[FIC] Ouran: Reflections of a Fantasy
OH HAY PEOPLE, MORE PORN! LOOK AT DREAM WITH NO SELF-RESTAINT!
Title courtesy of selinianuo.
Reflections of a Fantasy
Characters/Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1961
Summary: Five years in the future, things aren’t very different from before. But there are certainly differences, such as Tamaki and Kyouya’s relationship. Prompt: office sex.
Kyouya looks up when he hears a knock on the door, and Tamaki steps inside even before he can open his mouth. He smiles, but he didn't stop his typing, however, choosing to continue to work even as Tamaki walks around him and places his arms around Kyouya's shoulders.
He leans back against the chair, turning his face upwards for a chaste kiss. He knows that it's safe here, in his office, and there are neither cameras nor microphones anywhere near. Tachibana checks daily for them and those devices are all disposed of already. He sometimes thinks that the reporters that his brothers hire have far too much time and money on their hands, and, when he is bored, he schemes to take that money away. But that is only when he is bored, and he certainly isn't bored now, not when Tamaki is here.
Tamaki smiles, as bright as it was, five years ago when they were still in high school. But it is more restrained now, and Kyouya knows that many don’t see the brightness even if they try. He isn't one of them, of course. Tamaki leans down, and Kyouya smiles as he is being kissed, slow and languid and sweet like every appetiser should be. His hands paused in their typing, resting on the keyboard on his laptop as he returns the kiss.
He reaches upwards and pulls Tamaki further downwards by his tie, because he is getting a crick in his neck and Tamaki is far too tall when he is standing. He has grown at least two inches since his high school days, and he is taller than Kyouya now. Kyouya didn't mind; he supposes that it is only appropriate.
"Kyouya," Tamaki says, murmuring into his mouth, and Kyouya hums noncommittally because he really can't say anything else.
Tamaki's tongue invades his mouth, and Kyouya is busy kissing back. The kiss is slow, and heat is gradually building up, like pieces on the side of a chess board or money in a bank account. He smiles.
Tamaki’s mouth moves down to his throat, pressing soft kisses to his throat as he does so. Kyouya arches slightly to the touch, and his hands tremble, just a little, as he saves his document and shuts down his laptop. The screen goes black, and he snaps down the lid before turning towards Tamaki.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice soft because it is only nine o’clock and his secretary might still be there. It really won’t do for them to be found out, after all.
Tamaki gives him a crooked smile that destroys the symmetry of his face, “I missed you,” he presses a kiss to the hollow of Kyouya’s collarbone. “We haven’t seen each other for a week.”
“We talk on the phone everyday,” Kyouya says, amused, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he tilts his head backwards towards the high back of his leather chair, allowing Tamaki more access.
“It isn’t the same,” Tamaki says, and Kyouya can feel him pouting against his shoulder. “It isn’t the same, Kyouya.”
He laughs, low chuckles of genuine amusement, “I know. You tell me that every time you go overseas, remember?” he presses his hands against Tamaki’s chest and feels the heat emanating even through two layers of cloth.
Tamaki’s fingers were already unbuttoning his trousers even as he laughs and kisses Kyouya, harder and firmer than the previous times. Kyouya smiles and slides his fingers down Tamaki’s chest, bypassing the many buttons to unzip Tamaki’s casual pants. Their tongues tangled, and Kyouya feels shivers of electricity and heat travelling all over his body at every touch.
Tamaki slips a hand into his hair, pulling him closer and Kyouya obliges. He slips Tamaki’s trousers and boxers off him with his knees, and the cloth making no sound as they dropped onto the carpeted floor. Tamaki moans softly, and Kyouya kisses him harder, swallowing the moan. They shouldn’t make a sound, not when Kyouya isn’t really sure that Tamaki has locked the door when he has entered.
He doesn’t ask, however.
Tamaki stands, although when he has knelt in the first place, Kyouya doesn’t know. He pulls Kyouya up, their bodies pressed together and Kyouya’s head tilted upwards, and, with a quick movement, Kyouya’s trousers slips off him to the floor.
Tamaki stares, breaking the kiss and pulling away in his shock.
“You’re not wearing any underwear,” he says, sounding so completely surprised that Kyouya almost wants to laugh. Almost, but not quite. “What... why?”
