Pounce

No matter what—no matter how loud or dramatic he is, or how flighty and flirtatious—no one can deny Tamaki Suou’s beauty. Not even his level-headed best friend, who prides himself on his self-control and calculating, detached air.

Kyouya is reminded of this as Tamaki steps out of the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom, clad only in a towel hanging low on his hips and innocent, bright violet eyes—wide and apparently oblivious to the way the water droplets crawl down his cheek, shine in his hair, trickle down the lines of his muscles, very faintly defined but there nonetheless.

Self-control is very hard to maintain when you have a wet, wide-eyed, pouting Tamaki Suou in all his nearly-naked glory standing before you, asking you if you’ve seen his blue boxers; the ones with the black waistband.

“No, Tamaki, I have not,” Kyouya sighs, his voice tight with strain. “Why would I know where your underwear is?” It comes out snappish and irritated, because if Tamaki’s towel slips any lower the fine, pale golden hair on his lower abdomen will thicken and curl and then Kyouya just might pounce, self-control be damned.

Aforementioned self-control frays further, a precariously thin thread of desperation, when Tamaki, with a huff of frustration, turns and goes to his dresser to hunt through the piles of designer clothes for his missing boxers. He’s muttering that they’re good quality—silk, and almost brand new—but the whining is merely background noise as Kyouya watches a crystalline drop make its way down Tamaki’s spine, curving into his back and escaping into the folds of that damned towel.

/I will not pounce on him. I will not pounce on him. I will not pounce on him. I will not pounce on him…/

Tamaki whirls with a soft cry of triumph, blue silk boxers with black lining clutched tightly in his fist. Kyouya doesn’t bother telling him he will wrinkle the silk, too busy clutching desperately at the slender, creaking thread.
Which promptly snaps when Tamaki drops the towel with no modesty and begins to slip on the blue silk, looking straight in Kyouya’s eyes all the while. That’s when Kyouya knows the blonde has been doing all this on purpose, and it stokes the fire within him even further. Kyouya throws his inner mantra out the window—and pounces.

Tamaki doesn’t even bother chiding him for being so rough with silk when he rips the boxers off just as soon as they were donned. There is an obscenely talented mouth on his neck that is turning his knees to rubber and fingers sliding over the wet skin at his hips, and the scratch of Kyouya’s shirt against his bare chest is only more incentive to get Kyouya’s own clothes off as soon as possible. Tamaki sets to work on the buttons, and Kyouya lets the shirt slide from his shoulders to pool on the ground, probably getting wrinkled but who really cares? Tamaki’s startled gasp at hips grinding into his is swallowed by a hungry mouth, greedy and forceful—a starving man given a three-course meal. The only thing running through Tamaki’s mind is yes, and please, and every other word conveying his complete acquiescence to Kyouya’s loss of control. He revels in the moments when he is able to draw out the fiercer, fierier, more passionate side of Kyouya—mostly because the rest of Ouran Academy has always taken the usually taciturn third son of the Ohtori family to be unwaveringly cool and collected, an impenetrable marble statue. A beautiful carving, to be sure — and if Kyouya ever doubts it, he has hundreds of simpering schoolgirls to stroke his ego — but inarguably cold and solitary.

Now Kyouya’s touch is liquid fire on his skin, formerly cold from the slowly-drying water of his shower, and his body pressed into Tamaki’s as though he would like to crawl inside the blonde’s skin. Tamaki would be lying if he said he didn’t feel just a bit smug that all this was all his, and his alone — that no other person, man or woman, had ever felt the heat of Kyouya’s desire and the skill of his mouth, or heard his gasps and moans and even the occasional shout when Tamaki is so far down that his nose is buried in thick, dark curls. No one has felt the trembling of his slender, toned body when Tamaki finds a particularly sensitive stretch of creamy-pale skin. And nobody has ever tasted Kyouya as Tamaki has — his lips, his mouth, his skin, his essence. The Host Club King holds a piece of his stoic friend that can never be stolen away—the gift of a first.

