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Hakari Kinji loved the moment right before a fight.
Not the punch itself, not the impact—but the hum. The electric pause where the world held its breath and luck hadn’t decided yet whether it was going to kiss him on the mouth or shove him off a cliff.
Kirara Hoshi hated that moment.
Which was why they were currently standing on the edge of a half-destroyed arcade, arms crossed, star-shaped pupils narrowed as Hakari cracked his knuckles like this was all just another game.
“You’re grinning,” Kirara said flatly. “That’s never a good sign.”
Hakari flashed them a shark smile. “C’mon. If I wasn’t smiling, you’d be worried.”
“I am worried,” Kirara shot back. “You’re about to pick a fight with a curse that literally messes with probability.”
Hakari shrugged. “Sounds like my kinda guy.”
Kirara clicked their tongue, irritation sharp—but underneath it, something softer buzzed, like static under their skin. Hakari lived like he was untouchable, like the universe owed him wins just for showing up. And somehow—infuriatingly—it often did.
But luck was fickle. And Kirara didn’t trust anything that could turn on you that fast.
The curse screeched, warping the air around it, numbers and symbols flickering across its form like a broken slot machine. Hakari stepped forward, hands in his pockets, casual as ever.
“Stay back,” he said without looking. “I’ll be quick.”
Kirara bristled. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re alone.”
Hakari paused. Just for a second. Then he glanced back, something unreadable crossing his face.
“…You always got my back,” he said. “I know that.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Kirara muttered.
The curse lunged.
Everything exploded into motion—probabilities twisting, the floor cracking beneath Hakari’s feet as bad luck slammed into him all at once. A beam of cursed energy skimmed past his shoulder, tearing through concrete.
Kirara swore and moved.
They hated this part. The waiting. The watching Hakari dance with disaster like it was foreplay.
Stars flared in their eyes as they activated their technique, positioning themselves precisely—always five meters away, always just out of reach, magnetic forces snapping into place. The curse staggered, thrown off by the invisible pull, its own attacks skewing wildly.
Hakari laughed, exhilarated. “That’s it, Kirara—keep it there!”
“Don’t rush me,” they snapped, teeth clenched. “Your luck’s tanking.”
Hakari felt it too. The hum was wrong. The rhythm off-beat. His Domain almost came together—then slipped, probabilities scattering like loose coins.
For the first time, his grin faltered.
The curse surged, energy condensing for a killing blow.
“Hakari!” Kirara shouted.
Something ugly twisted in Hakari’s chest. Not fear—he didn’t really do fear—but the sharp realization that if he misstepped now, Kirara would be the one paying for it.
He planted his feet.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Double or nothing.”
His Domain slammed into place with a roar—Idle Death Gamble, lights flashing, music blaring, the world reduced to spinning reels and chance.
Kirara felt the shift immediately. The pressure lifted, replaced by that familiar, ridiculous pachinko-theme hellscape Hakari thrived in.
They exhaled shakily.
“Idiot,” they whispered. “You better hit jackpot.”
Inside the Domain, Hakari fought like a man possessed, taking hit after hit as the reels spun. His luck scraped rock bottom—then climbed, inch by inch, tension coiling tight enough to snap.
And then—
JACKPOT.
Immortality flooded him, cursed energy surging wild and brilliant. He tore through the curse with reckless joy, laughter ringing out as it disintegrated under the sheer force of his win.
When the Domain dropped, the arcade was silent except for the crackle of dying energy.
Hakari stood there, breathing hard, blood on his knuckles, eyes bright.
Kirara crossed the distance in seconds.
They grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down, forehead slamming into his with a sharp thunk.
“Ow—!” Hakari blinked. “The hell was that for?”
Kirara’s hands were shaking.
“You scared me,” they hissed. “Your luck dipped. You hesitated. Do you have any idea how close that was?”
Hakari opened his mouth—probably to joke—but stopped.
Up close, Kirara’s usual sharp composure was cracked. Their eyes were fierce, yes, but also raw. Worried. Real.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
Kirara froze. That was… new.
