Kyouya Ootori ended up going back to work after only two days, simply to get away from his thoughts. He’d tried going for a long bicycle ride--a hobby Haruhi had found singularly incongruous, until she realized that what she casually deemed a “mountain bike” had cost a semester’s worth of her college tuition--but had nearly fallen off the trail twice due to distraction. He’d tried going shopping; never one of his favorite amusements, but even more useless after he realized that he was simply picking things out for Haruhi and Tamaki. What else could he do? He certainly wasn’t going to stay at home and watch television .
So he returned to his office--the personal one, modestly appointed and taking up only the top floor of a tower in Marunouchi--and tried to throw himself into his work. There were always financial reports to be analyzed, of course, the beguiling maze of spreadsheets and charts filled with data. It was his favorite game, teasing out which elements were important, which could be discarded; the joy of discovering the hidden connections and correlations that he could tug on to make profit appear.
It took three days for him to realize that it wasn’t wasn’t working.
He pushed back from his desk, stifling a grunt of frustration, as he caught himself re-reading the same profit-loss analysis for the third time, caught in an uncharacteristic struggle to make the numbers and terse sentences become information instead of noise. He closed his laptop with a hard click, removed his glasses, and rubbed his fingers across the bridge of his nose.
This was simply unacceptable. The appropriate thought-response to a data analysis was not ‘I wonder what Tamaki and Haruhi are doing.’ It certainly was not acceptable to indulge the daydreams that were chewing through his stock of tissue at an alarming rate.
Kyouya had been quite happy , thank you, not to have the distractions of an overactive--or extant--libido. It had let him avoid quite a few of the messes, metaphorical and otherwise, that had plagued so many of his classmates. This was his desire--data and analysis, profit and business.
How the hell had a single night turned him into a distractible...horny... teenager?
He hadn’t been a horny teenager when he was a teenager. At nearly-thirty it was just embarrassing.
He vividly remembered that one night at his family’s villa, when he’d pinned Haruhi beneath him and put all his considerable menace into making her fear him, fear his power over her. (Hikaru and Kaoru would have been appalled at his tactics, but why let compunctions restrain you if you wanted to win? And if it had taught them not to play foolish games with people’s fears, all the better.)
She’d stared up at him fearlessly, and smiled. “You wouldn’t do it, Kyouya-senpai. There’s no profit in it for you.”
It was the first time he’d truly seen her. Not as a commoner, not as the Host Club’s servant or pet, but as a person, with powers of perception that had rivaled his own--and a courage that Kyouya wasn’t sure he could have summoned in her place. She’d seen through him, utterly.
For all his menace, and the warmth of her body beneath his, he hadn’t even gotten hard.
Somewhat belatedly, he realized that the same could not be said of him right now.
Images leaped to mind, unbidden. If she was beneath him again, right now, would she be so casual, so fearless? Or would she smile like she had the other night, all affection and comfortable possession, and draw his hips down to hers?
The thought of it made him ache.
This could not go on.
He reached for his phone.
Tamaki. When would you be free, next?
The reply, to his surprise, was nearly instant.
I could be free now, if you need. I’m just out for a walk near the apartment. Is something wrong, mother?
If you don’t stop calling me that, there will be. He smiled a little to himself, though. He could threaten all he wanted, and Tamaki would just let it go blithely by. They both knew he didn’t make empty threats like that when he was serious. Specific threats, on the other hand…
Aww, but you always liked it, back in the Host Club.
I tolerated it back in the Host Club. We’re also not in high school anymore.
A bit of a pause. Did you really?
Kyouya sighed, relenting. I’m really not the motherly type, you know.
Oh, I don’t know about that. A tiger mother, maybe.
How flattering, thank you.
It suits you, though! And then I’m the loving, affectionate daddy.
...tell me you don’t ask people to call you “daddy” anymore.
Of course not! A pause, and another line. >.> Not where Haruhi can hear...
Kyouya pinched the bridge of his nose. On anyone else, that sort of thing would generate a constant series of sexual harassment suits. Knowing Tamaki, he simply had a dozen different men and women casually calling him ‘father’ and ‘daddy.’ Or not casually, as the case might be. Tamaki always had been rather oblivious about the effect he had on people. He assumed that because he was playing, everyone else was too.
Anyway...do you mind if I drop by?
