(no subject)
I have a little piece of TWEWY fanfiction. It contains spoilers for Hanekoma's nature, the Composer, and various plot points. Is that even an issue for anyone reading this, lol? Concrit is very appreciated; I would like to post it to the TWEWY comm after some editing.
He could’ve gotten it off the internet, but that wasn’t his style. Too anonymous, too sneaky, and too much potential for things to go wrong. No, when Hanekoma needed to make a purchase, he did it directly, no matter how back-alley or underhanded it had to be. In this case, he didn’t have to go far to find someone selling a usable machine and ink at a good price. Not that price was an issue.
He took Minamimoto along just so he knew where the Reaper was, and because a hunch told him he’d be familiar with the rougher backstreets. Sure enough, the young man seemed to blend in there, looking less bizarre when compared to the obvious gang members sitting or standing around casually, smoking and watching them. Hanekoma didn’t worry about being attacked, but he knew that an older man looked easier to take on than someone like Minamimoto. He wasn’t as tall or as muscular, and his clothes had an unmistakably tailored look to them. Minamimoto, on the other hand, was wearing something ratty and secondhand under the coat, and his cocky swagger spoke volumes. There was power to back up that sneering glare.
The purchase went smooth as butter, not a single hitch, and soon enough they had emerged back into the proverbial sunlight, back onto Shibuya’s well-walked streets.
The arm sliding around his hip startled him, but he’d come to expect bizarre behavior from Minamimoto, and the surprise only lasted for a moment. The Reaper’s words, however, spoken smugly aloud, stop him in his tracks.
“Hey, Angel.”
Decades of learning to control himself keep his voice from shaking. “What?”
Minamimoto grinned and leaned in, lips brushing Hanekoma’s ear. “I’ve been thinking. You’re an unsolved variable, and I don’t like those. I had to solve for you. You’re not Megs, and the Composer couldn’t be stupid enough to tell me the things you have. So, what are you? I did some research, and would you guess what I found?”
“What?” He was cursing Minamimoto, but he knew it was his fault. He’d underestimated the man, assumed that his genius in mathematics and strategy were matched by deficit in other areas, but that was obviously wrong. Of course it was. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Megumi would promote someone simply because they were cruel and proud of it.
“A book. A zetta interesting book. Apparently there’s a whole other vector above the UG, and a hidden factor in Shibuya’s equation. An Angel, sent down to balance the Composer’s equation. The Producer. And since you’re not the Conductor or the Composer or even a Reaper, well... It’s not so hard to solve for x then, is it?”Minamimoto’s long fingers curled around his hip, squeezing.
Why, why did he have to write that book? There were only a few hundred copies in existence, most of them in the possession of Composers and Conductors, but this was the information age. Nothing stayed hidden for long.
People were starting to look at them; it actually took him a moment to realize how they looked, Minamimoto holding him so intimately and leaning in so close to whisper. At least no one wanted to get close enough to listen in.
“What do you want, a cookie?” Keep cool, he told himself. If Minamimoto knew it had gotten to him, that would shift the whole balance of power in their relationship, and he couldn’t afford that.
“Heh. No. Just to let you know.” Minamimoto gave his hip a harder squeeze, kisses the side of his head, and pulled abruptly away to start walking. Smugness radiated from every inch of him.
Hanekoma watched him go, thinking about how warm those fingers had been.
~~~~
Minamimoto was waiting for him at the cafe, legs propped up on another chair, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Hanekoma barely paused before he headed upstairs, stopping halfway up to call for the Reaper. While Minamimoto was coming, he began setting up. The machine needed to be assembled, which gave him a moment to act without thinking. He’d been thinking too much lately; he was drowning in himself and falling deeper every second. Sometimes he envied Minamimoto his impulsiveness. “Take your shirt off.”
“What? You’re way outta your vector if you think--”
“I think that you want to take the Composer on in the RG, and in order to do that, you have to be able to sneak up on him. You think he wouldn’t recognize you as a Reaper? Even if he doesn’t know your name, which he probably does, you being an Officer and all, he’ll still know what you are. And if he finds you out, you won’t have a chance. So listen to me.”
Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Minamimoto unbuttoned his coat, letting it fall to the floor, and pulled off the grey wifebeater he had on underneath. He stood there, naked to the waist, glaring defiantly at Hanekoma, every inch of him saying, ‘I dare you’.
It was difficult, but Hanekoma was no teenager, slave to his lusts. He glanced once at the Reaper and then went about setting his machine up and putting out the ink, white and black, that eternal contrast. “Sit on the chair. Back to me, please.”
“What are you going to do?” He pulled the chair around and sat in it, looking over his shoulder.
“Put a power-lock on you. It’ll keep you in the RG, so you can follow him without being spotted.” At least not for being a Reaper. Hanekoma didn’t know how stealthy Minamimoto could be, and he was a little afraid to find out. It could, in all likelihood, be worse than he thought.
That made Minamimoto nervous. He tensed up, shoulderblades pushing up against the skin of his back. “You can take that off too, right?”
“Of course. Now.” He took his own seat behind Minamimoto, taking a brief moment to admire that smooth, tanned back, skin the color of cocoa, spine a deliciously lickable hollow down the middle. “Wings.”
They snapped out with a silky whisper, long tangles of intersecting black swatches and shapes cut out of empty space. It was nearly impossible to even figure out how many there were; obviously more than two, but how many more? They all blended into each other. It became more apparent when Minamimoto folded them in around himself, baring the joins between Reaper wings and flesh. Six, then.
Hanekoma picked up his marker and began drawing in the symbols around the first wingjoint. He was confident in his ability to freehand it, but the extra effort was worth being sure. These were the source of Minamimoto’s power, what made him a Reaper, and one wobbly line could ruin him.
As he drew, the side of his hand brushed up against the black material, colder than flesh and somehow metallic, but still full of organic energy. Little shivers went through Minamimoto every time it happened. Hanekoma ignored them until the twitching finally started to interfere with his work, and then he smacked the back of his hand lightly against the young man’s shoulder.
“Hold still.”
“I’m trying to, hectopascal,” Minamimoto snarled, turning to crane his head and watch what was being done. “They’re sensitive.”
Oh, of course they were. How had he forgotten? His own wings were hardly less sensitive, but it had been longer than he cared to think about since anyone even saw them, much less touched them. “Sorry, boss.”
After that, the touches were both less glancing and less accidental. Maybe it was wrong of him, but the little noises Minamimoto made low in his throat, the way he shifted, and the way his breath sped up all kindled a dull heat in Hanekoma’s belly, down between his hips. There was something captivating about Minamimoto. His eyes captured you, pulled you in and froze you like amber. Hanekoma wanted to touch the heart of his anger, kiss his discontent. He wanted to kiss that beautiful back, lick those collarbones and stroke along the curve of his spine. He wanted that lean young body bucking beneath him. He wanted to feel Minamimoto’s mind, join him at the center of his mad genius, be yanked into and lost in that storm long enough to forget about his own tempests. He wanted to cut himself on the sharp and broken edges of the man’s soul.
To his surprise, by the end of it, Minamimoto wasn’t squirming; he’d gone very still and tense, fingers clenched on the back of the chair. Only the way he breathed and how he was practically broadcasting his arousal gave it away.
Hanekoma leaned in, nose brushing the back of his neck. “Are you sure about this?”
“Zetta sure.”
“It’s going to hurt.” More than just the pain of tattooing a sensitive area; power-locks were used as punishment for a reason.
“I know. Just do it.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Hanekoma’s face. “So impatient. I will. But first...” He reached around between Minamimoto and the chair, hand sliding down between his legs to knead him through his pants. “How about I take care of this?”
Minamimoto didn’t say anything, but he pressed into Hanekoma’s hand, breath hitching, and that was good enough. Hanekoma stood up and slid around, getting carefully onto his knees--what better reminder of how he wasn’t young anymore? God--in front of the chair. Fingers hooked in the slats of the chairback, he looked up at Minamimoto.
“C’mere. Closer.”
