[FIC] reasons to forgive
reasons to forgive
mao / mizuki
nc17
kindaslightlyangst 2ndpov
disclaimer: not mine, no copyright infringement intended!
dedicated to: lady_sb for sharing with me the wonders that are maomao and sadie and that video of mizuki and his tongue...
somebody out there likes me
i can see it in your smile.
every time i think of you
i know it's only a matter of time.
before i'll be looking into two those deep sincere eyes
and out of this masquerade.
- kirsty hawkshaw ft tenishia, 'reasons to forgive'
I.
He speaks of him as if he is everything - the way he acts, dresses, sings, and even stares at you, across the stage, hypotising, and absolutely wrong. Sometimes you have a problem differentiating him from who he wishes to emulate, but when he gets off stage, when he ducks into the dressing room, when he falls asleep at the back of the cab, head leaning against your shoulder - and your heartstrings tug as your body freezes, tension gripping hard at your frame as you struggle to not move for the fear of startling him awake and yet wanting to pull him closer - you see him as the person he is.
He is not beautiful, the way most men in your industry are. He does not seek to be beautiful, too. He goes about searching for other ways to express this - particularly in the lyrics of the songs you play night in night out - but you find that he is most beautiful when he stares at you without really seeing you, because this is when you can observe him at peace, and ponder quietly at the possibility of things.
II.
Like, there are moments when you feel as if this is not where you want to be, as you fidget nervously with the stray strand of your hair falling off the side. The stylist mothers your vocalist, and you sit there staring at her fingers threading through his golden mane, wishing she can turn around to correct the mess you are currently making with yours, as much as you wish to be the one running your fingers through his hair. Not in those sharp, staccato-like professional movements - a pinch here and a gather there and a spray of mousse and a cluck of the tongue in approval - but one of a lover's - gentle, soothing, slight pressure on the scalp, giving.
III.
Though, there are moments when you really wish you are someone else, even when you have his erect cock right in front of your face, and the only natural thing to do is to bend forward as you nervously lick your lips to moisten them.
He often says that your defining feature is your smile - and the myriad of variations they take on, from a grin to a smirk to a laugh to a quiet bashful curve of the lips upwards when you are caught staring at him one-too long - and you cannot help but to do so as you hear him stiffle a groan. His fingers are kneading your shoulders, pulling you closer.
Gently your tongue swirl around the head, before you press your lips against it, your lipring rubbing against the slit in slow, torturous motions as you bob your head slightly. Another moan - this time, unrestrained - escapes him as you suck on it lightly. You hold the length of his erection with your right hand as you stroke the smooth expanse of his thigh with the other - the strokes are also painfully slow, and he hisses something that sounds like cocktease - you laugh at that. Looking up, he smiles at you, and is about to comment, though you interrupt it by dipping lower and licking the underside of his cock - all words dissolve into a strangled gasp.
Your strokes become quicker, and your grasp slightly harder - enough pressure to urge him on. You can taste the pre-cum against the metallic bite of your lipring, and opening your mouth, you slide his cock in, encasing it with your warmth. The blood pounds in your ears, and you can barely make out his words, but you know you missed nothing important anyway, not when the very thing he wants is conveyed by how he is now clutching tightly at your head, trying not to fuck your mouth too roughly with his thrusts.
Your hands are now holding down his thighs, trying to steady his bucking hips as you accomodate to his length in your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck harder as one of your hands move forth to play with his balls, teasing him further.
And when he orgasms, you suck harder, wanting to take all of him in. He pants harshly in the aftermath, breathing heavily - gently you withdraw, the only connection being the thin trail of cum that drips on the corner of your mouth. His fingers claw aimlessly against the scalp of your hair as you nuzzle the side of his thighs tenderly. Your own erection aches painfully in your tight pants, seeking attention, but all forgotten when you look up - for a moment you are struck with the satiated, peaceful look on his face, and you do what you do best - observe him.
IV.
His admiration for Kyo makes you wonder about his standards when it comes to lovers. You pick up a copy of UROBOROS at the music store, idly tracing the letters with your index finger as your mind filters through the noise - you can hear his quiet mutterings and the clicking sounds of plastic wrappers rustling as he flips through the row of CDs.
You are not beautiful, and far from handsome. Certainly insecurity is an issue as you shift from one foot to the other, feeling self-conscious again as his lover. And sometimes you wonder if you should be a little bit more religious - for there must be a higher power up there uniting the both of you, here, even for this very short moment, however fleeting - because nothing feels more like heaven than the moment now. The search stops - you know he has picked up the albums he wanted - and he runs up to you, hooking one arm through yours, a gentle reassuring squeeze as he sighs, and you hear a quiet mumble of let's go.
V.
