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There was something about ankles that could cloud a man's reasoning, be them cladded in stockings or bound by leather. Or so Tsukishima thought.
He felt like most people made do with a simple glance from the waist up, but when you're barely scraping one metre sixty you start noticing things… closer to the ground.
It had all begun during one of their missions in Russia, with Tsurumi asking him to hold the ladder while he fumbled through some ambassador's furnished library. Tsukishima had stood there, his gaze transfixed on expensive silk, with the promise of a nicely toned calf underneath. It was a thin layer of cloth, bordering on transparent, and it was so tight-fitting it just felt like Tsurumi was wearing a second, silkier skin. The sight stirred something in his lower abdomen, a well-known surge of heat that led him to avert his eyes. Now, that was not strange, right? After all, there was no sign that indicated something other than admiration for that particular brand of socks. It definitely didn't feel odd at the time, not to a man who slept in military barracks buzzing with unresolved sexual tension. It did start to worry him, though, when his eyes kept locking to Tsurumi's ankles as they ran up a flight of stairs with the russian militia close behind. The rush of adrenaline might've played a big part in his arousal, but as they found refuge in an abandoned barn, away from any sort of danger, his eyes kept travelling over the hem of Tsurumi's trouser legs, as to make sure his ankles had made it safely as well. There just wasn't an excuse for all the ogling that followed on the ship that brought them home.
Once back in Japan, Tsurumi took on wearing his usual uniform, confining his ankles in comfortable, yet resistant leather, crafted to exude propriety with no hints of suggestiveness whatsoever. Looking back it all seemed like a dream, the delusion of a man who had no qualms taking into account all of his boss when fantasizing of putting his tongue on said person. There had been no shortage of love-making on the other side of Japanese waters, so there really was no reason to feel dissatisfied. And yet.
And yet Tsukishima felt like shoe polish was truly getting in his face whenever he crossed paths with his superior officer. He couldn't focus on anything but his jealousy for the way the sun licked into the creases of Tsurumi's boots, making them gleam in a positively seductive fashion. His stoic façade was constantly on the verge of crumbling with every creak of leather, with every drop of tea that left a shaky cup to plunge in those shallow dips. How a man could feel sexual attraction to the favourite spot of blood-thirsty guard dogs and inexplicably angry furniture was far beyond his understanding, but he was aware that some people enjoyed the occasional soothing kiss there, especially after a strenuous walk. Little did he know that a man of science the likes of Tsurumi was not easily convinced of the thaumaturgical powers of one single kiss when offered a more mathematical approach: a greater number of kisses would certainly increase the chances of success in the ankles healing experiment. After all, Tsurumi lived by his motto, which was “soak it till it’s see-through, or don’t bother putting your mouth there”.
* * *
Tsurumi dismounted in one swift movement, not so much hopping as gliding gracefully on the forecourt of the stables. A soldier took the bridles and led the horse inside, while others besieged Tsurumi with daily reports. He immediately noticed that the Sergeant was not in the welcome party, as he was probably manning the division given that Koito had begrudgingly left in the morning to attend to family matters. He had sent Usami on a secret mission, or else he’d be there too, fawning over him, eyes shining with anticipation. He listened to each soldier with a fond smile, slipping off his gloves to pat a few shoulders, taking delight in finding no hard epaulette there. It was not like the trip to the city had been unpleasant overall, quite the contrary, but what had made it worth it had been Narizou’s presence and Narizou’s presence only. The relief he felt when the two of them lost Lieutenant General Hidenobu in the crowd had been immense. Other officers had followed suit, as they accidentally took wrong turns or were stopped by childhood friends who seemed to spring out of the sidewalk like they knew they’d pass by. As a matter of fact, they all claimed to have received a telegram from their dear officer friend inviting them to lunch at some expensive new restaurant. At last, when the obnoxiously decorated company was a thing of the past, they were free to roam around the city sharing blissful reminiscences of the old days. He even let Arisaka buy him a thing or two.
“Some packages arrived for you, sir.”
“Bring them up to my quarters, private.”
The young man fidgeted with the folder in his hands.
“May I request help?”
“Sure. How many men do you need?”
The soldier started sweating profusely as the mental calculation went on for a while. He eventually found the courage to disclose the result.
“About a dozen, sir.”
* * *
Tsurumi looked awfully busy when he flung the bedroom door open. The light yukata he was wearing hung loose in more than one incriminating place and the scar, hidden by the headplate, was the only part of his body that didn’t show when he turned around, pulling Tsukishima inside.
“Thank god you’re here. I need your assistance.”
Most people would frown at the thought of being summoned after a hard day’s work by someone who couldn’t even find the time to greet them properly, but Tsukishima was different. Damn, he had missed Tsurumi terribly, like they’d been apart for a decade instead of 24 miserable hours. He pulled him into a hug, burying his face in the yukata and revelling in the smell of the man he loved, soapy with a hint of misbehaving.
