House Kougarou (part 2) [Saiunkoku Monogatari, Ryuuki/Kouyuu, R]
Title: House Kougarou (part 2)
Author/Artist: grey_damaskena
Rating: R
Warnings: crack!
Prompt: Saiunkoku, Ryuuki/Kouyuu: harem - one of many.
Word count: 2,978
Summary: Another take on Saiunkoku, based on a single question: what if Saiunkoku were matrilenear?
A/N: I couldn't finish this on time because it ended up being a great deal longer than expected; my humblest apologies. Nor is it exactly in line with the prompt, or it only complies in a loose sense. As usual my brain is long-winded and full of crack. This is part 2; please note the change in rating from part 1. A link to the previous section will precede the cut.
House Kougarou: part 1
House Kougarou: part 2
They had respected his careful attempt to keep his title off of their books downstairs, but this man was making it clear that he knew exactly who Kouyuu was. Surprisingly Kouyuu found himself appreciating that honesty; in his experience it was a rare thing. He hadn't thought about it before, but suddenly he felt rude holding someone else's scroll without having asked permission. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "I shouldn't have gone poking through your things."
"I don't mind," the courtesan said, angling his head. "You found the Den Sou, I see."
The familiar and casual reference to the great poet brought Kouyuu's enthusiasm rushing back. "It's incredible! An original copy-- where did you get this?"
"It was a gift," Ryuuki said. "If you bring it over to the desk, it'll be easier to look at it."
It was an eminently sensible suggestion. Kouyuu spread the scroll there, and Ryuuki took two matching weight-bars from the scholar's set to hold down the edges, then adjusted the lamps to show the delicate work at its best. They went over it slowly, one poem at a time, pausing to appreciate the occasional inked illustrations that separated them. One poem made reference to an earlier work by another poet, and Ryuuki fetched a copy of the volume in question from the shelf. He asked questions, too, thoughtful questions, and Kouyuu was only too glad to answer, and likewise glad when the courtesan fetched the jug of plum wine and cups from the other table so they could drink as they talked. He had been too busy working to enjoy literature recently, and it was pleasant to have attentive listener who shared his interest.
"I wasn't expecting . . . this," Kouyuu said, gesturing with his winecup at the books and scrolls on the desk. The wine made him feel pleasant, warm and faintly heady, and a great deal more relaxed than he had been when he arrived. Or perhaps it was simply the poems-- here was ground he understood, a subject with which he felt perfectly at home.
Ryuuki smiled at him, a surprisingly sweet smile tinged with the shadow of the wine. "It's a hobby," he explained. "I like poetry. I have the time to indulge it, although my library is still quite small. I've been building it slowly, ever since I first read 'Song over Moon Bridge.'"
"I . . . don't know that one," Kouyuu said, surprised. "Who is it by?"
"Zhu Xe . . . I've only ever seen it in one book, though, years ago. But I can write it out for you."
He leaned past Kouyuu, their hips bumping together, and pulled the carved inkstone over to him. He uncovered it with practiced movements, added the water, and began grinding the ink. But it felt as if that accidental touch had opened up a door in Kouyuu's perception, as he had opened the cabinet door to reveal the spines of books. His eyes caught on the courtesan's hands, noticing the long, elegant fingers, the confident and sure way they held the inkstick. Ryuuki had brushed back his sleeves to keep them out of the way, and his bared arms were glazed with the warm light of the lamps. Kouyuu looked at his face and found it intent on his task, his blond bangs swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the strokes that ground the ink. Making ink was something that Kouyuu did every day, but never before had it been so mesmerizing.
When Ryuuki took up the brush it was with easy proficiency, and he held it gracefully as he dipped it in the ink. He smoothed the paper in preparation with the splayed fingers of his other hand, and his face became serene as he concentrated. His hand danced over the paper as he wrote, and his calligraphy-- it was obvious that he'd studied. He wrote in the semi-cursive script, and the characters were clear and well-formed but still elegant due to the trailing brush that sometimes connected the strokes.
"Li Yong," Kouyuu identified the mark of the master calligrapher's style in that balance between clarity and art. "Although not entirely. There's something else in your style-- I'm not sure what--" he leaned closer to read the poem, breathing in the smell of paper and the glitter of drying ink.
"The geese cry under the clouds,
The north wind is in my garden.
You wait for me across the moon bridge;
I wake, cold and alone,"
Ryuuki read softly.
