Hikago kink meme, round 2

[troisroyaumes]

Previous editions of the Hikago kink meme: round 1 here at hikarunogo and a previous version hosted on LJ by verloren1983.

As a way to get 2013 off to a new start, let's have round 2!

How it works: leave an anonymous* comment with character(s) and a kink (one prompt per comment please), and someone will reply anonymously* with a fic to match your request. All characters and kinks allowed.

* Not mandatory to comment anonymously, of course.

Also, gen prompts and fics are allowed with the caveat that the focus of the meme is on kinks. How you define kink is completely up to you.

Comments

Snap.

[(Anonymous)]

The sharp click of a go stone snapped upon a goban cuts through Kiyoharu's fitful sleep. The sound is crisp, pure: it lingers in the air, as clear and as sure as a single note written upon a blank staff.

Snap. Another stone to answer the first. No less crisp, no less sure, though there is a delicacy to it, a roundness. A second hand, then, placing stones upon the board.

A bright spark of irritation sparks through Kiyoharu. They're playing already, he thinks. They couldn't even wake me up. But a spark is all Kiyoharu can summon; he knows all too well about the mutual obsession in which Shindou and Touya have entangled each other, and the impossibility of getting between them. The three of them spent yesterday reviewing the tournament appearances of the Chinese team, and today they have set for review of the Korean team, so early morning before dawn breaks is the only time Shindou and Touya will have to work out their aggression against each other until after the Hokuto Cup.

Snap. The urgency of the stone clears Kiyoharu's head and sharpens his senses, demanding he focus.

Snap. A decisive answer, piercing the air before the silence can return.

The stones fall in a steady rhythm, one after the next, building their territories with joseki that are clearly old friends to them both. It doesn't tell Kiyoharu much about the shape of the game, only that they are both confident, and so instead he focuses on the shape of the sounds of the stones as they are placed upon the board.

Even through the shoji Kiyoharu can tell that the stones lack both the dull clack of plastic and the brittle sharpness of glass, and every other stone rings differently than the one placed directly before. It's not just that there are two people placing the stones, but there are two different types of stones being placed.

Kiyoharu's played countless games in countless salons, watched hundreds of matches on the tapes Yoshikawa-sensei made for him when school kept him from his studies; he's spent too many nights with stones ringing in his ears not to be able to distinguish them: slate and clamshell, both singing out so brightly that the stones must be being placed upon a kaya board. Yesterday the three of them laid out games in glass stones across two katsura boards; Touya must be feeling sentimental.

Snap.

Kiyoharu's played go with plastic stones, with glass, with starch, with Yunzi. He's played on pine, on spruce, on agathis, on katsura. The materials don't make the game: one of the fiercest and most audacious games he's ever played was on an unfolded magnetic board barely wider than the span of his hand, with stones made of magnets glued inside plastic shells no bigger than his pinky nail. And yet there's something undeniably seductive about the sound of slate and clamshell on kaya: a clarity, a fullness, a roundness, a rightness.

Snap.

Kiyoharu would describe himself as pragmatic, and fully acknowledges that go is a game, but even a pragmatist would have to admit in the face of overwhelming evidence that go is also a journey to a place that can never be found, a search for perfection that cannot exist, an unknowable query that will never be answered. To play go is to become himself even more than he was before, and the clarity of purpose it's given him, fierce and focused and bright, is something he knows he'll never be able to find in anything else. It's worth treasuring, worth celebrating, worth utilising the equipment that best enhances the act, and there is nothing like the sound of slate and clamshell on kaya, nothing at all in all the world.

It's hypnotic, the steady, even clicking of the stones as they're placed onto the board by practised hands. Kiyoharu's heard the snap of thousands of stones, tens and hundreds of thousands of stones in hundreds and thousands of games, and he doesn't need to see the board to know the flow of the game.

They're slowing. They've laid claim in broad strokes, and now they're sizing each other up. Clamshell is placed almost gently, and only moments later slate is snapped upon the board with a decisiveness that can only mean a challenge. And indeed it is: there is a flurry of stones one after another, snap, snap, snap, and as the pause before the next stone draws out longer and longer Kiyoharu feels his lungs burning with the need for oxygen as he holds his breath in sympathy. Then the snap! of slate, and Kiyoharu draws in a long, slow breath that fills every alveolus in his lungs with pure, sweet air. He can feel the relief flowing through him from the tips of his fingers down to the pads on his toes, and he has to smile as clamshell fights back with an almost petulant stone, the sound uneven as if wobbling from a messy play.