Kyouya smirks as he pulls away from their kiss to survey his work — an alluringly aroused Tamaki, panting, dazed with a flush high in his cheeks and his eyes at half-mast, watching Kyouya from under thick yellow lashes. He knows that several times Tamaki has turned the tables and left him trembling in soft, gentle hands the way his blonde is now. It is a heady feeling to have such an effect on another.

Tamaki’s lips, just slightly swollen from kissing, are moving, saying something in an impatient tone, before he tangles his fingers in the ebony hair at the base of Kyouya’s neck and pulls his Shadow King back down. It is all Kyouya can do not to take Tamaki right there, raw and dry, but even through his crazed lust he knows neither of them will enjoy that. He forces himself to pull them in the general direction of the bathroom, stumbling clumsily because they are still attached at the mouth, and Tamaki is kissing him as though he is going to bring his very soul from his mouth, until Tamaki’s back is pressed against the cold marble wall, his legs wrapped around Kyouya’s waist. There is lotion there on the counter, but the way Tamaki clings to him, presses himself so tightly against him, tells Kyouya he is not the only impatient one.

/Hurry, hurry,/ Tamaki’s hands tell him as one twines in his hair and the other grips his hip urgently. Kyouya fumbles with his pants, one hand holding Tamaki in an embrace that is both gentle and rough, and the hand previously kneading his hip and tracing invisible designs upon his skin hurries to aid in divesting the dark-haired boy of the troublesome garments.

“Stupid pants,” Tamaki half-gasps, half-mumbles into Kyouya’s shoulder, fingers massaging the base of his neck and twisting the dark, sweat-dampened locks idly. Kyouya is rather inclined to agree, because if Tamaki’s tongue did to his lower half what it is doing to his collarbone right now, he thinks he would have no need of heaven.

“Fuck,” Kyouya cries out, breathing harshly as Tamaki’s hand, now unhindered by pressed black dress pants and the equally expensive boxers underneath, finds his arousal. Fingertips brush the tip like a butterfly’s wing, and Kyouya is bucking unabashedly into the touch, gasping for air. Tamaki chuckles, but it is completely without malice or mocking.

“Bed,” Kyouya manages to choke, stealing Tamaki’s breath with a soul-searing kiss before snatching the lotion and stumbling back to the enormous four-poster bed. And once again Tamaki sinks into his mouth, because no one ever tasted so good as his Shadow King.

His tongue, his lips, his neck — especially sensitive just underneath his left ear — his chest — Kyouya makes the most beautiful noises when Tamaki’s lips close over his nipple — his stomach — Tamaki’s tongue dips into his bellybutton playfully, and who’d have thought that would make Kyouya moan so loudly? — and the exceptionally soft skin on the inside of Kyouya’s thighs. His flesh is salty, warm, just a bit of soap — but none of it is disgusting, as the taste of salt and soap habitually is. It tastes comforting and familiar… and the smell of the dark curls nestled between Kyouya’s legs is musky and just as inviting. Kyouya is nearly writhing at Tamaki’s ministrations, and Tamaki tells himself he should really stop or this will be over before it has truly begun — but then the boy below him lets out a sound, the most erotic thing Tamaki has ever heard, and it fizzles through his entire body, desire singing in his veins. It guides his fingertips to trace the lines of Kyouya’s torso, and it sets his brain on the single track of finding out just how he made Kyouya emit such a noise and doing it again and again…

Kyouya’s hips jerk, a wanton groan escaping him. Then Tamaki’s tongue presses into the junction of hip and thigh, so damn close to the black-as-night curls, and his tips scrape the soft flesh carefully — stinging but clearly not at all unpleasant — and that sound again, he’s found it.

Slowly, Tamaki drags his tongue up the side of Kyouya’s arousal, tracing the vein as his lips tease the tip. It is a moment before he lets more slide past his lips and his tongue takes all of Kyouya’s length to explore. Kyouya is panting, rasping out a frantic warning as he tugs fruitlessly on Tamaki’s tangled golden hair.

