daily15 - Untitled
AAAAAAAAARGH THIS PIECE SUCKS. I may need to retool (uh huh huh, "tool") it when I have some time. Anyway: implied man-on-man s3xx0rz, Shirôzaemon x Yukichi, mild submission. Have fun.
Le mot du jour was "heightened".
On a winter's night in Edo, Yukichi kneels at Shirôzaemon's feet, face flushed and moist from sweat, eyes deep with longing, and awaits the next light touch, the next chaste kiss. If one didn't know better, one might almost think he was awaiting permission: to touch, to love, to serve, to give pleasure. Here, in this house, with this man, the rônin's arousal is heightened beyond anything, and one touch will set him off.
Shirôzaemon knows this, and is deliberately, punishingly slow; his fingers trace, gently, the curve of the rônin's lower lip, and he feels Yukichi's teeth nip at him in return. "No." Chastened, Yukichi nods, eyes half-closed, and retreats a little--he is not bound and shackled, as he would dearly love to be, but Shirôzaemon can see the bonds, even if Yukichi can't.
He bends forward to plant a kiss in the thick, dark hair, grown unruly from months on the road; Yukichi always shows up underweight and unshaven, and grateful to be taken care of again after such a long time. Shirôzaemon's hand touches the rônin's face, lingers on his neck; he can feel Yukichi's heartbeat and the rise and fall of his breathing, almost more intimate than anything the two of them have done here, together, in this bed.
Yukichi leans forward, lips grazing Shirôzaemon's upper arm; he makes a quiet, husky sound, and then manages, more articulately, "Please."
Shirôzaemon smiles. "Not yet." In the next room, Shinichiro is still in the process of going to bed; he'd rather wait until the boy has drifted off. He would rather cherish the illusion that nobody knows about this, even though it is patently obvious to everyone who isn't him.
Yukichi bites his lip and whines, pushing closer; in the firelight, he is golden rather than brown, as luminous as an old screen. His hand rests on Shirôzaemon's thigh, fingers splayed, and never quite so hesitant to move without permission as it is now.
"My dearest. Wait. It won't be much longer, I promise." For all the pain Yukichi has put him through, for all the things that he has done because of and for the rônin, he can't help but feel tenderness for the bowed, submissive figure before him.
Yukichi smiles. "All right."
In his heart, he murmurs, Yes, my Lord.
Le mot du jour was "heightened".
On a winter's night in Edo, Yukichi kneels at Shirôzaemon's feet, face flushed and moist from sweat, eyes deep with longing, and awaits the next light touch, the next chaste kiss. If one didn't know better, one might almost think he was awaiting permission: to touch, to love, to serve, to give pleasure. Here, in this house, with this man, the rônin's arousal is heightened beyond anything, and one touch will set him off.
Shirôzaemon knows this, and is deliberately, punishingly slow; his fingers trace, gently, the curve of the rônin's lower lip, and he feels Yukichi's teeth nip at him in return. "No." Chastened, Yukichi nods, eyes half-closed, and retreats a little--he is not bound and shackled, as he would dearly love to be, but Shirôzaemon can see the bonds, even if Yukichi can't.
He bends forward to plant a kiss in the thick, dark hair, grown unruly from months on the road; Yukichi always shows up underweight and unshaven, and grateful to be taken care of again after such a long time. Shirôzaemon's hand touches the rônin's face, lingers on his neck; he can feel Yukichi's heartbeat and the rise and fall of his breathing, almost more intimate than anything the two of them have done here, together, in this bed.
Yukichi leans forward, lips grazing Shirôzaemon's upper arm; he makes a quiet, husky sound, and then manages, more articulately, "Please."
Shirôzaemon smiles. "Not yet." In the next room, Shinichiro is still in the process of going to bed; he'd rather wait until the boy has drifted off. He would rather cherish the illusion that nobody knows about this, even though it is patently obvious to everyone who isn't him.
Yukichi bites his lip and whines, pushing closer; in the firelight, he is golden rather than brown, as luminous as an old screen. His hand rests on Shirôzaemon's thigh, fingers splayed, and never quite so hesitant to move without permission as it is now.
"My dearest. Wait. It won't be much longer, I promise." For all the pain Yukichi has put him through, for all the things that he has done because of and for the rônin, he can't help but feel tenderness for the bowed, submissive figure before him.
Yukichi smiles. "All right."
In his heart, he murmurs, Yes, my Lord.