“It hurts when you’re away.”
The laugh bubbling inside Tsurumi's chest lost its way and never reached his mouth. It was immediately replaced by a moan, better befitting the activity Tsukishima had undertaken, namely that of rubbing his knee between his boss’s thighs, discretion all but forgotten. The knot of the yukata valiantly stood its ground, but it was eventually undone by deft fingers. Right when Tsukishima was about to push Tsurumi on the bed, something under him made a rustling sound, the very same sound paper of a treacherous persuasion makes before kissing the sole of your shoe goodbye. Tsurumi held onto his Sergeant so he wouldn’t go from having a stub for a nose, to having no nose at all.
“What was that?”
“The thing I need your assistance with.”
“Oh, I thought it was code for...”
“Cock? Usually, yes, but before we send the bedframe to the carpenter for the tenth time this week, I need your help with something.”
Tsukishima found his footing again, and for the first time that evening he took a moment to study his surroundings. A quick glance was all it took for him to realize he’d fallen into the ambush of ill-tempered boxes. The room was crawling with wrappings and ribbons, lace and crepe paper. The western-style bed was the only survivor to the cardboard frenzy.
“Lieutenant General Arisaka might have overdone it a little. I assure you, I only agreed on having a couple sent up here. He must’ve thought I meant a couple of hundred.”
“I see,” was all Tsukishima managed, although, technically speaking, he couldn’t fully see, since his field of vision was far from that of a bird of prey.
“It will only take half an hour tops.”
And it did take half an hour. Half an hour a pair, to be more precise. In his defense, Tsurumi had yet to meet someone as uncooperative in shoe picking as Tsukishima Hajime. The man sat on the edge of his imported french bed like he was sitting on a bag full of nails, wearing the same face victims of elaborate medieval tortures might have worn with every lace-up shoe that was presented to him. Tsurumi had already asked if everything was alright, but he’d received an agonized nod each time. At his fifth suedes, he felt like he needed to put his foot down. Not on the footrest, that is.
“You’re either telling me what’s wrong, or I’m making you. You’re forgetting I spent half my life in Russia playing innocent photographer, I know what a lie looks like.”
“Sir, please…”
“You could’ve just said no, I would’ve asked someone else to help me.”
“It’s not that…”
“Then what is it?”
Tsukishima sighed, as if that’d buy him more than mere seconds. He just couldn’t believe he was about to tell Tsurumi he wanted to fuck his ankles. Because, in the end, it all came down to that. His brain had been a faithful comrade, sweeping under the rug every unwanted ankle fantasy until the rug had started looking like it was hiding mount Fuji. Tsukishima took a moment to appreciate his boss in his ravishing beauty, swimming into his pitch black eyes, gazing upon his soft, pale skin… This was going to be the ticket to the freaks club, where he was going to spend the rest of his mortal life among honorary members such as Private Usami Tokishige, whose orgasm neighing was feared in all military barracks, and Private Ogata Hyakunosuke, who was rumored to hump his rifle. A man has to acknowledge his demons before they consume him. The 7th Division was a real feast for Satan’s subjects.
“I like your ankles, sir.”
Tsurumi looked both baffled and intrigued, his body still propped on the footrest.
“Quite a lot.”
The silence that followed was one of deep meditation, both parties contemplating the implied meaning of those words. Eventually, Tsukishima got up and scanned the floor for a quick way out of that maze.
“I’m sure Koito will be back by now. I’ll call on him,” was the last cry of a desperate man, drowning in embarrassment and rice paper.
“Come here, Sergeant.”
Oh, how he dreaded that softly spoken command. It was one of those commands that caught you by the throat and pinned you to your post. It was also one of those commands that made your trousers impossibly uncomfortable, no matter size or material.
Tsukishima had to change course and drag himself to the fireplace, where a skimpily dressed Tsurumi was waiting. There’s no way of talking someone out of their bizarre fetish, so whatever was to follow had to be some sort of warning to keep the thing quiet with the others, something Tsukishima already excelled at.
“Kneel.”
This was not happening. Tsurumi was not pushing him to the floor. He was not putting his naked ankle in his hands, untied shoe still dangling from his toes like a common slipper. It was grotesque to say the least, but hell, Tsukishima was hard at the sight of soft skin with hard bone poking at the sides, just above the foot. He was entranced by the way something so thin and elegant could support a body heavy with muscles. A drop of unidentified liquid dripped on his cheek, reminding him that he was sharing that intimate moment not with the ankle, but with the person attached to it.
“Fuck, sir. Are you alright?”
He was about to jump up, when Tsurumi gestured for him to stay put.
“You’re losing brain fluid,” Sergeant noted, worried that the spectacle might’ve given his boss quite the shock. It’s not every day that you get looked at in the ankle with misplaced arousal.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s weird, I know.”
Tsukishima let go of the Lieutenant and bowed, his heart racing with fear of having exposed him to something so twisted, so... repulsive.
