Trio Maxwell-Chang (trio) wrote in ironman7, @ 2007-09-01 02:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | ouran host club, trio, week 2: prompt 1 |
Ouran Host Club (Kyouya/Tamaki) [Week 2, Prompt 1]
Title: Written Passion
Author: trio
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Voyeurism, masturbation, sex, male/male
Word Count: 1064
Summary: Kyouya decides that merely watching isn't enough.
Sometimes, what we think simple turns out to be the most complex thing in the world. I'm tired of the game, tired of the playing around, though I know it's no such thing to him. I'm tired of him taking his pleasure before me, like some offering to a god neither of us believe in. And then he stands on shaky legs, moving to take his handkerchief from his pocket and clean up with it before putting on street clothes. He hesitates at the door, not quite looking at me, and then he leaves without saying a word, and I am left in the room alone, watching the last faint rays of the sun, or sometimes the moon as it peeks past the horizon. I have to wait for my slacks to loosen, and then I pick up the costume he abandoned, taking care of it so that we won't pay a fortune come the next rental. And then I leave.
It's a simple, uncomfortable, incredibly intimate little dance we have, and I'm tired of it. I know this so certainly within myself, and I already have a plan in mind, one that required but a few minor props. From there, I wait. He's unpredictable in this, sometimes needing release more than once in a week, sometimes going for nearly a month. Lately, they've come closer together. This time, I'm kept waiting only a couple of days before he turns to me, and I read the plea in his eyes. He's never once asked for this from me. It's always been a silent thing, and like every time before, I silently follow him into the room, moving to sit in the chair he favors. He waits, then shuts the door, turning off the lights and discarding his costume along the way. And I wait... wait as he walks toward the window, taking his place in front of it on his knees. I wait as he begins to stroke, hands moving delicately over his cock, then faster and faster, his breath speeding up with shuddering need. He's always hard from the beginning, and I've often wondered if it's my own gaze that makes him need so much.
Casually, I withdraw the instruments of his torture. That single act breaks the delicate bond between us, though he doesn't see. Those beautiful eyes are closed to me, his attention wholly on his own pleasure. I wonder if he can feel the weight of my gaze on him as I toe off my shoes, padding silently across to where he kneels. Up close, he is no longer a silhouette. Instead, I see the gleam of sweat on his body, and the way his chest heaves with each breath. Up close, I can see the delicate tongue poking out just a little in concentration, and hear the light grunts of passion that he indulges in. The sound alone goes straight to my groin, swelling in need. "Lay back," I command, and his eyes shoot open, shock and hesitation mingled in the question he does not ask. I wait for the fear to arrive, for something in his expression to tell me that I've gone too far. But nothing comes, and finally, he sags backwards, somehow graceful as his body melts into the carpet, laying pliant for me.
I tap the black marker against my lips as I watch him for a long minute, deciding just what I'm going to do. And then the question is past, and the markers clatter to the floor beside him. My clothes quickly follow suit, the shirt crumpling into a puddle and the starched jacket sagging slowly down. I pick up the marker again, uncapping it even as I straddle him, our cocks rubbing together lightly. And I lean over, brows furrowed in concentration. I know so very much about him now, so much more than he really ever purposefully shared with me. I'm going to prove that to him, to prove that I know everything... one word at a time.
He giggles at first, when the soft fibers of the felt-tip tickle his skin, and I hiss at him to be silent. And then he is, mostly, his chest and head held tightly but his hips lifting with each word I write, rubbing into me, proving how badly he needs me. We'll get home late from school, I realize, and I can't bring myself to care. Because there he is under me, pliant and placid, his eyes burning with desperate need that only I can fill. His chest is quickly turning black with carefully penned notes. It is him, his story written on his skin, and somehow, the thought of it excites me even more.
As I dig deeper into my subject matter to write, I move downward, shifting in until I am now kneeling between his legs, my tip at his entrance. He is dry, we have nothing at all, and yet he welcomes me in. My writing is derailed for that, stopped cold as I push bit by minute bit into him, going as slow as humanly possible when discovering such a treasure. I suspect, sadly, that he may just have spoiled me to others. If he has, perhaps I'll fine him for it.
He needs my eyes on him, I write down the length of his cock, loving the way his ass clenches my arousal, and the way his hips twist and jerk despite my attempts to still them. He likes to play with himself in front of others... in front of me. Each touch of pen on skin is a torture, but one he loves. It becomes harder to write as I slide slowly into him, or feel his hips buck at each touch. But still I write, covering him in ink as I fill him with my passion.
When my notes are finished, I stretch out full length atop him and thrust... thrust... thrust, hard as I can. He thrusts back, sweat pooling between us as we each find our release. When I get off of him later, we are both black, my notes rubbed to illegibility by our bodies. I rest my cheek against his, panting and clinging as I gather strength to talk. But he beats me before I can say anything at all, answering what I feared to ask. "This is right...."
And I agree.