You know, I'm usually against angsty KyouKao, but...I wanted to write one too!!!! T_T -cries in a corner- LET ME WALLOW!!! ....Ehem, anyway, this was written for the 'name' one-shot challenge on ouran_contest from LJ. ENJOY!!! 8DDD
My Very Own Play Toy
It is a quick, messy, numerous affair; the type that starts with a look, happens in impromptu places, and ends with mangled hair and even more destroyed hearts. It is the type of affair that the two would like to believe hold no emotional bars, although even if they would not like to admit it, those similarities are what bind them in this not-so-subtle tango of heat, skin, sweat, pulsating arousal and the cool barrier of the plastic bathroom stall door.
The two prefer to keep it fast - the less time they spend, the fewer eyebrows raise in shock and minor suspicion at their return - and by this time, they have the rough, messy and stinging sex down to an art, skipping directly over foreplay in favor of the slight tremors of pain that reminds one male why he will not do this, and reinforces the other's notion that he will never, ever, do this to anyone else. The release is not what matters; only the reminders...
And yet, in public, they would appear to be nothing more than a part of a group; held together by the thick bonds of friendship that are thicker than blood for some, or for others only run so deep (so deep into the recessions of malignant fucks for some, and harbored feelings of adoration for others. For some, it isn't even palpable, and only real way to understand or properly feel those connections is to accept it from another, outside source) and staying that way for the emotional and mental support; the safe place that group offered, and the added bonuses of many pawns to subject to their games. The two do not stand out, specifically, even when seated across from each other and idly toying with commoner french fries as the blond and red heads to their sides lean eagerly toward the figure that passers by cannot visually establish as a really manly girl, or a very feminine boy. Nor is there any monumental disruption in the air when one rises from the table, offering his excuse with a murmured 'bathroom' before departing, nor when the other stands to follow with nothing more said.
Of course, it wasn't well broadcasted either - the hand that was firmly placed over a wide open, panting mouth while some unsuspecting figure washed his hands in the commoner bathroom sink was a testament to that - and, as it was soon discovered, the youngest of the Hitachiins and Ootori's were the most skilled when it came to hiding the remaining marks (hickeys, bruises, limps, messy hair, soiled clothing, crying, etc.) that came with self destructive sex.
And still - they reminded themselves constantly that this was wrong, wrong, wrong - and that they very idea of projecting their disgusting self love and sick idolization onto other people were wrong, no matter how much it elevated the constant ache in the pit of their stomach.
And still - they are foolish enough to convince themselves there is nothing similar between them but a good meshing of lust and greed (and although in some ways it is true, they are still only children, and not expected to understand the broadened range of emotions and words one could communicate and associate feelings with).
And still - Kyouya doesn't take a single offense when he can hear the whimpers, moans, groans and cries for 'H - Hikaru...please...', even when he'd prefer for the red head to just shut up so that when he breathed 'Tamaki...' into the crook of his sweat dampened neck, the visual would become all the more real and, maybe, this time satisfying.
......-pokes head in-