Hakari lifted a hand, hesitating before brushing his thumb along their sleeve instead of their skin, careful in a way he rarely was.
“I don’t mess around with that,” he said. “Not when it’s you.”
Kirara swallowed. The anger fizzled out, leaving that familiar ache in its place.
“Your luck’s gonna run out someday,” they said softly.
Hakari smirked—smaller this time. “Then I’ll just have to make sure you’re there when it does.”
Kirara scoffed, but they didn’t pull away.
“…You’re unbearable.”
“Yeah,” Hakari said, leaning in just enough for their foreheads to brush again. “But I’m your unbearable.”
Kirara rolled their eyes—but their fingers curled into his jacket anyway, grounding, steady.
And for once, Hakari didn’t feel like pushing his luck any further.
They didn’t talk much on the way back.
Hakari walked like nothing had happened—hands behind his head, swagger intact—but Kirara stayed half a step behind him, eyes sharp, senses still buzzing from the fight. The city lights blurred past, neon reflections sliding across cracked pavement.
“You’re limping,” Kirara said eventually.
Hakari shrugged. “Immortal hangover. I’ll live.”
“That’s not—” Kirara stopped, exhaled through their nose. “Sit when we get back.”
Hakari snorted. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
He did. He didn’t say it—but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Back at their place, the door barely had time to shut before the adrenaline finally wore off. Hakari rolled his shoulders, winced this time, more honest now that no one was watching.
Kirara kicked off their shoes and turned to face him fully. The apartment was quiet, warm, lived-in. Safe.
“You’re really bad at knowing when to stop,” they said, softer than before.
Hakari met their gaze. No grin. No bravado.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’m trying.”
That earned him a look—long, searching. Kirara stepped closer, close enough that Hakari could feel the residual hum of cursed energy between them, like static that hadn’t fully dissipated.
“You don’t get to scare me like that and pretend it’s nothing,” Kirara said. “Not when I’m—”
They stopped themselves.
Hakari reached out, slower than usual, giving them time to pull away. When they didn’t, his hand settled at their wrist instead of their waist—grounding, deliberate.
“…Not when you’re what?” he asked quietly.
Kirara swallowed.
“Not when I’m the one watching you gamble with your life.”
Something in Hakari’s chest tightened. He leaned in, forehead resting against theirs again, familiar now—an unspoken truce.
“I’ll come back,” he murmured. “Every time.”
Kirara closed their eyes. Their fingers slid into the front of his jacket, bunching the fabric like they were anchoring him to the room.
“Don’t make promises you think luck will cover for,” they said.
Hakari huffed a soft laugh. “Then don’t let me make ‘em alone.”
For a moment, they just breathed together.
The tension didn’t disappear—it deepened. Shifted. Heat replacing fear, closeness replacing chaos. Hakari’s thumb brushed Kirara’s knuckles. Kirara tilted their head, just slightly.
The air changed.
Hakari’s voice dropped. “You wanna sit down?”
Kirara glanced toward the bedroom. Then back at him.
“…Yeah,” they said.
Hakari smiled—slow, real this time.
They moved together, unhurried, the door clicking shut behind them.
The bedroom door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of soft shadows and shared breath. Outside, Tokyo hummed its endless electric song, but here, the only sounds were the rustle of fabric and the quiet thud of Hakari’s boots hitting the floor. Kirara leaned back against the door, watching him. The playful swagger was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that made Kirara’s pulse skip.
"Told you to sit," Kirara murmured, pushing off the door. Their voice was low, roughened by adrenaline and something else entirely.
Hakari met their gaze, a slow smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, you did." He didn't move towards the bed. Instead, he took a deliberate step closer, closing the distance Kirara had just created. The residual hum of cursed energy crackled faintly between them, a tangible reminder of the fight, of life barely clung to. "Changed my mind."
Kirara’s breath hitched as Hakari’s hands found their hips, large and warm even through the fabric of their pants. His touch wasn't demanding, but it was undeniable. Anchoring. "Changed it to what?" Kirara challenged, tilting their chin up, though their fingers instinctively curled into the soft material of his t-shirt where it stretched over his chest.