Of course not. You know that our house is your house, always!
That was the damnedest thing about Tamaki. On anyone else it would be an empty platitude. If Tamaki said it, he meant it.
I’ll be over shortly.
Kyouya stopped outside Tamaki and Haruhi’s apartment, with his hand poised to knock. The soft strains of piano music filtered out through the apartment’s considerable soundproofing, just distinct enough for Kyouya to catch the melody. It wasn’t a song he recognized from the classical canon--it was something like soft-tempo jazz, meandering and wistful.
He let his knuckles, and then his forehead, rest against the door, unwilling to interrupt the music. The melody danced and built--something about it speaking to desire, and to dreams. Tamaki truly was an extraordinary pianist. Haruhi had implied at one point that she believed Tamaki could have been a world-class musician, had the pressures of his heritage and legacy not taken precedence.
He began to understand the faint bitter note that had lingered in her voice. Tamaki had been good with classical music, but jazz was his unexpected forte--a mild obsession that had begun during their visit to Boston, when Haruhi had tried to amuse the group by taking them to a little piano bar near her university. Kyouya had been politely interested, the twins and Honey had been bored to tears--and goodness knows what Mori had thought. But something in the artful improvisation of it had grabbed hold of Tamaki, and hadn’t let go once they got back to Japan.
Maybe it was kin to what Tamaki had tried to do with his own life: to make something unique and beautiful out of an otherwise pre-arranged melody; to build upon the preordained, experimenting and altering, while never quite running away from the notes on the page.
The last notes faded away as he ruminated, leaving Kyouya in a strange mood of longing. Part of him wished that the music could go on forever.
Goodness. He was out of sorts.
He knocked briskly, shaking his head to clear it.
Tamaki answered with a bright smile, ushered him in, took his jacket. It was almost disturbing--both of them had lived their entire childhoods, and their adolescences, with people to do that for them.
Kyouya still did, now that he thought of it.
He sat at the kitchen table, as Tamaki bustled around making instant coffee--a Host Club affectation that neither of them, to Kyouya’s chagrin, had grown out of. He wrapped his fingers around the steaming cup when it was placed in front of him, gently blowing on it. He took a sip, set the cup down, and glanced up to find Tamaki watching him.
“It’s quite good,” Kyoua said.
Tamaki looked amused. “It’s instant coffee. It’s not difficult, I’m afraid.”
“It was quite the revelation to us at one time, as I recall.”
“Yes, well. We didn’t know much about the ways of commoners back then, did we?” Tamaki’s smile turned wry, and Kyouya didn’t miss the mild emphasis on ‘commoners.’
It was easy to forget that, by some lights, Kyouya was half-commoner himself. He suspected, belatedly, that Tamaki was never allowed to forget.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” Tamaki asked. His expression was serene, but his eyes were intent on Kyouya’s face.
Kyouya, to his own embarrassment, found himself fiddling with his coffee cup and clearing his throat. “You know, this all has really been quite a problem.”
Tamaki’s head tilted a few degrees to the left. “You’re speaking of the other night, I assume?”
“Yes.” Kyouya took a sip of coffee, swallowed slowly, giving himself time to put together a sentence. “It’s been...distracting.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“Is there a good way to be distracted?” he replied, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.
Tamaki merely gave him a small, wry smile--which shouldn’t make him want to blush , god damn it. “It depends on the distraction…”
Kyouya made his expression go cool and stern. “Don’t use your host voice on me, Tamaki.”
That just earned him a bigger smile, and a little narrowing of the eyes. Now he did feel his cheeks flush. He wasn’t some teenage girl in the host club, damn it. But it was one experience to watch Tamaki use his patented charm on someone else, and something else entirely to have it turned on him .
Not that he had ever wondered, mind you, what it would be like to have Tamaki turn that attention towards him...or even worse, do so and mean it.
“Are you saying that you find me distracting, Kyouya-kun?” There was something suggestive about that gentle smile, the way Tamaki’s lips parted and curved...he was not looking at Tamaki’s lips. Absolutely not.
The blue of his eyes wasn’t safer at all, in retrospect.
Tamaki reached out across the table, one slim fingertip tracing a gentle line down the back of his knuckles. His stomach curled and leapt, hot and jittery; and need warred with increasing frustration and anger in his head. Tamaki didn’t say anything, just smiled, like everything Kyouya was thinking was immensely obvious, like reading an open book.
