When they broke off, Miyavi took two steps back, white-socked toes silent against the floor. He was flushed and tugged his skirt down unconsciously. His fingers brushed his own bare thigh.
"You really like the clothes." The words were a little breathless.
"So do you," said Gackt.
"Yeah, I--" He flushed, having said it without thinking.
"Turn around," said Gackt.
And saw himself. The floor-to-ceiling windows of Gackt's apartment perfectly reflected the room now that the lights were on and it was dark outside. His skirt was very slightly askew, one of his white socks was pushed down around his ankle. His cheeks were flushed pink and his lips were a little swollen from kissing. His tattoos--which in his mind were what made him Miyavi--were almost all hidden under the girl's sailor suit. In their place was just an impression of shyness, long white thighs and blushing. He saw Gackt come up behind him, felt Gackt's slow, careful touch trailing town the length of his arm, and in the glass, he saw Gackt's head dip to kiss his neck.
Miyavi made a breathless, girlish sound. Gackt's hand slid up his thigh, under the hem of his skirt, and higher, brushing the cotton of the girl's underwear he had on. Miyavi grabbed Gackt's wrist, tugging it down, stopping him from going higher. He pressed his thighs together demurely.
"Stop, I'm embarrassed," he murmured. "I got wet down there, thinking about you. If you touch me, you'll feel it."
He was learning what Gackt liked, and this shot was a bull's-eye. It wasn't even a lie. He was breathing shallowly, and the pretty pink and white cotton had the beginnings of a damp patch, though not where a girl's would be.
"I want to feel it," said Gackt into Miyavi's ear, and Miyavi shivered and let his grip loosen. He felt Gackt's hand slid over the cotton, feeling the heat, the dampness, what was unarguably male, massaging it slowly, so that Miyavi's head tipped back and his thighs widened. He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself pushing into Gackt's hand, somewhere in his mind was the idea that this would be unladylike.
He opened his eyes and saw himself in the glass and the pink-cheeked girl looked like she was just about to--
"Stop," he gasped. "Stop, it's--I'm--"
Miyavi pushed around, turning in Gackt's arms. He was trying to get himself back under control, and it was almost impossible, with Gackt's eyes all over him, like just looking was a turn on.
"I--this is kind of--intense," said Miyavi. He heard his own voice, breathless and different and he was still talking like-- "I've never--really--" What? Done it like a girl?
"Relax," murmured Gackt, hands still on him, sliding up Miyavi's torso now, like Miyavi was just playacting shy, and he was--wasn't he?--except somewhere along the line he had gone from feeling like a tease to feeling like he was kind of losing it.
It was girl on top, at first, when they hit the bed. Gackt drew Miyavi down into a series of slow kisses, his fingers tangled in Miyavi's hair, and Miyavi fought to stay passive, accepting it, urging it on with little sounds inside his throat.
Miyavi lifted a hand to his own top button open, acting on the almost magnetic desire to feel skin against skin.
"Don't," said Gackt, rolling them over and pinning him to the bed.
"I want to do it with the clothes on," said Gackt in voice that sent little shocks through Miyavi's body. Gackt's blue contact lenses didn't dilate like eyes normally would, but his desire was evident in the flicker of his shallow breathing.
"Yes," said Miyavi. "Whatever you want."
He quickly came to regret saying that.
Gackt was very hot but very weird, and they couldn't have been more different in bed. Miyavi tended to hyperactivity; Gackt was teeth-grittingly slow. Not just slow, but--unexpectedly for a success-driven perfectionist--he didn't seem interested in finishing anything he started. Miyavi liked getting his way, Gackt was oblivious to outside cues, and impossible to push around. Miyavi was sort of--vocal. Gackt was undemonstrative. That was an understatement. He didn't make noise, and all of his reactions were subtle, eyes closing, the arch of his neck or the momentary hitch of breath. He didn't talk, either, unless it was to coax Miyavi into something, some slow, exquisite torture, that Miyavi would find himself, helplessly, giving over to.
Every time Miyavi thought he was getting somewhere, Gackt would pin him down, waiting until Miyavi's imminent climax receded before taking him in one of his long, intense kisses.
"Can't you--just--" said Miyavi.
Gackt stroked a hand down his body, and Miyavi arched into the touch.
"Please," said Miyavi, the word sounding shattered.
"Slow down," said Gackt.
"If you--go any slower--I'll--" Miyavi broke off and made a new sound as Gackt's mouth found his ear and tongued inside, slow, wet thrusts that momentarily mimicked a related activity, before retreating. The ache inside Miyavi's body intensified. Maybe that was the whole tortuous point. Maybe there was method in the madness. Gackt was insinuating the idea of fucking, so that Miyavi was craving--something--and Gackt hadn't even--touched him there or--anything.
He still had the clothes on.
It was like getting rewired, the need to get off changing into the need to--be--
Fucked, he thought, the word priming him, threatening to detonate as Gackt slid a knee between his thighs.
Gackt chose that moment to slide down his body, pushing Miyavi's thighs even further open with his hands, and then pushing the skirt up. After so much time spent in circuitous foreplay, the idea of Gackt's mouth on his cock was dizzying. Miyavi felt the heat of Gackt's breath on him first, and cried out when Gackt mouthed him through the cotton of the underwear. Then he felt the cotton pulled down.