"To this," Hakari breathed, dipping his head. His lips brushed Kirara’s temple, then trailed down the sharp line of their jaw. It wasn't a kiss, not yet. It was exploration, a claiming of space. Kirara shivered, the tension coiling low in their belly tightening into something hotter, sharper. Hakari’s thumb traced the jut of their hipbone, a slow, maddening circle. "You were watching me gamble," he murmured against their skin, his breath hot. "Watching me win."
Kirara’s eyes fluttered shut for a second. "Watching you bleed," they countered, voice thick. Their hands slid up his chest, over the firm planes of muscle, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath their palms. "Watching you pretend it didn't hurt."
"It hurt," Hakari admitted, the words a low rumble against Kirara’s throat. His lips finally found theirs, not tentative, but deep and claiming. It tasted like victory and exhaustion and the metallic tang that always lingered after a fight. Kirara melted into it, a soft noise escaping them as Hakari’s tongue swept against theirs. The kiss was fierce, fueled by the unspoken fear and the desperate relief that he was here, whole, against them.
Hakari’s hands slid lower, gripping Kirara’s ass firmly, pulling them flush against him. Kirara gasped into the kiss, feeling the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against their stomach through his pants. The sheer, undeniable reality of his desire, hot and demanding, sent a jolt of pure heat straight through them.
"Off," Kirara managed to gasp when Hakari finally broke the kiss, both of them breathing raggedly. Their fingers fumbled with the buckle of Hakari’s belt, urgency overriding finesse. Hakari chuckled, a dark, pleased sound, and helped, shoving his pants and boxers down his hips in one rough motion. Kirara’s own clothes followed in a tangle – shirt ripped open, buttons scattering, pants shoved down their legs. They kicked them aside, stepping out barefoot on the cool floorboards.
Hakari’s gaze raked over them, hot and possessive. Kirara stood before him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly, the city’s faint neon glow painting shifting patterns across their skin. Hakari reached out, calloused fingers tracing the curve of their breast, thumb brushing over a hardened nipple. Kirara arched into the touch, a moan catching in their throat.
"Still limping?" Kirara breathed, their own hand reaching down, fingers wrapping around the thick length of Hakari’s cock. It was hot velvet over steel, pulsing in their grip. Hakari hissed, his head falling back slightly, eyes closing for a fleeting second of pure sensation.
"Forgot all about it," he growled, his voice thick with lust. His hand slid down Kirara’s stomach, fingers delving through dark curls to find slick, heated flesh. Kirara cried out, hips jerking forward as Hakari’s fingers found their clit, rubbing firm, knowing circles. "Fuck, Kirara," Hakari groaned, feeling how wet they were, how ready. "You’re soaked. Been thinking about this?"
"Since you walked away from that last hit," Kirara confessed, voice trembling as pleasure sparked under Hakari’s skilled fingers. They tightened their grip on his cock, stroking him slowly, feeling him swell impossibly harder. "Thinking… if you’d come back… how you’d come back."
Hakari’s eyes snapped open, blazing with dark intent. He hooked his hands under Kirara’s thighs, lifting them effortlessly. Kirara wrapped their legs around his waist instinctively, arms locking around his neck. Hakari carried them the few steps to the bed, lowering them onto the rumpled sheets without breaking the searing eye contact.
He settled between Kirara’s thighs, the head of his cock nudging against their soaked entrance. Kirara writhed, needing more. "Hakari—"
"Tell me," he commanded, voice rough. He pressed forward, just the thick tip breaching them, stretching them deliciously. Kirara gasped, back arching off the bed.
"Tell me you want it," Hakari insisted, holding himself still, tormenting them with the promise of fullness just out of reach. His thumb found their clit again, rubbing insistently.
"I want it!" Kirara gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "Want you. Now. All of you. Stop fucking teasing—"
The plea shattered Hakari’s control. With a guttural groan, he drove himself forward in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside Kirara’s tight, welcoming heat.