He’s seducing me, Kyouya thought.
He’s seducing me.
And it was working. Part of him wanted nothing more than to grip Tamaki’s hands in his. They’d be warm from the coffee cup, strong and gentle. Maybe they’d twine their fingers together, a promise of entanglement, of not being able to tell where one stopped and the other began.
Part of him howled . In anger, in frustration--was he so simple? Was he so stupid, to be undone with the same tricks that had made young maidens blush and flutter? Did Tamaki honestly think he was that easy ?
Need and lust and anger welled up in him; a hot, knotted feeling in his chest and belly that threatened to surge out into his veins and roast him alive if he didn’t do something. At this rate, he was either going to fall at Tamaki’s feet, or punch him out of his chair.
So, being Kyouya Ootori...he took a third option.
He had the gratification of seeing Tamaki’s eyes go wide as he lunged forward and reached out, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. His fingers tangled roughly in Tamaki’s hair, and he hauled the other man in, capturing his mouth in a rough, ungraceful kiss. Then his own eyes closed, and he allowed himself to focus on nothing but the brutal pleasure of taking, taking what he had wanted for so fucking long.
See, Tamaki? This is what I am. Not a romantic, not some blushing youth to be seduced. Just a cold thing of logic and profit. Is that what you wanted?
Kyouya let go, finally, with a final ungentle rake of his teeth across Tamaki’s lower lip, shoving him back to sit down heavily in his chair. His own glasses were askew, dark hair spilling messily across his forehead, shaken out of its neatly-combed swoop by the sudden, forceful movement. By some miracle, neither of them had spilled their coffee. His fingers dug into the solid wood of the table, bracing, head bowed, as he drew in deep gulps of air.
That was it, then. He would look up, and see Tamaki’s horror and disgust at his brutality and incivility, and that would be the end of it.
He took a perverse pleasure in the thought that at least he’d have the memory of that kiss to console him.
Kyouya looked up.
Tamaki Suoh was staring up at him, lips parted, face flushed. He didn’t look horrified, to Kyouya’s surprise. He looked…
For the second time in a week, Kyouya Ootori felt his world tilt on its axis.
The moment stretched taut between them. It felt like...like when he was on his bicycle, at the top of a steep hill, that moment of apogee where he had to decide whether to turn back or take the hill--with all the consequences that entailed.
Well, he’d always been one for seizing opportunities.
Kyouya stalked around the table, steady and intent, eyes still locked on Tamaki’s. With a firm, perfectly-measured shove, he pushed Tamaki out of his chair--taking a guilty pleasure in Tamaki’s yelp, and the little noise of surprise and pain he made when he hit the floor. Another shove sent the chair tumbling across the kitchen with a clatter.
Though was it really a guilty pleasure, when you didn’t feel any remorse at all?
His eyes swept the other man, as he removed his glasses and set them on the table with a precise click. Tamaki’s chest rose and fell with a quickness of breath that didn’t have anything to with exertion, his fine blond hair a mess, a pink flush racing through pale skin.
Oh. Oh, now that’s…
Tamaki was hard because of him. Unmistakably so, a delightfully lewd outline highlighted against the fabric of his slacks. Kyouya let his eyes linger--and savored the way Tamaki’s flush deepened when he followed the line of Kyouya’s gaze.
He could be mine for the taking, he thought--and found himself momentarily breathless as the entire world seemed to slot into place around that idea.
Tamaki’s voice broke him from his thoughts, and he continued onward--dropping gracefully to the floor, one knee burying itself in Tamaki’s belly, pressing downwards, making Tamaki try to curl himself around that unyielding force. Fingers threaded through Tamaki’s hair made the perfect handle to jerk his head back, drawing another gasp from those soft lips, making Kyouya’s own erection throb in response.
“If you want me to stop, then tell me to stop, right now. And we’ll pick ourselves up off the floor, and this never happened.” He was surprised at how calm and level his voice was--distant, like it was coming out of someone else’s mouth. “But…” He felt himself smile, broad and pleased and cruel. “...you don’t want me to stop, do you?”
Tamaki never flinched or looked away, just stared, chest heaving, tip of his tongue stealing out to wet his lips. It was as if Kyouya had become the axis-point of his entire world; something Tamaki had clearly never expected, and yet deeply, desperately desired.
