[Dream | Week 5, Day 6] Challenge
Warning: NC-17!
It starts with a challenge.
It always does.
"I have no need for humanity," he says, chin jutting up with all the regal air of a noble. He has about him a kind of authority, a sort of presence that dominates in its unconditional, unquestionable assumption of his station. Men like him have known privilege all of their lives, do not understand the meaning of hardship and what it means to struggle or starve. It comes with his breeding. Comes with his blood. Fine blood, like the fine tapestry of silk that he wears which signifies his superiority which he likes to remind you so often he has over you.
Sometimes you wonder if he needs it, if this is the only thing that gives him meaning -- the idea that somehow he is significant, and that this significance is borne of a kind of hatred, a disdain for what he perceives as flawed: humanity, with all of its imperfections. Humanity with all of its scars.
Perfection. He must be perfect. His blood demands perfection as does the silk that lays against his skin. To be any less than perfect is to be closer to human, closer to that ugly weak thing which symbolizes all that he fears, all that he does not know how to be. He tells himself he has risen above it, somehow ascended to a state of nirvana in his disavowal of it. His denying of it. Humanity. That ugly thing. That honest thing, which lies so close to the surface, which drinks up the stains of life like a ravenous monster that can't stop destroying this idea, this beautiful fantasy and facade of perfection, which he desires.
That which he never truly had.
He is anything but perfect, and it is the flaws you see the most. The flaws that you find most fascinating, particularly the fear, this inability to accept, to think that a human thing can somehow have strength, that there is beauty in humanity, in the flawed nature of it, in the rendering of life and how full it sometimes finds itself, that renders him immobile and impassive, a caricature of a marble statue. A lifeless thing. He wishes to be free of it: life, which he considers below him. Which he does not truly understand, because he has somehow cut himself away from this idea of living.
Perhaps he is merely surviving, perhaps only living for a higher purpose, something which he considers holy and calls duty.
There is something empty in his eyes, a hollowness you recognize. And you think to yourself, I wonder if he can really be happy like that. If he even remembers what happiness is. If he even remembers what it means to be alive. To feel it, deep within him. So reminded of the living part, of how alive alive can be, that there is no question of what he is. Of how incredible life can be. How surprising.
It's the unexpected that's the most thrilling, and the challenges that turn you on.
Like the way his perceived sense of authority over you does.
Because the truth is -- and you both know it -- he's losing control every moment that you play this game, this strange dance around each other that stirs up something hot and rancid within him. That turns the smooth marble of his expression into something that contains a spark of fire. A spark of something in empty eyes that gestures towards what might have been.
You want to know what he looks like when he is alive, and it makes you hard when he looks at you with challenge in his eyes. He doesn't think you have what it takes, doesn't think you'll be willing, but you both know what this is. This thing between you. This shivery, hot thing that flares between all the moments of truth and the lies that slip between you.
There is no slow foreplay to this, no slip and slide of mouths. No passion in an embrace and no bodies pressed against each other.
This is about power. This is about control. And Byakuya has his hands in your hair, and is pushing you down to your knees, where he thinks you belong. Pushing you down and keeping you there and looking down at you with a steely gaze. You know what he expects you to do, and it's slow, the way you start. Slow, how you play this game, because this is a language you understand, but your vocabulary is ever frustrating. You never were very generous with your words, never a voluble one, and it shows in how you drag down your mask with a finger, one hand sliding down the back of his leg.
He smells of jasmine and silk and underneath it all is something musky and warm, an intoxicating scent that uniquely belongs to him.
(This is where you sigh. Breathing him in is reminding you that he is alive. He just needs to be reminded of it. )
The hand in your hair twists. You are taking too long with this, it says.
"Ahh, no need to be impatient, now," you chide, as your fingers travel over the front of his pants, feeling the heavy weight of his erection through all that silk meant for a king with a palm carefully pressed against it. Just enough to feel the moisture seeping through fabric.
