In Your Eyes
folder
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,980
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,980
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
In Your Eyes
Disclaimer: Yohji, Omi, Ken-ken, and Aya = so not mine. Dammit.
In Your Eyes
I always feel like such a pervert when I look into your eyes.
Big eyes, round eyes. Child’s eyes, full of innocence and joy. You’re still a child in more ways than you know, Omi-kun. A little boy in a man’s body with a man’s responsibilities and a man’s desires.
This man desires you.
Ken and Aya don’t say anything, but they know. They know about us, and they disapprove. It’s all there, easy to see, in the angry curve of Ken’s eyebrows when we stand a fraction too close, in the cold disappointment that firms Aya’s mouth when I smile at you for a second too long.
It’s there in the way they keep us apart whenever they can manage it. Scheduling us for different hours at the Koneko, sending me on errands or deliveries right before you get home from school, keeping us separated on missions whenever possible. But they can’t keep us apart all the time. They go to bed eventually, and I always wind up sitting on my bed, smoking and staring at the door, hoping you’ll open it, hoping you’ll stay away.
You come to me at night, with your man’s desires burning in your little-boy eyes, and ask me to do what I shouldn’t. Your body brings me such pleasure, but I feel a thrill of guilt every time I touch you. The lure of the illicit. It turns me on, and it’s wrong that it does.
I’ve seen you with blood spattered across your pale skin. I’ve seen you with blood rushing under your pale skin. Hot blood, making you flush, making you moan as I kiss my way down your stomach to take your hard young flesh in my mouth. You always taste so good. You taste sweet and clean and fresh. You taste like hope, Omi-kun, and that is something that you have no right tasting like at all.
I lick the sweetness of your seed off my lips, and blush in shame.
And even though I penetrate you first, there’s no doubt who’s actually in charge. You stroke me with your clever fingers, so quick on a keyboard or with your little darts, covering me in lube, covering me in sin, quick little fingers guiding my longer ones inside of you, stretching you, slicking you, making you ready even though I don’t know if I am. You straddle me, riding me, so you can come all over my stomach and mark me as yours. Property of Omi, do not touch.
It’s your desire, your body, your rhythm. You always set the rhythm. Hard and fast and merciless, like teenage love, ripping my climax from me before I have a chance to savor it, savor you. You say you love the way I look, after, with lube and come trickling over my balls and down the crack of my ass and making me look so good that you just have to have me, right now, as you stroke yourself back up and smile a not-Omi smile while you speak your not-Omi words.
Your body recovers faster than mine; you slam into me before I’m ready, and make me bite back a scream, make me arch my back, make me weep from the wrongness and rightness of what you’re doing to me. Harder and faster than before, hard enough to leave bruises, fast enough to hurt. Like you can’t wait for your orgasm to reach you so you can mark me again, inside. I want to make love to you, Omi-kun, long and slow, but you always set the pace.
You sigh in satisfaction, and pull out, and give me a kiss and hug that actually is Omi-ish, and then you wipe yourself clean and you leave. You go to your bed, or to the shower, or to your computer, and leave me a sticky, bleeding mess inside and out, sprawled on my bed, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable even to reach for a cigarette. Sometimes I manage to drift off eventually, but most of the time I just lie awake and wait for the sun to come up so you’ll turn back into my cute little Omi-kun again.
Ken and Aya would never believe this. They think I’m the one chasing you, asking you to do things. That’s what puts the iron into their spines and the ice into their glares. They can’t believe that Yohji Kudoh would spread his thighs for his teenage teammate and take it like a bitch. But I do. I always do.
You’re underage and beautiful, and you know exactly what you want. And God help me, I give it to you every time. Because I belong to you, my Omi-kun, you and your little-boy eyes.
******
Oh my! Author\'s Notes!
I apologize for the summary. It sucks. I\'m not good at writing them. I hate putting fic-spoilers in my summaries, so for short fics like this I have a hard time writing anything at all.
This ficlet was written when I was supposed to be sleeping, after a smutbunny showed up on my comforter and demanded that I write it down. Frankly, the Omi in this fic disturbs ME, and I wrote him. This is my first Weiss Kreuz lemon. If you thought it sucked hardcore, please let me know. I\'m always looking to improve my skills. If you liked it, please tell me. I\'m a praise-whore, and I love being told what I did right. I helps me to believe that I\'m not a hack and should continue writing fiction.
