[NO TRUE PAIR] A Logical Progression; Hiru/Sanga, Auberon/Malus
Title: A Logical Progression Fandom: Original (Against the Moon – University AU) Character/s: Hiru, Sanga, Kir, Landre, Auberon, Malus Words: 2 471 Prompt: June 1-7, the beginning of Auberon and Malus’ passionate love affair. Notes: PORN.CRACK. All right, yes, crack/porn. All these things and more! I think the initial point of this was rimming, but we never quite made it, much to Sanga’s disappointment. In purely technical terms, past tense was a bad choice for porn. Also, less is more when it comes to detail. But, oh well. Have fun, guys.
Stretched out on his stomach with the sun’s heat dissolving his bones, Hiru should have been well past the point where the outside world was of consequence. Instead, the small, persistent sounds of the pool boy were enough to keep him aware of the day around him: the hum that occasionally broke into murmured words, often in terrible taste (whether because of vulgarity, or the distaste that Hiru held for the band in question), the quiet slosh as leaves were scooped from the surface, or the chemicals were properly mixed.
The sensation that he was being watched did not help, either, but he smirked into the crook of his arm as, in the next seat over, O’Beron’s newspaper rustled. The pool boy could look at whatever he liked, as long as he remained aware that whatever he looked at belonged to the master of the house.
With this in mind, he stretched, a slow writhe with a calculated, strangled moan of satisfaction, and smiled through his eyelashes as O’Beron glanced sideways briefly and reached out to rest a hand just below the curve of Hiru’s ass, squeezing gently before returning his attention to his newspaper. The hand remained, to rub small circles with the thumb just below the hem of Hiru’s shorts.
Hiru hummed appreciation and arched under the caress, and waited very patiently for the remaining two minutes before he could roll onto his back and start tanning his stomach again.
*
He had meant to finish his assignment, of course, but O’Beron was a near-constant and pleasant enough distraction, and when all that was necessary for an extension was to do that thing with his tongue one more time, he figured that his grades wouldn’t suffer too badly. Or at least, not if O’Beron knew what was good for him – and he always knew what was good for him, Hiru thought as he eyed the man from the fifth row of the lecture hall, close enough for eye contact, far enough away not to attract too much suspicion. It was one of his charms.
Another of his charms was that he always knew what he wanted.
This remained charming until Hiru slipped into O’Beron’s office after class to save the professor from a long, boring evening bent over his desk, only to find that while O’Beron was in fact bent over his desk, he was also bent over another student.
Who was flat on his back in the paperwork and made frantic mewling noises when the door closed behind Hiru, and O’Beron jerked upright and stilled at the sound. For a moment they stared at each other, while the boy on the desk thrashed and clawed at O’Beron’s shoulder’s in frustration.
“Oh,” said Hiru. “Pardon me, professor. I should have knocked.”
It was a miracle, he thought later, that he made it out the door, let alone out of the building, without anything showing in his face. It was a miracle, but not miracle enough to save his pride.
*
Kondekir found him face down on a table in the student bar, weighed down with fury and self-loathing more than alcohol. He’d done his best on his paltry paycheck, but some part of him knew all too well that without O’Beron he was going to have to keep a closer eye on money, and putting himself into dire financial straits just to help himself deal with this would not be a sensible start.
Therefore he welcomed Kondekir for two reasons: first, because the librarian was prudent and reassuring and would undoubtedly be able to cheer him up; second, because the bartender was besotted with him and would now proceed to ply him with drink in the hopes that he would one day realise how desperately he longed to date her (which Kondekir did not approve of on principal, and so all those drinks would go straight to Hiru; do pass go; do not blow two hundred dollars).
Watching the pair of them interact was something Hiru could hardly bear when sober. Watching them through cocktail-tinted glasses opened up a great sucking vortex in his chest and brought back the image of the boy on the desk. Hiru had seen him in classes before. Talking to O’Beron after lectures. He’d never liked the bastard’s face, and the leer that tugged at Landre’s lips was a scarlet mirror of the other... the other...
