Warnings: Uh - shop-table sex? Mild bondage. An unpopular pairing.
Comments: Thanks to cards_slash and caseyvalhalla.
Summary: A quiet, rainy night, an empty store with a rather large central table, a piece of lost property and a boy called Ken Hidaka. Looks like Youji’s evening just got booked solid...
Standard Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz, it’s characters, indices and all the rest of it remain the property of Kyoko Tsuchiya, Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss, TV Tokyo, Movic and any other individuals or groups whom I may have left out, including the company responsible for the terrible US dub whose name I don’t actually know. This is a fan work from which no profit has or will be made, written for the enjoyment of myself and the half-dozen other people out there who also like Youji x Ken fanfiction. Damned ‘unusual pairing’…
Author’s notes: It’s porn. Cute, consensual porn. Consequently it took a veritable age to write and gave me headaches all the way. This fic is a stand-alone continuation of the equally shamelessly fluffy Entrapment, which I wrote several million years back – or at least it is in that it makes passing reference to the things that happen in that earlier work. That said, though, the sole rationale behind its sequel status is that, given the personalities involved here, I felt Youji and Ken needed to have a pre-existing relationship if I had any hope of coaxing Ken to let Youji – well, you’ll see if you read the fic, but it’s not something I could imagine Ken doing just for the Hell of it…
Thanks: Irritating but heartfelt Oscar-winner-esque plaudits to Card. Without her support and patience and her invaluable writer’s guide Sex: A Tutorial for Aspiring Smut Writers, this fic would still be a page and a half of set-up and a jumbled idea in my head. I’d also like to thank Casey for coming up with paperclip in the first place: I know I'd never have gotten that one on my own.
Another evening of another day: the flower shop. Lights burning and shutters drawn, hiding from view the rain-smeared pavements, the gathering night. Funny, Youji sometimes thought, how the place seemed to change when the girls had gone. All damp earth, drooping leaves, the measured drip of the stockroom tap: the air smelled green, verdant. How quiet it could be. Quiet and empty and airier than he had suspected.
It had been a slow evening, the weather too damp and too cold to encourage trade. The girls, for all their charm, were for the most part useless and actual customers had been few and far between: it was fortunate, Omi often remarked wearily, that their livelihood didn’t depend on their being successful florists. A shame-faced young man bought two dozen roses; Youji could have told him to save his money. A forlorn and fadedly pretty woman had ordered a wreath and been shamelessly undercharged for it (Ken, again: Youji hadn’t even had the heart to reprimand him). A couple of arrangements, their rather fussy flourishes bearing all the hallmarks of Aya, sat on the table in the back room awaiting berths in a refrigerated store case overnight and, from there, an early-morning delivery (society brides, again: Youji sometimes thought they could do without custom like that). The cat sat curled up on Momoe’s usual chair looking for all the world like a fat and fuzzy cushion.
Ken stood near the table, idly agitating the dirt on the floor: pastiche of sweeping up. Even he had his languorous moments.
Sat by the register, making a production number out of clearing the till, Youji smoked a lazy cigarette while he dreamily counted the day’s take, slowly shuffling through a handful of notes and setting aside the following day’s float. His mind wasn’t on the job. He watched Ken out of the corners of his eyes, narrowing them slightly against the smoke: thought he’d be sick of that game by now…
It had been a night like this it had all begun and, while he sometimes resented it, he never came close to regretting it.
The rasp of the broom against the floor tiles ceased as Ken stopped sweeping. Propping the broom against the wall, he stooped, bending forward to pick something up from underneath the table. Getting back to his feet, he turned it over in his hands, brushing away a few specks of dirt, delicately and deliberately picking off a damp and slightly wilted leaf. Creased and heavy red fabric, shining dully under the store lights: it must, he guessed, have been kicked under the table or something, where at least it had stayed largely dry…
“Hey, Youji?” He called, holding the mystery up for Youji to get a closer look at, “what’d you want me to do with this?”
Youji raised his head, all guarded caution. “What is it?”
“Some girl’s left her scarf behind.”
“Leave it on the table,” Youji said absently. “I’ll stick it under the till. Most likely she’ll be back for it tomorrow.”
“For a scarf?” Ken's tone said, I wouldn’t bother.
“Sure she will. That’ll be expensive. Look at the fabric, the quality.”
Ken blinked, drawing his brows up. “What’s the point of an expensive scarf?”
