Dans sa R�verie

Note: I posted a different version of this at FFN, but this is the explicit version :evil laughter: XD A few of my friends wanted to read the dirty version, so this is the result.

In his own home, far away from the pressures of being perpetually perfect, the tight coils of stress and tension that he keeps hidden so carefully behind that well-maintained face slip away. He is left only with a sense of relief as he locks the door of his private bathroom behind him, shutting out the sound of the large, empty house. Inside that large, pastel-themed room, there is only Tamaki and the sound of his own thoughts, more deafening than any other noise he has heard all day, but he doesn’t mind. His personal silence is welcome, and it’s a privilege that does not often come with living such a public life.

The sound of the water splashing into the tub is almost therapeutic, and he perches himself on the porcelain edge, twirling his fingers through the hot water that cascades past, so quick and so impossible to grasp. Tilting back his head, he finds himself comparing it to unconsciously to the fleeting feather of a dove in the breeze, to the elusive hand of love. He chances a sigh and finds it deafening in the silence, his only companion the soft thundering of that endless stream of water. The calm silence is a much-needed vacation from the rather hectic schedule that being king of the Host Club entails.

As he sits amid the swirling steam and the cheerful sound of the running water, he finds himself musing, wondering, as he does unconsciously many times in a day when they are apart, what Haruhi is doing. And of course, thinking of Haruhi sets in motion a chain of thoughts with leads to his tension rising a bit as he wonders for the millionth time, “Does she like me?”

Of course, though Tamaki is the first one to admit that he is an optimist, even he knows that her having any feelings for him at all is unlikely. “She would show it, wouldn’t she?” he wonders aloud. “If you have feelings for someone, shouldn’t there be some indication?” and yet again he is left with that feeling of uncertainty deep in the pit of his stomach that shouldn’t be there. He should be confident, sure of himself. But he hates to admit that his sunny demeanor is occasionally forced under the pressure of living up to his father’s expectations. A thousand thoughts swirl in his head, and he can’t help but find these thoughts unfitting as part of his mini vacation.

Letting his turbulent thoughts go, he strokes at the petals of one of the roses that sits in a vase on the small table beside the tub. Slender fingers draw the single rose from the face and delicate hands clasp it gently. He brings it to his nose and smells its sweetness. And slowly, he plucks off a petal, indulging in a childish whim. “She loves me,” he mutters, dropping the crimson petal into the rising bathwater. He plucks another and lets it fall, “She loves me not.”

The petals float gracefully on top of the water, and the last petal falls on the words “She loves me”. It is enough to bring a smile to his face, and with his cheerfulness renewed, he turns off the tap and slowly begins to strip, discarding his powder-blue blazer in a heap on the floor; today is about indulgence, not being neat. Slowly, his nimble fingers open the buttons of his undershirt, and he shudders as his own cool fingertips brush the sensitive skin of his chest. And he wonders, in his moment, how it would feel to have someone else remove his clothes, slow and sultry. He wonders how it would feel to have someone else touch him his way, as his fingertips caress his chest once more. He indulges himself in the thought of what it would be like to have Haruhi touch him this way.

Even just the thought of it makes him blush, and yet he does not refrain from letting his thoughts travel where they shouldn’t. He allows himself to imagine that these are her small fingers grazing his chest, his stomach. He dares to pretend it’s her stroking his smooth nipple that springs to life at the attention, pinching it finally and make him squeak softly. There is nothing wrong with fantasy, he reminds himself as the hands slowly slide his trousers and boxers to the floor and he steps out of them. Even though he usually likes to reserve himself from thinking this way, this moment is different. This is a break from daily life. This is a moment where dreams and reality have no real line between them.

As he lowers himself into the warm water, his body relaxes, the last coils of stress melting away. He lies back in the water, intent on finishing what he has started. His hands travel slowly down his chest and stomach, delicately sliding over his hipbones, pushing into the divots on the inner sides of them. He stays locked in his fantasy, and the familiar sensation of his hands gliding over his own skin feelings different, magnified by the what ifs; what if these were her hands? What if she was touching him this way? What if it was Haruhi who was stroking his thighs, his hips, making him grow aroused without so much as touching that place that is increasingly begging to be touched as his hands move over hot, wet skin? He cannot recall ever being turned by simply this before, and marvels at the strength of his feelings for the dark-haired girl.

The warm water laps at his skin as his hands move, and cold cannot be the cause of his trembling. His hands slide slowly, delicately over the wet ridges of his hipbones and his fingernails sink slightly into the flesh, prompting a moan. His hands stroke his inner thighs and he gasps, imagining her light fingertips caressing him. He feels weak, vulnerable, because though they are his own hands that touch him, it is the influence of Haruhi behind them that makes it feel this way. Breathing is nearly impossible at this moment. These thoughts should not be enough to make him feel this way, and the thought that they are makes him feel almost afraid. No one should be this helpless in the face of such emotions, his thinks as he squirms desperately beneath his own touch, all while caught up in his daydream. .