The grunt you receive and the pinch of your eyebrows is what you were waiting for. Hoping for. Watching for. That first moment. That first sign of something human. There it is -- a heat rising into his eyes, a heat that is completely alive as you trace his arousal through that silk, feel it pulse against your fingers and think how good it'll feel sliding down your throat. All that power, in the palm of your hands. He could obliterate you in a flick of the fingers without moving a step and here you are on your knees (where you belong) in front of him holding his cock in your hand.
(It's never clear who's really in control during these moments.)
You smile, and pull him closer, one hand curling around his buttocks, as you press your face against what you stroke, the heat of your mouth pressing through the fabric. You can feel his approval in the slight tensing of fingers in your hair, like a hand around a set of reins. Hurry up, those fingers demand. But no, you're not ready yet.
You've barely even started.
Your mouth closes around the head, tonguing him through the fabric of his pants as you exhale, tasting expensive silk and the saltysweet trace of the moisture that had ruined it. And there's something strangely attractive about that idea. Ruined silk, and you were the one who caused it. It's a little poetic, you think, as your tongue slowly traces the head, fingers kneading the firm muscle of his ass, dragging him forward and against your mouth which scales hotter against him as he lets out a hissed breath, trying to control his breathing. He's determined to not give in, to not let you win, but you can taste how difficult you're making it, the fabric sopping as spit and the product of his desire saturates it. It's only when it's dripping wet, when clear fluids run down your chin, when you can feel his fingers slightly trembling in your hair that you decide, ah, maybe. Now's a good time, to part those folds of silk and wrap your fingers around the root of what he tries to hide.
What he denies -- this human part of him. This living part that is thick and hard and weeping with need, ruddy with desire. It's thrilling to have him like this now. On your knees before a man who thinks he is not one. Who thinks this is where you belong. On your knees. Like you are now, a tongue flicking towards the glistening head, licking up the clear emanations that dew on the tip with a languid swipe as you watch his face.
His eyes have closed, mouth falling open as he draws in a breath, chin jutting up towards the sky -- even now he hasn't forgotten his noble station.
But there is something vulnerable there that hadn't been there before. Something that you recognize which emerges from beyond the marble. It flushes his cheeks, beads sweat against his temples, filters into the furrow between his brows. Glistens there on his lower lip, and you think maybe if you stop right now, just maybe you'll be able to see it too in his eyes. That look which you've been waiting for. That look you want to see. That thing that has been missing all along which you want to reach into him and rip out to the surface, just to show that him that this thing, it still exists. This human thing. This beautiful thing about you that you deny. It's there, even if you don't want it to be. Even if you tell yourself it's not. I see it, every time you deny it. Hear it in your voice.
Just like I see it now.
Now.
It's a full body jerk, a tremble that doesn't just ripple through him, but slams, when you take him down your throat. Swallow him inch by inch. You don't give him time to get ready for this, don't give him any warning when you do it, moaning softly in appreciation at the feeling of him in your mouth, all hard and slick and throbbing with heat and desire and god, he's beautiful now, eyes snapping open in shock as he stares down and there it is.
What you had been waiting for. That alive, fiery thing in his gaze that stirs his eyes to living, that takes the dead look out of them, the hollowness that had been there all along and fills it with something you recognize but can't put words to. There isn't vocabulary for this thing, for what it is that gives someone life that they had been denying all along. Too afraid of what it might mean to live. What it might mean to be human, too. This moment with his cock down your throat, this much power that you've swallowed, that you're fucking with hungry slurps and sucks as he gasps, fingers wrenching in your hair, and finally moans -- this is what you wanted all along. To feel those uncontrolled thrusts of his hips, the shakes that ride up and down his thighs and that fucking look in his eyes. That look that makes you so hard you think you might just come from this. From feeling this moment, taking it from him. Forcing him to this edge, where his arms shake like his breath like the rest of him too, and his knees are slightly buckling, if not for the hands you have on his hips, holding him steady each time you take him fully to the root. Swallow him all the way like you were always meant to swallow this.
(There is something so vulnerable about him now, something so beautiful, so fragile in all of its power. And it is only in this moment that you can recognize it, get a glimpse at it.)