Youji just shrugged, turning back to the till and, taking a long drag on his cigarette, continued to dawdle over the day’s decidedly unimpressive take. Bloody boring job, really. He knew he should have been working faster and easily could have done but somehow it simply didn’t seem important. It wasn’t like it mattered: the obstinately bad weather discouraged any idea he may have had of straying outdoors. From the look he caught in Ken's eyes as the boy placed the scarf on the table and forgot about it, he was just as bored with cleaning a floor which would only have to be swept again tomorrow as Youji himself was with counting banknotes. Though Ken (competitive enough to want to do the things he did well) made a curiously enthusiastic florist, he drew the line at cleaning the store.
Noted that Ken, as he reached for the broom and turned back to the sweeping, was frowning, brows furrowed and lips slightly pursed. His stance (set of the shoulders, that particular tilt to the head, a certain okay, be like that note to his silence; blame it on familiarity, though Ken had never exactly been difficult to read) told Youji that Ken was irritated with him.
Looked like it had been a genuine question, and he hadn’t appreciated Youji’s failure to answer.
But it was just another mundane irritation, and he’d forget about it soon enough. (Unless—)
Youji pushed the unless aside. You just hold that thought there, Kudou, now is not the time and this is not the place. (Always wondered what it would be like, though. Kinda appropriate too, at least where little Kenken was concerned—) He smirked slightly as he finished with tomorrow’s float and pushed the drawer of the heavy, old-fashioned register back into place, listening as it closed with a gratifying click. Only good thing about that register was its inability to bleep at him.
Ken should have been done with the sweeping by now, too. He didn’t look up as Youji got to his feet, all languid grace; gave him, instead, a sidelong glance from beneath his untidy fringe. The blonde stretched like a sleepy cat before picking up the bags of coins and bundled notes and wandering into the back rooms. Our cash is kept in an aging safe which can be accessed by anyone who knows where to look… They’d forgotten to do the mid-afternoon lift again. Youji blamed the rain, but he’d definitely have to go to the bank tomorrow even if it were blowing a gale. No doubt about it, he thought as he bent to stow the money in the safe, they were too casual about the take for the ‘shopkeeper’ thing to look even vaguely convincing. Kind of stressed the fact they didn’t really care and why would assassins be so worried about the prospect of a robbery?
He stood. Sighed – and, for a moment, did nothing but stand in the doorway watching Ken playing at work: oblivious to his audience the boy straightened, leaning the broom against the table then, tilting his head back, pressed both hands to the small of his back and massaged it slightly. Stood like that for a moment before reaching for the broom again, sighing deeply.
Youji frowned (it could just have been in thought) stubbing out his cigarette. Ken's shirt had ridden up as he stretched, just a little. Now, as he bent forward again, it rode up a little more to reveal the waistband of his jeans, a sliver of bronzed skin.
Ken, hands behind, and what’s the point of an expensive scarf—
All conspiring to send Youji’s mind wandering blithely down a twisted little back lane he’d been trying to ignore.
It might well have been intentional. Calculated, even: Ken had taken him by the hand and led him down that pathway, and now he simply waited to see what Youji would do. The stance, the arch of the back, the deliberately naïve little question. That brief glance, all narrowed eyes and falling hair, and studied inattention thereafter. Ken was nowhere near as oblivious as he often chose to act. Easy to forget, when confronted with an innocence that at times seemed near-perfect, just how experienced he really was.
(It was another part of the contradiction that was Ken that he could genuinely be that ingenuous and yet know how to make a pose of it. He knew the value of looking harmless and naïve, knew he’d get nowhere by trying to act smart: instead Ken played dumb, and let himself be underestimated. Which only proved just how perceptive he could be, some of the time…)
Let it never be said that Youji Kudou baulked at a challenge. He smiled, and stepped over to the table, and picked up that expensive scarf, holding it stretched out between his hands. Perfect for his purpose.
He was watching. Grave-eyed, his head bowed, ostensibly oblivious: but watching. Waiting for Youji to make his move, whatever that might be. Ken knew it was coming but he knew, as they all did, how to wait. His eyes to the tiles (he had been sweeping the same patch of floor for the last five minutes, to no discernable difference), he listened to Youji dawdling through the process of cashing up and, as he listened – waited, Hidaka: Kenken, who’re you fooling? – he hummed the refrain of a song that had been red-hot for about five minutes, two summers before. He could hardly imagine why he remembered it now, at the end of a rainy autumn day. The perfect picture of idle abstraction, so perfect it simply couldn’t be true.