Minamimoto sat up straighter, pressing his hips forward, reaching down with trembling fingers to unzip his pants, pulling at the button until it finally pulled free. The sight of bare skin and hair was no surprise; honestly, Hanekoma would’ve been surprised to find that Minamimoto was wearing underwear.
It took a little more shifting to get himself positioned correctly, cock standing through the slats. Once he had, Hanekoma took the Reaper into his mouth with little showmanship. It was nothing impressive, especially with the barrier of the chair between them and the awkwardness of pressing his face into the wooden back of it, but Hanekoma was skilled enough with his tongue and could slip his fingers around the flesh not in his mouth, using light little strokes while he sucked.
Minamimoto was surprisingly quiet, murmuring to himself under his breath, voice increasingly strained; Hanekoma caught a string of numbers and realized with amusement that it was the Fibonacci sequence. He chuckled, the noise reverberating around Minamimoto’s shaft, and after that it only took a few moments longer. Minamimoto was young, after all, and for all his smug self-confidence, Hanekoma got the feeling that this wasn’t something he was used to. At his moment of orgasm, his mental walls relaxed, mind opening, and Hanekoma reached out to touch it. It was like stroking the velvet heart of a blooming sun, at once delicate and beautiful and terrifying.
As soon as Minamimoto felt it, the walls were back up, and he was glaring. “Get up and finish, would you?”
Feeling both energized and regretful, amazed at his own audacity, Hanekoma got to his feet, knees popping, and took his seat again. “Don’t twitch around this time.”
~~~~
Minamimoto couldn’t sit still. The tattoos started healing quickly, par for the course for a Reaper, and they itched terribly. He complained about it loudly and at great length, until Hanekoma was about ready to strangle him. Thankfully, he switched onto a new topic just in time.
“The Composer’s going to be coming in?”
“Sometime.”
“Sometime today?”
“Sometime soon. He’ll want to talk to me, and the Game begins in a few days.” The prospect of seeing Joshua made something twist unpleasantly beneath his sternum. “Just stay here and you’ll see him.”
That mollified Minamimoto only a little. “How will I know it’s him? Or does no one else come in?”
That gave him pause, but only for a moment. “You’ll know. Trust me.”
~~~~
First half! The second and alternate ending are to come soon, because apparently this is too big for LJ.
He could’ve gotten it off the internet, but that wasn’t his style. Too anonymous, too sneaky, and too much potential for things to go wrong. No, when Hanekoma needed to make a purchase, he did it directly, no matter how back-alley or underhanded it had to be. In this case, he didn’t have to go far to find someone selling a usable machine and ink at a good price. Not that price was an issue.
He took Minamimoto along just so he knew where the Reaper was, and because a hunch told him he’d be familiar with the rougher backstreets. Sure enough, the young man seemed to blend in there, looking less bizarre when compared to the obvious gang members sitting or standing around casually, smoking and watching them. Hanekoma didn’t worry about being attacked, but he knew that an older man looked easier to take on than someone like Minamimoto. He wasn’t as tall or as muscular, and his clothes had an unmistakably tailored look to them. Minamimoto, on the other hand, was wearing something ratty and secondhand under the coat, and his cocky swagger spoke volumes. There was power to back up that sneering glare.
The purchase went smooth as butter, not a single hitch, and soon enough they had emerged back into the proverbial sunlight, back onto Shibuya’s well-walked streets.
The arm sliding around his hip startled him, but he’d come to expect bizarre behavior from Minamimoto, and the surprise only lasted for a moment. The Reaper’s words, however, spoken smugly aloud, stop him in his tracks.
“Hey, Angel.”
Decades of learning to control himself keep his voice from shaking. “What?”
Minamimoto grinned and leaned in, lips brushing Hanekoma’s ear. “I’ve been thinking. You’re an unsolved variable, and I don’t like those. I had to solve for you. You’re not Megs, and the Composer couldn’t be stupid enough to tell me the things you have. So, what are you? I did some research, and would you guess what I found?”
“What?” He was cursing Minamimoto, but he knew it was his fault. He’d underestimated the man, assumed that his genius in mathematics and strategy were matched by deficit in other areas, but that was obviously wrong. Of course it was. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Megumi would promote someone simply because they were cruel and proud of it.