Kyouya smirks instead, mischief in his eyes, “I know you’re coming back today, and there would be a good chance that you would want to visit me and you would want this. Was I wrong in making such an investment, Tamaki?”
Tamaki smiles and laughs, bright and open and Kyouya thinks that things aren’t really all that different from five years ago, except perhaps for the fact that they are both taller, now, and they have more responsibilities than ever, as their fathers’ successors. But these are rather minor things right now, when they are together like this.
Tamaki leans forward until their forehead touch, and presses a kiss, closed-mouth but still with so much heat that Kyouya can’t help but shiver. He speaks, “No, you weren’t. But what if you were wrong and I didn’t come back today? What would you do then?”
“It is useless to think of such things, Tamaki,” Kyouya smiles, then, and turns his nose up in a satire of a classically arrogant behaviour. “I am never wrong.”
“My, my, “ Tamaki says, sounding as though he might laugh again. But he didn’t, and instead he unbuttons Kyouya’s jacket and starched shirt, slipping them off his lover even as he feels his own clothes being shed.
Kyouya is beautiful; soft, porcelain skin, paler than Tamaki’s, shoulder-length black hair that is fashionably cut so that the strands splay over the white expanse of shoulder when Kyouya tilts his head back. Kyouya hasn’t a single scar on his body, though he has quite a few calluses on his hands, and Tamaki loves running his hands across that smooth skin, finding the small indents and curves that every body has. Those are perhaps superficial flaws on the skin, and Tamaki loves the feel of them, because, sometimes, he has to remind himself that Kyouya, no matter how strong he may seems, is not perfect.
Tamaki lets go of Kyouya reluctantly for his shirts to slip off his body, landing on the floor. They will be wrinkled, this Kyouya knows, but he doesn’t really care and he has two extra sets in of suits in closet anyway. He believes in being prepared.
Tamaki suddenly grips his hips tightly, but not tightly enough to leave bruises, and turn them both around until he is seated on Kyouya’s high-backed office swivel chair and Kyouya lands on his lap. He turns, capturing Kyouya’s lips with his own, kissing him harshly, nipping at Kyouya’s lower lip, as his hands groped for the bottle of lubricant he knows his lover keeps in his drawer, underneath a stack of redundant paperwork.
Kyouya leans forward, holding onto the table edge as Tamaki stretches him. He seems rougher, more impatient than usual, and Kyouya thinks that perhaps that is because of his ploy, or perhaps it is something else, but he doesn’t really care about the reason for Tamaki already has three fingers in him and it isn’t enough.
He whines softly, a high, keening noise at the back of his throat, and Tamaki kisses the side of his neck, a loud smack that echoes around the room. Kyouya doesn’t try to shush him, for he is busy trying not to cry out as Tamaki’s left hand wrapped around his cock and his right encircled his chest.
Then Tamaki pulls him backwards, until he is seated on his lap again, Tamaki’s cock sandwiched between his back and Tamaki’s chest. Then, suddenly, they are facing the window, looking out towards the Tokyo nightlights, as Tamaki spins the swivel chair.
He thinks he gasps.
Tamaki nuzzles his hair, whispering directly into Kyouya’s ears, “People can’t see us up here… or can they?” his tone is teasing, breath tickling Kyouya’s ears.
He shivers slightly, involuntarily, at the touch and turns, smirking, “I don’t know, shall we try?”
Tamaki chuckles, and Kyouya is pressed so close to him that he feels the rumblings of Tamaki’s chest as he laughs. Tamaki’s chest settles on his hips, and he feels himself being lifted upwards until Tamaki’s cock is brushing against his own entrance. He braces his feet on the ground, and Tamaki lets go.
He moans, throwing his head back to land on Tamaki’s shoulder as he sinks downwards, pulled down by gravity. Tamaki stretches him and fills him, and he bites his lip the slight painful, burning sensation, gripping onto the chair’s armrest.
Tamaki’s arms encircle his waist, reaching upwards to tweak his nipples and Kyouya gasps, arching towards the touch. He doesn’t try to restrain his reactions, now, not after they have known each other so well and for so long. Tamaki is hurt when he tries, and Kyouya dislikes hurting Tamaki (and it has no merits for him), and so he doesn’t. It is also more pleasant not to have to maintain control. Every touch feels stronger, more pleasurable, because he has nothing to distract himself from them.
