During the Midnight Hour
Feb. 12th, 2011 07:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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aibouOriginal Prompt: Yosuke solo. Souji leaves his coat over at Yosuke's house, and Yosuke smells it as he masturbates.
He thinks he's awake. He thinks he's asleep. It doesn't matter.
There is something familiar in the air, a smell so strong someone else might be in the room. It makes him warm and heavy and his body responds. He touches himself with slow fingers, strokes himself to half-formed thoughts.
What was he dreaming about? Maybe he still is. He can't tell. It doesn't matter.
His eyes flutter open, close, useless in the dark. His hand gropes outside the covers, finds something soft. He twists his fingers around it, tugs it closer.
A coat. Souji's coat. He inhales, fill his lungs with the smell. He can taste him on the back of his tongue, swallows to get him inside of him.
Souji.
His fingers continue to stroke, slow, slow, to thoughts of gray eyes.
He presses the sleeve against his face, smothers himself. Opens his mouth and licks it. He inhales, deep, deep, until it aches.
Souji slips inside him, fills his cracks, tightens around his heart.
Partner.
Stroke, stroke.
He gasps, chokes on the smell, on Souji. His eyes are open, but he can't see.
He empties himself of himself until there is only Souji inside of him.
That's fine.
Souji is the only thing that matters.
In the morning, he remembers none of it.
He thinks he's awake. He thinks he's asleep. It doesn't matter.
There is something familiar in the air, a smell so strong someone else might be in the room. It makes him warm and heavy and his body responds. He touches himself with slow fingers, strokes himself to half-formed thoughts.
What was he dreaming about? Maybe he still is. He can't tell. It doesn't matter.
His eyes flutter open, close, useless in the dark. His hand gropes outside the covers, finds something soft. He twists his fingers around it, tugs it closer.
A coat. Souji's coat. He inhales, fill his lungs with the smell. He can taste him on the back of his tongue, swallows to get him inside of him.
Souji.
His fingers continue to stroke, slow, slow, to thoughts of gray eyes.
He presses the sleeve against his face, smothers himself. Opens his mouth and licks it. He inhales, deep, deep, until it aches.
Souji slips inside him, fills his cracks, tightens around his heart.
Partner.
Stroke, stroke.
He gasps, chokes on the smell, on Souji. His eyes are open, but he can't see.
He empties himself of himself until there is only Souji inside of him.
That's fine.
Souji is the only thing that matters.
In the morning, he remembers none of it.
Poll #5965 During the Midnight Hour
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