“That’s fucking it,” Kyouya cries hoarsely when Tamaki’s fingers smooth over his nipples and skate down his sides, the muscles trembling in their wake. In a flash, Tamaki is beneath him again, smirking as he sees the state to which he has reduced Kyouya. The smugness is quickly wiped from his face, however, when Kyouya growls in an indignant fashion and slips a lubricated finger into Tamaki, suckling on his earlobe to distract him from the pain. Amethyst eyes wide and clouded with lust, buttercup hair tossed about the pillows and sticking to his cheeks and neck, rosebud nipples drawn tight, and milky-pale skin glazed with a thin sheet of perspiration from their passion — though a sane Kyouya would be disgusted with himself for such silly words, he cannot get around the fact that Tamaki looks like candy right now. He is unable to resist leaning down to taste the sugared hollow in the delicate collarbone of the boy who squirms impatiently beneath him.

“K-Kyouya,” Tamaki gasps, his arms slipping under Kyouya’s to grip the younger’s shoulders, “I kn-know that I’m beautiful and all, but—ah!—are you just going to stare all day?”

Kyouya chuckles darkly. Not that Tamaki is mistaken in his self-perception, but he always has been a little too vain for his own good. A second finger is added, and Kyouya thinks he hears a teasing mutter of, that’s more like it, but can’t be sure—and can’t really care. Tamaki nips at his chin playfully — in the back of his mind, Kyouya remembers hearing something about submission in the animal kingdom. He’ll have to tease Tamaki about that later — now his tongue is busy flickering across the boy’s nipples, his teeth nibbling the stretch of skin between them so that he is sure to leave marks, even if the only ones to see the bruises will be the two of them. Another finger; louder gasps. Kyouya never treated Tamaki too gently — the boy is stronger than he lets on, and tougher than his appearance would lead anyone to believe. And Kyouya’s fingers are strong and sure, from experience, and they know just where to touch and how so that he can bring Tamaki to the edge of madness before filling him.
“I’m ready, K-Kyouya! Just… come on…”

Kyouya is so sure he is about to spoil all this time and effort when Tamaki’s fingers slick his aching arousal with the lotion — fuck no, not now — making an obvious effort to be as clinical as possible, but still producing more of a reaction than either would have hoped for. Kyouya hopes Tamaki can just take the compliment.

The feel of wet, tight heat around him is damn near perfect—no woman can be like this — and the impassioned cries that cannot be held back draw him in like nothing else can. Kyouya takes only a moment to let his eyes meet Tamaki’s for confirmation — he’s okay, it’s all right — before he begins to thrust with reckless abandon, gripping Tamaki’s hips and burying himself within the slick warmth as if it is his last day on Earth. Fingernails dig into his shoulders insistently, and Kyouya realizes with no small amount of embarrassment that it is him emitting those throaty groans, and his own chest rumbling with a possessive growl that is most certainly not a purr.

Tamaki presses his face into the side of Kyouya’s neck in an attempt to stifle his shout of surprise and ecstasy when Kyouya hits the perfect spot. There are still people in the house, they could hear, they should not be doing this—
All thought flies from his head momentarily as one of Kyouya’s hands leaves his hips to tease the base of Tamaki’s own erection, lightly but the contact is still electrifying — and simultaneously his prostate is hit again, and Tamaki has to sink his teeth into Kyouya’s shoulder, bucking with a muffled cry.
Nobody can do this like Kyouya, Tamaki thinks, thrusting wildly into the tunnel of Kyouya’s hand. No girl is beautiful enough for him, kind enough for him, clever enough — no one is good enough for his Kyouya. No girl has the right to him. There isn’t anyone who knows Kyouya like his best friend. No one’s body fits into Kyouya’s like this — like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle — and no one’s mouth can mold to Kyouya’s like this — like a lock and a key, and no one, no one, knows as many of Kyouya’s embarrassing, undignified moments as Tamaki Suou.

Kyouya groans into his neck, but it is tinged with exasperation. “You’re thinking too much,” he growls reproachfully. “Tamaki…”

And of course, no one says Tamaki’s name like that.