"It has Zhu Xe's simplicity," Kouyuu said, after taking a moment to let the phrases sink into the silence. "Perhaps it's an earlier work? His later efforts had more intricate references."
"Perhaps," Ryuuki agreed. He was watching Kouyuu's face, his eyes a warm and melting yellow in the lamplight. Kouyuu found himself wondering what the other man thought and saw, and that question brought to mind earlier times, before a life of politics had hardened his sensibilities, when he had wondered uneasily about his place in the world. And with it came a faint regret-- things had been so vivid then, somehow less complicated than they were now. His desires had been straightforward and pure, and all his own.
"It's your turn, Your Highness," the courtesan said, pressing the shaft of the brush into his hand.
Kouyuu's fingers curled around the polished wood, so familiar and yet suddenly no longer commonplace. He steadied the new sheet of paper with his left hand, and wrote the first thing that came to mind.
"The great drum summoned the Lord of Wei,
He came with the pounding of a thousand hooves through the gorges.
The falcon returns to the glove:
On his grave Xu Tien drew a falcon.
Is it your call I hear
Though the Guashan Mountain lies between us?"
"Du Sheng," Ryuuki identified. "Very . . . classical."
Kouyuu found himself flushing. "Du Sheng is a major poet, and with good reason. His body of work is an integral part of the canon. Every writer since has been informed by his style and imagery."
The courtesan held up a hand in an eloquent gesture of conciliation. "I agree, of course; his importance is undeniable. But I can't help but feel that modern critics have done him a disservice. His poetry is historically referential, but the current thought focuses on that to the exclusion of all else. Du Sheng-- the heart of his poetry is not mere duty, but passion."
The lamplight flickered, and Kouyuu had to remind himself to take a breath.
Ryuuki traced the line of characters with a tapered finger. "The way you write is the same, isn't it? You favor the kai shu style-- I can tell you've studied Ouyang Xun. It's very neat, very clear. You have a strong sense of order and structure in your writing. But here, and here-- these strong, bold strokes, especially these slanting horizontals-- these are more like Yu Shinan, and they show such depth of feeling . . . your hand is perfectly suited to Du Sheng's writing."
Kouyuu felt himself blushing again, but this time it was with pleasure. "Thank you," he said, and on impulse reached for Ryuuki's hand-- his right hand, his writing hand. "Your hand, as well, it's-- very free, and yet you have so much control--"
The words were artless, but still the other man smiled in genuine response to the compliment, as if he understood the earnest feeling behind Kouyuu's words. The purity of communication-- it was like the flash of insight that came when he read a poem and suddenly understood. It sent a thrill through Kouyuu, and he shivered.
"They say that the heart runs directly to the hand," Ryuuki murmured, and his fingers traced a sensitive trail down the inside of Kouyuu's wrist to the palm, spreading the fingers like the opening curve of a fan. "My writing is nothing compared to yours, though. These calluses . . ." his fingers touched the pad of Kouyuu's thumb, the raised ridge that ran along his middle finger, ". . . you practice a great deal more than I."
Ryuuki's fingers were smooth, soft against his, but so sure. "But your characters are perfectly shaped, and your strokes never hesitate."
"Ah," Ryuuki said, "Well, that's because writing on paper is much easier, compared to how I usually practice."
"How do you usually . . ."
Ryuuki raised his eyes to Kouyuu's. "Skin," he said simply. "I like to practice on skin."
Kouyuu blinked, and the simple reaction seemed somehow too slow, the touch of fingers loosely circling his wrist too warm. "What do you . . ." But his mind's eye was already presenting a host of breathless possibilities.
Ryuuki smiled-- an inviting smile, like one of the gently curved reverse arches that connected his radicals on the page, and Kouyuu yearned suddenly and fiercely to trace it, to follow that line that was a physical connection to a deeper meaning. "I can show you," he suggested, and Kouyuu found himself nodding.
"Please," he said, and was surprised at the husky, wanting edge to his own voice.
The scholar's set with its four treasures was laid out in a custom-made carved tray, and the courtesan simply picked up the entire thing, and nodded to Kouyuu to request that he hold aside the heavy embroidered curtain that covered the doorway to the next room. Beyond was the bedroom, as Kouyuu had already suspected, and it was furnished in an extension of the taste that had laid out the first, more public room. But Kouyuu's eyes were drawn immediately to the bed, which was set out like a throne as the centerpiece to the room. It was a carved masterpiece of glowing teak, and the bedding was in shades of dark ivory and deep green fern, reminding him of the setting of a hanging scroll: designed to subtly show off its contents without distracting from them.