"Ha--aahh--" These gasps and strangled moans, they're forced out of him each time your mouth takes him down, each thrust of the hips and hungry lap of the tongue. His fingers yank in your hair, a desperate hold now because if he doesn't hold onto something you might just sweep him away. He might just lose himself and forget and what he's supposed to be. Forget that this thing called humanity, this wondrous, beautiful thing that he's become in this very moment, is not a thing that he has ever wanted. Not a thing that he needs. Not something he desires or that which he thinks might have anything worthwhile about it.
(The truth of the matter is, humanity is beautiful because it is flawed. Because it lacks perfection. Because it is alive.)
And this moment -- this moment where his knees finally fail, where his body shakes and his thrusts grow desperate and needy and bruise, when the grip in your hair is so tight your scalp tingles with the sensation; and the breaths coming out of his mouth, these ragged, broken sounds, coalesce into a rough groan as he arches his back and you feel and taste the hot, thick product of his arousal coat the back of your throat -- this moment is perfect.
Or as perfect as perfection can be in a world where it does not truly exist.
It goes on and on and on, the way he spills himself down your throat, and it is only after you've swallowed every last drop and released him from your mouth that he looks at you with an expression that is a little bewildered. But still so very alive.
"Mmm..." you smile up at him, your voice gravely and hoarse as you squeeze his hips lightly, your cock straining painfully hard through your pants. "Think I changed your mind?"
Byakuya exhales through his nose in mild frustration, his mouth narrowing into a slight line, as he breaks your gaze, the flush of arousal still prominent on his cheeks. "Hn," he grunts.
You'll take that as a yes.
[ Kakashi wakes with a soft moan, uncomfortably hard, need screaming through his body as he sleepily reaches out for his Hitomi and turns it off, the dream fresh in his mind. He'll deal with the aftermath later, but now -- now, he'll wrap his arms around Iruka from behind. Press himself against his lover's body, and his lips against his neck.
Good morning, indeed. ]
[OOC: Just a warning. XD This particular dream is very, very vivid -- every sensation, every emotion, every thought. If your character is holding the Hitomi while watching this, they will definitely experience intense, agonizing, very annoying arousal. ]
It starts with a challenge.
It always does.
"I have no need for humanity," he says, chin jutting up with all the regal air of a noble. He has about him a kind of authority, a sort of presence that dominates in its unconditional, unquestionable assumption of his station. Men like him have known privilege all of their lives, do not understand the meaning of hardship and what it means to struggle or starve. It comes with his breeding. Comes with his blood. Fine blood, like the fine tapestry of silk that he wears which signifies his superiority which he likes to remind you so often he has over you.
Sometimes you wonder if he needs it, if this is the only thing that gives him meaning -- the idea that somehow he is significant, and that this significance is borne of a kind of hatred, a disdain for what he perceives as flawed: humanity, with all of its imperfections. Humanity with all of its scars.
Perfection. He must be perfect. His blood demands perfection as does the silk that lays against his skin. To be any less than perfect is to be closer to human, closer to that ugly weak thing which symbolizes all that he fears, all that he does not know how to be. He tells himself he has risen above it, somehow ascended to a state of nirvana in his disavowal of it. His denying of it. Humanity. That ugly thing. That honest thing, which lies so close to the surface, which drinks up the stains of life like a ravenous monster that can't stop destroying this idea, this beautiful fantasy and facade of perfection, which he desires.
That which he never truly had.
He is anything but perfect, and it is the flaws you see the most. The flaws that you find most fascinating, particularly the fear, this inability to accept, to think that a human thing can somehow have strength, that there is beauty in humanity, in the flawed nature of it, in the rendering of life and how full it sometimes finds itself, that renders him immobile and impassive, a caricature of a marble statue. A lifeless thing. He wishes to be free of it: life, which he considers below him. Which he does not truly understand, because he has somehow cut himself away from this idea of living.
Perhaps he is merely surviving, perhaps only living for a higher purpose, something which he considers holy and calls duty.
There is something empty in his eyes, a hollowness you recognize. And you think to yourself, I wonder if he can really be happy like that. If he even remembers what happiness is. If he even remembers what it means to be alive. To feel it, deep within him. So reminded of the living part, of how alive alive can be, that there is no question of what he is. Of how incredible life can be. How surprising.
