|Ivory and Horn (ivoryandhorn) wrote in fictunes,|
@ 2008-10-03 22:55:00
|Entry tags:||characters: masataka/souma, fandom: sakuragari, month: oct 08, writer: ivoryandhorn|
[Sakura Gari] "The Walls Are Crumbling", Souma--> Masataka, worksafe
Title: The Walls Are Crumbling
Fandom: Sakura Gari
Characters: Souma --> Masataka
Warnings: m/m; comments getting a little spoiler-y so be careful
Music: Meredith Brooks - "What Would Happen If We Kissed?"
Summary: I struggle with myself again / Quickly the walls are crumblin' / Don't know if I can turn away
Notes: Set during Chapter 2. I feel like the language is a little out of joint with canon, but I really like it. I was originally writing something else to this song when the Sakura Gari part bashed me over the head and I had to get it down fast or lose it.
ETA: OKAY clearly it is too late for me to be posting anything because I totally blanked out on Masataka's name and put his brother's instead. *facepalm*
It is wrong of me to have done it. I know it is. Masataka is pure, white as the skin that covers his thighs and chest and back, as the skin that I didn’t mean to see, but did that night by the well.
The sight of his narrow hips and coltish arms won’t leave my dreams now. I sleep, but Masataka, sweet Masataka who would be so delicious, yes, so tasty to pick apart like all the other fresh-faced students who wander into my arms, and no no no I shouldn’t, I won’t.
But it’s driving me insane, just the thought of it, of well-water sluicing down his body, of chasing water droplets down his stomach with my tongue and of slipping his cock between my lips and seeing his pretty face flush all over again and no no no Masataka, he’s pure, he’s good, he’s not like that, he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t. But I want that.
I’m not pure like he is, I’m not clean like he is, perhaps I never was and I know I never will be; no matter how many times I bathe, the well-water cannot wash my stains away. Not like Masataka, who doesn’t, shouldn’t have any stains at all.
That’s when I came up with the plan.
I wasn’t sure if I would do it, because I was afraid that maybe giving in just a little, just a bit, might be enough to stain Masataka and I didn’t want to do that, even just a little—but it was the pen that did it, it was the pen you see: that was what made me decide I had to see him like that again, just once more and never again. It was the pen in his sweet mouth, cap slicked with spit and teasing and taunting me while he looked the papers and I thought I might die, because a pen could have that but I never would. And that’s when I decided for sure, that’s when I knew I didn’t deserve someone as clean and pure as Masataka. But I went ahead anyway because if I didn’t deserve him then it was only a matter of time before he would be gone, wouldn’t it? I should enjoy as much of him as I can before he finally leaves.
So then I asked him to come to the party with me even though I could deal with Kanako perfectly well on my own, and then I gave him the clothes and I knew, I knew that he would change there and all I had to do was turn my back to him and look into the windows to see the reflection of his kimono rustling down his shoulders, revealing his smooth chest, still hairless, nipples pink and peaked in the night chill. I could have watched him all I wanted, and he would have been none the wiser.
I could. I could. But I couldn’t.
Masataka is too pure for me, I already knew that. I had already decided that I didn’t want to taint him, already promised myself to keep at least him, just him, pure when he left this house. Why did I keep taunting myself? Why did I ask for this need I wouldn’t ever fulfill?
The windowsill would be interesting to look at, I told myself, so let’s look at it but oh oh oh I could still see out of the corner of my eye, the way he looked so young with just my shirt hanging off him no no no look away, look down, look at the windowsill. Ah, it was dusty. I would have to have a word with Katou about that.
But he wants me to help him with his bowtie. I can do that, I told myself. I wanted to call the whole thing off, to throw him out, to end this now because it had been nothing but a mistake, even coming up with this foolish idea. No, no. Calm. It’s just a bowtie. He’s already dressed. You won’t have to see anything.
But I turned around and he looked at me, eyes too wide and bright for someone like me, lips parted just enough to fit my tongue and I wondered if it was breaking a promise if you’d only made it to yourself.