"Here, lie down," Ryuuki said, setting the tray on the small table that stood at the bedside. As he checked the ink Kouyuu slipped off his shoes and sat in the center of the bed and leaned his head back on the cylindrical pillow, finding that it supported his neck at a perfect angle to watch what Ryuuki was doing. His nervousness from before had vanished; his stomach was tight, but with anticipation.
Ryuuki had sat on the edge of the bed to attend to the ink. Now he leaned over and undid the belt and fasteners of Kouyuu's robes, spreading the fabric so that the entirety of Kouyuu's chest was bared. His hand hovered over the scholar's set for a moment, lingering over the choice of brush; finally he took one, and dipped it in the waiting ink. He carefully raised himself to his knees at Kouyuu's side, and his left hand smoothed over the skin of Kouyuu's chest in a long, smooth glide-- exactly as he'd smoothed down the clean sheet of paper before he'd written the first poem. His face was calm, his eyes intently focused.
He was planning his strokes, Kouyuu knew, the mark of a true calligrapher, the indication that separated art from mere writing. Then his brush came down, starting high on the left side of Kouyuu's chest, and it felt like a finger of wet fire as it moved over his skin. His entire body thrilled at the touch, the movement across his muscles, so closely following the contours of his chest. He could feel the trail it left behind, the ink prickling his skin as it heated with his body, the press of air on the wetness. The brush lifted, and Kouyuu felt himself tense in anticipation of its return-- a second later it came down again, and brought another patch of skin to blazing life.
The first straight line of characters went nearly down to his hip, and Kouyuu made a sound of wordless protest when the brush lifted at the end. Ryuuki chuckled as he reached for more ink. The first stroke of the new line ran over Kouyuu's collarbone, and he hissed, fighting to keep still. He lost the battle when the brush followed the dip in his ribs to the flatness of his taught stomach, and he shuddered in response even as his hips bucked.
"Steady," the courtesan said, and laid a hand on his right hip to hold him in place; it felt like a brand of fire. His robe was falling away and he wished it gone completely, so that more of him would be available to the stream of words flowing over his body. It was taking everything he had not to shiver and jump at every line, not to cry out when the light brush of a connecting stroke became a strong vertical. Watching just made it worse, but he couldn't not watch, couldn't miss how the hand, writing, responded to each and every move he made with absolute sensitivity even as it wrote, in an intricate dance. By the last character his breathing had become a succession of shallow, desperate gasps, both hands clenched into straining fists on the bedding.
"Finished," Ryuuki said with a long sigh of relief. There was a faint sheen of sweat across his brow from the intense effort of concentration.
"What--" Kouyuu was surprised; the purr in his voice had become a hard, hungry growl. He had heard it a time or three from various lovers, but never before from himself. "What did you write?"
Ryuuki smiled and leaned close, sending his breath ghosting over each column of characters in its turn, waking each in turn.
"Xu Tien's torch in the west called forth the night;
Summer lightning sparked the conflagration of the dry plain
And the herds ran before it with the wind.
In the temple, a bonfire guides the spirits of the dead--
Light a fire in your heart to bring me to your side!"
"Du Sheng," Kouyuu breathed, and swept the fingers of his right hand reverently over the super-sensitive place where the great poet's name was inscribed on his skin. "From the second part of the Battle-Song of Yellow Plain."
"Since you wrote from the first part, it seemed appropriate," Ryuuki's voice had dropped to an intimate rumble, and the way he looked at what he had written-- proprietary, pleased. He had created something beautiful on the canvas of Kouyuu's skin. "Ah-- I have to sign it--"
He lifted the brush again and wrote two perfect, graceful characters on the flat, drum-tight triangle of naked skin directly below Kouyuu's navel, framed by the jut of his hipbones. Then the courtesan slowly, so slowly drew the smooth shaft of the brush up Kouyuu's length, and Kouyuu moaned low and desperate, unable to tear his gaze away. Unable to stop watching as Ryuuki put the brush away and then leaned over him again, breath moving over the still-wet lines of the signature, so careful, drying the ink as his long bangs tickling Kouyuu's hips on both sides. He pushed the robe the rest of the way off Kouyuu's legs and ran his hands up Kouyuu's thighs-- those sensitive artist's hands, stroking the long line of his hips, curling beneath, thumbs finding the slight hollows just inside.