“A book. A zetta interesting book. Apparently there’s a whole other vector above the UG, and a hidden factor in Shibuya’s equation. An Angel, sent down to balance the Composer’s equation. The Producer. And since you’re not the Conductor or the Composer or even a Reaper, well... It’s not so hard to solve for x then, is it?”Minamimoto’s long fingers curled around his hip, squeezing.
Why, why did he have to write that book? There were only a few hundred copies in existence, most of them in the possession of Composers and Conductors, but this was the information age. Nothing stayed hidden for long.
People were starting to look at them; it actually took him a moment to realize how they looked, Minamimoto holding him so intimately and leaning in so close to whisper. At least no one wanted to get close enough to listen in.
“What do you want, a cookie?” Keep cool, he told himself. If Minamimoto knew it had gotten to him, that would shift the whole balance of power in their relationship, and he couldn’t afford that.
“Heh. No. Just to let you know.” Minamimoto gave his hip a harder squeeze, kisses the side of his head, and pulled abruptly away to start walking. Smugness radiated from every inch of him.
Hanekoma watched him go, thinking about how warm those fingers had been.
~~~~
Minamimoto was waiting for him at the cafe, legs propped up on another chair, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Hanekoma barely paused before he headed upstairs, stopping halfway up to call for the Reaper. While Minamimoto was coming, he began setting up. The machine needed to be assembled, which gave him a moment to act without thinking. He’d been thinking too much lately; he was drowning in himself and falling deeper every second. Sometimes he envied Minamimoto his impulsiveness. “Take your shirt off.”
“What? You’re way outta your vector if you think--”
“I think that you want to take the Composer on in the RG, and in order to do that, you have to be able to sneak up on him. You think he wouldn’t recognize you as a Reaper? Even if he doesn’t know your name, which he probably does, you being an Officer and all, he’ll still know what you are. And if he finds you out, you won’t have a chance. So listen to me.”
Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Minamimoto unbuttoned his coat, letting it fall to the floor, and pulled off the grey wifebeater he had on underneath. He stood there, naked to the waist, glaring defiantly at Hanekoma, every inch of him saying, ‘I dare you’.
It was difficult, but Hanekoma was no teenager, slave to his lusts. He glanced once at the Reaper and then went about setting his machine up and putting out the ink, white and black, that eternal contrast. “Sit on the chair. Back to me, please.”
“What are you going to do?” He pulled the chair around and sat in it, looking over his shoulder.
“Put a power-lock on you. It’ll keep you in the RG, so you can follow him without being spotted.” At least not for being a Reaper. Hanekoma didn’t know how stealthy Minamimoto could be, and he was a little afraid to find out. It could, in all likelihood, be worse than he thought.
That made Minamimoto nervous. He tensed up, shoulderblades pushing up against the skin of his back. “You can take that off too, right?”
“Of course. Now.” He took his own seat behind Minamimoto, taking a brief moment to admire that smooth, tanned back, skin the color of cocoa, spine a deliciously lickable hollow down the middle. “Wings.”
They snapped out with a silky whisper, long tangles of intersecting black swatches and shapes cut out of empty space. It was nearly impossible to even figure out how many there were; obviously more than two, but how many more? They all blended into each other. It became more apparent when Minamimoto folded them in around himself, baring the joins between Reaper wings and flesh. Six, then.
Hanekoma picked up his marker and began drawing in the symbols around the first wingjoint. He was confident in his ability to freehand it, but the extra effort was worth being sure. These were the source of Minamimoto’s power, what made him a Reaper, and one wobbly line could ruin him.
As he drew, the side of his hand brushed up against the black material, colder than flesh and somehow metallic, but still full of organic energy. Little shivers went through Minamimoto every time it happened. Hanekoma ignored them until the twitching finally started to interfere with his work, and then he smacked the back of his hand lightly against the young man’s shoulder.
“Hold still.”
“I’m trying to, hectopascal,” Minamimoto snarled, turning to crane his head and watch what was being done. “They’re sensitive.”