“Stop thinking,” Tamaki says, sounding exasperated, and Kyouya smiles because he knows that only Tamaki knows him well enough to tell. He hums his affirmative, a quiet, low tone, and Tamaki smiles against his shoulder and starts to move.
The rhythm is familiar, one that Kyouya knows very well, but it is not boring, never boring, because Tamaki is not a predictable person. In fact, Kyouya knows that he thrives on being unpredictable, and this time is no exception.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Tamaki whispers into his ears, and Kyouya gasps, opening his eyes and staring forward. The office is dark, illuminated by nothing except his small table lamp, but the darkness just amplifies scenery outside the window. Kyouya can see himself and Tamaki’s reflections on the clear glass, and he feels like an exhibitionist and a voyeur all at once.
It is not an unpleasant sensation.
Tamaki shifts his position, rolling his hips with every thrust until Kyouya gasps, throwing his head back as Tamaki’s cock brushes his prostate. The nightlights disappear, melting into a multi-coloured mess as Kyouya feels the heat in the groin heighten and spread throughout his body and he thinks he moans, biting his lips to hold back some of the sounds because there is a chance, no matter how small, that there are still employees on the floor. The walls are thin, after all.
Tamaki’s hands travel downwards, one clutching Kyouya’s hip and the other gripping his cock, pumping him according to the thrusts. Kyouya turns, hair sticking onto his face as he bites down onto Tamaki’s shoulder as he comes. He tastes sweat and musk and perhaps a little honey and the odd scent that is completely Tamaki, and he smiles as he feels heat entering his insides.
He breathes, and lifts his head.
Tamaki grins, slightly shaky as he is panting, and presses a hand to the mark on his shoulder. Laughing, he leans forward, “Sometimes I wonder if I should buy a muzzle to prevent you from biting.”
Kyouya glares at him through sweat-soaked hair, scowling even though he knows Tamaki isn’t serious; this is a familiar game as well.
“You can try,” he says, voice calm. “But I can assure you that my bodyguards will kill you first before you can even blink.”
Tamaki laughs.
End
Title courtesy of selinianuo.
Reflections of a Fantasy
Characters/Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1961
Summary: Five years in the future, things aren’t very different from before. But there are certainly differences, such as Tamaki and Kyouya’s relationship. Prompt: office sex.
Kyouya looks up when he hears a knock on the door, and Tamaki steps inside even before he can open his mouth. He smiles, but he didn't stop his typing, however, choosing to continue to work even as Tamaki walks around him and places his arms around Kyouya's shoulders.
He leans back against the chair, turning his face upwards for a chaste kiss. He knows that it's safe here, in his office, and there are neither cameras nor microphones anywhere near. Tachibana checks daily for them and those devices are all disposed of already. He sometimes thinks that the reporters that his brothers hire have far too much time and money on their hands, and, when he is bored, he schemes to take that money away. But that is only when he is bored, and he certainly isn't bored now, not when Tamaki is here.
Tamaki smiles, as bright as it was, five years ago when they were still in high school. But it is more restrained now, and Kyouya knows that many don’t see the brightness even if they try. He isn't one of them, of course. Tamaki leans down, and Kyouya smiles as he is being kissed, slow and languid and sweet like every appetiser should be. His hands paused in their typing, resting on the keyboard on his laptop as he returns the kiss.
He reaches upwards and pulls Tamaki further downwards by his tie, because he is getting a crick in his neck and Tamaki is far too tall when he is standing. He has grown at least two inches since his high school days, and he is taller than Kyouya now. Kyouya didn't mind; he supposes that it is only appropriate.
"Kyouya," Tamaki says, murmuring into his mouth, and Kyouya hums noncommittally because he really can't say anything else.
Tamaki's tongue invades his mouth, and Kyouya is busy kissing back. The kiss is slow, and heat is gradually building up, like pieces on the side of a chess board or money in a bank account. He smiles.
Tamaki’s mouth moves down to his throat, pressing soft kisses to his throat as he does so. Kyouya arches slightly to the touch, and his hands tremble, just a little, as he saves his document and shuts down his laptop. The screen goes black, and he snaps down the lid before turning towards Tamaki.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice soft because it is only nine o’clock and his secretary might still be there. It really won’t do for them to be found out, after all.
