#morikyo

Mori's favourite thing is hearing Kyoya in the midst of pleasure. His keens and moans, the half-demands for more that just come out as whines and begging. The loves his serious, near-stoic boyfriend being so loud and wanting.

Kyoya loves how easily Mori could overpower him. He puts up a playful little fight sometimes, just to feel bruising around his wrists and a large hand around his throat. It's too good to fight back anymore after that, however, and so he's left grinding up against whatever part of the other man he can get to - his thigh, his hip, his abs...

I think a big kink of theirs would be pet play, Kyoya being the cutest kitten for his loving owner. Mori's natural service top manner really comes out with that sort of scene, giving his sweet pet treats and letting Kyoya rest in his lap and on top of him.

Despite deeply respecting each other and their schedules, knowing they have time-sensitive deadlines and need the most respect from those around them... these horny fucks are both the type to send each other lewd stuff while working. It doesn't even have to be full sexting or nudes, just little suggestive things.

Kyoya moaned as he grinded against his fiance. Their clothes were disheveled on the couch as they moved and grinded into each other. Kyoya groaned softly as Takashi kissed and nipped at his neck, gripping his hips and bucking his hips up.

“Fuck...Mori,” Kyoya muttered.

Takashi just smirked at the old nickname. “What’s wrong, Kyo?” He teased, pressing his erection right against his. He couldn’t help the feral pleasure he got from tormenting the man. “What do you want?”

“Bedroom. Now,” Kyoya begged. “Dammit, Mori. C’mon.”

The rain fell in sheets upon both cobblestone and black umbrellas alike, the sky a dark, unseemly grey. It was appropriate, Kyoya supposed, given the occasion; however, the chill practically forced him against his sister's side, hands fisted in her heavy, black coat.

It wasn't all that usual for him to be out in the cold, at eight o'clock sharp in the morning, being a somewhat sickly child and recommended rest at every possible moment. Don't get upset, or excited, or in any highly emotional state be it positive or negative, lest his arrhythmia and generally weak heart take their toll too greatly to recover from. 

However, the most recent death in the family, in an unexpected turn, was not his own. 

He sniffed, forcing himself to not turn away as the coffin was carried through the group of darkly clad, sombre people. His mother contracted black cholera, and the disease seemed to both take its time, and progress quicker than anything so permanent should. She was whisked away and his father had ordered a closed casket. 

No kiss goodbye, nothing to truly solidify that she was gone. He would never speak such a terrible thought aloud but she'd died as she lived – distantly; his life only tangibly connected to hers. It still hurt, to know that he wouldn't see her joyful smile when she did share meals with him. He clung to her as a parent who was not as stern or imposing as his father. He would miss that.

Though Kyoya was sheltered, he wasn’t gullible. He was bright, with a wicked wit for his young age, and didn't suffer fools; just as expected of his father's sons. He knew, as he aged that the distance between them would one day become insurmountable, much further than a mere six feet of soil and grass. This pain would pass soon; he just prayed it would be soon enough.

He had been put to bed early after the wake, tuts of sleep improving his heart or some other rubbish Fuyumi believed to make herself feel more confident that he wouldn't fall into eternal rest as well. They just lost Mother, so she was clinging far tighter than usual, but he didn't mind. He was exhausted after the day's events, and was grateful to retire early. To smile through more condolences would picked the scab off his proverbial wound, over and over. 

A creak sounded, and something cold washed over him, despite the plushness of the blankets. 

"Fuyumi...?" He questioned, limbs uncooperative as he yelled at himself to turn over and see the source of the noise. 

No answer. His breath caught in his throat, chest lodged in a gradually tightening vice, and the seconds that ticked by could be mistaken for hours. Ridiculous, he admonished himself mentally, absolutely ridiculous reaction. Still, something screamed in him, begged him to stay still as if he were a rabbit caught in the gaze of a snake. 

Harsh breathing that wasn't his own overtook his senses, just about breaking his trance. Well, cracked it, really; he managed to make himself peer over his shoulder. 

Staggering down the hall was a horrifying apparition, black and shrouded in wisps of smoke, or something of that kind. He buried himself in the blankets, his fragile heart beating so hard that he could feel the arrhythmia himself, and prayed for whatever monstrous vision this was to leave him be. Unlike childish fears of dark nights passed, this demon refused to simply slip back into the ether. 