“I-really-think-I-ought-to-get-him-home,
” said Kondekir all at once, eyes focused with great determination and interest on anything that wasn’t Landre, or attached to her. Hiru’s face was mashed against Kondekir’s collarbone when the barmistress closed his fingers on a small packet and murmured distantly, throatily, something about it being on the house. Hiru pocketed the twist of paper before Kir could get a look at it, the librarian’s voice jangling through the inside of his head and ricocheting incomprehensibly off his skull walls.
Home was small and filthy and he refused most adamantly when Kondekir tried to put him to bed, because bed had not been changed since last night when O’Beron had—
He didn’t start crying until Kondekir was gone, and by the time he stopped it was only because he was sober enough to realise he was cold, sitting on the floor of the bathroom with the side of his face resting against the porcelain, leaking mucus and bile into the toilet bowl. He showered, which helped until he used the shampoo that O’Beron so often commented on, and when he kicked at the crumpled pile of his clothes and Landre’s paper packet went skittering out across the floor, it only seemed like the next logical step.
His stomach gnawed at him as he laid out the necessary materials. He hadn’t done this much before; just enough to know what he was doing, really. He stared at the neat lines for a long time, knees up to his chest, trying to press the edges of that gaping wound together. He called for pizza, and resolved that by the time it arrived, one way or another, the powder would be gone.
*
The powder was gone, but its effects were just taking hold, and so when Hiru made it to the door he was connected only distantly to the pain in his chest. His limbs were vague and surreal, and the pizza boy was tall and dark and pleasantly familiar, and laughed with him when he realised he had forgotten to bring his money to the door.
Hiru got to the coffee table and got his wallet open and sat down hard on the couch, mesmerised by a terrible photograph of O’Beron he had cut from a gazette that was all but stuck to the clear plastic sleeve it was in. Hiru only realised he was supposed to be doing something else when he heard the pizza boy’s voice beside him, and by then he had remembered why the pizza boy was familiar.
“You’re the pool boy,” he blurted, still struggling to extract the photograph, and the pizza boy set down the box on Hiru’s crowded coffee table and sat down next to Hiru on the couch.
“Sanga,” he corrected, and held out a large, long-fingered hand. “Do you need help with that?”
Hiru handed him the wallet and watched as, without difficulty, Sanga separated the photograph and the plastic sleeve and offered both back to Hiru. His nails were long and some of them were coloured with what looked like blue biro. “Thankyou,” he said, and set about shredding the photograph into confetti. When he was finished, there were tears in his eyes again and a lump in his throat, but he asked again, anyway, “How much do I owe you for the pizza? Sanga,” he added belatedly, and the boy’s dark eyes crinkled.
“Let’s say it’s on the house.”
The smile was familiar, even though Hiru had usually thought of it as more of a smirk – something in the arch of the eyebrows and the half-lidded darkness of his eyes. He started to refuse – just because he had clearly just been dumped didn’t mean he needed handouts from a pizza boy – pool boy – but his mouth was part of that distant tangle of open wounds, and it said, without him, “Share?” And Sanga laughed, throaty and genuine, and reached for the pizza box. His nails were lacquered some poisonous blend of black and midnight blue, and he offered the first slice to Hiru.
Their fingers brushed then, and when Sanga offered the next slice, and when they both reached for a third, simultaneously. The pizza box was empty on Sanga’s lap when Hiru leaned close and thanked him for the meal, and without thinking about it very hard pressed a lazy kiss to Sanga’s mouth. There was grease on Sanga’s lips, and so he licked them, and after that it was a logical progression.
Sanga’s wide, expressive lips parted at the first swipe, and at the second their tongues grazed, arched like cats against each other. Sanga’s mouth was cool and faintly saline from the pizza, and in the back of his mind, Hiru had vague, uneasy thoughts about the relative healthiness of rebounds, but that only lasted until Sanga’s right hand ran over his back and onto the back of his neck, not pressing him close, but massaging gently.
Hiru felt his jaw slacken at the same moment that he heard the pizza hit the floor, but then he was kneeling on either side of Sanga’s thighs on the threadbare couch, pressed against the pool boy’s broad chest as the left hand slipped beneath the back of his shirt and those long, clever fingers stroked along the small of his back. His hands were splayed on either side of Sanga’s collarbone; it didn’t take much thought to lift the left to tangle in his dark hair or drop the other to palm Sanga’s nipple through his shirt. Sanga nipped at his lower lip, and Hiru needed no further encouragement.