Kirara’s cry echoed in the small room, a sound of pure, shocked pleasure. The stretch was intense, bordering on too much, then instantly perfect as Hakari filled them completely. He stilled for a heartbeat, buried deep, forehead pressed against Kirara’s, both of them panting, trembling with the overwhelming sensation of connection.
Then Hakari moved. He withdrew slowly, almost completely, savoring the drag, before slamming back in with relentless force. Kirara’s legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust. The rhythm was primal, born of adrenaline and relief and the desperate need to feel alive, to feel each other. The bedframe creaked in protest against the wall.
Hakari’s thrusts were deep, powerful, each one driving a gasp or a moan from Kirara’s lips. He braced himself on one forearm beside their head, his other hand gripping their hip, fingers digging in possessively. Kirara met every thrust, hips rising off the mattress, chasing the friction, the delicious fullness, the spark of Hakari’s thumb circling their clit with increasing pressure.
"You feel… fucking incredible," Hakari gritted out, his voice strained. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto Kirara’s collarbone. His gaze was locked on theirs, the usual playful glint replaced by raw, consuming hunger. "Always do. Tight… hot… mine."
The possessive claim sent another wave of heat crashing through Kirara. "Yours," they gasped, the word ripped from them. "Only yours. Hakari—" Their voice broke on a particularly deep thrust that hit a spot deep inside, sending stars bursting behind their eyelids. "There! There!"
Hakari adjusted his angle, driving into that spot relentlessly. Kirara’s moans turned into high, keening cries. The coil inside them wound impossibly tight, pleasure building with terrifying speed, amplified by the sheer physicality of Hakari above them, inside them, the scent of sweat and sex and him filling the air.
Hakari could feel Kirara tightening around him, hear the pitch of their cries shifting towards the edge. He leaned down, capturing their mouth in a messy, biting kiss, swallowing their cries. His own control was fraying, the tight heat and Kirara’s desperate movements pushing him towards his own precipice.
"Come for me," he growled against their lips, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, losing their rhythm. "Come on my cock, Kirara. Show me."
The command, coupled with the relentless pressure on their clit and the deep, perfect friction inside, shattered Kirara. Their body arched violently off the bed, a raw, wordless cry tearing from their throat as pleasure detonated, wave after wave crashing through them, blinding and absolute. Their inner muscles clenched around Hakari’s cock in rhythmic pulses, milking him.
The intense clenching was too much. Hakari buried his face in Kirara’s neck with a choked roar, his hips stuttering erratically as his own release ripped through him. He pulsed deep inside Kirara, hot and thick, his body shuddering with the force of it, his grip on their hip bruisingly tight.
They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and ragged breaths, Hakari’s weight a welcome anchor as Kirara trembled through the aftershocks. The only sounds were their harsh breathing and the distant city hum. Hakari pressed a clumsy kiss to Kirara’s shoulder, then their collarbone, his body still trembling slightly.
Kirara’s fingers traced lazy patterns on his damp back, the frantic energy finally spent, replaced by a deep, bone-melting exhaustion and a profound sense of… rightness. Hakari was here. Solid. Warm. Alive. Inside them. The gamble had paid off. This time.
Hakari shifted slightly, pulling out slowly, making Kirara whimper softly at the sudden emptiness. He rolled onto his side, pulling Kirara with him, tucking them against his chest. One arm draped heavily over their waist, his hand resting possessively on their hip. Kirara nestled their head into the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him mixed with sweat and sex.
The silence stretched, comfortable now. The frantic energy of before had burned itself out, leaving embers of warmth and a profound, shared exhaustion. Kirara traced the line of a fading bruise on Hakari’s ribs, a souvenir from the fight. Hakari’s breathing deepened, his body relaxing further against theirs.
Outside, the neon glow continued its silent vigil. Inside, wrapped in the aftermath and the solid warmth of Hakari, Kirara finally let the last vestiges of fear dissolve. He was back. He was here. And for now, tangled in the sheets and the scent of him, that was enough. The reckoning, the promises, the next gamble… that could wait until morning.