“Not at all, my dear. It’s just… Well, the expression you make. It’s really hot.”
There are a few things that can be said about someone who is looking enthused over the bony part of someone else’s leg, but ‘hot’ doesn’t figure among them.
“You’re sure you’re alright with it, sir?” Tsukishima enquired, ready to go back to things as they were before his ankle awakening. A single word would suffice to end that absurd show of humanity’s most extravagant cravings, but nothing did come out of Tsurumi’s mouth. The Lieutenant just gave him a very suggestive look through streaks of viscous brain goo that’d make anyone with no knowledge of Tsurumi’s most gruesome party trick gag. So what if it was weird? What if he’d always been a freak, even before he could blame the war for it?
“Bite it.”
Tsukishima looked up again and this time he couldn’t tell if Tsurumi was experiencing pain or desire. He leaned til his lips reached naked skin, teeth barely grazing.
“Don’t go easy on me, Sergeant. I want it to sting.”
The biting made Tsurumi shiver with unknown pleasure, something dark and masochistic that no one but Tsukishima could stir inside him. He closed his eyes and imagined himself on the battlefield, bullet piercing his flesh where he was being bitten, severing nerves. He was falling to the floor, helpless, crushed under the weight of a thousand men, in a spiral of sweat and blood. And his Sergeant was there, digging him out of that infernal embrace, carrying him even when he couldn’t walk anymore.
“Does it hurt, sir?”
Tsukishima was kissing the red mark he’d left on the skin, lips and tongue running over the abused ankle.
“God, you make me lose myself,” whispered Tsurumi, wiping his eyes with a sleeve. Hands still wet, he slipped them between the folds of the yukata.
Tsukishima’s heart almost gave out when he noticed how Tsurumi was trying to quietly stroke himself, stifled little moans escaping his lips despite all efforts. The second bite was soft, barely there, and this time Tsukishima hummed into it, too gone to register how wanton he sounded. He loved the salty taste of skin, the high he felt when it tensed under his tongue. Tsurumi’s ankle fit in his palm, so he couldn’t help but wonder if he had enough strength to crush it. When he tightened the grip, he received a high-pitched whine that set him on fire. It took all of his self-control to leave the ankle to the care of his hands, and devote his mouth to more pressing matters. Tsurumi felt his head spinning as Tsukishima wrapped his lips around the tip of his erection. He had been edging himself since the second bite, and that was just enough to bring him dangerously close to a climax.
“You’re going to make me come,” he whined, placing a hand on Tsukishima’s shoulder for better balance. His ankle was starting to hurt in the Sergeant’s palm, so tightly squeezed it felt like blood had been cut off. It was painful, and yet the intensity of it was even better than the tongue running over his shaft. He couldn’t see anything, his vision blurred by the brain liquid. He was aching for release, and he did found it at last, the grip on his ankle bordering torture. Tsukishima relished in swallowing the hot pumps of cum that hit his tongue and the back of his throat. He was so out of it he almost let Tsurumi’s ankle go, but the Lieutenant moaned in protest when he felt Tsukishima’s grip loosening.
“I want… I want you to come on it.”
Now, there’s a limit to what one allows himself to desire. Not even in his wildest dreams, did Tsukishima take into account the possibility of actually jerking off to Tsurumi’s ankles. When the man himself suggested it, though, it felt almost as natural as breathing. Although Tsukishima had no right to determine what was or wasn’t natural, not after what he had just done to his boss’s lower leg joint. He unbuttoned his trousers and eased himself out of the fundoshi. It came as no surprise that he was hard, dripping at the tip, not to mention a few strokes away from coming. Most of rationality had already left his brain for good, but he managed to stop his last two functioning brain cells to check with Tsurumi if the previous suggestion had not just been some nonsense spouted in the haze of orgasm. After he’d been reassured that ‘yes, I want you to paint it with cum’, and prompted to ‘get on with it and stop being so self-conscious’, he proceeded to line his cock with the ankle he’d slicked with bites and kisses. It wasn’t as comfortable as your average frotting but the sight of his marks on Tsurumi’s skin did excite him to the point it didn’t take long to fulfil Tsurumi’s request. The utter lack of poetry of it all was quite alarming, with Tsukishima cursing under his breath and Tsurumi voicing a few inappropriate remarks on how he appreciated having his ankle covered in come.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tsukishima panted, red with sheer mortification for what he’d just done. To make matters worse, Tsurumi grimaced when he put his foot on the carpet.
“I’ll go fetch some pomade.”
“It’s not bad, see? I can walk.”
To Tsukishima that looked more like limping disguised as a nonchalant strut.
“That’s it, I’m calling the doctor,” was his answer, and this time there were no ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ about it. As he made it for the door, Tsurumi cleared his throat.
“So, what do you think?”
Tsukishima looked at Tsurumi’s face, then looked down at the shoes he was wearing.
“I like the blue ones best.”