standing there

New Guitar!!

Hello, everyone! It's been a long, long time since I've posted on here. Anyhow, I'm back (somewhat), writing new fiction and fanfiction. Also, that guitar is my new guitar! (I'm very excited about the pretty pretty new thing)

standing there



I've been on hiatus for a while: colossal writer's block. After that, I half forgot all the details of the story with the new semester starting. In fact, I still have a research paper due in a week plus three final exams... Anyhow. I'm a bit too lazy to go back and refresh my memory, so I've decided to can this story for good with a sappy, SOB story of an epilogue. Vengeance has passed away. RIP. Cowardly, yes, but at this point, I think (or hope, at least) that it's going to give me the closure I need to start up a new fic when the hailed muses start singing again.

Yours truly and enjoy the epilogue:

            “Fuck…” Takaba groaned, slapping the white wall behind him, head tilted back, biting his lower lip. Sweat matted his hair down, plastered it against his forehead. He thought he might split, might break, God, it had been a hell of a long time.

            He felt Sergei slow and place a warm hand on Takaba’s trembling stomach, “Am I…Christ, am I hurting you?”

            Takaba opened his eyes and assessed the Russian, taking in sharp, cut features, the way his hands were gentle though rough with calluses peppering the pads of his fingers, and reached to curve a hand behind Sergei’s neck and pulled him down for a chaste kiss. The movement bent Takaba even further, and Sergei could feel the vibrations of a moan against his lips.

            “I shouldn’t-” he began to protest, but Takaba was shushing him, whispering comforting words, and wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

            “It’s been a while is all,” Takaba said, his other hand coming up to grip Sergei’s biceps tightly, “keep going, fuck,” he canted his hips as best he could, making Sergei hiss from the flood of sensation, “I need you to. I want you to.”

            And how could anyone say no to that? To Akihito Takaba. To Takaba, solid but nubile and utterly and destructively beautiful, breathing in short gasps, fingers buried in the hair at the nape of Sergei’s neck, docile but undeniably aggressive in that quiet, subtle way that he always was, receiving and demanding and wanting and wanting and wanting.

            Sergei felt more than heard Takaba’s orgasm, by the way he screwed his eyes shut, the jumpy muscles tightening and contracting, and the warm spill of liquid between. It wasn’t long before Sergei followed, encouraged by the ripples of spastic muscle clenching around his cock.




            In all those years, he had never seen Sergei as he was now, breathing so evenly and deeply, muscles loose and sated. Takaba propped himself on one elbow sideways, a sinking feeling in his gut despite the satisfaction of sex hanging over him, taunting him.

            They’d both been drunk, so very, pathetically drunk, and since when did Takaba indulge himself like that and lose self control? No, not control. Inhibition rather. Both of them had been wound up so tight, it was almost a relief if not for the reaction that Sergei was probably going to have when he woke up.


            Spectacular on the scale of World War III.

            “Well, shit,” Takaba mumbled and slowly, carefully began climbing out of bed. He didn’t get very far because so lucky the man who could escape Sergei. In an instance Sergei was awake and flipped he onto his back, leaning over him, eyes wide with surprise as Takaba fell back with a quiet and muffled, “Oof!”

            It seemed to take Sergei a moment to take in their situation because for a while they were still, stationary with Sergei hovering over Takaba, who was gazing cool-y up at Sergei, daring him.

            “I should-” Sergei began to push up to leave, but Takaba put a probing hand on his forearm. Not gripping, because no amount of force Takaba exerted would compare to the Russian’s physical strength. It was just a matter of simple physiology.

            “Stay,” he said quietly.

            Sergei’s eyes widened a fraction before his brows crinkled in professional disapproval, “Sir-”

            Takaba huffed in exasperation before propping himself up to his elbows so, making no attempt to hide the marks around his throat, the tiniest hints of bruises starting to form on his shoulders, his wrists, his hips, and elsewhere that Sergei had gripped him. “I never took you for the kinky sort,” he quipped, half amused at the flush of embarrassment from Sergei. Huh, maybe Sergei was a lot more vanilla than he’d thought. And that was okay, because vanilla was good, it was okay, because he was getting a bit too old to do the outrageous things people came up with in bed. He let out a sigh, “We might have been drunk, but both of us knew perfectly well what we were doing. Didn’t we?”

            He nodded in affirmation, and Takaba could sense the curiosity behind the closed-off expression, as if Sergei were wondering where Takaba was going with this.

            “I have no excuse and neither do you,” he continued, licking his dry lips, “but we don’t need one do we?” and he pulled Sergei down so that their foreheads were touching, “You and I, us, we’ve never needed an excuse to do this. Ever.”



            And Takaba sighed in relief when he felt Sergei’s large, capable hand tentatively touch his side, the other holding him up, palm spread against the rumpled sheets next to Takaba’s head. Takaba doubted that whatever was forming between them was anything near resembling love. Sex, obviously, yes. Two desperate, desperate men, certainly. Lust? Of course. But how to label it, Takaba had not the slightest clue and he stopped trying when Sergei gently coaxed him to spread his legs up and apart.




Eight years later.


            It had taken some effort to ‘get disappeared,’ as Sergei put it. The first two years, they had changed locations countless times, hopping from country to country, Korea, China, India, Egypt, France, England, Canada, until finally, they managed to seek immunity and refuge in, of all the places, the US. There was a deal, of course, a number of court appearances to testify in.

            It was easy enough after that, or as easy as it would ever get, to start over after that, new identities and the gimmick that followed. Papers signed, occasional briefings, but a decently quiet life on Nantucket. Nantucket, for chrissakes. If anyone had suggested such a lifestyle to Takaba twenty years ago, he would have scoffed and probably given them the finger, but he was content, he realized.

            Contentment. He smiled wistfully, and wow, wasn’t that a thought?

            He could hear the shower running next door and smiled.

Really, wasn’t that a thought?