And the lights shine brightly - they glare directly at you, and you look up to them with a bright smile. Your audience screams in a cacophony of admiration as all of you take a step forward, and bow - he glances at your direction, but you still stare ahead, knowing that sometimes, he observes you in return, with, hopefully, the same amount of admiration too.
mao / mizuki
nc17
kindaslightlyangst 2ndpov
disclaimer: not mine, no copyright infringement intended!
dedicated to: lady_sb for sharing with me the wonders that are maomao and sadie and that video of mizuki and his tongue...
somebody out there likes me
i can see it in your smile.
every time i think of you
i know it's only a matter of time.
before i'll be looking into two those deep sincere eyes
and out of this masquerade.
- kirsty hawkshaw ft tenishia, 'reasons to forgive'
I.
He speaks of him as if he is everything - the way he acts, dresses, sings, and even stares at you, across the stage, hypotising, and absolutely wrong. Sometimes you have a problem differentiating him from who he wishes to emulate, but when he gets off stage, when he ducks into the dressing room, when he falls asleep at the back of the cab, head leaning against your shoulder - and your heartstrings tug as your body freezes, tension gripping hard at your frame as you struggle to not move for the fear of startling him awake and yet wanting to pull him closer - you see him as the person he is.
He is not beautiful, the way most men in your industry are. He does not seek to be beautiful, too. He goes about searching for other ways to express this - particularly in the lyrics of the songs you play night in night out - but you find that he is most beautiful when he stares at you without really seeing you, because this is when you can observe him at peace, and ponder quietly at the possibility of things.
II.
Like, there are moments when you feel as if this is not where you want to be, as you fidget nervously with the stray strand of your hair falling off the side. The stylist mothers your vocalist, and you sit there staring at her fingers threading through his golden mane, wishing she can turn around to correct the mess you are currently making with yours, as much as you wish to be the one running your fingers through his hair. Not in those sharp, staccato-like professional movements - a pinch here and a gather there and a spray of mousse and a cluck of the tongue in approval - but one of a lover's - gentle, soothing, slight pressure on the scalp, giving.
III.
Though, there are moments when you really wish you are someone else, even when you have his erect cock right in front of your face, and the only natural thing to do is to bend forward as you nervously lick your lips to moisten them.
He often says that your defining feature is your smile - and the myriad of variations they take on, from a grin to a smirk to a laugh to a quiet bashful curve of the lips upwards when you are caught staring at him one-too long - and you cannot help but to do so as you hear him stiffle a groan. His fingers are kneading your shoulders, pulling you closer.
Gently your tongue swirl around the head, before you press your lips against it, your lipring rubbing against the slit in slow, torturous motions as you bob your head slightly. Another moan - this time, unrestrained - escapes him as you suck on it lightly. You hold the length of his erection with your right hand as you stroke the smooth expanse of his thigh with the other - the strokes are also painfully slow, and he hisses something that sounds like cocktease - you laugh at that. Looking up, he smiles at you, and is about to comment, though you interrupt it by dipping lower and licking the underside of his cock - all words dissolve into a strangled gasp.
Your strokes become quicker, and your grasp slightly harder - enough pressure to urge him on. You can taste the pre-cum against the metallic bite of your lipring, and opening your mouth, you slide his cock in, encasing it with your warmth. The blood pounds in your ears, and you can barely make out his words, but you know you missed nothing important anyway, not when the very thing he wants is conveyed by how he is now clutching tightly at your head, trying not to fuck your mouth too roughly with his thrusts.
Your hands are now holding down his thighs, trying to steady his bucking hips as you accomodate to his length in your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck harder as one of your hands move forth to play with his balls, teasing him further.
And when he orgasms, you suck harder, wanting to take all of him in. He pants harshly in the aftermath, breathing heavily - gently you withdraw, the only connection being the thin trail of cum that drips on the corner of your mouth. His fingers claw aimlessly against the scalp of your hair as you nuzzle the side of his thighs tenderly. Your own erection aches painfully in your tight pants, seeking attention, but all forgotten when you look up - for a moment you are struck with the satiated, peaceful look on his face, and you do what you do best - observe him.
IV.
His admiration for Kyo makes you wonder about his standards when it comes to lovers. You pick up a copy of UROBOROS at the music store, idly tracing the letters with your index finger as your mind filters through the noise - you can hear his quiet mutterings and the clicking sounds of plastic wrappers rustling as he flips through the row of CDs.
You are not beautiful, and far from handsome. Certainly insecurity is an issue as you shift from one foot to the other, feeling self-conscious again as his lover. And sometimes you wonder if you should be a little bit more religious - for there must be a higher power up there uniting the both of you, here, even for this very short moment, however fleeting - because nothing feels more like heaven than the moment now. The search stops - you know he has picked up the albums he wanted - and he runs up to you, hooking one arm through yours, a gentle reassuring squeeze as he sighs, and you hear a quiet mumble of let's go.
V.
And the lights shine brightly - they glare directly at you, and you look up to them with a bright smile. Your audience screams in a cacophony of admiration as all of you take a step forward, and bow - he glances at your direction, but you still stare ahead, knowing that sometimes, he observes you in return, with, hopefully, the same amount of admiration too.