Page 5 of Xerxes Ascendant
It was funny how being on one’s knees was assumed helplessness.
Akira had done some of his best, most powerful work from his knees. He’d effortlessly manipulated other people’s bodies into playing the tune he demanded from them; coming when and how he said, inflicting weakness to their limbs and rasps to their breath, and drawing out pleas and promises they had sworn never to utter. And his power had not been confined to the physical, for while kneeling he’d also been able to influence Xerxes in small but satisfying ways, from convincing a particular businessman to sell his empire, to planting an idea in another’s head that had resulted in additional health services for Level F. Akira had built and destroyed reputations, swayed opinions, dictated futures...and this pathetic man thought he was done for, just because he waskneeling?
And crying.
Akira ensured his eyes were wet with unshed tears before lifting his head. He stared beyond the foreboding barrel of the gun to the man at its trigger: just past his prime, trimmed ginger beard, eyes in shadow under the brim of his blue maintenance worker cap.
“Please,” Akira choked out, letting his voice hitch and tremble with practised skill. “I don’t want to die.”
His tongue flickered out to wet his lips, balancing provocative with vulnerable. It caused the other man to shift his weight between his feet, and Akira watched with disguised satisfaction as his throat bobbed in an eager swallow.
He had him hooked, just like those fishermen on the old vids. Now he only had to reel him in.
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just promise not to kill me,” Akira whispered, rocking forward onto his hands and slowly beginning to crawl towards him.
Chin down, eyes hooded as he tentatively peered up at the man standing over him, lips trembling. Deliberately placing his hands in the filthy puddle to debase himself further. All submission and no threat: Akira made sure that each move he made was drowned in the continued pretence of his helplessness.
“Whatever I want?” the man asked, holding the weapon steady but making no move to stop him from drawing closer. His voice had dropped an octave into a rough growl.
“Anything,” Akira agreed, still whispering so his own voice was barely audible over the hum of the nearby generator and the city engines. “Let me go and I’ll doanything.”
He crawled until the muzzle of the gun jabbed into his forehead, and then raised himself up off his hands so it dragged slowly down his face to his mouth. Wrapping his lips tightly around the cold metal and hollowing his cheeks, Akira turned lidded eyes up to the man who could end his life with a single squeeze. He moaned around the gun and dialled up the performance until it was dripping with sex and implication.
“Fuck,” the man breathed as he watched Akira suck on his weapon with every scrap of seductive skill learned over the years. His breathing was harsh and shallow. “Yeah, we can work something out. Come here.”
He eased the gun from Akira’s mouth, his other hand immediately reaching for his own belt.
He was lying. He’d take his pleasure and then end Akira anyway, finishing the day with a blowjobandthe mayor’s favour.
That was fine. Akira was lying too.
But...why?
Why was he so determined to hold onto a life that was both figuratively and literally fucked? What did he have that was worth fighting for?
Kyle was still in his coma, and every day that passed reduced his chances of ever waking up. And if he did survive...Akira would never forget the way the blonde had looked at him that night after Theta had laid his secrets bare.
Horror. Disappointment. Disgust.
Without Kyle, Akira Miyasaki was nothing. A shell, a ghost, an empty screwup of a man. As doomed as their sinking city over which the Coterie, the mayor, and the gangs were all vying for control.
Why not let this nameless thug have his way with him and then put a bullet through his brain? Was there a more fitting end for the Master of House Epsilon than as a cum-splattered bloodstain in some fetid, piss-soaked alley?
The man placed his gun on the top of the nearby generator box.
Akira didn’t move.
The man unzipped his fly.
Akira was going to let this happen. Let this be the way hedied.
The man stroked himself and took hold of a fistful of Akira’s hair to pull him closer.
And then something buzzed against Akira’s thigh. It was his runepad, tucked into his pocket and muted for the appointmentwith his client, silently signalling that he’d just received a message.
Kyle?
Kyle!