It's the unexpected that's the most thrilling, and the challenges that turn you on.
Like the way his perceived sense of authority over you does.
Because the truth is -- and you both know it -- he's losing control every moment that you play this game, this strange dance around each other that stirs up something hot and rancid within him. That turns the smooth marble of his expression into something that contains a spark of fire. A spark of something in empty eyes that gestures towards what might have been.
You want to know what he looks like when he is alive, and it makes you hard when he looks at you with challenge in his eyes. He doesn't think you have what it takes, doesn't think you'll be willing, but you both know what this is. This thing between you. This shivery, hot thing that flares between all the moments of truth and the lies that slip between you.
There is no slow foreplay to this, no slip and slide of mouths. No passion in an embrace and no bodies pressed against each other.
This is about power. This is about control. And Byakuya has his hands in your hair, and is pushing you down to your knees, where he thinks you belong. Pushing you down and keeping you there and looking down at you with a steely gaze. You know what he expects you to do, and it's slow, the way you start. Slow, how you play this game, because this is a language you understand, but your vocabulary is ever frustrating. You never were very generous with your words, never a voluble one, and it shows in how you drag down your mask with a finger, one hand sliding down the back of his leg.
He smells of jasmine and silk and underneath it all is something musky and warm, an intoxicating scent that uniquely belongs to him.
(This is where you sigh. Breathing him in is reminding you that he is alive. He just needs to be reminded of it. )
The hand in your hair twists. You are taking too long with this, it says.
"Ahh, no need to be impatient, now," you chide, as your fingers travel over the front of his pants, feeling the heavy weight of his erection through all that silk meant for a king with a palm carefully pressed against it. Just enough to feel the moisture seeping through fabric.
The grunt you receive and the pinch of your eyebrows is what you were waiting for. Hoping for. Watching for. That first moment. That first sign of something human. There it is -- a heat rising into his eyes, a heat that is completely alive as you trace his arousal through that silk, feel it pulse against your fingers and think how good it'll feel sliding down your throat. All that power, in the palm of your hands. He could obliterate you in a flick of the fingers without moving a step and here you are on your knees (where you belong) in front of him holding his cock in your hand.
(It's never clear who's really in control during these moments.)
You smile, and pull him closer, one hand curling around his buttocks, as you press your face against what you stroke, the heat of your mouth pressing through the fabric. You can feel his approval in the slight tensing of fingers in your hair, like a hand around a set of reins. Hurry up, those fingers demand. But no, you're not ready yet.
You've barely even started.
Your mouth closes around the head, tonguing him through the fabric of his pants as you exhale, tasting expensive silk and the saltysweet trace of the moisture that had ruined it. And there's something strangely attractive about that idea. Ruined silk, and you were the one who caused it. It's a little poetic, you think, as your tongue slowly traces the head, fingers kneading the firm muscle of his ass, dragging him forward and against your mouth which scales hotter against him as he lets out a hissed breath, trying to control his breathing. He's determined to not give in, to not let you win, but you can taste how difficult you're making it, the fabric sopping as spit and the product of his desire saturates it. It's only when it's dripping wet, when clear fluids run down your chin, when you can feel his fingers slightly trembling in your hair that you decide, ah, maybe. Now's a good time, to part those folds of silk and wrap your fingers around the root of what he tries to hide.
What he denies -- this human part of him. This living part that is thick and hard and weeping with need, ruddy with desire. It's thrilling to have him like this now. On your knees before a man who thinks he is not one. Who thinks this is where you belong. On your knees. Like you are now, a tongue flicking towards the glistening head, licking up the clear emanations that dew on the tip with a languid swipe as you watch his face.
His eyes have closed, mouth falling open as he draws in a breath, chin jutting up towards the sky -- even now he hasn't forgotten his noble station.
