![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
merikuru posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
volieredeatoriI KEEP FORGETTING I HAVE THIS. Jesus, self.
Wrote a thing. Blaming the damn magical boy anime, because, well, it's the damn magical boy anime's fault. Also entirely unsurprised that I managed to be totally enthralled by the bad guys and not the main cast. That's exactly the kind of thing I do, because I'm ornery like that.
Student council notquiteporn. Yum. Tastic.
Beautiful Akoya.
Kusatsu-kaichou whispers it with the smallest of smiles, when the room is quiet and they are alone, pretending to linger over cups of tea long since gone cold as an excuse to stay near one another. He keeps whispering it over and over again when his mouth is at Akoya's ear, when the tea is long since forgotten, when the pillows have been thrown off the couch and their once-pristine jackets are in a careless heap on the floor, shirts tugged askew and belts undone and hands in places that would be terribly embarrassing to mention at any other time. And he says it aloud when he forgets himself, when they are tangled together and the outside world may as well have ceased to exist, when Akoya trembles beneath him and can't hold back his voice and the rush of ecstacy inevitably takes him too. It is one of many pleasant constants that never stagnates; sweat, ragged breaths, sleepy warmth and the near-delirious voice that only ceases when Akoya smiles and stops it with a kiss. (Not that he truly wants to - he could listen to it forever, but over time, he has learned when exactly is the best moment to take action, to minimize the inevitable embarrassment later.) Silence falls then, and all too soon, they separate and put themselves back in order, like nothing has ever happened.
Beautiful Akoya...
Arima-san teases him with the words while burying slick fingers deep within him, free hand pushing him more forcefully down across the desk he's bent over, smiling at the helpless sounds he lets out when every little twitch and shift sends an entirely new burst of pleasure through him and he can't help but arch up onto his toes, his every breath a desperate plea. It's become a bit of a game they play, he supposes, to see how needy he can get and how much he can take before he simply gives in, and if he could think straight he'd complain that those words breathed at his ear are cheating - but he can't, he can only beg for more and then he can only cry out when he's taken, fast and harsh and pushing his hipbones into the edge of the desk but he doesn't care about the tiny stings of pain. All he cares about is the sensation, the overwhelming waves of bliss, the fingernails that bite into his waist and the soft, ragged gasps at his ear. Those traitorous words, the ones he can't resist, the ones that drive him all too soon over the metaphorical edge and leave him sobbing and shaking with release, both physical and emotional. Those same words that then soothe him, a gentle whisper.
Beautiful...
He mouths it silently to himself as he looks into the mirror, face flushed, eyes half-lidded, hair ruffled and hanging in disarray about his face. It's not a lie; he is beautiful like this, needy and wanting, and it only arouses him further to watch as he pleasures himself, distantly fascinated with every little flutter of eyelash and tremble of lip. This is what they see, he thinks - when he is beneath them, when they are driving him out of his mind and stripping away that smiling, unbothered facade he puts up from day to day, breaking down his walls to see the real him inside. He's always been a little ashamed of it, to be honest, but how can he really refuse when the two people he cares most about earnestly insist that he shouldn't be afraid - that no matter what, he's beautiful. Even at his worst, shattered, helpless, reduced to the most primal parts of himself, he is beautiful.
At times like this, he can believe it--
He leans close, presses his cheek to that of his reflection and lids his eyes nearly shut, trembling breaths casting brief puffs of fog over the image that from this lack of distance is nearly indistinct, yet retains enough clarity to hold his interest. Beautiful, he mouths again, the softest movement of his lips that brushes the glass, and the cold sensation somehow sends a spark of strange pleasure down his spine that spurs him to touch himself more firmly. He shouldn't, he thinks - he wants to take it slow, wants to tease himself until he just can't stand it anymore - but he can't stop, letting his head turn so his lips meet his reflection and closing his eyes all the way, his pulse pounding in his ears with a rhythm that turns itself inexplicably to what sounds like words.
Beautiful.
Beautiful...
Beautiful--
His eyes fly open wide, and he can only make the softest of shocked, amazed sounds as release takes him.
Embarrassment does not filter in until he's already gone through the automatic motions of cleaning up, and it's a glance back at the mirror that does it. Breathless and tousled, eyes still just a little bright and the flush on his cheeks only just beginning to fade, he looks for a moment so unlike himself that the cognitive discord snaps him immediately back to reality, and suddenly he can't switch off the light and get out of the room quite fast enough. It's not that he finds it unpleasant, really, but perhaps that he finds it just a bit too alluring, and it feels like something he shouldn't be seeing for himself. Something he should only be showing to those who have won his heart, to those who care enough to break away his shell and get to the true beauty within.