And did it matter, though he played in his own way, that he could play the same game every bit as readily as Youji? What would it harm to let Youji believe, at least on some level, that he was oblivious?
(And there were easier, far more direct ways for a guy to get what he wanted, but where was the fun in that?)
Ken heard Youji approach far more clearly than he saw him, and felt his presence more plainly still; the heavy weight of him, stood just that one bit too close to convince as casual. If Ken were to straighten and, perhaps, lean back just a little, he would be pressed up against him, his back to Youji’s chest. He stood up, stopped pretending to sweep, holding the broom loosely in both hands. Fancied he felt the faint stirring of Youji’s breath against his nape, though it was probably his imagination. He thought perhaps he might like to, though.
Youji tapped Ken gently on the cheek and, letting the broom slip from his grasp, he turned. It was a curiously intimate, insinuating gesture and far too much so for the store, even when shuttered and empty save the two of them. He met Youji’s eyes, saw him smile, felt the man place his hands upon his shoulders. The scarf hung loosely about Youji’s neck. It should have made him look ridiculous, but somehow it didn’t. Youji should, if there was any justice in the world, have looked ridiculous in most of the things he chose to wear…
“You,” Youji said, in a voice that was slightly too low, “don’t really give a damn about the floor, do you?”
“No.” Ken returned the smile. Leaned back, just a little.
“No, I didn’t think so.” An accusation of sorts, playfully made.
Ken – can we get this over with, please? – half-turned, felt his shoulder pressing hard against Youji’s chest. Looked up at Youji and damn it the position was wrong, completely wrong, unless Youji got the – Youji had got the hint. Well, of course he had. Youji lifted a hand from Ken's shoulder, slipping it beneath his chin. Ken raised his head, just slightly, and Youji bent to kiss him. Felt more than heard Ken sigh and relax into it, letting his lips part, just a little. An easy, familiar thing, that kiss. Comfortable, not arousing.
He wasn’t blushing, Youji noted as he pulled back. Not yet. There were, after all, problems with familiarity. It would be quite ridiculous to still expect Ken to blush at a gentle kiss, of course, but that hardly meant Youji didn’t miss it.
(Well. You’ll just have to try harder, then.)
“Ken,” Youji said, schooling an expression of playful disappointment onto his face, “if you want to kiss me, you just have to ask. You don’t have to—”
“I didn’t want to ask.” Kissed him again, on the corner of the mouth, almost chastely. “Wanted to surprise you.”
“Really? Well, that makes two of us.”
Ken raised his eyebrows, blinked at him. “What, by trying to sneak up on me? Jesus, Youji. Don’t overrate yourself much, do you?” You should have known why that wasn’t going to work: it was unspoken, but it was there. It was there in the way Ken waited, in the way that he play-acted at harmlessness when they both knew that harmless was one thing he could never be. They (I should never have met you) never could quite leave it behind.
“You’re far too easy, Ken,” Youji said affectionately. “Let me show you something."
That wasn’t the surprise. It was on the tip of Ken's tongue to ask what, exactly, was supposed to have struck him as quite so shocking – show me what, Youji? – when he realized Youji had stepped back, lifting the hands from his shoulders. Already Ken had grown used to the warm weight of him and now that Youji had stepped away he all of a sudden felt cold, and somehow almost exposed. What do you think you’re—
Felt Youji move. He had always known Youji could move fast, with a certain starkness of gesture that was all grace. There was something remarkable about that poise and sense of focus, and something strangely seductive about finding himself the target of it. Ken felt Youji move, felt something brushing against his back and fingertips against his jaw, their touch so light that they barely grazed the surface of his skin: it could have been an accident. Youji’s forearms were pressing against his shoulders; he caught, just briefly, a glimpse of dully shining red fabric, heavy and creased, caught loosely between Youji’s hands.
(You could stop him, you know.)
Ken raised his head and closed his eyes, and Youji drew the forgotten scarf over them, blindfolding him. Fingers threading though his hair as Youji drew the knot tight, fingers slipping beneath the fabric, testing for tautness, freeing a few trapped strands of hair. Darkness, heavy and total, before his eyes. Ken shivered, leaning back against Youji again – you’re still there, aren’t you?
(I don’t want him to stop.)