"My dear child," It whispered to him, a cruel mockery of his mother's tender tone, rasping through its decayed throat as the mattress shifted, a familiar body curling against his back. Sharp, bony fingers carded through his hair, and his mind wove images of her dragging him into death's arms with her, to keep her youngest child as close as could be through eternity and beyond.

It was so close he could smell the decay, and it wheezed a single warning, "When the time comes, beware of the bloody manor."

He couldn't contain it any longer, bolting upright, a scream leaving his throat, desperate and wishing to be saved from the waking nightmare he found himself in.

He didn't stop until Mr Tachibana ran into his room, frantically asking what on earth happened, why he was screaming like the devil himself was in his room. It shook him out of his hysteria, frantically tossing his head to-and-fro in some attempt to see where the thing so like his mother had disappeared to; but it was no use. As quickly as it had materialised, it was gone, leaving only the vestiges of heart-stopping terror in its wake. 

"It..." He panted, turning over the event in his head, trying to avoid the possibility of being locked up in Bedlam for such nonsense as a dead woman returning to deliver a cryptic message, "It must have been a nightmare... Apologies for waking you..."

"Not at all," The man tutted, waving away the apology, "I'd much rather be woken and know that you're alright than sleep right through something... Well... Important."

It was a fair enough statement, even if he had missed the disturbing incident. All was... Well, not fine. Because Kyoya knew a couple of things. Firstly, that this was no nightmare, the stench of rot and the feeling of bone in his hair too vivid to be merely in his own mind. Secondly, well...

Ghosts are real.

All he can do is stare, and he realises how he's fallen in that very moment.

With the great success of the Great Comet, the host club were almost obligated to pay it homage in at least one afternoon, donning the luxurious aesthetics of imperial Russia and - of course - dressing appropriately. There was much debate over the subject of casting, but as he stares at Kyoya as the young man twirled his many skirts and crinoline, voluminous and the black a perfect contrast against the pale, exposed flesh of his bare arms and shoulders, he realised their now obvious mistake.

He's in a military uniform, surveying the scene from a distance, but he's no Andre. He's not the fiancé separated from his love by war, he's not the prince they wish to whisk them away.

He's not a hero, he's Anatole. He's a man who lusts over those he can't have, seducing the naive Natasha into a thoroughly preposterous elopement, wishes to kiss and make love to her despite its lack of morality and even legality.

He thinks about how beautifully Kyoya sings, the opera fiasco when Natasha both wants and fears Anatole seizing her and kissing her neck. Intimate, far too familiar. Anatole is a character that long fell out of favour, and for a reason; too passion and impulse driven, too hedonistic, too careless. One who was a dream all that time ago, in such a repressed era, but now was only seen as something to despise.

It makes sense, but as he watches Kyoya fluttering his eyelashes at their Anatole - an infatuated Kaoru - he feels... sympathetic, almost. Wanting something you're unable to have is not just the fault of sinners, unless his character had degraded further than he thought.

Because he loves like any other man, and who couldn't love such a beauty as the raven-haired boy?

Tamaki takes Kyoya's hand and places a soft, courtly kiss on the back of his hand. Pierre, assigned as such by Renge, who said that the studious loner who wished himself better was closer to Tamaki's real self than anyone would like to admit. He concedes to that, but the blond did actually take strides to better himself whereas Pierre seemed to stay stagnating in it for most of the play.

There are carefree laughs and jokes, like usual. He can see the spark in Kyoya's eyes, glasses cast off and no longer placing that barrier between himself and the world, and then he's walking over to him, and Mori doesn't even know what he's doing. He lets himself move on instinct, like the man he should be playing.

"You look... bewitching..." He admits, and it seems Kyoya flushes much more easily when without his glasses, his pallor making the blood rushing to his cheeks even more obvious. He makes a beautiful young lady, especially with how he naturally and demurely shifts his gaze to the floor.

"Oh Andre," Kyoya breathed, looking up with a twitch at the edge of his painted lip, "I want you now, at once."

This time, he blushed scarlet, Kaoru turning to face them both as Kyoya took his hands and pulled him into a dance. With his hands on the boy's tiny waist, only emphasised by the corset beneath, he couldn't help but think of other sins as they spun around the room, sharp gazes directed at the man who was whisking away such a beauty.

He could do as Anatole did, confess his love and force a kiss on those perfect lips, but he wouldn't. He couldn't. That wasn't the sort of man he was, after all. He was steady, and slow, and the one who couldn't have the fair Natasha. He wished he was more like Andre, in that moment...