His tongue flicked out, a tentative taste, and Kouyuu arched backwards, not wanting to break the tableau but unable to stop himself. It was too much, too much-- but those hands on his hips steadied him, and he wanted to see. Panting, gasping, he brought himself back, fighting the waves of heat that poured through him and then receded, leaving liquid fire pooled in the poem on his chest. He watched as Ryuuki touched his lips to the poet's name, and then to his own, as his eyes shuttered in concentration, felt his fingers flex, preparing for another work of art--
The courtesan's mouth consumed him, and Kouyuu knew that he was no longer canvas but the raw stuff of creation, that the pleasure pounding up his spine was the same as the fire that had flashed across his skin in the form of ink and brush. It was not possible that such ecstasy should come from ash and water, hair and wood-- lips and tongue and teeth and skin-- and yet it did. But this he could touch, could hold, as he could never hold the spark of inspiration that flared through a poet's words and a calligrapher's ink. He wound his fingers in blond hair, fine and soft as a new brush, brought his leg up and over the courtesan's shoulder to press him down even as he arched upwards into that warm and perfect mouth. He felt, distantly, the hand he'd displaced run under his thigh again to reclaim its position, guiding him, helping him . . . that was the role of the artist, a conduit only. Perfection was disappearing into the work-- and no one had ever taken him in so deeply before, or brought him so close to dissolution.
And then Ryuuki hummed, deep and throbbing and powerful, throat and mouth vibrating around him-- and Kouyuu shouted as his vision went white with fire.
Slowly, slowly sight and reason crept back to him, and with it the ability to detect the more mundane sensations. All of his muscles had gone limp, and he lay passively as his leg was shifted back to the bed, as his fingers were gently disentangled from the hair they had clutched. That same gentle touch freed his own hair from the binding that had held it high behind his head, and straightened the robe he still lay on where it had rucked up around his elbows. And then something soft and dry tickled in patterns across his chest-- tracing the characters there again, he gradually realized, although this was not with the fiery passion of creation but the idle laziness of entertainment, simple rote practice for the shallow pleasure of form.
Author/Artist: grey_damaskena
Rating: R
Warnings: crack!
Prompt: Saiunkoku, Ryuuki/Kouyuu: harem - one of many.
Word count: 2,978
Summary: Another take on Saiunkoku, based on a single question: what if Saiunkoku were matrilenear?
A/N: I couldn't finish this on time because it ended up being a great deal longer than expected; my humblest apologies. Nor is it exactly in line with the prompt, or it only complies in a loose sense. As usual my brain is long-winded and full of crack. This is part 2; please note the change in rating from part 1. A link to the previous section will precede the cut.
House Kougarou: part 1
House Kougarou: part 2
They had respected his careful attempt to keep his title off of their books downstairs, but this man was making it clear that he knew exactly who Kouyuu was. Surprisingly Kouyuu found himself appreciating that honesty; in his experience it was a rare thing. He hadn't thought about it before, but suddenly he felt rude holding someone else's scroll without having asked permission. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "I shouldn't have gone poking through your things."
"I don't mind," the courtesan said, angling his head. "You found the Den Sou, I see."
The familiar and casual reference to the great poet brought Kouyuu's enthusiasm rushing back. "It's incredible! An original copy-- where did you get this?"
"It was a gift," Ryuuki said. "If you bring it over to the desk, it'll be easier to look at it."
It was an eminently sensible suggestion. Kouyuu spread the scroll there, and Ryuuki took two matching weight-bars from the scholar's set to hold down the edges, then adjusted the lamps to show the delicate work at its best. They went over it slowly, one poem at a time, pausing to appreciate the occasional inked illustrations that separated them. One poem made reference to an earlier work by another poet, and Ryuuki fetched a copy of the volume in question from the shelf. He asked questions, too, thoughtful questions, and Kouyuu was only too glad to answer, and likewise glad when the courtesan fetched the jug of plum wine and cups from the other table so they could drink as they talked. He had been too busy working to enjoy literature recently, and it was pleasant to have attentive listener who shared his interest.
