WARNING: The following subject matter is intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised. There will be no further warnings, so read at your own risk. I am not responsible for anything you see here that is inappropriate for your age group.
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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.
Their lips have only just brushed, sinking in deeper into the throes of passion, when three sharp raps jerk them rudely from their desire-induced haze, and a maid's timid voice asks if she can dust young master Suou's bedroom now.
Tamaki groans in frustration before calling out that he'd like her to wait a while longer, and Kyouya is pulling on his shirt, his hands only shaking the barest amount. The interruption was most certainly unwanted, but even Tamaki is sensible enough to know that they cannot do this here; cannot go this far with so many others in the mansion—big as it is.
"We were carried away," Kyouya says brusquely, his eyes beginning to clear and sharpen to their usual alert state of eagle-eye awareness. "I shouldn't have…" He trails off.
Tamaki steals his word with a quick kiss, unwilling to hear all the reasons they already know about why they shouldn't be together. Because those reasons seem rather trivial and unimportant when he is with Kyouya.
"Next time," he promises, a myriad of emotions in his amethyst eyes. "Next time we won't be interrupted."
Kyouya smirks again. "Of course," he says, his thigh brushing the remaining evidence of Tamaki's arousal in a way that is not entirely accidental. "Next time. We'll make sure of it."