September 1st
by Ruebert

[September 1st - Anonymity]

I want to steal the breath from your lungs

There were no voices in the dark, no words to spark recognition, give name to breath and touch and skin; there was only cool tile beneath his fingers and the memory of a crisp scrap of paper crushed in his palm, impersonal and simple in its typed message.

I want to read the thoughts inside your mind

Here there were no characters swimming in crisp black on stained white, just breath and heat and the sounds of fury and desire. The sound of the door closing, so loud in the silence, and the slide-shuffle of footsteps entering the room. This was what he wanted; this was what he was waiting for.

I want to taste myself when I kiss you

Hot mouth beneath his, sliding open, biting his lips and tongue as they sought entrance; body against his, beneath his, back against the wall, fingers tangled in his shirt. He pulled back, stole a breath, and then sought out that mouth again. He knew the rules -- no words. Just the blistering language of taste and touch and smell.

I want your blood on my tongue when you bite me

He didn't ask for perfection; that was not necessary, not in the darkness, not when all was masked and secret-hidden. Not when identity was hidden and shame unknown in faint thin copper spilling across his tongue, in teeth clashing and mouths fighting for dominance. There was only skin beneath his fingers as tie and shirt fell, forgotten.

I want to feel you strain against my body when I pin you to the floor

A quiet snarl of breath almost broke the silence, before the crash of falling bodies, of limbs striking the floor gone sprawling, before the weight above him was beneath him once more; a hissing that spoke of bruises yet to bloom and brought blood to his lips when he took that mouth again, shifted to bite at the tender skin beneath that ear.

I want to mark you in places you cannot hide from the world

When strong fingers dug furrows into his back, he bit harder, brought blood to the surface, heard the choked snarl of cursing in his ear, fingers tangled in his hair, trying to jerk his head away, and he held on until he was satisfied. He did not have to issue warning when he grasped those wrists and pulled them away, gently but firmly, and pressed them against the tiles.

I want to strip your defenses away

They knew the rules; no words, no faces in the darkness; in the absence of forbidden light, he made do with the memory of a lean strong body glimpsed too many times, caught out of the corner of his eye. There was no recognizance in the callused touch of fingertips against bare skin, clothing fumbled away as efficiently as familiarity with the dark could accomplish, his fingers seeking out and catching hold of the proof that the other's struggles were still a sham, as ever.

I want to feel your cock hard in my hand and know that you are feeling this because of me

Bitter and unwanted, sullen fear on his tongue before he took that mouth again to drown himself and wash it away with a familiar taste, confirm his truth again: this was not unwanted, and the fingers that dug into his wrist relaxed as his hand moved in firm strokes to calm short, sharp breaths and a heart that beat far too fast beneath his ear. There was no place for reassurances here. If this was going to stop -- one word was all that was needed. Instead, that hand covered his, and urged him onward.

I want you to beg to have me inside you

Shuddering breath and hips rising to meet his own in contrast to unhurried preparation; impatience marked with hands that gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise before he dislodged them. Wait, his touch whispered; wait, his smile murmured beneath seeking fingertips. I won't wait, replied the leg that wrapped around his thigh, I won't wait, said the fingers that yanked at his hair impatiently; when teeth sank into his shoulder and sought to draw blood, he almost laughed.

I want to fuck you so hard you'll remember me every time you move

Hissed breath and snarled curses; tight heat and the pull of muscle closing around him, drawing him in deeper. So close that there was no knowledge of pretense -- only his world focused on contact and stolen breath that shuddered into his lungs as he claimed that open mouth, as tongues mimicked the actions of bodies, claiming, penetrating. Rules broken, silence violated at last as that voice whispered into his skin, as that rough, shaking chant began: harder, faster, deeper, more. More.

I want to hear you scream my name

So tight it was almost painful, even given preparation; so close every gasped word wrung him as dry as the body beneath his tried to, his reality reduced to the body beneath his, claimed again and again, hoping for that one last word, the one thing that would make this complete, that would shatter all control--

I want you to belong to me

"Choutarou!"

I want you

"Hey, Choutarou!"

and most of all --

"--hmh? What -- what is it?"

I don't want you to know that it is me doing this to you

"Are you paying attention at all? It's our turn on the court."

I don't want you to look at me any differently

"Ah-hah. We are? I mean, right!"

I don't want things to change between us

"Dork. Don't space out in practice."

I just want you to belong to me

"Sorry, Shishido-san."

I just want you to choose to make me yours

"Heh. Whatever, it's fine. Let's go!"

I just want you to choose to belong to me.

The End

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