Written for the challenge of "Fine Art" on LJ community temps_mort.
You love looking up, or down, at Ohtori's blushing face, that kiss-bitten mouth dropping open on soft, mewling noises that might have just been utterly annoying coming from anyone else, but coming from Ohtori Choutarou, are just... so unreservedly satisfying. There truly isn't a great deal that you'd have ever wanted to call a challenge in your life, but... perhaps the strangeness of all of it is that your Choutarou was never much of a challenge at all, not at the first. He... he just came to you, so sweetly open like he'd never known what it was like to stand straight in the face of envy or admiration, and declared his feelings with his blush painting his face in an exquisite sunset palette.
Perhaps, in many ways, that satisfaction is simply because your Choutarou just isn't noisy, and so straining that kind of sound from him is something like the pull of music out of a violin's shuddering, unprotesting strings - you've sat in the concert hall, more than once, to listen to him tasting the music with those long fingers and the bow of that exquisite instrument, and you've always closed his eyes with the delicacy of the sound, but... anyone who thinks that there isn't any delicacy in trailing fingers across tremblingly pale skin until it's just too sensitive for something so ephemeral and demands a more substantial caress, obviously doesn't know what they're doing. There is, after all, fucking - and there have been times when you've done that - but then there is making love.
You have the feeling that no matter how rough it might be - no matter how deeply you pull yourself into Ohtori's tight, lube-slick body, whether you hitch his slim hips onto a pillow so you can admire the way pleasure blooms Ohtori's mouth into a bitten rosebud when those lips fall open on a shuddering cry, or wrap your hand around silk-bundled steel and proceed to bend him over an elegant marble-topped kitchen counter with your fingers working slowly, slowly, in and out of him until Ohtori clutches at the tile and presses that face into the black glitter until you wondered if the glittering mica shards might slip off, burnt like decorations onto flushed skin by the force of that so-adorable vivid crimson blush... Ohtori Choutarou would always call it making love, because Ohtori is simply trusting like that.
It might have been amusing if it hadn't, somewhere, become truth.
Ohtori is no-one's toy, not a plaything, not even yours, though his adulation of you, and the way he watched you, and still does, once made you sneer and turn away from his shy little smile for perhaps too long. But now the way he uses his honourifics and abandons himself to your bed with wide-eyed curiousity, still, make you think, and every time you reach out to catch his Scud Serve, you know what he is - a strong longbow drawn taut without snapping, perhaps, and even the taunts on the tennis court about leashes and favors and the nature of getting someone onto and off of a Regular team will never do much more than strain a crimson edge onto Ohtori's cheeks, his lips trembling before they firm again and he raises his head rather than ducking it. The Hyotei team is cruel, and if they hadn't been, they wouldn't have been Hyotei, but you won't do him any favors defending him.
You might not know - or care, particularly - about white lilies blooming in adversity, but sometimes, you realise he's beautiful in the way he gleams on the courts when you adjust his serve, or the moonlight on his hair twines like ivy with your fingers with the elegance of the platinum that replaced the silver at his throat, one year, and you blink with something that might have been surprise and realise that you had a part in creating this bloom.
Which is why, after such a day, when by the end of it his lip is dark with the effort it takes to bite it and not say anything - he's eminently polite, and even his senpai's taunts will not call retaliation from him - you ride him slowly, and then hard, and then slowly again, dragging heat across his nerve endings until his face twists and the rose of his lips that you coaxed to bud is a white line with the effort not to cry out your name. It doesn't matter - no-one will hear him - but you lean down and bite the hollow of his collarbone, in any case, for the sheer pleasure of marking him as you move in him, leaving scattered nips like a necklace of murasaki petals just below where the line of his jersey might show them. He makes a whining, tiny little sound when you do, hurting, but it's the best of hurt - it's the hurt because he wants you to wrap your hand around his straining cock (he's too embarrassed to do it himself) and draw him out until silver pools on the heaving ridge of his belly and spills over his side to counterpoint the flower petals.
Silver and cream, bruise-bright and pearl-soft, the heat of his body as he welcomes you, the concerto as his silent and wordless pleas crescendo and your hand is still resting with casual teasing pleasure against the straining, delicately muscled line of his belly as you push his legs higher and slow, slow, slow until you're poised and waiting - he'll play the violin for you, later, blushing when you ask him to do it without putting his clothes on, but he will, because you've asked it of him... there are few things as fine in this world as Ohtori Choutarou in ecstasy, or just before it, and you always brushed past it in the past until something caught your eye, just so, and you realised with a great deal of surprise how his lips felt when he kissed your palm.
He's strong, writhing under you with such startling passion, but you love the taste of his strength when he pushes up against you, and his passion drives you harder into him, his tight slick heat yours, entirely yours as he takes you with those chestnut eyes half-closed, almost tear-stained. There's no such thing as making someone weep without weeping yourself, or so you've been told, that's the nature of what art is, and your sweat beads and leaves diamond dust on the heaving planes of his stomach when he turns his face from you.
"Look at me," you growl, just below the point of audible, but he'll always hear you. You know he will, because he always does look at you, his eyes wide and cheerful and stained to chestnut with pleasure, your paints, but it holds you as strongly as it becomes him. Is this what art does? You wondered about it, breezing casually through a museum with one class or another, or perhaps your parents - you've always been for more active things, and you don't care to understand those who call themselves artists. How could the pleasure of creation swallow so thoroughly that it's an ache, but your hands are on his hips and tilting him higher, and by now the sound of his cries is just a panting oh counterpoint to the slicker glide of skin and sensation.
Perhaps you're rough with him, stealing your pleasure in watching him and in his slick lubed heat on slicker sheets that swallow you both in white artists' canvas, but he's never complained. Ohtori stretches out underneath you, the mewl gathered in his throat is throbbing like the last heartbeat of a chord, and your hands are still on his hips when he jerks and in the darkness spasms of his body mingle with yours, and it's not the same pleasure as when you close his eyes at one of his concerts, but it's pleasure nonetheless, mindless as the hand that holds the brushes and rinses away the last of the tint along with the last of your mind.
It's not neat, or slick, or sleek, but you stay inside him after you've both crashed back to creation and wonder, exhausted, and then realise the rarity of your wondering. The word 'artist' makes you sneer, but perhaps there is something of that fire that it squanders away your ability to sneer, and instead, you smile at him and lay yourself across his chest, muttering perhaps a little with annoyance at the wet that splays itself across both your stomachs.
"I love you," Ohtori murmurs, softly, like he always does when you pillow your cheek against his chest like this, still joined.
You stretch out on top of him with langourous pleasure in delicate jagged-edged brushes still spasming through you both, hair straggling over your cheeks in dark strands, curled by heat. You smile a little at his words, just enough that he might know that you heard him, and reach upwards to trail your long, callused fingers through the waves of silver hair - sweat-damp, now, almost pewter, a new material, and warm against your fingers. You don't much care for sweat, particularly, and you certainly both need a shower, but for now...
"I know," you reply.
Of course he loves you.
You are Atobe Keigo, after all.
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