Diruktober Day 6: Tattoos: Kyo

  Diruktober is a DIR EN GREY themed inktober challenge by re_be_ka_f. I chose to use them as writing prompts to join in on the fun. 

What did it take? For the wish to have this story covering his skin to outweigh the pain? I wondered every time we met. Every time, I discovered a new story scrolled across his skin. I’d stopped asking for their stories in fear of annoying him too much to stand anymore. 

What was it like to live a life in which even your lovers dare not challenge you? I guessed that fear is why I wouldn’t last long enough to become one of those stories.

He seemed to bear even the most personal intimacies with ease, if only in his art. Otherwise, it felt difficult to articulate in a conversation.

Today, he was in one of his better moods. He was in a mood that made me hopeful that he liked my company more than he let on.

And after our dinner I wondered, too, what things excited him beyond what I was too afraid to suggest. He had become more explorative. Last time he asked me to meet he let me put my fingers inside of him. The way his body moved, thick muscles on a small frame writhing as I beckoned within him, was intoxicating. He came across the face of his very demons in slow, leaky bursts from his cock, shuddering with each push of the pads of my fingertips. It gathered in the dip of his navel and moved back and forth with his bucking hips. 

That image burned in my mind, permanently penned there just like those tattoos. 

Today when we closed the door behind ourselves in the hotel room – I still hadn’t known where he lived— he crashed against me to pin my body to the door. This famous masochist had turned on me. He shared my, height making it easy to find our bodies compatible, and as he began to pull and pull my clothes off I desperately lapped up the attention. I aided the process with abandon and helped toss my carefully manicured outfit to the floor. 

His jeans were so tight that it was almost funny to see him nearly double over to get rid of them with any grace at all. I let out a small laugh that he greeted with warmth, a warmth shown always in private, never anywhere but these small moments that punctuated the long sentences of silence. 

Sooner rather than later, he was violently thrusting his erection to the back of my throat. He liked when I moaned around him, when I choked and spit on him. On a day like this, I had to time my breathing and close my eyes to concentrate on how to survive while being used. His flesh was firm and warm and I always welcomed it, using the control I had left to make sure I could handle it while he toyed. He pushed in deeply enough to make me have to inhale to prevent from gagging and then pulling himself away completely to watch strands of thick saliva sag and break between us. 

I knew once he arched his figure to messily kiss me that he wanted a change. He pushed his tongue between my swollen and wet lips to kiss me and I opened my mouth to beg like a pathetic dog. I extended my tongue, hoping that its curve was both pretty and effective for what he knew I wanted. 

It was almost tender the way he held both sides of my face to angle it. I gazed up at his triumph to watch him let his tongue release a gob of spit that landed on my tongue. Its taste was oasis in desert. I let it slide down my throat without moving, only letting out a soft whimper for more while he teased with a long and slow strand, letting it fall and fall until it finally broke off, remnants of which remained against his chin. I felt it as he chased his spit with another messy kiss. 

It was then that I found myself combative enough to rise against the clash of the lavish affection of his mouth. I stood, and in doing so guided him backwards to the bed. He sat at its edge and leaned back to procure a condom which he had always been so adamant about. He was fairly discreet in wearing it, taking little time to sheath his cock and taking away any more opportunities to feel the fullest silky extent of its skin. I stole a few seconds to run gentle fingernails in scratches that traced the demon faces over his neck, to flicker my heated tongue over his chest. 

It was no sooner than his hand at my hip signaled he was finished than I parted my legs to straddle him, my body eager and willing. He looked more beast than man as I sank onto him, an inky black sea of demon and angel and tangled body parts of each spread before me. 

It all did its part to help him feel endless, and the only thing left to anchor me was his grip, one hand pure, the other covered in curses. The duality of his grip, of me hinging my hips to bounce a rhythm between us, was how we created our own music. The steady thumping rhythm of our bodies meeting in a crash of each hard thrust, the growls and groans that vibrated between us as I rode him, grasping at him just as he did to me, I committed this melody to memory until the rhythm grew erratic. I'd tattoo it in my conscious. He rooted deeply in me to plant his orgasm, a comforting flex of his length inside of me to soothe the soreness. 

When he finally came, I reveled in my spoils, bending to nestle in his neck and inhale the scent of a spent man, tiny pinpricks of sweat sampled in a lengthy lick. 

And as I buried my face in his neck, all I could see was one word etched in his skin describing my curse of admiring him for all eternity: “Damned”.