's business to the point where he hardly ever spends time with his Yukimaru. That won't do. He'll get right to riding—

"Why don't you let me ride you instead?"

A warm body bundles itself up on Seijūrō's lap, just wedged perfectly in between his desk and chest, and Seijūrō's train of thoughts screech off the tracks, colliding right into a mountain. Like he's trying to make a statement, the insufferable incubus wriggles around, making himself comfortable, and slings his legs over Seijūrō's sides. When clothed groins grind against one another, that's when things got hard. In more ways than one.

"Come on, Seijūrō," Kuroko murmurs, sultry, right into his ear and wraps his arms around Seijūrō's neck like he's a certified lover. "Please don't ignore me. You're making me lonely—"

Three rapid thumps on the door is all the warning Seijūrō gets before a grey mop of hair barged in, weary loafers treading heavily on the polished marble. "Akashi, you have to look at this," Mayuzumi brandishes around a stack of papers, red-rimmed eyes narrowed heavily at the CEO. "These people—"

Then he stops short in his tracks.