“Now that,” Youji said, letting his hands slip slowly down Ken's bare forearms (heard him catch his breath, at that), coming to rest about his waist, “was me surprising you. Did I manage?”
“Not really.” Ken was aware even as he spoke that his voice didn’t sound quite right; it wasn’t even worth playing at cool indifference, stood in darkness with Youji’s arms about him, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. And anxious, all of a sudden – almost afraid, even – yet strangely allured, seduced by his own apprehension. Youji’s chin rested on one of his shoulders and he reached up to touch the young man’s face, a skein of Youji’s hair falling over the back of his hand. He bit his lip. “No, but—”
“We’re in the shop, Youji,” Ken said uncertainly. Tilted his head back as if he were trying to meet his eyes, an exercise in charming futility. “The others…”
“Think we’re closing up.” How interesting is that after the first hundred times? “They’ve got better things to do than come and bother us. Besides…” A soft chuckle. “I’ve always thought there was potential in that table.”
“Potential in—what, the store table?” And there was the blush. (You want to fuck in the shop?) “Shit, Youji, you’re a total pervert. Does everything come down to sex with you?”
Youji laughed. One of his hands insinuated itself beneath the hem of Ken's shirt, fingers pressing against his denim-clad hip, the edge of his thumb lying, as if by sheer happenstance, just above the waistband of Ken's jeans. “You say that like you mind. You love me for it, Kenken, admit it.”
“Shut up. Christ, you’re vain.”
“Oh, come on. Be fair. Have I ever tried to deny it?” His voice was low, playful; his words hot and breathy against his neck, something which Ken could feel as clearly as he could hear. “Even once?”
Feel far more clearly. Ken had stopped listening. Stopped thinking about what Youji was saying. He could feel Youji’s fingertips grazing against his skin, Youji’s hand shifting against his stomach and slipping upward, so slowly he could almost believe it was unintentional, as if Youji hardly meant to touch him at all, still less to make him catch his breath. Ken could almost believe that if he should ask as if he didn’t already know the answer, what are you doing, if he should betray himself with a gasp or, perhaps, a tightening of the muscles – any damn thing at all – then Youji would apologize, and step away. Let him go, leaving him with nothing but black.
Because maybe one day Youji would come to his senses, or tire of the game. Because Ken still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Youji could really want this at all. Youji liked girls, the more beautiful and elegant the better: where did he fit in save as a momentary break in the pattern, an exception?
Ken bit his lip. Wanted to (the position was wrong) turn and touch him, rest his own hands against Youji’s chest and kiss him, hard enough to steal the breath from him and leave him bruised, but hardly knew if he dared. Both Youji’s hands rested flat upon his stomach, skin pressed lightly against skin: Ken pushed back against him, shoulders shifting, pressing up against Youji from shoulder to thigh, wanting to feel: wanting something to hold on to. Youji’s hair tumbled against the side of Ken's throat: Ken gasped soft and fractured as – Jesus, that bastard – he felt him press his mouth against his nape and suck gently at the skin. Gasped, then shivered sinuously, arching his back and letting his head fall forward, as if in invitation.
Youji raised his head, speaking into Ken’s untidy hair. “Why do you think I did it?” He dropped a quick kiss onto the back of the boy’s neck. Stop thinking, Ken. Stop worrying – his skin tasted bitter, and faintly chemical: a vague suggestion of the morning’s shampoo and I, Youji thought for what had to be the fiftieth time, have got to get him to change the brand…
“I hate you,” Ken said breathlessly.
“So you keep saying.” Ken was a liar.
Still: made you look, Kenken. So to speak, anyway. The boy’s tee-shirt, oversized as ever, was inconvenient; more, it was an impediment. (And how big does this kid think he is, anyway?) Normally he didn’t mind Ken's habit of wearing loose shirts, as if he’d woken late and pulled on whatever was closest: there was something alluring about it, even almost suggestive – an unspoken implication that this boy was wearing someone else’s clothes. Now, however, it was nothing but a nuisance. Fabric, too much of it, dragged against Youji’s forearms and caught against the tips of his fingers. And clinging, just slightly: Youji blamed the rain. He ran one hand down the length of Ken's chest, felt him tensing, relaxing, and hissing under his breath. Probably biting his lip, the idiot. Youji smiled.
He snatched at the hem of Ken's top and tugged it upward – had to move the other hand, too, when the material caught against Ken's side and bunched awkwardly up beneath one arm.