"I wasn't expecting . . . this," Kouyuu said, gesturing with his winecup at the books and scrolls on the desk. The wine made him feel pleasant, warm and faintly heady, and a great deal more relaxed than he had been when he arrived. Or perhaps it was simply the poems-- here was ground he understood, a subject with which he felt perfectly at home.
Ryuuki smiled at him, a surprisingly sweet smile tinged with the shadow of the wine. "It's a hobby," he explained. "I like poetry. I have the time to indulge it, although my library is still quite small. I've been building it slowly, ever since I first read 'Song over Moon Bridge.'"
"I . . . don't know that one," Kouyuu said, surprised. "Who is it by?"
"Zhu Xe . . . I've only ever seen it in one book, though, years ago. But I can write it out for you."
He leaned past Kouyuu, their hips bumping together, and pulled the carved inkstone over to him. He uncovered it with practiced movements, added the water, and began grinding the ink. But it felt as if that accidental touch had opened up a door in Kouyuu's perception, as he had opened the cabinet door to reveal the spines of books. His eyes caught on the courtesan's hands, noticing the long, elegant fingers, the confident and sure way they held the inkstick. Ryuuki had brushed back his sleeves to keep them out of the way, and his bared arms were glazed with the warm light of the lamps. Kouyuu looked at his face and found it intent on his task, his blond bangs swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the strokes that ground the ink. Making ink was something that Kouyuu did every day, but never before had it been so mesmerizing.
When Ryuuki took up the brush it was with easy proficiency, and he held it gracefully as he dipped it in the ink. He smoothed the paper in preparation with the splayed fingers of his other hand, and his face became serene as he concentrated. His hand danced over the paper as he wrote, and his calligraphy-- it was obvious that he'd studied. He wrote in the semi-cursive script, and the characters were clear and well-formed but still elegant due to the trailing brush that sometimes connected the strokes.
"Li Yong," Kouyuu identified the mark of the master calligrapher's style in that balance between clarity and art. "Although not entirely. There's something else in your style-- I'm not sure what--" he leaned closer to read the poem, breathing in the smell of paper and the glitter of drying ink.
"The geese cry under the clouds,
The north wind is in my garden.
You wait for me across the moon bridge;
I wake, cold and alone,"
Ryuuki read softly.
"It has Zhu Xe's simplicity," Kouyuu said, after taking a moment to let the phrases sink into the silence. "Perhaps it's an earlier work? His later efforts had more intricate references."
"Perhaps," Ryuuki agreed. He was watching Kouyuu's face, his eyes a warm and melting yellow in the lamplight. Kouyuu found himself wondering what the other man thought and saw, and that question brought to mind earlier times, before a life of politics had hardened his sensibilities, when he had wondered uneasily about his place in the world. And with it came a faint regret-- things had been so vivid then, somehow less complicated than they were now. His desires had been straightforward and pure, and all his own.
"It's your turn, Your Highness," the courtesan said, pressing the shaft of the brush into his hand.
Kouyuu's fingers curled around the polished wood, so familiar and yet suddenly no longer commonplace. He steadied the new sheet of paper with his left hand, and wrote the first thing that came to mind.
"The great drum summoned the Lord of Wei,
He came with the pounding of a thousand hooves through the gorges.
The falcon returns to the glove:
On his grave Xu Tien drew a falcon.
Is it your call I hear
Though the Guashan Mountain lies between us?"
"Du Sheng," Ryuuki identified. "Very . . . classical."
Kouyuu found himself flushing. "Du Sheng is a major poet, and with good reason. His body of work is an integral part of the canon. Every writer since has been informed by his style and imagery."
The courtesan held up a hand in an eloquent gesture of conciliation. "I agree, of course; his importance is undeniable. But I can't help but feel that modern critics have done him a disservice. His poetry is historically referential, but the current thought focuses on that to the exclusion of all else. Du Sheng-- the heart of his poetry is not mere duty, but passion."
The lamplight flickered, and Kouyuu had to remind himself to take a breath.
Ryuuki traced the line of characters with a tapered finger. "The way you write is the same, isn't it? You favor the kai shu style-- I can tell you've studied Ouyang Xun. It's very neat, very clear. You have a strong sense of order and structure in your writing. But here, and here-- these strong, bold strokes, especially these slanting horizontals-- these are more like Yu Shinan, and they show such depth of feeling . . . your hand is perfectly suited to Du Sheng's writing."
