Title: Heat
Author: Neko-chan
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji (pre-canon; mangaverse)
Pairing: Diederich/Vincent
Rating: M
Summary: It's been two months, three weeks, and four days since Diederich and Vincent last saw one another. Words are unnecessary—and all that is necessary are rough-edged caresses and biting, heated kisses.
Author's Note: So the best friend is currently at Yaoi Con—which leaves me bored because I don't get to chat with her and I don't get to write with her. Boredom is usually a very bad place for me to be in… because I typically resort to writing PWP porn. ;D (Hello, default writing setting~ XD!) Anyway, hope that you enjoy!
Heat
It's been two months, three weeks, and four days since Vincent last saw Diederich; at one point, he would have been able to tell an audience just how many hours it had been, as well, but all thought except this has flown from his mind: the Prussian's mouth is hot against the bend of his throat, and Vincent can feel the biting edge of teeth.
He knows that Diederich will bruise him, ensure that those marks will take weeks to fade completely away—his lover is greedy in this way, possessive in silent, claiming ways that speak more than words could ever do that this blue-eyed man is his. This is one of the reasons why Vincent has stopped sharing a bed with Rachel.
The teeth sink deeper, and Vincent loses himself in the molten pleasure-pain—and all the while, Diederich's hands clutch tighter over the arch of the nobleman's hips, drawing Vincent back against the secure, firm strength of the military man's chest. He can't help but smile at that, shifting to press the curve of his ass against the hard heat of Diederich's cock through the wool of their trousers.
Diederich hisses at the tease and Vincent's smile curves deeper into cat-got-the-canary as he reaches up to cup his hand at the nape of his lover's neck, shifting his hold just enough to dig his fingernails into Diederich's golden-tan skin.
"Stop teasing," Diederich commands as he nips over the pierced curve of Vincent's ear, which makes the Englishman shudder at the sensation and tip his head back to bare more skin for Diederich to claim, to abuse, to have for his very own.
Still, though, the Queen's Watchdog still retains enough control to retort in kind: "Then give me what I want and I'll stop teasing." He chuckles quietly at that, the sound wicked and dark like chocolate—and Diederich knows that Vincent won't stop teasing, will control this particular encounter if the Prussian doesn't give in. It has happened before—not often, but whenever Vincent is feeling particularly cruel—and the effeminate man has forced Diederich in the past to come early with that expert touch of his.
…but it's not as if giving in is that difficult, anyway.
Diederich snarls softly against Vincent's throat and he feels Vincent shudder in response at the sensation of too-hot breath brushing over his sensitive skin, and Diederich can't help but drag Vincent closer as the Phantomhive bucks in his hold. His. This man is his, would always be his—and, what was most important, is his by choice.
He pins Vincent stomach-down over the back of the loveseat, hands roughly jerking at the noble's clothes—tearing seams in his desperation to get this beautiful, dangerous man naked. It doesn't matter if the servants notice the state of Vincent's clothing; Tanaka rules the household with an iron fist, and no one will ever talk. After all, the Phantomhive family employs only the best, and Tanaka is the paragon example of those standards.
But these are thoughts that have no business in being present now, for Diederich has warm, ivory skin to touch, to explore, to remark and reclaim so that no one will try to take what is his while Diederich is away with his own assignments.
Vincent gasps as fingers coated with sweet-smelling oil slide into him, shivering and biting down on the velvet of the sofa to stifle his soft cry as those very same fingers begin to move in and out, again and again—merciless in their desire, though Vincent has no intention to protest. He wants this too much, as well, has been touching himself at night in anticipation of this for the past month.
Diederich gives his own satisfied smile at seeing the brief loss of control by the usually poised Earl, and he leans over to whisper quietly against the shell of Vincent's ear, "Shall I ride you as hard as you rode your thoroughbred during today's hunt?" The comment is enough to cause Vincent to glance back, eyes darkening and narrowing dangerously in an annoyed glare—but soon enough those eyes are opening wide with surprised pleasure as Diederich presses against that spot that has Vincent spreading his legs for more.
When Vincent feels the rough wool of Diederich's military uniform against the back of his thighs, the Earl gives a quiet, satisfied sigh as he shifts back demandingly—even now, the Queen's Watchdog retains his puppet master's control, though Diederich is aware of this and idly, bemusedly indulges Vincent in it.
As he pushes in with one solid, rough stroke, Diederich drapes his body over Vincent's: he covers this aristo man from any eyes that may be watching, the shield that is dedicated solely to the most dangerous man in England. The Prussian's teeth catch at the back of Vincent's neck, holding him still as he begins to thrust: firm and unyielding, just as his personality is, and Vincent's free hand wraps tight over Diederich's forearm that he braces himself with; Vincent's hold is vulnerable, clutching desperately and just as possessive as Diederich's own marks over his body. They are so very much alike in this way, each silently claiming the other: Mine, and no other's.
Vincent's eyes haze with pleasure, and his body arches back to meet each and every one of Diederich's thorough thrusts: there is no pain, only pleasure—and the all-encompassing heat of Diederich's body above him, within him. There is finally, after so many months of emptiness and loneliness, completion. They are one and Vincent is finally once more with the only man who has ever been able to match him, step for step and move for move. Diederich has murmured compliments, saying that the Earl Phantomhive is the most dangerous man in England: Vincent disagrees, however, for it is Diederich who has a hold over him—because, after all, Diederich is the only person who has a claim to Vincent's heart.
When he finally comes, it is with a vocalized cry: his pleasure ringing through the room, unhidden and offering up the gift of knowledge that Diederich has been able to completely undo him in such a way. His fingers grip just as harshly as Diederich's own, and the Prussian knows that he will have bruises around his wrist come morning.
The knowledge only offers him dark satisfaction.
With Vincent shuddering and arching still beneath him, Diederich continues to raise the flames, warming them both in the heat of their passion—and the Prussian is fully aware of the fact that this inferno will last until morning.
He only bites down harder at the nape of Vincent's neck.
Mine, and mine alone.
End.