|
[Anime] [FanArt] [FanFics] [Forums] [Journal/Blog] [Posters] [Bookmark] | |
| [ Register ] [ Login ] |
Hiro was sitting on the couch in Tatsuha's apartment, leafing through the latest copy of Bop Peat with a growing dismay. This issue highlighted the up-and-coming boy bands, and page after page was filled with bright, strutting male plumage. Leather, lace, velvet--whatever decoration necessary to catch the eye. Another round in the eternal competition of male against male. And what had his own efforts in the struggle won him? Only a wife who wanted more. 'Hiro, why don't you get your ear pierced? You'd look so sexy with an earring.' 'Come over to this rack, Hiro, you need to try this satin blazer on.' 'Oh, Hiro, you'd look so good in these leather trousers with all the buckles.' Ayaka had even supplied stands for all the necklaces and bracelets she bought him. Male jewelry, all of it--leather knots, pieces of carved wood and amber beads, 'healing' crystals that he surreptitiously donated to the rock garden out front, shiny metallic nobs, baroque chains, frayed leather fringes. He'd warned her not to buy any sexual fetish items because he wouldn't wear them, but once, she'd purchased a spiked metal wristlet. He'd shuddered and thrown it in the trash. Later, he told Ayaka he'd lost it. Ayaka seemed to think he was a modeling dummy the way she made him don and doff her finds. He hated it. He hated it with every speck of all the jaw-clenching he could muster. Hell, he was as badly off as Kumagoro. "I'm curious about something," Hiro called towards the bedroom. "Does Kumagoro have more outfits than Ryuichi?" Tatsuha's laugh came through the half-open door. The monk had just returned from a ceremony and was changing his clothes. "I think they're about equal. Each time Ryu goes shopping for himself, my step-rabbit always gets something, too. Ryu insists it's because Kuma is a celebrity who appears in the news as much as he himself does." Hiro shut the magazine with annoyance. Now, it wasn't that he was immune to male beauty. The rumble of a bureau drawer came from the bedroom, and Hiro could see Tatsuha vividly in his mind's eye. Placing his rosewood ju beads in their padded lacquer box, kneeling to perform the careful folding of his kosode and kesa--his underrobe and his monk's robe--in a process that was almost a religious ceremony in itself, with little pauses before each movement. Tatsuha, to his friends' never-ending incredulity, had sewn and dyed the kesa himself from donated patches of silk, and he always took great care with it. And then--the explosion. Hooking a pair of crumpled jeans out of a corner by a belt-loop, shooting one leg in, then the other, stopping, still unzipped, for an emergency cigarette because smoking was forbidden during Buddhist ceremonies. Then he'd remember his plastered-down hair, and thoroughly ruffle the morning's wet comb job into a mess, while stepping into a pair of ankle boots, and at the last second, sticking his arms through a random sleeveless undershirt plucked from a pile of dirty laundry. The bedroom door swung open. There was nothing special about Tatsuha's appearance, as fashion magazines would have it. His black jeans and white undershirt were ordinary, his hair finger-tousled, his cheeks sucking on his cigarette with a junkie's desperate urgency. Except that he was glamourous, with no effort at all. /Life sucks,/ thought Hiro. /Maybe it's the boots. Hell, I can't figure out how he does it. Why do some people have glamour, and others not? The goddamn public thinks my job is a fashion show with background music. They don't give a shit about my guitar playing./ One satisfied exhalation later and a narrow-eyed stare at nothing, and Tatsuha was ten times more glamourous. /Life REALLY sucks,/ thought Hiro. Tatsuha's undershirt was too small, as if it belonged to Ryuichi instead. The taut material outlined every muscle and ridge of bone beneath it. Hiro tossed the magazine aside. "I have a philosophical question. Can you explain why I want to murder every guy in this stupid magazine?" "They're your competition. If you'd been a doctor you wouldn't care about them." Tatsuha grinned around his cigarette. "You'd just hate other doctors." "But why should I mind? I WON. Bad Luck is Japan's top band, I'm famous, well-off, I have a wife, and sometimes," (Hiro looked through his lashes) "someone else, so why should the success of other musicians bother me?" "Ayaka keeps nagging you about your appearance, that's why. She makes you feel like a loser. It's also why you drop by to see me so often, 'cause I don't care if you dress like a hobo. I prefer you with your clothes off, not on. Speaking of which--" Tatsuha cocked his head. "Why don't you wear an earring?" "Aw, fuck!" Hiro's head lolled back on the couch. "Not you, too. Why does everyone complain about my earlobes? What's wrong with them?" Protectively, Hiro covered his lobes. "It's just weird to go without one, that's all. Earrings are practically de rigueur