Tamaki gives him a crooked smile that destroys the symmetry of his face, “I missed you,” he presses a kiss to the hollow of Kyouya’s collarbone. “We haven’t seen each other for a week.”
“We talk on the phone everyday,” Kyouya says, amused, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he tilts his head backwards towards the high back of his leather chair, allowing Tamaki more access.
“It isn’t the same,” Tamaki says, and Kyouya can feel him pouting against his shoulder. “It isn’t the same, Kyouya.”
He laughs, low chuckles of genuine amusement, “I know. You tell me that every time you go overseas, remember?” he presses his hands against Tamaki’s chest and feels the heat emanating even through two layers of cloth.
Tamaki’s fingers were already unbuttoning his trousers even as he laughs and kisses Kyouya, harder and firmer than the previous times. Kyouya smiles and slides his fingers down Tamaki’s chest, bypassing the many buttons to unzip Tamaki’s casual pants. Their tongues tangled, and Kyouya feels shivers of electricity and heat travelling all over his body at every touch.
Tamaki slips a hand into his hair, pulling him closer and Kyouya obliges. He slips Tamaki’s trousers and boxers off him with his knees, and the cloth making no sound as they dropped onto the carpeted floor. Tamaki moans softly, and Kyouya kisses him harder, swallowing the moan. They shouldn’t make a sound, not when Kyouya isn’t really sure that Tamaki has locked the door when he has entered.
He doesn’t ask, however.
Tamaki stands, although when he has knelt in the first place, Kyouya doesn’t know. He pulls Kyouya up, their bodies pressed together and Kyouya’s head tilted upwards, and, with a quick movement, Kyouya’s trousers slips off him to the floor.
Tamaki stares, breaking the kiss and pulling away in his shock.
“You’re not wearing any underwear,” he says, sounding so completely surprised that Kyouya almost wants to laugh. Almost, but not quite. “What... why?”
Kyouya smirks instead, mischief in his eyes, “I know you’re coming back today, and there would be a good chance that you would want to visit me and you would want this. Was I wrong in making such an investment, Tamaki?”
Tamaki smiles and laughs, bright and open and Kyouya thinks that things aren’t really all that different from five years ago, except perhaps for the fact that they are both taller, now, and they have more responsibilities than ever, as their fathers’ successors. But these are rather minor things right now, when they are together like this.
Tamaki leans forward until their forehead touch, and presses a kiss, closed-mouth but still with so much heat that Kyouya can’t help but shiver. He speaks, “No, you weren’t. But what if you were wrong and I didn’t come back today? What would you do then?”
“It is useless to think of such things, Tamaki,” Kyouya smiles, then, and turns his nose up in a satire of a classically arrogant behaviour. “I am never wrong.”
“My, my, “ Tamaki says, sounding as though he might laugh again. But he didn’t, and instead he unbuttons Kyouya’s jacket and starched shirt, slipping them off his lover even as he feels his own clothes being shed.
Kyouya is beautiful; soft, porcelain skin, paler than Tamaki’s, shoulder-length black hair that is fashionably cut so that the strands splay over the white expanse of shoulder when Kyouya tilts his head back. Kyouya hasn’t a single scar on his body, though he has quite a few calluses on his hands, and Tamaki loves running his hands across that smooth skin, finding the small indents and curves that every body has. Those are perhaps superficial flaws on the skin, and Tamaki loves the feel of them, because, sometimes, he has to remind himself that Kyouya, no matter how strong he may seems, is not perfect.
Tamaki lets go of Kyouya reluctantly for his shirts to slip off his body, landing on the floor. They will be wrinkled, this Kyouya knows, but he doesn’t really care and he has two extra sets in of suits in closet anyway. He believes in being prepared.
Tamaki suddenly grips his hips tightly, but not tightly enough to leave bruises, and turn them both around until he is seated on Kyouya’s high-backed office swivel chair and Kyouya lands on his lap. He turns, capturing Kyouya’s lips with his own, kissing him harshly, nipping at Kyouya’s lower lip, as his hands groped for the bottle of lubricant he knows his lover keeps in his drawer, underneath a stack of redundant paperwork.