There before you, Kudou. Ken was already stepping forward, just a little, helpfully raising his arms as Youji tugged the shirt over his head, casting it aside and it hardly mattered where. Took the opportunity to turn, tilting his head back slightly as, gazing into the darkness before his eyes, he futilely searched for Youji’s face and that, the action of looking up at a man not all that much older than he was, always bugged him but it didn’t now. It didn’t bother him at all.
Ken just wanted to see him.
(You could always take the blindfold off.) No.
Reached for nothing at all, starting slightly when he felt the heel of his hand hit Youji’s chest. Material creased slightly beneath his fingers, a single button pressed into his palm and Ken caught himself wondering, uselessly, what the Hell kind of fabric Youji’s shirts were made of and – turn about is fair play, right? – his fingers fumbled for the button, slipping it open and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to take hold of the sides of Youji’s shirt and rip but you gotta stop ruining my shirts, Ken and he doubted Youji would thank him for it. Working by touch, he sought out the next button, working his way to the hem. The shirt wasn’t falling open and Ken ran his hands upward, across fabric, across skin: he felt himself smile as he located the final button. Felt Youji’s arms closing about him.
And hands on his body, fingers dragging across the flesh of his back and it always amazed him that Youji didn’t seem to care, hands moving downward to press his hips hard against Youji’s: Ken lost all interest in Youji’s shirt. That could stay on a little longer. Reaching up, running his fingers against the exposed skin of Youji’s throat, Ken touched Youji’s face, tracing the contours of the young man’s mouth with the ball of his thumb. His lips were dry; his breath came hot and moist against Ken's hand. Maybe he was sighing.
The hand pressed against Youji’s bare chest was almost an afterthought. (But I can feel him breathing.)
Youji chuckled again, low and deep in the throat. “I said all you had to do is ask…“
“Then shut up and—”
Hair falling against his cheeks, an arm tightening about his shoulders and oh God, the sensation of fingertips slipping teasingly beneath the waistband of his jeans, just slightly, as Youji bent to kiss him. A hard, demanding kiss that tore the breath from him and left him panting, his mouth tainted with the taste of coffee and Youji’s cigarettes, and a hot blush blooming across his cheeks, his lips slightly parted and fingernails – needed to cut those – digging into Youji’s flesh, hard enough to leave a mark.
“Shit,” Youji muttered, soft and pained.
Ken flushed. “Sorry.” Lifted his hand away.
Youji said nothing: arms around, he simply gazed down at Ken. Ken, his head bowed almost penitently, was rubbing lightly at the marks on his chest with the heel of one hand; though his movements were insinuating, though the way his palm pressed against Youji’s chest felt like it should have left him wounded the gesture remained curiously chaste, the kind of thing Ken might have done to anybody at all. He could have done much the same to a child, perhaps to one of the kids he coached, who had fallen and grazed his knee. A hank of the boy’s hair slid lightly against the bare skin of his throat as he pressed a kiss against his collarbone. Funny thing about Ken, and the way he made such insinuating gestures seem only innocent…
One of the hanging ends of his blindfold had slipped forward, brushing lightly against one bare shoulder. Against the skin of Youji’s chest.
Youji said, heard himself saying – and where had the thought come from? This hadn’t been part of the plan— “Hands behind your back.”
“What?” Felt, rather than saw, Ken raising his head. A frown in his voice.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Youji repeated. It felt like a suggestion; sounded the same. Letting his arms slip from about Ken's body, the blonde took a step back, and another. Close, but not touching: close enough to touch. Watched as Ken – blushing and bewildered, his chest bare and his brown hair tousled – straightened, his own hands falling to hang by his sides. And Youji watched, and waited, his gaze speculative and his eyes slightly narrowed: he knew where the power lay.
Felt the boundaries shift.
(Still want to play along, Hidaka? You could stop this any time you—)
Which was only the entire point of it, and exactly why he wasn’t going to let it stop. He couldn’t. Not now, not while he could still almost feel the patterns Youji’s fingers had traced against his skin. Not now, wanting only to be touched, wanting Youji’s arms about him and his lips pressed against his throat. Not while he was lost in shadow and wanting – well, why the Hell not, when it was only for now? – to be claimed. Youji must have known he’d won this round: Ken always had hated leaving things unfinished. Conniving, manipulative bastard! Yes, Ken knew he could stop this, and probably should have done. But why would he want to do a thing like that?