Oh, of course they were. How had he forgotten? His own wings were hardly less sensitive, but it had been longer than he cared to think about since anyone even saw them, much less touched them. “Sorry, boss.”
After that, the touches were both less glancing and less accidental. Maybe it was wrong of him, but the little noises Minamimoto made low in his throat, the way he shifted, and the way his breath sped up all kindled a dull heat in Hanekoma’s belly, down between his hips. There was something captivating about Minamimoto. His eyes captured you, pulled you in and froze you like amber. Hanekoma wanted to touch the heart of his anger, kiss his discontent. He wanted to kiss that beautiful back, lick those collarbones and stroke along the curve of his spine. He wanted that lean young body bucking beneath him. He wanted to feel Minamimoto’s mind, join him at the center of his mad genius, be yanked into and lost in that storm long enough to forget about his own tempests. He wanted to cut himself on the sharp and broken edges of the man’s soul.
To his surprise, by the end of it, Minamimoto wasn’t squirming; he’d gone very still and tense, fingers clenched on the back of the chair. Only the way he breathed and how he was practically broadcasting his arousal gave it away.
Hanekoma leaned in, nose brushing the back of his neck. “Are you sure about this?”
“Zetta sure.”
“It’s going to hurt.” More than just the pain of tattooing a sensitive area; power-locks were used as punishment for a reason.
“I know. Just do it.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Hanekoma’s face. “So impatient. I will. But first...” He reached around between Minamimoto and the chair, hand sliding down between his legs to knead him through his pants. “How about I take care of this?”
Minamimoto didn’t say anything, but he pressed into Hanekoma’s hand, breath hitching, and that was good enough. Hanekoma stood up and slid around, getting carefully onto his knees--what better reminder of how he wasn’t young anymore? God--in front of the chair. Fingers hooked in the slats of the chairback, he looked up at Minamimoto.
“C’mere. Closer.”
Minamimoto sat up straighter, pressing his hips forward, reaching down with trembling fingers to unzip his pants, pulling at the button until it finally pulled free. The sight of bare skin and hair was no surprise; honestly, Hanekoma would’ve been surprised to find that Minamimoto was wearing underwear.
It took a little more shifting to get himself positioned correctly, cock standing through the slats. Once he had, Hanekoma took the Reaper into his mouth with little showmanship. It was nothing impressive, especially with the barrier of the chair between them and the awkwardness of pressing his face into the wooden back of it, but Hanekoma was skilled enough with his tongue and could slip his fingers around the flesh not in his mouth, using light little strokes while he sucked.
Minamimoto was surprisingly quiet, murmuring to himself under his breath, voice increasingly strained; Hanekoma caught a string of numbers and realized with amusement that it was the Fibonacci sequence. He chuckled, the noise reverberating around Minamimoto’s shaft, and after that it only took a few moments longer. Minamimoto was young, after all, and for all his smug self-confidence, Hanekoma got the feeling that this wasn’t something he was used to. At his moment of orgasm, his mental walls relaxed, mind opening, and Hanekoma reached out to touch it. It was like stroking the velvet heart of a blooming sun, at once delicate and beautiful and terrifying.
As soon as Minamimoto felt it, the walls were back up, and he was glaring. “Get up and finish, would you?”
Feeling both energized and regretful, amazed at his own audacity, Hanekoma got to his feet, knees popping, and took his seat again. “Don’t twitch around this time.”
~~~~
Minamimoto couldn’t sit still. The tattoos started healing quickly, par for the course for a Reaper, and they itched terribly. He complained about it loudly and at great length, until Hanekoma was about ready to strangle him. Thankfully, he switched onto a new topic just in time.
“The Composer’s going to be coming in?”
“Sometime.”
“Sometime today?”
“Sometime soon. He’ll want to talk to me, and the Game begins in a few days.” The prospect of seeing Joshua made something twist unpleasantly beneath his sternum. “Just stay here and you’ll see him.”
That mollified Minamimoto only a little. “How will I know it’s him? Or does no one else come in?”
That gave him pause, but only for a moment. “You’ll know. Trust me.”
~~~~
First half! The second and alternate ending are to come soon, because apparently this is too big for LJ.