Snap! goes slate, and then the soft shuffling as two stones are plucked from the board and then dropped into the empty lid of a goke, rattling.

Kiyoharu can hear voices from the next room, soft and indistinct. The lower pitch of voices doesn't travel as well as the sharp clicks of the stones, but he's spent enough time in far too close proximity to them not to be able to imagine all too well what the two of them are nattering at each other. And it doesn't matter anyway; the only answer that matters is the one they write in the stones.

Clamshell returns to the field of battle with a steady hand, laying down a new stone. Slate is thoughtful, but unhesitating, and they begin a new rally, this one slower but no less sure than the first.

Snap after snap, stone after stone, and when soon their pace has begun to quicken so too does the pace of Kiyoharu's breathing. He can't help it; there's nothing he could possibly do to separate himself from the stones. He has no hope of drowning out the sound; the sweet, clear notes singing from the kaya would reach him even if he were to pull his blanket over his head. All he can do is to listen, and to let go as his breathing quickens and his pulse begins to pound.

Again and again, snap, snap, snap, and it might as well be speed go for the time neither of them take to think. It's a game played solely on reflex, fuelled by adrenaline, and even though he hasn't so much as placed a single stone Kiyoharu is caught up in it too, heart hammering in his chest. His breaths are so shallow that only the frantic pace of them allows him to breathe, and all the muscles in his body are tensing in anticipation of the battle he'll never fight.

Snap, snap, snap, and Kiyoharu can't avoid it anymore; he has to reach a hand down to the front of his boxers to adjust the lay of his cock to a more comfortable angle. He can feel the pounding of his heartbeat in the pulse throbbing in his hard-on, and he'd only meant to free his dick from the uncomfortable angle at which it was trapped but he can't help but give himself a squeeze, just one. Just one to steady his nerves. But then his cock twitches in his hand and he feels the pre-come oozing out to soak his underwear and the briefs are far too tight as it is so he slides his hand under the waistband to grasp himself directly, and he tosses his head back as he takes himself firmly in hand.

Snap! goes clamshell, and the stones fall quiet, and it's the only thing in the world that could still his hand but it does, and he waits. Kiyoharu has his cock in his hand, the wet tip tantalisingly cooled by the nighttime air, and his briefs are pulled down just enough for his cock to jut out, and his almost-pants are so loud in his ears that he can't imagine they can't hear him, they have to be able to hear him. They have to be able to hear him lying here with his hand on his cock, they have to know, and the worst part is that if they know, they'll stop. They'll stop their game, and Kiyoharu will never get what it is that he needs.

Snap! goes slate, and stones scrape the board as they're picked up, and when they're dropped into the lid of the goke to rattle against the other prisoners Kiyoharu has to bite his lip against the moan in his throat as he strokes a slick bead of pre-come from his cock, sliding his fingertips through it, rubbing it into the skin of his shaft.

Clamshell is tentative now when it clicks upon the board, and slate is quieter still, but it's all right. Even as Kiyoharu's pulse refuses to slow, he can manage the pace of his breathing, and the pace of his hand as he strokes himself.

Gentle. Testing. He can't tell who's ahead, since slate has the prisoners but clamshell has the confidence, but it doesn't matter. What matters is they're playing, one soft, thoughtful clack after another, and it's perfect. It gives Kiyoharu a chance to master himself, to catch his breath.

He doesn't pretend he's going to stop the movement of his hand. His need is far too keen to ignore, and he's alone and guaranteed to be uninterrupted for as long as the game goes on.

Clamshell snaps on the board with a decisiveness it hasn't seen in twenty hands, and slate answers it with a furious snap! that sounds as if it might crack a lesser stone. Then they're off again, playing hand after hand, stone chasing stone so rapidly that all the work Kiyoharu'd done to calm himself is for naught and he's panting again, fisting his cock with long, frantic strokes, raising his ass off the futon so he can pull his briefs down his thighs with his free hand. He reaches up with a foot to snag the material and pull them all the way down and out of the way so he can spread his legs and cup his balls.

Snap! goes slate, and the guttural growl of frustration he hears isn't his own as one, two, three, four stones scrape lightly against wood as they're plucked from the board, the clicking as they are gathered muffled by the hand that surrounds them, then the whispering clatter as the prisoners are deposited, settling into place amongst their comrades. Clamshell was clearly expecting this, its next stone snapping upon the board without hesitation, and then there is the scrape of two stones as they are removed. They rattle as they're dropped into the empty goke lid, sliding against the polished wood.