Kouyuu felt himself blushing again, but this time it was with pleasure. "Thank you," he said, and on impulse reached for Ryuuki's hand-- his right hand, his writing hand. "Your hand, as well, it's-- very free, and yet you have so much control--"
The words were artless, but still the other man smiled in genuine response to the compliment, as if he understood the earnest feeling behind Kouyuu's words. The purity of communication-- it was like the flash of insight that came when he read a poem and suddenly understood. It sent a thrill through Kouyuu, and he shivered.
"They say that the heart runs directly to the hand," Ryuuki murmured, and his fingers traced a sensitive trail down the inside of Kouyuu's wrist to the palm, spreading the fingers like the opening curve of a fan. "My writing is nothing compared to yours, though. These calluses . . ." his fingers touched the pad of Kouyuu's thumb, the raised ridge that ran along his middle finger, ". . . you practice a great deal more than I."
Ryuuki's fingers were smooth, soft against his, but so sure. "But your characters are perfectly shaped, and your strokes never hesitate."
"Ah," Ryuuki said, "Well, that's because writing on paper is much easier, compared to how I usually practice."
"How do you usually . . ."
Ryuuki raised his eyes to Kouyuu's. "Skin," he said simply. "I like to practice on skin."
Kouyuu blinked, and the simple reaction seemed somehow too slow, the touch of fingers loosely circling his wrist too warm. "What do you . . ." But his mind's eye was already presenting a host of breathless possibilities.
Ryuuki smiled-- an inviting smile, like one of the gently curved reverse arches that connected his radicals on the page, and Kouyuu yearned suddenly and fiercely to trace it, to follow that line that was a physical connection to a deeper meaning. "I can show you," he suggested, and Kouyuu found himself nodding.
"Please," he said, and was surprised at the husky, wanting edge to his own voice.
The scholar's set with its four treasures was laid out in a custom-made carved tray, and the courtesan simply picked up the entire thing, and nodded to Kouyuu to request that he hold aside the heavy embroidered curtain that covered the doorway to the next room. Beyond was the bedroom, as Kouyuu had already suspected, and it was furnished in an extension of the taste that had laid out the first, more public room. But Kouyuu's eyes were drawn immediately to the bed, which was set out like a throne as the centerpiece to the room. It was a carved masterpiece of glowing teak, and the bedding was in shades of dark ivory and deep green fern, reminding him of the setting of a hanging scroll: designed to subtly show off its contents without distracting from them.
"Here, lie down," Ryuuki said, setting the tray on the small table that stood at the bedside. As he checked the ink Kouyuu slipped off his shoes and sat in the center of the bed and leaned his head back on the cylindrical pillow, finding that it supported his neck at a perfect angle to watch what Ryuuki was doing. His nervousness from before had vanished; his stomach was tight, but with anticipation.
Ryuuki had sat on the edge of the bed to attend to the ink. Now he leaned over and undid the belt and fasteners of Kouyuu's robes, spreading the fabric so that the entirety of Kouyuu's chest was bared. His hand hovered over the scholar's set for a moment, lingering over the choice of brush; finally he took one, and dipped it in the waiting ink. He carefully raised himself to his knees at Kouyuu's side, and his left hand smoothed over the skin of Kouyuu's chest in a long, smooth glide-- exactly as he'd smoothed down the clean sheet of paper before he'd written the first poem. His face was calm, his eyes intently focused.
He was planning his strokes, Kouyuu knew, the mark of a true calligrapher, the indication that separated art from mere writing. Then his brush came down, starting high on the left side of Kouyuu's chest, and it felt like a finger of wet fire as it moved over his skin. His entire body thrilled at the touch, the movement across his muscles, so closely following the contours of his chest. He could feel the trail it left behind, the ink prickling his skin as it heated with his body, the press of air on the wetness. The brush lifted, and Kouyuu felt himself tense in anticipation of its return-- a second later it came down again, and brought another patch of skin to blazing life.
The first straight line of characters went nearly down to his hip, and Kouyuu made a sound of wordless protest when the brush lifted at the end. Ryuuki chuckled as he reached for more ink. The first stroke of the new line ran over Kouyuu's collarbone, and he hissed, fighting to keep still. He lost the battle when the brush followed the dip in his ribs to the flatness of his taught stomach, and he shuddered in response even as his hips bucked.