And it was only Youji, and he wouldn’t want him any other way. Ken sighed, and – okay, you got me – gave Youji a hesitant and rueful grin, and hoped that Youji would decide to return it. Put his hands behind his back.
Unbuckling his belt and slipping it from the waist of his pants, Youji moved and, as he moved, placed a heavy hand on one of Ken's bare shoulders. To anchor him, to let him know he wasn’t alone. Let that hand trail down the length of his arm, coming to rest at his wrist. Funny how deceptive Ken's hands were. His wrist was slender, almost fragile… it seemed as if it would be nothing to break it. A guy like Ken had no right to have delicate hands. No right to be so gentle, or so entirely ordinary.
Stooping, Youji pressed his lips to Ken's neck, nipping lightly at the boy’s skin and listening as he inhaled sharply, lips parting and head falling back. Ken's head rested against the curve of Youji’s shoulder, hair brushing against skin; he held it canted slightly to one side, leaving the throat arched and bared: a blatant invitation. (Atypically surrendered, Ken, but too caught up in the moment to worry about what it must look like, or what it might have implied. Just don’t stop.) Ran his tongue along the length of Ken's throat, teeth grazing against him, then kissed him gently just behind the ear. Don’t think about what I’m doing, Ken; think about what I’m doing…
He wrapped the belt about Ken's wrists, pulled it tight.
Youji drew Ken back into a taut embrace, hands sliding down to his waist, lower, to rest against the seat of his jeans. Kissed him again. Gently this time, assured and passionate and lingering – Ken barely even realized it when Youji let one hand slip forward to rest on his hip, slyly prying open the button of his jeans.
“Your safeword,” Youji said – slight but perceptible hesitation there, an obvious pause for thought, “is paperclip.”
Paperclip? Almost in spite of himself, Ken laughed briefly: a giddy, breathless thing. He said, “Yes.”
“Say it.” Youji pulled him closer, arms tightening about him and feeling Ken, trapped in his embrace, shift uneasily against him. Kissed him quick and teasing, and once more, pulling away as Ken parted his lips, took a breath.
“Paperclip,” Ken said. “Youji, why—”
“Because it’s easier than cutting your nails, you brute. Ssh.”
It wasn’t what Ken had meant: they both knew that. Yet that much, the why of it, seemed hardly relevant. It didn’t matter now. Wouldn’t matter later. All right then, paperclip. Not that Ken expected to need it—
Youji smiled. Played for and won.
Another kiss, assured and passionate, yet needy – intent there all of a sudden, and sudden urgency: another moment of flux. Youji’s kiss spoke of redefinition. (No more games, Kenken.) His mouth pressed hard against Ken's, parting the boy’s lips with his tongue, his hands slipped lower almost accidentally, dragging against Ken's back and down, slipping beneath the waistband of his unfastened jeans, beneath the flimsy fabric of his boxers, skin against skin. Felt Ken gasp against him, almost breaking the kiss but Youji wouldn’t give him that, he never would let go that easy. Now he demanded surrender: Ken – it’s only Youji, it’s just for now – yielded, gladly. That kiss, those touches – they burned.
They left him, paradoxically, shivering. Struggling for breath and longing only to touch, and knowing he could do no such thing. Oh, that bastard.
So why didn’t he mind it? Why did he think that perhaps he liked it? Youji’s hands lingering on his body, Youji’s lips against his, Youji’s body, pressed hard against his own and Ken – disoriented, off his balance, conscious that he should have cared, but – stumbled slightly, felt the edge of the store table bump lightly against the backs of his thighs and knew it was no accident at all. Felt Youji (and direction there, and urgency) pressing against him, the buttons of the young man’s open shirt digging into his chest as he urged him backward, struggling to lift: move, damn you, Ken…
Moved, breaking the kiss. Kicking off his shoes, he scrambled up and onto the table, sliding backward in a clumsy, wriggling rush, one heel resting against the edge of the tabletop and dear God wasn’t this dignified. Ken heard himself laugh, soft and low and breathless; he was sure that Youji would have frowned at him, playfully censorious.
Youji’s hands rested warm upon his hips now, as if to steady him. His fingers were splayed, the flats of his palms barely brushing against Ken, leaving his skin tingling: his jeans – quite in spite of himself, Ken blushed.