“Nossir.” Tamaki swallowed hard, and Kyouya let go of Tamaki’s hair so that he could trace the line of his throat, feel the racing pulse beneath his fingertips.
Tamaki inhaled at the touch, deep and ragged; his beautiful body arching in response, oh so sensitive…
“Good boy,” he said, and pressed his mouth to Tamaki’s, hot and swift. It was too good, too right. His entire body sang with need, pulsing through him in steady waves. He shifted his knee to press directly into Tamaki’s erection, chuckling in delight as Tamaki groaned and writhed in pleasure and pain. Slender fingers dragged across his belly and chest, tangling in his shirt, and he leaned into them, enjoying the answering fire in his skin.
It really was like riding down a mountain trail--effort and balance, the rush of danger and speed. Part of him watched, cool and detached, a restraining presence almost floating above himself, while the rest of him sank deeper into taking, taking everything he wanted from this man he’d loved and lusted after for half his life.
Kyouya watched himself reach out and tear Tamaki’s loose dress shirt open, exposing more flushed skin, the broad and lean-muscled span of his chest. Cloth tore and buttons scattered across the floor, and he reveled in that, too, the rush of force and destruction. Tamaki yelped, and arched, and then cried out more raggedly as Kyouya dragged perfectly-manicured nails down his skin.
“Do you want me to stop?” Kyouya’s voice was conversational, almost casual, as if he did this every day--as if he wasn’t throbbing and aching in his own pants, as if he couldn’t feel Tamaki’s arousal steadily grinding against his thigh.
“N-no..” Tamaki shook his head, biting his lower lip. Did he know how beautiful he was when he did that? How wanton, how seductive in ways that had nothing to do with Host Club charm?
Kyouya could think of several ways to show him.
He shoved Tamaki’s shirt off his shoulder, exposing more smooth skin--ran his fingers over it, smiling, admiring--and then buried his teeth in the meat of Tamaki’s shoulder, biting down. Tamaki cried out, bucked, arched against him; dug fingernails into his side and hip through his shirt, drawing his own lines of pain. It was perfect , it was almost pleasure, and he bit down again just to get another dose of it, just to make Tamaki claw and fight.
Kyouya drew his head back, licking the sweat-salt taste of Tamaki from his lips, eyeing the livid marks already turning bright red on Tamaki’s skin. Mine. Marked and taken. Mine mine mine…
“Please what? Please stop?”
Tamaki flushed bright red--he did that so easily, and it was so beautiful--and shook his head, slowly. He made a soft, strained noise, biting his lower lip.
“Then what? Hmm? Or do I have to guess?” He let his tone suggest that having to guess might result in answers that Tamaki did not find...strictly pleasurable.
“Please...please fuck me?” It was such a perfect shamed and plaintive whimper that it took a second for the request to sink in.
There had to be a limit to the amount of times that a man’s world could be re-ordered like this. A limit to the amount of assumptions challenged, and secret desires fulfilled.
But he hadn’t hit the limit yet, evidently. He was still on that mountain trail, barreling down towards success or destruction--and the secret he’d learned at high cost was that hesitation was what got you hurt. If you trusted in your skill, and your bike, and your speed, you could make it. The instant you second-guessed yourself, you crashed.
“Right here, Tamaki-chan?” Kyouya smiled, cool and taunting.
From the resulting whimper, and the shove of Tamaki’s hips against his thigh, at least part of him wanted the answer to be god, yes. But Tamaki swallowed, and shook his head. “There’s...condoms and lubricant in the bedroom.”
Kyouya felt hesitation break through the pulsing hunger of needing and taking, turning it temporarily fragile and brittle. Like feeling the bicycle’s front wheel start to jerk out of your control. “Are you certain?”
This time it was Tamaki’s fingers that grabbed tight in Kyouya’s hair, and dragged him down, until he was inches away from Tamaki’s feverishly-flushed face, and wide blue eyes. “If you don’t, Kyouya-sama...I will never forgive you.”
Kyouya stared for a long moment, then smiled--real and warm, an odd feeling on his face. “Then I shall have to do as ‘father’ wishes.”
Ah. So that was what it sounded like, when need caught the breath in Tamaki’s throat.