for rock guitarists. It's like a pirate without a parrot or gold teeth." "I think I can live without such accessories," came the dry reply. Hiro rose from the couch, pointing accusingly. "You don't seem to think a pierced ear is required for YOUR--" Hiro noticed something. "--couture." It was a flash of metal inside Tatsuha's mouth, where none had existed before. "Tatsuha," Hiro said, staring. The guitarist began to feel queasy. "You've got--a tongue stud." "Sure. What's wrong with it?" Hiro shuddered. He felt--affronted. It was as if Tatsuha didn't have the right to get a piercing without his permission. "You stuck one of those fucking things through your tongue?" the guitarist asked, dismayed. "Why didn't Ryuichi stop you?" "He tried. He clutched my arm and cried like a two-year-old the whole time. He was so scared for me. And this from a man who's got half-a-dozen piercings right through the cartilage of his ears." Tatsuha rolled his eyes. "Why the hell did you do it?" Hiro asked, still appalled. "Marital aid." "Look, I may be a rock musician, but I've spent my life around too many clean-cut people. What do you mean?" "You really don't know?" The gold stud flashed, as if laughing at Hiro. "Maybe I ought to demonstrate." Hiro found himself backing away. He could picture the gruesome piercing of Tatsuha's tongue, a gold spike stabbing through flesh, the thick drool of blood inside the mouth-- "Why are you so sensitive about jewelry? What's wrong with getting yourself an earring?" "My appearance is none of your goddamn business! Wait a minute. Were you discussing this with Ayaka? Was she complaining about my looks?" Tatsuha smiled viciously. "I'm not going to tell you. Anyway, what do you have against earrings?" Hiro made a scoffing noise. "All musicians don't have to look alike." "So what's your problem?" "Nothing's my problem." "Ayaka claims you're afraid of needles and anything with a sharp edge, like knives." "I am not!" "She says it's a full-blown phobia, and thinks it's the reason why you weaseled out of being a doctor." "That's bullshit! She has no idea--" Hiro found himself staring at the point of a throwing dart. He sprang backwards, forgetting the wall and slamming into it. "Shit! Stop that!" "Great Buddha." Tatsuha lowered the dart. "You DO have a phobia. You cleared the armchair! High-jump Hiro! You should have tried out for the Olympics." "KNOCK IT OFF. I don't need any stupid earring. Guys don't primp, for God's sake. And put that damn dart away." Ignoring the command, Tatsuha caught a strand of Hiro's hair and slid it through his fingers. "Then how do you explain all this pretty hair? You're vaaaain," he purred. "Admit it, Hiroshi-chan." "Hands off, unless you put that dart aside." Suddenly, the monk leaned close, and his eyes half-shut as he breathed in the scent of Hiro's hair, like a connoisseur smelling a rose. "You've always had beautiful hair." Fingers brushed Hiro's scalp, cupping the back of his head. Slowly, the monk traced paths through the roots. /Mistake,/ thought Hiro, /I shouldn't have let him touch me. But this feels wonderful./ "Put it down," the guitarist whispered to his lover. He heard a tiny thump, and saw the dart do a slight roll on the coffee table. In another mood, he would have hit the ceiling trying to get away from the loose weapon. /But this feels SO good/. He felt a light pressure on the crotch of his jeans, the prod of a thumb. Slowly, two more fingers joined the thumb, tightening together slightly, and undulating along an outline that was growing ever more distinct. /Another mistake. Why can't I manage to be faithful to Ayaka?/ Crocodile eyes were watching him. The guitarist shifted his hips slightly, pushing against the hand at his crotch. In response, the fingers nipped him almost painfully, as if to pull the hardness there out right through the cloth. Hiro broke into a sweat. /I've lost. I fail every time./ "Take them off me," Hiro breathed. Tatsuha only smiled. "You do it." The monk let go, and turned away. Hiro could have wept as he undid his jeans. /The bastard. He has to have total submission./ "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards," Tatsuha quoted obscurely. "I think that's a Christian saying." He turned around. "And THIS is almost pointing at the heavens." He touched the head of the exposed cock. "It's been too long, Hiro." "God. Fucking. Dammit," Hiro whispered. He felt obscene, humiliated, standing there with his erection sticking out, framed for display by pubic hair and balls. /This is disgusting./ Hiro fought a shuddering breath. "Go over and sit in that armchair," the monk said, low. Hiro obeyed. Fatally, he didn't notice Tatsuha squatting at his feet. When the monk rose, it was too late. Hiro's ankles were handcuffed to the rung of the chair. "Hey! Let me go!" Tatsuha ignored him. The monk stood, unthreading his belt, and opening the front of his trousers, but stopping. A white slash of underwear showed through the spread of black denim, and Hiro's voice faltered