Beautiful.
He smiles, just for a moment, because it's true.
Wrote a thing. Blaming the damn magical boy anime, because, well, it's the damn magical boy anime's fault. Also entirely unsurprised that I managed to be totally enthralled by the bad guys and not the main cast. That's exactly the kind of thing I do, because I'm ornery like that.
Student council notquiteporn. Yum. Tastic.
Beautiful Akoya.
Kusatsu-kaichou whispers it with the smallest of smiles, when the room is quiet and they are alone, pretending to linger over cups of tea long since gone cold as an excuse to stay near one another. He keeps whispering it over and over again when his mouth is at Akoya's ear, when the tea is long since forgotten, when the pillows have been thrown off the couch and their once-pristine jackets are in a careless heap on the floor, shirts tugged askew and belts undone and hands in places that would be terribly embarrassing to mention at any other time. And he says it aloud when he forgets himself, when they are tangled together and the outside world may as well have ceased to exist, when Akoya trembles beneath him and can't hold back his voice and the rush of ecstacy inevitably takes him too. It is one of many pleasant constants that never stagnates; sweat, ragged breaths, sleepy warmth and the near-delirious voice that only ceases when Akoya smiles and stops it with a kiss. (Not that he truly wants to - he could listen to it forever, but over time, he has learned when exactly is the best moment to take action, to minimize the inevitable embarrassment later.) Silence falls then, and all too soon, they separate and put themselves back in order, like nothing has ever happened.
Beautiful Akoya...
Arima-san teases him with the words while burying slick fingers deep within him, free hand pushing him more forcefully down across the desk he's bent over, smiling at the helpless sounds he lets out when every little twitch and shift sends an entirely new burst of pleasure through him and he can't help but arch up onto his toes, his every breath a desperate plea. It's become a bit of a game they play, he supposes, to see how needy he can get and how much he can take before he simply gives in, and if he could think straight he'd complain that those words breathed at his ear are cheating - but he can't, he can only beg for more and then he can only cry out when he's taken, fast and harsh and pushing his hipbones into the edge of the desk but he doesn't care about the tiny stings of pain. All he cares about is the sensation, the overwhelming waves of bliss, the fingernails that bite into his waist and the soft, ragged gasps at his ear. Those traitorous words, the ones he can't resist, the ones that drive him all too soon over the metaphorical edge and leave him sobbing and shaking with release, both physical and emotional. Those same words that then soothe him, a gentle whisper.
Beautiful...
He mouths it silently to himself as he looks into the mirror, face flushed, eyes half-lidded, hair ruffled and hanging in disarray about his face. It's not a lie; he is beautiful like this, needy and wanting, and it only arouses him further to watch as he pleasures himself, distantly fascinated with every little flutter of eyelash and tremble of lip. This is what they see, he thinks - when he is beneath them, when they are driving him out of his mind and stripping away that smiling, unbothered facade he puts up from day to day, breaking down his walls to see the real him inside. He's always been a little ashamed of it, to be honest, but how can he really refuse when the two people he cares most about earnestly insist that he shouldn't be afraid - that no matter what, he's beautiful. Even at his worst, shattered, helpless, reduced to the most primal parts of himself, he is beautiful.
At times like this, he can believe it--
He leans close, presses his cheek to that of his reflection and lids his eyes nearly shut, trembling breaths casting brief puffs of fog over the image that from this lack of distance is nearly indistinct, yet retains enough clarity to hold his interest. Beautiful, he mouths again, the softest movement of his lips that brushes the glass, and the cold sensation somehow sends a spark of strange pleasure down his spine that spurs him to touch himself more firmly. He shouldn't, he thinks - he wants to take it slow, wants to tease himself until he just can't stand it anymore - but he can't stop, letting his head turn so his lips meet his reflection and closing his eyes all the way, his pulse pounding in his ears with a rhythm that turns itself inexplicably to what sounds like words.
Beautiful.
Beautiful...
Beautiful--
His eyes fly open wide, and he can only make the softest of shocked, amazed sounds as release takes him.
Embarrassment does not filter in until he's already gone through the automatic motions of cleaning up, and it's a glance back at the mirror that does it. Breathless and tousled, eyes still just a little bright and the flush on his cheeks only just beginning to fade, he looks for a moment so unlike himself that the cognitive discord snaps him immediately back to reality, and suddenly he can't switch off the light and get out of the room quite fast enough. It's not that he finds it unpleasant, really, but perhaps that he finds it just a bit too alluring, and it feels like something he shouldn't be seeing for himself. Something he should only be showing to those who have won his heart, to those who care enough to break away his shell and get to the true beauty within.
Beautiful.
He smiles, just for a moment, because it's true.