At long last he slides wet, slick hands exactly where he needs to be touched and moans softly. The torrid, swollen flesh is slick beneath his hands. He whispers her name into the soft silence of the blue-themed bathroom as his entire body grows warmer, belittling the heat of the water that encases his body. He runs one thumb down his length and bites down on his lip to keep from crying out. Because in his mind these are not his own hands, and the thought of her touching him this way is almost enough to make him come right then and there. He moves his fingertip slowly down the top of his member, moving to the head and caressing the weeping slit there. He squirms, a soft moan tearing out of his throat. He does it again, and the reaction this time is no less intense. Precum leaks out in large, glistening drops as he continues to touch, to explore, as though he has not done this dozens of times before.

Small, feather-light touches from his own fingertips make the heat between his legs even more unbearable. He moves slowly up and down his member and pays special attention to every square inch, until it nearly touches his stomach. He carefully keeps his breathing level, despite the sensations that bombard his mind one after another. And finally, just as desperation begins to set in, he breathes deeply and wraps his fingers around the shaft.

The heat of his wet fingers is just what he needs, and he nearly loses all control. He begins to move his hand, sliding easily over the engorged, wet flesh. Slick, desperate fingers work toward the goal that so desperately needs to be reached now. Because now, in all the desperation of the moment his mind is so hazy with need that he can almost make himself believe that this is Haruhi touching him. These are her hands, and her voice echoes softly in his ears, soothing him as he pushes against the obstacle before him, working toward release. His hand moves faster now, and bucks against it, whimpering softly.

Steam curls up from the water, tiny tendrils of soft mist that sheath him in a world of his own. The sunlight that slants in through the window catches the mist and fills the room with gold dust as glittery as the trails of fairies. As he moves, thrashing slightly, the rose petals that float around him rock like tiny boats in a turbulent sea. He is whimpering now, off in a world of his own in the large, steamy bathroom, the very air around him becoming soft and poetic in the face of his fantasies. His soft moans mingle with the sound of the splashing as he moves frantically, closer and closer with each passing second as he nears completion, all the while imagining short dark hair and brown eyes.

As his hand continues its ministrations, his free hand finds his balls and cups them gently. He rolls them with his fingers and has to bite his lip again, his breathing coming more and more shallow with each second. He moves both hands in rhythm with each other, a perfect harmony of motion that sets his soul on fire. A sudden idea makes him blush, and he drops the hand from his balls, moving it farther back instead. Cautiously poking at the tiny hole that is his entrance, he hisses slightly and presses, his fingertip sliding in.

A small spasm rocks his body, but he presses forward. The skin around his finger is hot, and he presses in to his last knuckle before suddenly he touches the edge of something soft, and his eye widen. His finger is not long enough to reach farther, but by pressing that tiny bit of the spot again he makes himself moan inexorably. His other hand moves frantically on his member as he presses again and again, thrashing more and whimpering louder, unable to contain himself.

“Haruhi!” his hoarse cry cuts through the quiet when he can no longer stand holding back, and he throws his head back, sweat sliding down his forehead as he splashes a bit of water over the tub’s sides in that final, fantastic moment. His seed spills into the bathwater in far greater abundance than usual. For that moment he is suspended in between reality and fantasy, writhing for a moment until his fantasy is gone and he is left to collapse back into the now tepid water, the fever of the last few moments fading quickly. Sunlight swirls around him, unassuming and innocent as though it did not witness the intimate scene of only seconds ago, as though it lies forgotten. Tamaki eyes the pearly strands that float in the clear water, and he blushes fiercely. This is all because of Haruhi.

The rose petals are wilting now in the cooling water, and the flush is draining away from his feverish body as he slowly comes down from his high and lets go of the painfully intense emotions that keep their stranglehold on his insides. Deciding he is too exhausted now to bother washing his hair, he climbs cautiously out of the tub and wraps himself in a fluffy blue towel before pulling the plug. He listens to the sound of the water draining. He plucks each petal from the water and throws them away. The wall is cool against his back as he leans against it, gaining his composure. His heart beats quickly at the thought, the delicious exhilaration, that maybe his feelings alone are enough, as though they have the intensity to change her feelings about him. He feels almost giddy, smiling softly to himself in the powder blue warmth of his own secret world.

“Master Tamaki?” he hears a voice from outside the door. “You were shouting. Is everything alright?”

“Of course!” he calls cheerfully to the maid, the remnants of his fantasy world fading as he pulls on his bathrobe and opens the door. “I just slipped, that’s all!” And as he leaves the warm confines of the bathroom, he steps back into his life, slightly uneven but held together by the thought that things can only get better with time. He gives one last glance back at his private place and then heads onward, pushing to the back of his mind his strong hope that sometime soon he will once more be lost in a reverie.