Disclaimer: I wish.
Author's Notes: So, I read mankinfan's Karakuridoji Ultimo fanfic, and I went crazy. I mean, I already was almost in love with the story when I read it on Onemanga, but this did it for me. No, wait, that sounded dirty. Either way. Yeah. Here's to mankinfan : even though you don't know me, you rock.
I don't use a beta, but I do check spelling and grammar, so if there is a problem, please tell me to get my act together. First Karakuridoji fanfic.
He watches him from the window sill.
He determines that he must be dreaming of Yamato. He sees it in the way he faintly moves, hands so soft and lithe, stretching and coiling, as sinuous as a geisha's earlobe, his hands gripping ever so lightly at the bedding, those lips opening and shutting as often as those of an Amsterdam whore.
Or at least, he doubts it's a nightmare. Not with the way he's moving, so slow and deliberate, everything a strange, entrancing rhythm that threatened to pull him in.
He wonders if anything in Ultimo would allow him to have such a dream. What would he know of anger, and hate, and wanting, the longing that consumed him right now? But something in him wonders. He wonders if the cute face is simply an act, the sugary personality simply a web of lies that caught the unwary.
He shifts. The heat in him is beginning to swell as he watches the slender figure, contorting in ways he's sure have their own sexual meaning, each one a new avenue to some sort of release or pleasure for someone.
Something in him ignites at the thought of Ultimo pinned beneath someone. The image that comes with it is strange, out of kilter; sweet, sweet Ultimo entwined with someone, someone who is dirty and disgusting and covered in the filth of the world.
He isn't surprised that his mind is fogged and polluted. He wonders why his polluted thoughts are always of Ultimo, and when it had first started. Namely, he wonders what took it so long.
But possibly the biggest thought that irritates him is that every time, in every vision he can conjure up of him, Ultimo enjoys it. Lips parting, legs spread, shouting a name, always a name, chanting encouragement.
The two things consistent with his visions: always a name, never his.
Something escapes those sleeping lips; a moan, as open and accepting as the pale legs beneath them.
He watches from the window sill as his hot little mouth stretches, and he imagines he is calling someone's name out in wicked relish.
He's angered by the thought again, but he feels himself reacting. He tries to insert his name into that open mouth. His mind doesn't believe it, but his body does, and that is enough.
Fingers trembling as his hands trail farther and farther from him, past the line of decency.
His body rattles, and his form bends, tight, clenched, as his eyes remain locked and his mind screams in beautiful agony, pained bliss.
Another moan, louder than the first, and he nearly moves away from the window, nearly tears off the slipping clothing, nearly crushes the thin neck with his hand, nearly straddles him and hears him scream as he teaches him all the bad, bad things in the world.
But nearly is not a completed action, so he slows himself, and he closes his eyes for the first time since he's arrived, and he imagines the secrets Ultimo's body has for him, and he imagines how hard he'd bite him, and tear him, and rip him until there was no more screaming, and his desire was sated.
He loses himself for a moment, and it takes a small burst of will to remove himself from his twisted realm. When he opens his eyes again, however, his fantasies seem flat and two-dimensional; things that would never happen, simply the product of his dreamland.
His mind doesn't believe it, but his body does, and that is enough.