He shifted his knee and his weight, allowing Tamaki to wriggle out from under him--then reached forward and caught Tamaki’s chin in a firm grip. He gave himself just a little time to enjoy how that made Tamaki tremble against him like a trapped deer, then smiled.
“I think you should go ahead and get ready for me. I’ll be right behind you. I just need a moment to collect myself. Do you understand?”
Tamaki nodded, shortly. “Are...are you alright?”
“Perfectly so, Tamaki-chan.” He leaned in for a short, soft, kiss, then sat back on his haunches. “Go.”
Tamaki went--though he paused in the doorway to his bedroom to cast a wondering, hopeful glance back at Kyouya.
His and Haruhi’s bedroom.
Kyouya sighed, and carefully tucked that burning need-and-take feeling into the back of his mind, trying to let it become a banked ember. He dug his phone out of his pocket.
Haruhi. I fear I am about to do something rash with your husband. Please advise me.
There was just enough of a wait for him to start to become uneasy, before ‘...typing…’ appeared on the screen.
Are we talking ‘international trip’ rash, ‘the twins are involved’ rash, or ‘I actually talked about my repressed emotions’ rash?
He blinked at the screen for a long moment.
Something...kin to the latter, I think.
Senpai. Do you love him?
He couldn’t help it. He hedged. ....I hold him in the highest of esteem.
Kyouya could just imagine the look Haruhi was giving her phone. Probably the one that meant the less-affectionate version of you crazy boys.
Are you going to do something stupid like trying to steal him?
Of course not. For one, trying to pry Tamaki away from Haruhi would be like trying to pry the moon away from the earth. Even if you could find a big enough lever, where would you stand? Kyouya had long since come to terms with the fact that Tamaki would forever be in love with Haruhi. He was happy for them both, sincerely so.
He’d just never imagined that there might be a world where he was, even to a small degree, included in that love.
Kyouya-senpai. I trust you. It’s okay. Go be with him.
...I will. Thank you. He shoved his phone in his pocket, suppressing a rare twinge of guilt. He hadn’t exactly been explicit about what he intended to do. Nothing in their messages even hinted at ‘I am about to have carnal, homosexual relations with your husband.’
He desperately hoped this wasn’t a bike trail with a yawning chasm at the end.
Kyouya stood, grunting as his knees protested, and headed for the bedroom.
Tamaki Suoh was naked.
This wasn’t precisely new to Kyouya. He’d certainly seen Tamaki naked the other night, but...surprise and lust and exhaustion weren’t exactly conducive to extended study. Before that, there’d been a dozen different instances of nudity, usually involving hot springs, with strategically-placed towels involved. Enough to fuel the occasional late-night fantasy, but nothing that wasn’t utterly chaste during the execution of it.
It was decidedly different, when Tamaki lay artfully sprawled in front of him, with everything on display for inspection and pleasure.
Kyouya leaned in the doorway and allowed himself to drink the sight in.
Impending middle age had been very kind to Tamaki Suoh--his belly nearly as flat and firm as it had been when they were teenagers; lean muscle wrapped tightly around a long-limbed, slender frame. His skin was European-pale, flushed a little--the marks on his chest and shoulder were starting to darken beautifully, standing out unmistakably. His legs were spread slightly, his arms pillowed behind his head, giving Kyouya an excellent look at the soft, curling hair beneath his arms and between his legs--surprisingly dark, rich honey to his hair’s bright gold.
As well as a very nice view of something else, hard and curved up against his belly...
“Do you like what you see?” Tamaki said, a little of the host’s seductiveness slipping into his voice. But underneath it...long association allowed Kyouya to hear hesitation, and insecurity. The thought that Tamaki might not know that he was utterly beautiful was a little bewildering, even to Kyouya.
But then again...Tamaki had never tried to be beautiful for Kyouya before, either.
“I love it,” Kyouya said, voice coming out a little low, a little rough.
Tamaki flushed, and smiled, growing visibly...excited...beneath his regard.
Kyouya felt himself harden in response, the arousal that had been tucked away for a moment spilling back into him, heating his skin. He reached for his belt buckle...hesitated. Stopped.
Tamaki propped himself up on his elbows, concern leaking into his expression. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Kyouya lied. He felt himself falter, fingers fidgeting on the cool metal buckle. It was, it seemed, one thing to see your best friend naked and aroused, and another to expose yourself in the same way to him.