Kyouya leans forward, holding onto the table edge as Tamaki stretches him. He seems rougher, more impatient than usual, and Kyouya thinks that perhaps that is because of his ploy, or perhaps it is something else, but he doesn’t really care about the reason for Tamaki already has three fingers in him and it isn’t enough.
He whines softly, a high, keening noise at the back of his throat, and Tamaki kisses the side of his neck, a loud smack that echoes around the room. Kyouya doesn’t try to shush him, for he is busy trying not to cry out as Tamaki’s left hand wrapped around his cock and his right encircled his chest.
Then Tamaki pulls him backwards, until he is seated on his lap again, Tamaki’s cock sandwiched between his back and Tamaki’s chest. Then, suddenly, they are facing the window, looking out towards the Tokyo nightlights, as Tamaki spins the swivel chair.
He thinks he gasps.
Tamaki nuzzles his hair, whispering directly into Kyouya’s ears, “People can’t see us up here… or can they?” his tone is teasing, breath tickling Kyouya’s ears.
He shivers slightly, involuntarily, at the touch and turns, smirking, “I don’t know, shall we try?”
Tamaki chuckles, and Kyouya is pressed so close to him that he feels the rumblings of Tamaki’s chest as he laughs. Tamaki’s chest settles on his hips, and he feels himself being lifted upwards until Tamaki’s cock is brushing against his own entrance. He braces his feet on the ground, and Tamaki lets go.
He moans, throwing his head back to land on Tamaki’s shoulder as he sinks downwards, pulled down by gravity. Tamaki stretches him and fills him, and he bites his lip the slight painful, burning sensation, gripping onto the chair’s armrest.
Tamaki’s arms encircle his waist, reaching upwards to tweak his nipples and Kyouya gasps, arching towards the touch. He doesn’t try to restrain his reactions, now, not after they have known each other so well and for so long. Tamaki is hurt when he tries, and Kyouya dislikes hurting Tamaki (and it has no merits for him), and so he doesn’t. It is also more pleasant not to have to maintain control. Every touch feels stronger, more pleasurable, because he has nothing to distract himself from them.
“Stop thinking,” Tamaki says, sounding exasperated, and Kyouya smiles because he knows that only Tamaki knows him well enough to tell. He hums his affirmative, a quiet, low tone, and Tamaki smiles against his shoulder and starts to move.
The rhythm is familiar, one that Kyouya knows very well, but it is not boring, never boring, because Tamaki is not a predictable person. In fact, Kyouya knows that he thrives on being unpredictable, and this time is no exception.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Tamaki whispers into his ears, and Kyouya gasps, opening his eyes and staring forward. The office is dark, illuminated by nothing except his small table lamp, but the darkness just amplifies scenery outside the window. Kyouya can see himself and Tamaki’s reflections on the clear glass, and he feels like an exhibitionist and a voyeur all at once.
It is not an unpleasant sensation.
Tamaki shifts his position, rolling his hips with every thrust until Kyouya gasps, throwing his head back as Tamaki’s cock brushes his prostate. The nightlights disappear, melting into a multi-coloured mess as Kyouya feels the heat in the groin heighten and spread throughout his body and he thinks he moans, biting his lips to hold back some of the sounds because there is a chance, no matter how small, that there are still employees on the floor. The walls are thin, after all.
Tamaki’s hands travel downwards, one clutching Kyouya’s hip and the other gripping his cock, pumping him according to the thrusts. Kyouya turns, hair sticking onto his face as he bites down onto Tamaki’s shoulder as he comes. He tastes sweat and musk and perhaps a little honey and the odd scent that is completely Tamaki, and he smiles as he feels heat entering his insides.
He breathes, and lifts his head.
Tamaki grins, slightly shaky as he is panting, and presses a hand to the mark on his shoulder. Laughing, he leans forward, “Sometimes I wonder if I should buy a muzzle to prevent you from biting.”
Kyouya glares at him through sweat-soaked hair, scowling even though he knows Tamaki isn’t serious; this is a familiar game as well.
“You can try,” he says, voice calm. “But I can assure you that my bodyguards will kill you first before you can even blink.”
Tamaki laughs.
End