Hakari stirred first.
It was subtle—just a shift of muscle, a quiet breath drawn deeper—but Kirara felt it immediately, the way you only do when someone is pressed so close they feel like an extension of your own body. Hakari’s fingers flexed once at their hip, thumb brushing bare skin in a slow, absent-minded arc.
“You still awake?” he murmured, voice rough and low.
Kirara hummed in response, nose tucked further into his shoulder. “Barely.”
Hakari let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Good. Means you’re not spiraling.”
Kirara paused, fingers stilling against his ribs.
“…You always notice,” they said.
“Yeah,” Hakari replied. “Kinda my thing. Reading tells. Yours are loud.”
Kirara snorted softly, then sighed, the sound heavy but relieved. The warmth between them was grounding—proof of something solid, something real, after hours of chaos and near-misses.
Hakari tilted his head, resting his cheek against Kirara’s hair. “Hey,” he said, gentler now. “I’m not gonna disappear on you.”
Kirara didn’t answer right away. Instead, they shifted just enough to look at him, eyes catching the faint neon glow spilling through the curtains. Hakari looked different like this—no grin, no sharp edges. Just tired. Human.
“You don’t get to say that like it’s a sure thing,” Kirara said quietly. “Not with the way you live.”
Hakari exhaled, slow. “I know.”
That surprised them.
“But,” he continued, tightening his arm around their waist, “I do get to say I’m trying. And that when I push my luck—when I’m being an idiot—it’s not ‘cause I don’t care.”
Kirara swallowed.
“…It’s because you do,” they said.
Hakari didn’t deny it.
They lay there for a while longer, listening to the city hum outside—the distant buzz of traffic, the faint echo of laughter from somewhere far below. Hakari’s thumb traced slow, idle patterns against Kirara’s skin, like he was memorizing the moment.
Eventually, Kirara spoke again. “Next time you take a hit like that, you’re not walking it off.”
Hakari smirked faintly. “That a threat?”
“A promise.”
He chuckled, then pressed a brief, lingering kiss to the top of their head. “Guess I’ll behave, then.”
Kirara rolled their eyes, but they didn’t move away. If anything, they settled closer, fitting into him like it was second nature.
Morning would come. So would consequences. So would the next gamble.
But for now, Hakari was breathing steadily beside them, alive and warm and real—and Kirara let themselves believe, just for tonight, that luck had chosen them both.
Morning came in pieces.
Light first—thin neon-pink leaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the sheets. Then sound: the distant hum of traffic, someone shouting three floors down, the city waking up like nothing monumental had happened at all.
Kirara woke up last.
They shifted instinctively—and immediately froze.
“Oh. Oh no.”
Their entire body felt like it had been wrung out and put back together slightly wrong. Muscles ached in that deep, lingering way that promised they’d be feeling this for days. Their thighs protested. Their lower back throbbed. Even breathing felt… noticeable.
They stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
“…I hate you,” they muttered.
Hakari, unfortunately, was very awake.
He was propped up on one elbow beside them, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably amused. He hadn’t moved yet—probably because he’d already noticed the way Kirara had stiffened.
“Damn,” he said lazily. “You sound fond.”
Kirara shot him a glare that would’ve been lethal if they’d been able to turn their head properly. “Don’t talk to me.”
Hakari grinned wider. “Sore?”
Kirara’s ears burned. “I swear to god, Kinji—”
He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to their temple, cutting them off before they could properly threaten him. “Relax. I’ll behave.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, partial liar.”
Kirara tried to sit up. That was a mistake.
They made a small, betrayed sound before flopping back down onto the mattress, one hand instinctively gripping the sheets.
Hakari’s grin vanished instantly.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly alert. “Hey—too much?”
Kirara exhaled through their nose, annoyed but honest. “I’m… fine. Just sore.”
Hakari watched them for a second longer, then shifted closer, careful this time. He slid an arm under their shoulders, helping them sit up more slowly, adjusting his grip the second they tensed.
