Disclaimer: Nope.

Author's Note: Just a stream-of-consciousness ficlet idea that I wanted to play with. Since we all know Haruka likes shiny things… X3

Warnings: HaruKan lime! :D

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Treasure


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He is silver and ivory and ruby.

He is silver and ivory and ruby: trembling strands of precious metal, quivering columns of melting marble, glazed gemstones that glow with an inner fire. But this is not a cold fire, this is not a frozen flame: these rubies ooze a heat that is distant and hazy but still somehow alert and aware and full of need. The need burns him—he can feel it in his heart, in his loins, all around him in this pale-paper box: this room that conceals the other's jewel-like beauty from the rest of the unworthy world, hiding him like a treasure in a chest. His treasure, trapped in his chest: this room, full of mirrors and marbles and glittering crystals, all of which have been forgotten in the heat (oh, such heat!) of the moment.

None of them are important now.

Yes. Unimportant. The unresponsive trinkets that he has horded for so long seem trivial and ugly in contrast; he would no longer care if they broke, or shattered, or crumbled into dust. They could never compare to this treasure, this enigma, this man he calls master, who willingly submitted with a touch and a word. In that moment, the air grew thick, and the silence became heavy, and then some unseen thread snapped; now he is the master, and he commands with a name— Kantarou, Kantarou, Kantarou— and the other writhes and pants and moans with wonton desire, bucking and pleading as his pinking flesh is kissed by a thousand million tiny diamonds.

Off comes the hakama—soft as skin, red as blood; off slips the kimono, like a sheet or a veil. And he is unwrapped and exposed, and oh, so willing; more threads snap, the hush turns electric, and neither man can breathe…

The treasure gasps (back arching, eyes wide, mouth open in alluring surprise) and the intensity of it all is too much for him. A husky cry; a name whispered in reverence. He collapses: spent, sated, and perfectly still—a beautiful doll on the rush-mat floor, basking in the golden light of the summer sunset.

His breathing evens. His gaze is liquid, and his lips are glossy. His slick chest raises, lowers, glistens; raises, lowers, glistens.

In the wake of it all, Kantarou glitters.

And Haruka has never seen anything so beautiful, or loved anyone so much.

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