A/N: Tindugan ko nalang gid ang pagka random sini. Writing this has always made me happy, I don't know why.
This will never be a proper story, (like all my other stories) in all sense of the word, but sige nalang. I concede. For those who've been following this story, despite my lapses as an author (my writing included), thank you! I wish I had read enough so that I can give justice to your effort in wasting your time reading this.
And if it isn't too much to ask, I would like to hear your thoughts about the story so far.
And if it isn't too much to ask, I would like to hear your thoughts about the story so far. Mikoto was like a book; he was like the living proof of his and Reishi's affair. For the reason that, always, he forces Reishi to remember what they had, even when he didn't want to.
The creases on Mikoto's forehead, the lines under his eyes, and the curl of his lip told a story. It told the history of the war between their kingdoms. It told the story of hate, of vengeance and treachery. His large calloused hand, the dents of his shoulder blades, the feel of his flesh and the veins that climb up on his skin like ivy, however told another. It told Reishi, I can't touch you without breaking you. This Reishi knew from experience. But his kiss—the kiss that he was referring to, made Reishi ask, What was a kiss made of? He knew the anatomy of a kiss: mouth on mouth, teardrop saliva trailing down the precipice of the mouth; of aching, desperate tongues, trembling fingers, and rapid heartbeats. But, was it really made of these? Or rather, was it: a caress on the side of the face, a gaze into the windows of the soul; a kiss on the cheek? For Reishi, it was a kiss on the cheek—a mistake he committed when, once, he leaned in to kiss the Red King just because he was curious of how the other's skin would feel on his mouth; curious of the taste of the other's sweaty coarse flesh on his tongue. But most especially, Reishi just wanted to know whether the beast that was Suoh Mikoto could be lured and later on be made into a man in his embrace.
Mikoto was right; Reishi hadn't forgotten about their nights of intimacy before Mikoto ravished him. He hadn't forgotten of the way Mikoto touched him: the feel of his hands on his skin, its skill, its warmth, the way it grabbed him and played with his heart, the bud of his mouth on the mountains of his shoulder, and the sting of his subdued bites. He knew Mikoto was afraid to get too involved; afraid of being addicted to him and his moans and groans of pleasure as he writhed under his weight. Apart from this, Reishi hadn't forgotten about getting fucked inside his sovereign carriage when he provoked Mikoto—it was the second time they had sex. He clearly remembered all of it. But despite it all, Reishi had never kissed Mikoto on the mouth. He could only kiss him on the side of his face, on the side of his mouth. For a kiss on the mouth meant completely succumbing to his attraction to the Red King.
Not kissing the Red King was his restriction; it was the thing that kept him from going beyond what he originally planned. More than that, He loved another. He wanted to remind himself of this fact. But his body longed to be nestled against his nemesis. He wanted him so much so that just the closeness of his body to him made him shudder. But love was out of the question. Reishi was always careful not to overdo things. He knew nothing good will come out of being attached to Mikoto. He just wanted to get his attention. He just wanted him to give him what he truly wanted—an armistice. He succeeded, albeit at a price.
Now, when he settled beside Mikoto, naked and wrapped up in thick blankets, there was no denying that everything came back to him, vividly; every caress, every brush of the mouth, even the wet slimy feeling of Mikoto's fingers inside of him came to him in a surge, drowning him with passion. And it was difficult.
The rain still hissed, the wind still cooed in the background. It's sound made it feel like time was suspended, making Reishi feel like he was trapped in the past. It brought him back to the time when he didn't harbor such deep resentment towards the former Red King.
Mikoto on the other hand, ached for him. He was just meters away from Mikoto's grasp: curled up, hair wet and in a messy trail on the bamboo floor. Reishi's breaths, the sound of the wind that passed through his lips as he heaved in and out rang in Mikoto's ears. Mikoto's own heartbeat was frantic, and jumpy. The cold was not helping him forget about how close Reishi was. And it drove him insane.