“Kyouya-sama.” Tamaki’s voice jerked him from his thoughts, gently but firmly. “Please come here?”
As much from curiosity as anything, Kyouya walked towards the bed. As he neared, Tamaki sat up, slipped off the side, and knelt in front of him. Kyouya felt his face heat, felt sure that Tamaki could see how that made his stomach fill with butterflies.
Tamaki reached up, laid his fingertips gently on Kyouya’s belt. “May I, Kyouya-sama?”
Kyouya swallowed hard. “Yes. Go on.”
Deft fingers popped the buckle open, then paused on button and zipper.
Within seconds, his pants lay open, revealing the cloth of the soft briefs beneath them--and then a gentle tug saw his pants pool around his ankles. Kyouya shifted his legs apart for balance, sock-feet digging into the soft carpet.
He looked down. Tamaki looked up. Licked his lips. Ran his fingertips slowly up Kyouya’s thigh, making his breath catch in his throat.
Slender fingers paused, just millimeters from soft, straining cloth.
“May I, Kyouya-sama?”
A warm hand wrapped around him, dragging a low groan from his throat. A thumb rubbed gently over the wet spot that had formed on the front of his briefs--Kyouya’s hands threaded through Tamaki’s hair and clamped down, for balance.
He’d had his share of ‘encounters’ in college: a handful of young women--and one young man--who’d shown an interest and who he’d deemed safe enough to experiment with, without risk to his fortune or his family. It had always been discreet, casual, and vaguely disappointing--he’d ‘performed’ perfectly adequately, of course, but it had held little advantage over a hand and the privacy of one’s own room.
This left him trembling, struggling not to spill himself over those delicate fingers.
“Am I doing well, Kyouya-senpai?” He caught the teasing edge in Tamaki’s tone, and tightened his fingers, letting Tamaki feel him throb at hearing that little gasp of surprise and pain.
“What do you think, Tama-chan?”
Tamaki made a soft little noise of satisfaction, and pulled against his grip, whimpering with the pain of it, until he was speaking with his lips pressed directly against Kyouya’s trapped length.
“I think I really, really want to taste you, Kyouya-sama.”
Tamaki must have taken the loosening of his fingers, or his strangled, surprised moan, as consent, because a deft tug had him springing free-- oh, god, he’s rubbing his face against it, yes please-- and then before he could even register the shock of cool air on hot skin--
Kyouya’s fingers tightened fiercely, and he groaned, and focused everything he had on his control; but Tamaki’s mouth kept going down...and down...and Kyouya’s hips shoved, and Tamaki made a choking noise, and Kyouya pulled himself free, half-panicked.
“Tamaki. Tama-chan. Are you alright?”
He tried to gather his scattered wits, but...Tamaki was…
...laughing. Laughing in quiet delight and amusement, even as his fingers curled into the waistband of Kyouya’s increasingly useless briefs and used them to drag him in close once more.
“Kyouya-sama. Relax, please.” And, as if to prove his point, sank down again, until his nose was buried in the coarse dark curls between Kyouya’s legs.
On instinct, he gripped Tamaki’s hair tight once more, and let his hips roll and grind, testing the other man’s limits--and was not, precisely, surprised to find that he was having difficulty finding them. He allowed himself to speed up, savoring the lewd wet noises Tamaki’s mouth was making, the moans and gasps for breath--
--then pulled himself free again, panting, gasping, his slick length throbbing dangerously, barely an inch from Tamaki’s flushed lips.
Even as his desire complained, he deeply enjoyed the needy whimpers that Tamaki was making. He forced Tamaki’s head to tilt back, gazed down at him, letting pleasure curve the corners of his mouth upwards.
“You wanted something else, I thought, Tama-chan.”
Tamaki bit his lower lip, and gulped, and nodded against the grip in his hair.
“Do you still want it?”
“Yes, please, Kyouya-sama...”
Kyouya wasn’t sure how he was going to concentrate on anything ever again, knowing that he could make Tamaki’s voice sound like that...