Supporting himself with his bound hands Ken tipped his head backward, hair falling from his brow, the hanging ends of the blindfold grazing against his shoulder blades as he searched for Youji’s face. Youji was close, close enough that Ken fancied he could sense the heat bleeding from him. The waistband of his jeans dug emphatically into the very tops of his thighs, and the wood of the tabletop felt cool against his skin. He shivered, and told himself it was the draft. There was no excuse for the blush.
Yes, Hidaka, very dignified. He almost wished he could pull his jeans up.
He hardly knew what else he’d been expecting—and Youji did nothing. Simply stood before him, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against Ken’s sensitized skin, and looked at him: Ken could see nothing, but still he could feel the weight of the young man’s eyes. Taking in the flush to his cheeks, his disheveled hair, the blindfold. The way he sat, legs splayed and hands behind, stripped to the waist with his jeans, unfastened, riding indecently low. Breathing, already, a little too hard, a little too fast. Ken's lips were parted, just slightly. (Youji wetted his own, swallowed.) Any minute now…
Youji lifted one hand to touch Ken on the shoulder, pushing him gently backward: a single light touch and Ken gave – he’d got the hint. He allowed Youji to press him back against the table, surrendered. His bound hands, caught behind him, forced a slight arch of his back, a slight raising of the hips.
Convenient. (And Youji knew that Ken could always have moved them, but he didn’t.)
Ken gasped harsh and fractured as he felt Youji’s fingertips slipping their careful, ticklish way across his banked thighs. Felt Youji tugging down his jeans, his underwear, leaving them bunched about his bent knees. Leaving him exposed. He shuddered, his breath quickening, as the young man’s hand closed about him and Holy Mary Mother of God what if someone saw or Aya walked in Youji I hate you we’re in the middle of the goddamn shop—
It only added to the allure.
(Paperclip.) No. (Oh, playing the game, are we?)
Ken wasn’t convincing anybody, not even himself. Youji knew he didn’t mean it. The kid might as well have been begging him for more. “Ssh.” Don’t think, Kenken.
His palm dragged against Ken, stroking slow and deliberate and enticingly so; teasingly, he traced lazy circles with the ball of his thumb, his touch gentle and lingering, his motions almost languid. And watching still, with eyes half-lidded, as Ken shifted restlessly beneath him, the breath caught in his throat as he pressed, in wordless invitation, up into the touch. He whimpered, biting his lower lip, and didn’t even realize he was doing it, his bare shoulders shifting as he instinctively tugged at his bound wrists. Wanting, even as he lost himself in sensation, to touch, to reach for Youji and pull him closer, thread his fingers in his tumbled blonde hair…
Yes, he might as well have been begging. Ken was, in his own way, quietly yet entirely shameless – or could at least be coaxed to it. Youji smiled, hardly caring that Ken couldn’t see it, and, one palm flat to the table for balance, bent his head to kiss the boy’s neck, his chest (Ken obediently tilting his head back, lips falling open: panting). His skin was damp to the touch and, when Youji kissed him, he could taste salt on his tongue. His hair brushed against the boy’s shoulders and tried to cling.
Youji’s mouth was dry, and he could feel sweat pearling up across his own back. Ken always had been fun to watch.
(And the visual wasn’t the half of it.)
Hot. Too hot and his shirt was sticking to him, clinging with uncomfortable intimacy to his shoulders. Had to get the shirt off, before the situation got much heavier – Ken had thoughtfully left him his buttons, this time. The last thing he wanted was for the thing to end up wrecked anyway… Oh, damn.
And stopped. Youji drew back, straightened, lifting his hand away as he stepped from the table and struggled to shrug off his shirt. Tried to ignore the way Ken, abandoned at entirely the wrong moment, gasped: an inarticulate, pointed protest.
“Why’d you stop?”
(Just hold that thought, Kenken.) “Shirt,” Youji said, as if that explained everything. His voice sounded stifled; he realized he was short of breath. “Forgot to take it off.”
Ken sighed. “God damn—” And you say I get carried away.