It was slow like everything else, Gackt's mouth opening over the head, then the long wet slide down, and then back up again. Miyavi's tried to urge Gackt on with his hands, cupping the weight of Gackt's head and holding it in place, but of course Gackt would not be hurried. It didn't matter. Gackt had a fantastic mouth, and the excruciating plateaux could be born because the final escalation was approaching, finally, no matter at what meandering pace. When the cessation came, Miyavi pushed himself up on one elbow, just in time to see Gackt lower his head for a final, lingering suck, and he almost came right then, because the visual was even hotter than the feel of Gackt's mouth on him.
Then Gackt was pushing him over, and he was ready for it. He had never been more ready for anything. He felt Gackt's thumb brush over the opening to his body and he pushed backwards, thinking, yes, yes, right there. And then Gackt's hands slid upwards, over the curves, up over the small of his back, and no, no, ohhhh, no, Miyavi felt Gackt's lips brush the back of his neck, and realised that Gackt's attention had drifted elsewhere.
The idea that his desperately-craved release might just to Gackt have been an incidental detour was too much. Miyavi swore. Swore like a guy, dropped the girl talk. Pushed his way back on top, said, "That's it. I'm taking over this operation. Got anything to say?" He was on all fours, the tie of the sailor suit trailing down, the underwear long gone, the skirt around his waist. Gackt, for his part, had lost everything but a pair of undone suit pants, and looked like a tailor's wet dream.
"If I'd known you'd be this impatient," said Gackt, "I'd have tied you up."
"You're assuming a lot. Maybe I should fuck you instead."
"That's not what you want."
"Oh yeah? How do you know what I--"
Gackt's fingers splayed against his lips, silencing him, and a second later Miyavi's lips were parting, and Gackt's finger was sliding into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he sucked it. His actions belied his words, even this minor penetration satisfying something in him. It wasn't enough. He made a needy sound when he felt Gackt remove the finger, his eyes opening. "Please," Miyavi breathed. "Put it inside me."
Gackt gazed up at him. Miyavi saw, almost to his surprise, that for all his untouchable calm, Gackt was . . . really turned on.
"Do it to me, please," murmured Miyavi against Gackt's lips, closing his eyes as Gackt's wet finger found the entrance to his body. "You've got me so hot, I can't stand it."
"Like this?" said Gackt.
He felt it slide in, slick with saliva. His back arched and he pressed backwards instinctively. The position was awkward and it wasn't long before he was tumbled over, Gackt fingering him, kissing him, like he held endless fascination, while Miyavi came apart against the sheets.
There was a new sense of need from Gackt, which translated itself into greater focus and rhythmical attention. Miyavi allowed himself to be manoeuvred back onto all fours though he felt exposed, more so because he was still half-dressed in girl's clothing. When, for a long moment, nothing happened, he felt a low throb of anxiety and he glanced backwards.
"What are you--"
"Shh, I want you really wet," said Gackt.
Gackt had something in his hands.
Oh. Yes. Lubricant being pushed inside by the slippery in and out of Gackt's fingers. Miyavi took it for as long as he could, but finally his trembling arms collapsed and his cheek pressed to the sheets. There was a momentary pang of loss as Gackt's fingers withdrew before, finally, finally, the first blunt press at the opening of his body, now slick with extensive preparation.
It folded him inside out, his body seeming to turn in on itself. He felt it, every inch of it as it began to press inside him, and oh fuck, it was going to be slow, of course it was. A long, slow forever for Gackt to get all the way inside, and then Gackt stopped, his breathing changed.
"Just fuck me," said Miyavi.
Gackt drew almost all the way out, still slowly, and there was an entirely different sensation of dragging pleasure. Miyavi realised suddenly as his cock pulsed with pre-ejaculate, that he was going to come, without touching himself. He couldn't control the sounds that he was making, spread his legs and felt Gackt go deeper. It started to happen just as Gackt found a steady, deliberate rhythm. "Yes," said Miyavi, his body giving it up, hands fisted in the bed covers while he jerked, striping the covers with seed, and it was going on and on, each thrust wringing more out of him. "Yes. Like that. Yes. Yes." The cry tore from his throat.
Spent and dazed, Miyavi rode out the aftershocks, making small, helpless sounds at each final thrust. Gackt came like he did everything, in his own time, with inward focus, turning release into a subtle art. Miyavi felt the slight shudder, as Gackt spilled over, the weight of Gackt's limbs above him, the rise and fall of Gackt's breath.
"You look even better in that than you did in the skirt," murmured Gackt, later.
Miyavi lay sprawled, bonelessly, in a borrowed t-shirt and sleeping pants. Gackt's fastidious nature had coaxed Miyavi to clean up and change, though Miyavi had been so out of it he almost couldn't remember it happening, drowsy with sated exhaustion. It was a testament to Gackt's powers of persuasion that he'd even made it off the bed. Yeah, well, what wasn't?
Gackt's words floated across Miyavi's mind; they didn't quite fit. Miyavi had thought it was the femininity that tripped Gackt's wires, but who knew what went on in that maze of a mind. It was entirely possible that the cross dressing fetish was just exceeded by a narcissistic fetish for his own clothes.
"Skirt's wrecked," he said. His thoughts connected to one another disjointedly. "I'm . . . "
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