at the sight. Taking his time, the monk sat on Hiro's lap, his thighs gripping hard, almost close enough to touch the erect cock. Slowly, Tatsuha pulled his undershirt off over his head, scattering black strands of hair across his face. Not once did his eyes leave Hiro's. Then the monk took a drag on his cigarette, watching. "You agree to let me tie your wrists, or I stop right here." Hiro felt drugged by the sight of that naked chest in front of his face. One of his hands traced the lean muscles of Tatsuha's shoulder, glided up his ribs, and rolled a nipple under the ball of his thumb. His other hand lightly stroked the thin cotton ribbing of Tatsuha's briefs. There was no arousal under his fingers--yet. He pulled Tatsuha closer and tasted the nipple, digging into it with his teeth. "I think I could make you change your mind," the guitarist said, reaching down to caress the roundedness under the cotton. In reaction, Tatsuha got off his lap and stepped out of reach. He was still smoking. "You agree, or I leave you like that." /Fuck,/ Hiro thought. /I can't chase him because he's cuffed me to this damn chair./ The guitarist looked up. A naked, honey-hued chest. Veiled dark eyes. The waft of cigarette smoke into the ceiling light. A bite mark, and redness around the wet, salty nipple. The soft curve of the white offering between the gaping trousers. "I want to slam you down on that table hard enough to break it, and fuck your ass bloody," Hiro mumbled. /Shit, I sound like a fool, and I don't care./ "Yes, honeybunch," Tatsuha replied in a deliberately gay tone. "I know you're aroused. But what about poor little me? You know my tastes." "Fucking goddamn son of a bitch! All RIGHT. Go ahead and do it." "Is another pair of handcuffs okay?" Tatsuha asked demurely, setting his cigarette down. "I hate having to undo the clothesline in the laundry room." "Yes," Hiro moaned, his eyes screwed shut. "But don't lose the key. I haven't forgotten that smirking locksmith from last time." It took forever. Forever to hear the footsteps again, the heartbeat inside his cock quickening at the approach. To offer his wrists, head bowed in shame. "The other way," Tatsuha mouthed against his ear. The guitarist crossed his wrists behind his back and felt the hard metal clasps shutting over them. Finished, Tatsuha stepped around in front of the chair and knelt, resting an arm across Hiro's knees. "Open your eyes, Hiroshi. I don't want to see you act like you're ashamed." The imprisoned man obeyed. He had a whole symphony of feelings warring on his face, apprehension and humiliation uppermost. Still watching, Tatsuha reached out, idly stroking the side of Hiro's cock with feathery soft sweeps. The maniacal craving worsened with each brush. Hiro's eyes began to water, pleading. This was not the correct signal. Hiro wiped his eyes against his shoulder and faced Tatsuha squarely, waiting. Obedience. This was the correct response. Tatsuha stopped touching and picked up his cigarette. He took a drag, studying the erection as if contemplating what to do with this interesting protrusion of flesh. Hiro wanted to scream. He wanted to paw that bare chest and shoulders, shove them backwards, find a spot, anywhere, to stuff in his angry cock and give it release. Tatsuha put the cigarette aside and bowed over the erection, licking the tiny yearning slit. Hiro groaned. "You need to learn what a tongue-stud is for," Tatsuha said in a low voice. "Naive Hiro. Let me teach you." Tatsuha's mouth came down fully this time, the stud warm from the heat of his body. Slowly, he traced up the seam on the underside. He began to suck gently at the head as his stud drew scallops around the base, then he moved further down the shaft, teasing, kneading with the stud. The soft noises were almost unbearable, a sexual excitement in themselves alone. Quiet, wet partings of Tatsuha's lips and tongue around Hiro's erection, his pauses for breathing, the tunnel of warm air passing over Hiro's cock with repeated gasps before clasping him again, squeezing hot. Moist soft sucking, the hard stud massaging--all at once, tightly grasping, then loosening again-- Hiro began to tremble, badly. His handcuffs hurt him as he writhed, but he didn't care. He was just about to come when Tatsuha's mouth let go completely. Hiro knew this would happen. It often did. Tatsuha liked to drive him crazy, and it was important that the guitarist make no sign of distress, or show any other reaction. Tatsuha reached inside his mouth as if to feel the stud and something popped. The monk's fingers emerged with the stud and he held it out for Hiro to see. /It was detachable?/ Tatsuha smiled broadly, his mouth gaping open. A naked spike was sticking out of his tongue, needle-sharp, protruding from the same base where the stud had rested. He began to lower his head slowly over Hiro's cock again, his eyes glittering like a murderer's. Hiro screamed insanely. ~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~ Continued in Chapter 2.
|
