Ouran High School Host Club, Kyouya/Tamaki, courtesan
“We are the beautiful inheritors of a proud tradition.” Tamaki draped himself along a sofa, eyes closed, the back of one hand resting against his forehead while the other trailed elegantly off the edge of the couch. He was the very picture of stylish ennui, and Kyouya wondered privately whether he practiced at home to achieve the effect.
“We are the financially solvent inheritors of a proud tradition,” Kyouya corrected him. “No thanks to your recent efforts.”
Tamaki waved carelessly in his direction. “Money is no object. What could be more important than providing companionship and entertainment to our lovely young ladies?”
Kyouya pressed a few more keys on his laptop to transfer some of the Club’s assets into a higher return portfolio. For the latest Club activity, Tamaki had decided they should acknowledge their historical precedents, and had dressed them all as courtesans in the French tradition. Careful innuendo about her debts had convinced Haruhi to wear a powdered wig and a hoop skirt, much to the delight of the twins, who spent two weeks designing her elaborate, pearl be-draped dress.
The rest of them had wiggled into thick brocade waistcoats and pants that could only be described as ridiculously confining. The twins had taken on their preferred orange and green color scheme, while Honey and Mori’s costumes had been fashioned in the traditional colors of their respective houses. Kyouya had settled on all black, to reinforce his unapproachable persona and to complement Tamaki’s choice of pure white.
It had gone well, the girls had been delighted, and at the end of evening Kyouya’s clever decision to auction Haruhi’s fan and the twins’ masks kept them financially in the black despite the expensive costumes and rococo decorations. The others had gone home; it was only himself and Tamaki remaining -- Kyouya to finish his bookkeeping for the day and Tamaki to annoy him, as far as Kyouya could tell.
The computer beeped at him: the funds from the auctions had been transferred into their account and would begin earning interest in the morning. Kyouya closed the laptop and stretched his arms.
Tamaki turned his head lazily and opened his eyes. The lipstick he’d donned for the evening was still mostly intact, leaving his mouth a plush red stain against his white skin, and setting off his beautiful indigo-blue eyes. He’d gone for historical accuracy and worn the white facial powder favored by many courtesans, so his skin was even more pale and exotic than usual. Kyouya felt a low stirring in his spine, and wondered again why anyone would willingly wear pants as tight as the French courtiers apparently had.
Kyouya crossed to Tamaki’s couch and seated himself on the edge, in the curve of Tamaki’s body. “You know, in history courtesans were beholden to the benefactors who made sure they were funded,” he said, running his fingers affectionately through Tamaki’s hair.
Tamaki’s mouth curved into a gently calculating smile. “Why Kyouya, are you suggesting that I compensate you with my body?” Tamaki reached up and grasped his wrist, pulling his hand down so that Tamaki could swipe his tongue teasingly across the palm.
“I suggested nothing, but since you mention it --.” They smiled at each other.
“Well, my lord, if you insist,” Tamaki murmured and batted his eyes, nearly laughing. “But you know, in history, courtesans got to dictate liaisons on their own terms.”
“You have terms?”
“Maybe.” Tamaki’s smile grew lazy and self-satisfied. Kyouya arched an eyebrow.
“Well?”
Tamaki reached up and drew him down into a kiss, holding his face carefully with both hands. Kyouya nuzzled up under his chin, sniffing at the powder that got on his eyelashes.
“Tell me?” Kyouya asked gently, pressing his nose to the delicate skin below Tamaki’s ear and feeling Tamaki shudder beneath him.
“I want you to ride me.” Tamaki turned his head and found Kyouya’s mouth again, more intense this time, less careful.
“Yeah,” Kyouya breathed, “Yeah okay.”
Tamaki’s hands scrabbled at his trouser to push them down and off. Kyouya helped, wiggling until their clothes were dumped unceremoniously on the floor beside the couch.
“Do you have stuff?” Kyouya asked, shifting to grind down until the friction went beyond good.