He pulled Tamaki up--with a sympathetic wince for the sound the other man’s knees made--and then pushed him gently back, to sprawl on the bed. He crawled up with him, finding somehow ever so natural to wrap Tamaki’s legs around his waist, to rub himself firmly up against him. He stayed like that for a while, gently sliding and grinding, letting Tamaki’s body and breath tell him where to press, where to place his weight...was it always this easy? Or was it just that they’d spent so long together, as right hand and left hand, that he didn’t need to learn the hard and fumbling way?
Kyouya sat back, reached for the package and bottle that Tamaki had clearly set out for him on the bedside table...quick and familiar motions dispensed with the package, slicked himself with cool liquid. He reached down and brushed wet fingers against a certain sensitive bit of Tamaki’s skin, reveled in the gasp and shiver.
He settled himself against Tamaki again, hesitated. “I don’t...know how long…”
Tamaki wiped away all of his hesitations with a brilliant, gentle smile. “Kyouya-sama. You’ll be in me. I don’t care.”
Kyouya swallowed against a sudden knot in his throat. Shifted, carefully, pressed in. Tamaki winced, and he adjusted, shifting his hips down...slim fingers reached down and guided him to just the right spot, let him increase the pressure. For a moment he entertained the terrifying worry that he was doing it wrong, that he was pressing down too hard--
--and then tight, exquisite warmth wrapped around him, and took Kyouya’s breath away. Tamaki’s legs tightened around his hips, drawing him in--he’d never known Tamaki could look like that, mouth forming a silent ‘O’ as Kyouya sank deeper and deeper, back arching until they were joined hip-to-hip, and Tamaki’s breath let out in a breathy, satisfied moan.
“Go on. Oh, please. Kyouya. Please.”
He fretted for a second, as his hips pulled back--but then Tama-chan’s legs tightened and drew him back in, and they moaned together, and the tension in his body flowed away from him. It was just like all those awkward assignations before, but better, and more natural, with Tamaki’s body beneath him nearly as familiar as his own.
Kyouya found his rhythm, then, steady and building--that delight in taking, again, taking Tamaki’s pleasure, taking his body. His mouth found Tamaki’s, let him moan into his lips, let Tamaki’s legs and hands and mouth guide him to exactly where he should be. Higher and higher, harder, faster...he was dimly aware that Tamaki’s hand had wrapped around his own length, was stroking himself in time to Kyouya’s thrusting.
Then nothing mattered, except the heat building in him, and Tamaki’s fingers raking down his back, until even the heat in him crested and broke like a wave.
He cried out as it took him, cried Tamaki’s name as pleasure gripped him and dragged him along, then left him spent and slumped against his best, beloved friend.
After a relative eternity of aftershocks that washed through him like electricity, he opened his eyes.
Tamaki was watching him, and smiled sweetly as their eyes met.
Mine, said something deep inside him. Mine, mine, you can’t make me let you go, not ever. Not again.
“Was that...good?” he asked, feeling somewhat thick-headed and stupid. His thoughts didn’t want to go together quite right, as if his brain had gotten blasted apart and put back together inexpertly. Like a broken vase, his brain supplied, unhelpfully, and he laughed in spite of himself.
“No, Kyouya-sama,” said Tamaki. “That was amazing. ”
Kyouya felt himself flush all the way down his neck.
After some brief, awkward disentangling and waste disposal, along with quick trips to the adjoining bathroom, Kyouya found himself sprawled in Haruhi and Tamaki’s bed, with Tamaki snuggled up tightly into his side, one leg thrown across his hips. He looked down at Tamaki, head pillowed on his shoulder, and found himself unaccountably warm, in a way that had nothing to do with the earlier exertion.
Tamaki caught him watching, and smiled up at him--as warm as the sun, and just as golden.
“You’re always so serious, Kyou-chan. Even after all that.”
Kyouya sighed, closed his eyes. “You turn my world upside down. You always have. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Maybe you could just enjoy it.” He could feel Tamaki smile into his shoulder. “Not everything is business to be analyzed.”
Kyouya gave that idea the derisive snort it deserved, and he felt more than heard Tamaki laughing in response.
Still. This was...nice. Good, even. He didn’t want to just pack up and go home, like all the times before. He could stay here forever, Tamaki at his side, breathing in the scent of him until the sun went down.
Outside the bedroom, a door opened and closed, breaking through his drifting thoughts.
“Tamaki, I’m home!”
Kyouya felt icy needles slip into the pit of his stomach.
KYOUYA OOTORI WILL RETURN….