"Steady," the courtesan said, and laid a hand on his right hip to hold him in place; it felt like a brand of fire. His robe was falling away and he wished it gone completely, so that more of him would be available to the stream of words flowing over his body. It was taking everything he had not to shiver and jump at every line, not to cry out when the light brush of a connecting stroke became a strong vertical. Watching just made it worse, but he couldn't not watch, couldn't miss how the hand, writing, responded to each and every move he made with absolute sensitivity even as it wrote, in an intricate dance. By the last character his breathing had become a succession of shallow, desperate gasps, both hands clenched into straining fists on the bedding.
"Finished," Ryuuki said with a long sigh of relief. There was a faint sheen of sweat across his brow from the intense effort of concentration.
"What--" Kouyuu was surprised; the purr in his voice had become a hard, hungry growl. He had heard it a time or three from various lovers, but never before from himself. "What did you write?"
Ryuuki smiled and leaned close, sending his breath ghosting over each column of characters in its turn, waking each in turn.
"Xu Tien's torch in the west called forth the night;
Summer lightning sparked the conflagration of the dry plain
And the herds ran before it with the wind.
In the temple, a bonfire guides the spirits of the dead--
Light a fire in your heart to bring me to your side!"
"Du Sheng," Kouyuu breathed, and swept the fingers of his right hand reverently over the super-sensitive place where the great poet's name was inscribed on his skin. "From the second part of the Battle-Song of Yellow Plain."
"Since you wrote from the first part, it seemed appropriate," Ryuuki's voice had dropped to an intimate rumble, and the way he looked at what he had written-- proprietary, pleased. He had created something beautiful on the canvas of Kouyuu's skin. "Ah-- I have to sign it--"
He lifted the brush again and wrote two perfect, graceful characters on the flat, drum-tight triangle of naked skin directly below Kouyuu's navel, framed by the jut of his hipbones. Then the courtesan slowly, so slowly drew the smooth shaft of the brush up Kouyuu's length, and Kouyuu moaned low and desperate, unable to tear his gaze away. Unable to stop watching as Ryuuki put the brush away and then leaned over him again, breath moving over the still-wet lines of the signature, so careful, drying the ink as his long bangs tickling Kouyuu's hips on both sides. He pushed the robe the rest of the way off Kouyuu's legs and ran his hands up Kouyuu's thighs-- those sensitive artist's hands, stroking the long line of his hips, curling beneath, thumbs finding the slight hollows just inside.
His tongue flicked out, a tentative taste, and Kouyuu arched backwards, not wanting to break the tableau but unable to stop himself. It was too much, too much-- but those hands on his hips steadied him, and he wanted to see. Panting, gasping, he brought himself back, fighting the waves of heat that poured through him and then receded, leaving liquid fire pooled in the poem on his chest. He watched as Ryuuki touched his lips to the poet's name, and then to his own, as his eyes shuttered in concentration, felt his fingers flex, preparing for another work of art--
The courtesan's mouth consumed him, and Kouyuu knew that he was no longer canvas but the raw stuff of creation, that the pleasure pounding up his spine was the same as the fire that had flashed across his skin in the form of ink and brush. It was not possible that such ecstasy should come from ash and water, hair and wood-- lips and tongue and teeth and skin-- and yet it did. But this he could touch, could hold, as he could never hold the spark of inspiration that flared through a poet's words and a calligrapher's ink. He wound his fingers in blond hair, fine and soft as a new brush, brought his leg up and over the courtesan's shoulder to press him down even as he arched upwards into that warm and perfect mouth. He felt, distantly, the hand he'd displaced run under his thigh again to reclaim its position, guiding him, helping him . . . that was the role of the artist, a conduit only. Perfection was disappearing into the work-- and no one had ever taken him in so deeply before, or brought him so close to dissolution.
And then Ryuuki hummed, deep and throbbing and powerful, throat and mouth vibrating around him-- and Kouyuu shouted as his vision went white with fire.
Slowly, slowly sight and reason crept back to him, and with it the ability to detect the more mundane sensations. All of his muscles had gone limp, and he lay passively as his leg was shifted back to the bed, as his fingers were gently disentangled from the hair they had clutched. That same gentle touch freed his own hair from the binding that had held it high behind his head, and straightened the robe he still lay on where it had rucked up around his elbows. And then something soft and dry tickled in patterns across his chest-- tracing the characters there again, he gradually realized, although this was not with the fiery passion of creation but the idle laziness of entertainment, simple rote practice for the shallow pleasure of form.