In Your Eyes
I always feel like such a pervert when I look into your eyes.
Big eyes, round eyes. Child’s eyes, full of innocence and joy. You’re still a child in more ways than you know, Omi-kun. A little boy in a man’s body with a man’s responsibilities and a man’s desires.
This man desires you.
Ken and Aya don’t say anything, but they know. They know about us, and they disapprove. It’s all there, easy to see, in the angry curve of Ken’s eyebrows when we stand a fraction too close, in the cold disappointment that firms Aya’s mouth when I smile at you for a second too long.
It’s there in the way they keep us apart whenever they can manage it. Scheduling us for different hours at the Koneko, sending me on errands or deliveries right before you get home from school, keeping us separated on missions whenever possible. But they can’t keep us apart all the time. They go to bed eventually, and I always wind up sitting on my bed, smoking and staring at the door, hoping you’ll open it, hoping you’ll stay away.
You come to me at night, with your man’s desires burning in your little-boy eyes, and ask me to do what I shouldn’t. Your body brings me such pleasure, but I feel a thrill of guilt every time I touch you. The lure of the illicit. It turns me on, and it’s wrong that it does.
I’ve seen you with blood spattered across your pale skin. I’ve seen you with blood rushing under your pale skin. Hot blood, making you flush, making you moan as I kiss my way down your stomach to take your hard young flesh in my mouth. You always taste so good. You taste sweet and clean and fresh. You taste like hope, Omi-kun, and that is something that you have no right tasting like at all.
I lick the sweetness of your seed off my lips, and blush in shame.
And even though I penetrate you first, there’s no doubt who’s actually in charge. You stroke me with your clever fingers, so quick on a keyboard or with your little darts, covering me in lube, covering me in sin, quick little fingers guiding my longer ones inside of you, stretching you, slicking you, making you ready even though I don’t know if I am. You straddle me, riding me, so you can come all over my stomach and mark me as yours. Property of Omi, do not touch.
It’s your desire, your body, your rhythm. You always set the rhythm. Hard and fast and merciless, like teenage love, ripping my climax from me before I have a chance to savor it, savor you. You say you love the way I look, after, with lube and come trickling over my balls and down the crack of my ass and making me look so good that you just have to have me, right now, as you stroke yourself back up and smile a not-Omi smile while you speak your not-Omi words.
Your body recovers faster than mine; you slam into me before I’m ready, and make me bite back a scream, make me arch my back, make me weep from the wrongness and rightness of what you’re doing to me. Harder and faster than before, hard enough to leave bruises, fast enough to hurt. Like you can’t wait for your orgasm to reach you so you can mark me again, inside. I want to make love to you, Omi-kun, long and slow, but you always set the pace.
You sigh in satisfaction, and pull out, and give me a kiss and hug that actually is Omi-ish, and then you wipe yourself clean and you leave. You go to your bed, or to the shower, or to your computer, and leave me a sticky, bleeding mess inside and out, sprawled on my bed, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable even to reach for a cigarette. Sometimes I manage to drift off eventually, but most of the time I just lie awake and wait for the sun to come up so you’ll turn back into my cute little Omi-kun again.
Ken and Aya would never believe this. They think I’m the one chasing you, asking you to do things. That’s what puts the iron into their spines and the ice into their glares. They can’t believe that Yohji Kudoh would spread his thighs for his teenage teammate and take it like a bitch. But I do. I always do.
You’re underage and beautiful, and you know exactly what you want. And God help me, I give it to you every time. Because I belong to you, my Omi-kun, you and your little-boy eyes.
******
Oh my! Author\'s Notes!
I apologize for the summary. It sucks. I\'m not good at writing them. I hate putting fic-spoilers in my summaries, so for short fics like this I have a hard time writing anything at all.
This ficlet was written when I was supposed to be sleeping, after a smutbunny showed up on my comforter and demanded that I write it down. Frankly, the Omi in this fic disturbs ME, and I wrote him. This is my first Weiss Kreuz lemon. If you thought it sucked hardcore, please let me know. I\'m always looking to improve my skills. If you liked it, please tell me. I\'m a praise-whore, and I love being told what I did right. I helps me to believe that I\'m not a hack and should continue writing fiction.