“Sorry,” Tamaki gasps with a breathless laugh. “All yours, all y-ohhhh!”

Kyouya tries to answer, but is incoherent with bliss as Tamaki tightens around him and the blonde’s hands slip from his shoulders to slide down his spine. Kyouya arches his back into the touch, which is ticklish in a way that doesn’t make him laugh, and his speed quickens; his arms tighten; his mouth slants over Tamaki’s as they both near the edge. His tongue slips past Tamaki’s pliant lips easily to explore a territory he knows well already, but is sure he will never tire of. When he pulls away to even his ragged breathing, Tamaki is chanting a soft mantra of oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god—

This places a smug smirk on Kyouya’s face until Tamaki thrusts up and impales himself once more on the boy above him, and a harsh cry escapes his lips. Tamaki pulls Kyouya’s face down to his own again so that any further cries will be muffled by their kiss. They must be cautious, because there are consequences for every action — certainly for passionate, secret sodomy between two of Japan’s wealthiest adolescents.

Fortunately, he isn’t able to think about caution and consequences, because, oh God, everything tightens, his vision is blurring, (couldn’t it have lasted longer?) he is no longer in control of anything. His body moves of its own accord, determined to sink into Tamaki and drown in these sensations. Slender, pale hands grasp at his shoulders, a tongue sliding against his own and wild, frantic movements below him.

And then, with a shout that is sucked into their kiss but reverberates through their entire bodies, Tamaki comes, his wet heat slippery between their bodies. It takes only a few more thrusts and then Kyouya follows with a long, deep groan, surrendering himself to the soft, slick heat and the inevitable end to their joining.

It is a few minutes of panting, eyes struggling to focus, limbs quivering, hearts returning to normal, before Kyouya is able to leave the warmth of Tamaki’s body, collapsing beside his gasping form on sheets that will have to be washed by them, lest anyone else learn of their relationship.

“Il n’y a aucune femme comme toi, Maman.” Tamaki smiles as he turns his face to Kyouya, the picture of contentment.

Kyouya slips an arm around Tamaki’s shoulders, saying nothing. Secretly, he very much enjoys when Tamaki speaks to him in French. He never has any idea what the blonde is saying, but he knows the language makes his friend feel more at home, even if Tamaki is perfectly fluent in Japanese as well. And besides—they do say that French is the language of love.

“Comme je t’aime,” comes the quiet murmur, slurred and sleepy. Tamaki tucks his chin into Kyouya’s shoulder and buries his face in the soft neck. It isn’t long before his breathing is deep, regulated, and it is clear he was asleep.

Soon, Kyouya will have to rise and dress, slip out the back way if he can, and perhaps endure questions about just why his clothes are so wrinkled and his hair so tousled. But when he tries to untangle himself from Tamaki the sleeping boy makes a small sound of disagreement, and his arms draw Kyouya closer. If it came right down to it, Kyouya could probably force his way out of the embrace, but he too feels tired, and even if he cannot allow himself to sleep (not here, in Tamaki’s household, where anyone could walk in) he can at least rest a while. He can enjoy the short time he has when Tamaki is too deep in slumber to tease, and there is no one here for whom he has to keep up his front — and hold his friend and pretend that he really is husband to Tamaki. The prospect is much more appealing than marrying a spoilt socialite.

Not that he would ever tell Tamaki so. The blonde’s ego is big enough.

*********************************************************

FRENCH TRANSLATIONS:
“Comme je t’aime”: “How I love you.”
“Il n’y a aucune femme comme toi, Maman”: “There is no woman like you, Mommy.”

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER...
Despite the fact I know this will spoil the mood, I have to say it anyway, just in case. I am aware that a condom should always be used when participating in anal sex, but this is fanfiction. It’s supposed to be WAFF at some points, and steam up your glasses at others. Logic and reason are shunned from this story. (Not to mention, I’m fairly sure that Tamaki and Kyouya are clean! It’s still a good idea, though.)
So just a reminder, kiddies, always use a condom.