He had noticed in the past, idly, that the pool boy’s hands were large. He had not imagined how they would feel in the small of his back, warming swiftly to skin temperature and then to something far higher than that as they skimmed over his shoulderblades. He had not imagined how much skin they could cover, how cradled and protected they could make him feel. Sanga tilted his head, angling further, deeper, with his tongue until Hiru had to break away, dizzied by chemical assistance and his own fevered imaginings of what those long fingers could do. Certainly they were wasted on his spine. Sanga took advantage of the pause to trail his fingertips from Hiru’s shoulderblades to his pectorals, jerking pointedly at the bunched hem of his shirt.
“Off,” he said, iris and pupil indistinguishable, and as Hiru complied, his hands skimmed downward, over ribs, past hips, to grip Hiru’s thighs and grind. Hiru curled into the sensation with an indistinct sound, braced against Sanga’s shoulder as he struggled to disentangle himself from the fabric. As soon as his hands were free, he braced himself and opened his mouth against the pool boy’s neck, working down the jugular with lips and tongue until the collar of Sanga’s uniform prevented further exploration. The frustrated addition of teeth only prompted a harsher sound of approval.
“Share,” Hiru suggested, for the second time that night, and above his head, Sanga let out a breathless chuckle. The suggestion didn’t seem such a good one when Sanga’s hands left his thigh, his hip, and he had to slide backward to give the other man room. But then the shirt was gone and Sanga leaned forward, loomed above him with broad shoulders and hungry intensity, and the idea became good, better, best. Sanga’s tongue slid molten over his ribs, his stomach, and the swirl of it around, inside, his navel was ample distraction as the pool boy’s fingers found the drawstring of his pants and dragged them slowly downward.
Hiru’s hands clenched in the pool boy’s hair when Sanga mouthed him through his underwear. When that, too, was gone, Sanga’s hands closed around his hips like hot iron clamps and Hiru could only writhe and swear breathlessly at his ceiling as the pool boy’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock. Sanga took his time lapping patiently down toward the base, smirking against the sensitive flesh whenever Hiru squirmed or voiced impatience. He paused long enough for Hiru to open his eyes, to look down, breathing carefully, for the hands in his hair to exert encouranging pressure. He licked the slit at the tip, the moisture beading there. And then, eyes on Hiru’s, Sanga tightened his grip on Hiru’s hips. His lips parted over the head and he pressed smoothly forward, taking Hiru in all the way to the hilt.
Hiru’s back bowed, his head pressed back into the arm of the lounge, eyes fluttering. Sanga deep-throated him twice, three times, and on the fourth descent, swallowed slowly around him. Hiru’s hands clawed, one in Sanga’s hair, the other rising to score his own stomach, his throat. His teeth fastened onto his first knuckle and he stifled his moans around it. Sanga’s eyes were sly behind his dark fringe, and Hiru’s hips strained against the pressure of the pool boy’s hands when he hummed, long and low around Hiru’s cock, and another calculated swallow was all it took to finish him. Hiru didn’t even manage to gasp warning before his spine curled, hips jerking spasimodically beneath the bruising pressure of Sanga’s fingers, but the pool boy milked every drop with an expression of great satisfaction, and left a lingering kiss on the tip as he pulled away.
Hiru’s hand was still clenched in his hair. Remembering how to unlock his fingers was more troublesome than he had expected it to be, somehow, and Sanga’s dark chuckle vibrating through his chest did nothing to solve that problem. The pool boy kissed him again, open-mouthed and lazy, and then nibbled at his lower lip, his hands tracing up and down Hiru’s sides.
“You should order pizza more often,” he rasped, and then huffed reluctantly against the side of Hiru’s neck. “My shift isn’t over for hours.” There was something in his voice which implied that this was the only thing saving Hiru from being thoroughly and methodically exhausted. The mere thought sent a new flare of desire washing over his skin.
“I think I’d rather own a pool,” Hiru murmured, and this time the breath across his collar was amused.
“I also tutor in noirant philosophy,” Sanga pointed out. “Which I think you will soon be failing.” He pressed another slow kiss against Hiru’s neck, and the younger man shivered pleasantly.
“Only if I have anything to say about it,” he agreed.