But there is something vulnerable there that hadn't been there before. Something that you recognize which emerges from beyond the marble. It flushes his cheeks, beads sweat against his temples, filters into the furrow between his brows. Glistens there on his lower lip, and you think maybe if you stop right now, just maybe you'll be able to see it too in his eyes. That look which you've been waiting for. That look you want to see. That thing that has been missing all along which you want to reach into him and rip out to the surface, just to show that him that this thing, it still exists. This human thing. This beautiful thing about you that you deny. It's there, even if you don't want it to be. Even if you tell yourself it's not. I see it, every time you deny it. Hear it in your voice.
Just like I see it now.
Now.
It's a full body jerk, a tremble that doesn't just ripple through him, but slams, when you take him down your throat. Swallow him inch by inch. You don't give him time to get ready for this, don't give him any warning when you do it, moaning softly in appreciation at the feeling of him in your mouth, all hard and slick and throbbing with heat and desire and god, he's beautiful now, eyes snapping open in shock as he stares down and there it is.
What you had been waiting for. That alive, fiery thing in his gaze that stirs his eyes to living, that takes the dead look out of them, the hollowness that had been there all along and fills it with something you recognize but can't put words to. There isn't vocabulary for this thing, for what it is that gives someone life that they had been denying all along. Too afraid of what it might mean to live. What it might mean to be human, too. This moment with his cock down your throat, this much power that you've swallowed, that you're fucking with hungry slurps and sucks as he gasps, fingers wrenching in your hair, and finally moans -- this is what you wanted all along. To feel those uncontrolled thrusts of his hips, the shakes that ride up and down his thighs and that fucking look in his eyes. That look that makes you so hard you think you might just come from this. From feeling this moment, taking it from him. Forcing him to this edge, where his arms shake like his breath like the rest of him too, and his knees are slightly buckling, if not for the hands you have on his hips, holding him steady each time you take him fully to the root. Swallow him all the way like you were always meant to swallow this.
(There is something so vulnerable about him now, something so beautiful, so fragile in all of its power. And it is only in this moment that you can recognize it, get a glimpse at it.)
"Ha--aahh--" These gasps and strangled moans, they're forced out of him each time your mouth takes him down, each thrust of the hips and hungry lap of the tongue. His fingers yank in your hair, a desperate hold now because if he doesn't hold onto something you might just sweep him away. He might just lose himself and forget and what he's supposed to be. Forget that this thing called humanity, this wondrous, beautiful thing that he's become in this very moment, is not a thing that he has ever wanted. Not a thing that he needs. Not something he desires or that which he thinks might have anything worthwhile about it.
(The truth of the matter is, humanity is beautiful because it is flawed. Because it lacks perfection. Because it is alive.)
And this moment -- this moment where his knees finally fail, where his body shakes and his thrusts grow desperate and needy and bruise, when the grip in your hair is so tight your scalp tingles with the sensation; and the breaths coming out of his mouth, these ragged, broken sounds, coalesce into a rough groan as he arches his back and you feel and taste the hot, thick product of his arousal coat the back of your throat -- this moment is perfect.
Or as perfect as perfection can be in a world where it does not truly exist.
It goes on and on and on, the way he spills himself down your throat, and it is only after you've swallowed every last drop and released him from your mouth that he looks at you with an expression that is a little bewildered. But still so very alive.
"Mmm..." you smile up at him, your voice gravely and hoarse as you squeeze his hips lightly, your cock straining painfully hard through your pants. "Think I changed your mind?"
Byakuya exhales through his nose in mild frustration, his mouth narrowing into a slight line, as he breaks your gaze, the flush of arousal still prominent on his cheeks. "Hn," he grunts.
You'll take that as a yes.
[ Kakashi wakes with a soft moan, uncomfortably hard, need screaming through his body as he sleepily reaches out for his Hitomi and turns it off, the dream fresh in his mind. He'll deal with the aftermath later, but now -- now, he'll wrap his arms around Iruka from behind. Press himself against his lover's body, and his lips against his neck.
Good morning, indeed. ]
[OOC: Just a warning. XD This particular dream is very, very vivid -- every sensation, every emotion, every thought. If your character is holding the Hitomi while watching this, they will definitely experience intense, agonizing, very annoying arousal. ]