Fic, Round 2, Forbidden Fruit, R
Murata Ken knew what forbidden fruit was. It ran around in tight pink dresses, showing off flashes of pale, gleaming thigh. It exposed pink, lacy garter to the world. Yes, he was well aware that Wolfram was the forbidden fruit the texts spoke of.
All he could do was watch, though. Watch silently as it was neglected and emotionally abused. Watch the likeness of Shinou get turned down, rejected, left alone. It honestly angered him, yet his hands were tied. The beautiful man dealt with it. He did not whine, cry, or plead. He kept his impeccable dignity unfortunately in tact.
Yet that did not stop his secret admirer from fantasizing about him. It did not stop the Sage from imagining slowly peeling the thin pink dress off him. It did not stop him from imagining ghosting his fingertips up those pink garter straps, just to see where his hands would end. In a belt? Or perhaps even a corset.
But in Murata’s fantasies, it was a belt, with only the tiny (dare he think it) panties of this world. He imagined running his hands up and down the silky stockings, the smooth thighs. Lowering his head down to the sultry flesh and gently suckling on it. Pushing the puffed skirt up, tearing the underwear off.
Pleasuring Wolfram with everything he had.
He knew exactly how it would be. How his lover’s back would arch, how he would scream out the Sage’s name, how hot and tight he would be when Murata entered him.
He knew that they would leave the stockings on, the dress on. He could imagine the man’s pale chest becoming more and more exposed as he thrusted in, the bodice slowly falling lower and lower as they rocked. The blonde’s ungloved hands would grip the bed, the only thing stopping him from mental free-fall, while passionate legs would spread wide, bent knees squeezing the Sage’s sides, kicking into the air whenever his prostate was hit.
He would drag his tongue along Wolfram’s delicate collarbone and neck, sucking and licking. He wanted to leave marks. So many marks that no one could ever doubt who the petite blonde belonged to.
And while Murata would drive into Wolfram, he’d look down at the beauty of the man below him, whose legs he was nestled between, and take in the beautiful sight. The glistening sweat, the pert nipples, the slim thighs, the skirt shifting and bouncing as they moved. He’d snap a garter strap, and watch his beautiful lover’s face as the majestic man came, shouting, eyes screwed tight.
And the Sage knew he would lose it all then, and follow soon after. And they would hold one another, and he would have all the time in the world to think of how it was he who made Wolfram scream, and it was he who made the blonde pant as half-lidded eyes gazed up at him, and make that delicious little pink tongue flick out to sensually re-moisten his lips.
Murata was jostled back to reality when someone entered the room.
“Hey, Murata! Are you ready to start the ceremony?”
The Sage nodded, getting up. And here was his best friend, the lucky bastard who was about to marry Wolfram. He moved the rather unflattering robes around as he got up, concealing the desire he felt for the Maou’s fiancé.
Together they left the room. It was time to start.