“Next time,” he said, quieter, “you tell me when it’s too much.”
Kirara glanced at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone.
“…I know,” they said. Then, after a beat, “You weren’t exactly gentle with yourself either.”
Hakari huffed a laugh. “Fair.”
They leaned back against him, letting their weight rest there. Hakari adjusted automatically, one hand warm and steady at their side, the other rubbing slow circles into their shoulder like he was grounding them.
Kirara sighed, tension easing despite the ache.
“You’re getting me breakfast,” they said.
Hakari blinked. “Is that a demand?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Damn. Morning-after perks?”
“Pain tax.”
Hakari snorted, then carefully eased out from behind them, pausing only to press a brief kiss to their cheek. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Kirara watched him go, still sore, still exhausted—but warm in a way that had nothing to do with muscle aches.
They sank back into the pillows, letting themselves smile.
Luck, they decided, didn’t always have to be loud.
Sometimes it just looked like this.
Hakari did not, in fact, succeed at breakfast.
Kirara realized this about three minutes after he left the room, when the apartment filled with the unmistakable sound of something sizzling far too aggressively for it to be safe.
They winced as they rolled onto their side, moving inch by careful inch. Every shift sent a dull ache through their body, a reminder of last night written into muscle and bone. They grumbled under their breath, then dragged a pillow into their arms and hugged it like a shield.
From the kitchen came a loud clang, followed by:
“…Okay, that’s not supposed to do that.”
Kirara smiled despite themself.
A few minutes later, Hakari reappeared, shirtless, hair still wild, holding a plate that looked… questionable. Toast—burnt on one edge. Eggs—technically eggs, but only barely holding together. He set it down on the bedside table like he was presenting a masterpiece.
“Breakfast,” he announced. “Made with love and minimal property damage.”
Kirara eyed it skeptically. “You burned the toast.”
“Adds character.”
“You set off the smoke alarm.”
“Adds ambiance.”
Kirara snorted, then immediately regretted it as their body protested. They hissed softly, bracing themself against the mattress.
Hakari’s expression shifted instantly. He set the plate down and knelt beside the bed instead, one hand hovering like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch.
“Still bad?” he asked.
Kirara nodded, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I’ll live. Just… give me a minute.”
Hakari nodded and waited. No jokes. No teasing. Just there.
When Kirara finally pushed themself upright again, Hakari slid behind them, slow and careful, acting like they were something fragile instead of sharp and star-bright and terrifying. He propped pillows behind their back, adjusting them until Kirara let out a quiet, relieved sigh.
“There,” he said softly. “Tell me if anything pulls.”
Kirara glanced at him sideways. “…You’re being weird.”
Hakari smirked faintly. “Yeah. Get used to it.”
They leaned back against the pillows, then glanced at the plate again. “You’re feeding me.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Hakari said. “I’m not that brave.”
Kirara rolled their eyes, but they picked at the food anyway. It was… edible. Barely. They made a face.
Hakari grinned. “See? Perfect.”
“Next time,” Kirara said, “we’re ordering takeout.”
“Deal.”
They ate in comfortable quiet for a bit. Hakari stayed close, one hand resting on Kirara’s knee, thumb tapping lightly like he was counting something only he could see.
Eventually, Kirara spoke. “You’re hovering.”
Hakari shrugged. “Can’t help it.”
“…You scared me,” Kirara admitted, voice low. “Last night. And before that.”
Hakari didn’t deflect this time. He nodded slowly. “I know.”
Kirara looked down at their hands. “I don’t need you to stop being you. I just need you to come back.”
Hakari leaned in, resting his forehead against theirs. “I will,” he said. “Every time I can.”
Kirara exhaled, some knot loosening in their chest. They bumped his shoulder lightly. “You better.”
Hakari smiled. Not sharp. Not cocky. Just real.
They stayed like that for a while—sore, tired, full of badly cooked eggs and unfinished thoughts—watching the city move outside their window.
For once, the odds felt quiet.
And for now, that was enough.