Kiyoharu feels a droplet of sweat dripping down from his temple, down to his neck. He bites his lip as he gives his balls a squeeze, just hard enough to make himself ache, and when he gives his shaft a firm stroke he feels a new drop of pre-come swell at the tip of his dick.

Slate cracks against the board so loudly and so clearly that it could be the report of a gunshot, but clamshell isn't cowed and answers smartly, clacking firmly against the board, and Kiyoharu’s breathing stutters as he hears the whisper-slide of the stone being moved into place.

Snap, comes slate, and the race is on.

Faster and faster the stones are placed upon the board, some razor-sharp with violent clarity, others thick and muted from a heavy hand. Faster and faster Kiyoharu’s breaths come, until all he can do is pant. Faster and faster his hand moves, and he feels his toes curl as he arches back against the futon, as if the new angle will allow him to fuck his hand with greater fervour.

A clamshell stone thock!s against the board and and at last the game and Kiyoharu both have time to catch their breath. The stone wobbles, and the exquisite harmonics of the kaya capture the sound and amplify it; Kiyoharu can hear it rocking as clearly as if someone was pouring it directly into his ear. He has time enough to breathe, to release his hold on his cock and lick a wet line across his palm before grasping himself once more.

Then there is a whisper of stones against stones, and then when a cascade of stones--slate, they’re slate, they have to be slate--fall upon the board, it’s the only thing he can hear: the sound of the stones clattering against each other, against the board; they’re knocking stones out of place, sliding them off the sides of the board down to the tatami.

As the game is thrown out of square so too is Kiyoharu’s composure and he breaks, every muscle in his body tensing as he works his cock with both hands, fucking the tight hollows of his fists as his orgasm crashes into him with all of the ferocious surety of stones upon wood. He grits his teeth as he forces himself not to moan, not to gasp, not to make a sound, and his teeth grind together as he writhes and jerks and shakes and he’s coming, pulse after pulse after pulse, before he finally falls back to the futon empty and spent.

Kiyoharu’s breathing. He’s aware of every inhale, every exhale; he lengthens them with every breath. As he comes back to himself he can feel his legs aching from having been tensed so tightly, his limbs trembling from the strain, and his fevered skin damp with a faint sheen of sweat that cools on his skin.

He hears the stones again--not the sharp snap of proper placement, but dull clicks and clacks as they’re picked off the board and placed back into their goke. He can hear the low, indistinct sound of voices talking--and if they’re done, they’re probably going to want to get started on the day ahead, so Kiyoharu better get a move on.

He has just enough time to wipe his come-slick hand off on his discarded underwear when the shouji slides open and Shindou comes striding into the room. “Hey, get up!” Shindou calls, stepping over his own abandoned futon to stand over Kiyoharu. “Dude, we’ve got about a million games to go over today.”

“Getting up,” Kiyoharu says shortly, and cracks his jaw in a yawn.

“Yeah, no, you totally aren’t, you’re just lying there. C’mon,” Shindou says, and when he leans over to grab hold of Kiyoharu’s covers and yank Kiyoharu is just fast enough to grab a handful himself, preventing Shindou from seeing anything below the waist.

“If you’re trying to see me naked, at least take me out to dinner first!” Kiyoharu growls in protest.

“I wasn’t! Wait, are you naked? You weren’t naked last night. Are you naked? Seriously? Uh, I mean, not like I’m asking. Because I wasn’t,” Shindou says, dropping the covers and backing away, stumbling as he trips over his own futon. “Um, I’m gonna go. Right now. And make breakfast. So if you want breakfast, there’ll be something other than Touya’s godawful miso. But, um, after you stop being naked. Um...” Shindou says, trailing off as he trails his gaze down Kiyoharu’s torso. “Rice omelets. I’m making rice omelets,” he says.

Shindou’s still standing in the doorway and decidedly not leaving, and it occurs to Kiyoharu that he could ask about the game. He could ask about Shindou’s game with Touya, and they could talk it out over breakfast, and Kiyoharu could find out just how exactly the game unfolded, and which of the two was slate and which was clamshell.

He doesn’t realise he’s staring at Shindou’s fingers for some clue that won’t be there until Shindou swallows, noticeable because of the strangled noise he makes while doing so. “Rice omelets,” Shindou repeats, and flees the room.

Re: Snap.

[mmmdraco]

I woke up to this and now all of my other mornings will be spoiled because they won't have this fic fresh and new in them. XD Beautiful.

Re: Snap.

[qem_chibati]

This is lovely. ♥