And nothing but darkness before his eyes: where the Hell was Youji? Ken shifted again, uneasily, conscious of nothing but darkness and heat and his own breathing, hard and heavy, and, God damn it, need – he could think of nothing but the now of it, and nothing to anchor him but the feel of surface he lay on, the bend and splay of his parted legs, the way the fabric of his jeans bunched just above the tuck of his knees and clung insinuatingly to his legs. One of his feet dangled dizzily out into nothing at all. (The shop, Hidaka, that’s what’s out there, just the shop and the flowers and – footsteps, and the rustle of fabric as it fell to the floor: Youji, what was keeping Youji? Bastard! He’s enjoying this isn’t he touch me—)
His skin, sensitized and damp with sweat, tingled: he could still feel the sensation of Youji’s fingertips where his hands had brushed against him, his touch teasing, insinuating. Ken had nothing but the ghost of Youji’s caresses and it wasn’t enough, fuck it! It was nowhere near enough…
“Shit.” Youji’s voice, coming from – somewhere, somewhere close. Uncharacteristically abashed. “Shit, I can’t find the fucking lube—”
Mother of God. “Front pocket, right side.” (Couldn’t you have thought of this before you tied me up?)
“What?” Brought up short. Confusion there, stuttering—
“My front pocket,” Ken said again. Then, as if to offer the explanation Youji hadn’t asked for, “I know you.”
Footsteps, Youji still hadn’t taken his boots off, and hands brushing against Ken’s legs: a couple of quick and tantalizing touches in entirely the wrong place as Youji roughly tugged at his jeans, quickly stripping them from him – and nothing again. (Noises off.) Youji gave a small, satisfied sound: probably he’d nodded.
“Great.” At least one of us came prepared, hey? “Sorry, Ken, I thought I—”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “Get on with it!”
Well, Youji thought with a smile, that certainly told me. Not that he had really needed to be asked. He stepped back over to the table – and Ken, on his back, head tipped backward: yielding. Yes, always thought there was potential in that table. Placing the lube to one side, Youji reached for the button of his pants. The rasp of his zip seemed too loud in the sudden heavy silence: just that and the hiss of fabric, the sound of someone’s breathing, Youji had no idea whose, and, caught somewhere on the edge of his awareness, the patter of rain playing against the shutters and the leftover noise of the city.
He moved forward, positioning himself between Ken's legs, pushing impatiently at his too-tight, too-clingy pants. Ken inhaled sharply when Youji bent to him and touched his cheek, slender fingers tracing the lines of his lips and jaw, then slowly, slowly dragging their way downward: along the damp and heated skin of his throat, obligingly bared, then obliquely across his chest, trailing down his side – it should have left him scarred. The pads of Youji’s fingers grazed gently against one of his nipples and he had to bite back a moan. Lips on his throat, Youji’s hair dragging against his chest: get on with it—
Arched his back and pressed his hips up against Youji’s as Youji reached for the lube. Ken felt the blonde’s breath quicken, heard it catching in his throat. Urgency there, desire. Touch me.
Urgency and desire: Youji lost patience. He snatched for the bottle (Ken protesting again, wordlessly, as he lifted his hands away) fumbling, clumsily pouring the lube into his palm. Overdid it slightly; he could feel it dripping off his fingers to land on the table and hoped he or one of them remembered to clear that up or wasn’t that gonna look awkward in the—supporting himself on one hand, he reached down between them, free hand on the back of Ken's right thigh and down, slick and slippery fingers working inside: he heard Ken gasp, a blasphemy caught on his breath.
Got you. His fingers slipped in deeper, his touch lingering: one finger, then two, watching Ken's face. Ken bit his lip, drew a deep, shuddering breath and writhed restlessly, pressing up further to rub urgently against him. Shivered.
Youji pulled away again, drawing unwillingly back – he distracted Ken with a kiss, paradoxically playful, as he (and he always used too much of the goddamn stuff) quickly and clumsily spread the rest of the lube on himself, feeling himself hot and heavy against his palm, the lube too cold as ever; hearing himself hiss softly under his breath.
Time to move on.
And forward. One hand on Ken's hip, dragging him down, fingernails scraping against skin hard enough to leave a mark – felt Ken wince but the boy was moving with him, obediently parting his legs and drawing them up – the other bracing against the edge of the table as he pushed against him, pressed in.
Watched Ken, in that moment: felt him tensing, relaxing, felt him beneath him and around him, all pressure and heat. Ken – “oh Jesus,” the words caught and carried almost accidentally on his breath – Ken cursed again, soft as sighing, his features tight and head canted to one side, dark hair spilling over the blindfold and his eyes would have been closed now anyway. A hank of hair clung to the plane of his flushed and sweat-damp cheek. Tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way that his muscles flexed about him: Ken would be clenching his fists, concentrating on the way that his nails dug into his palms—
Working through it. Youji sighed – breath hissing out through clenched teeth, fingers pressed hard against Ken’s skin and still not quite used to that, the incongruity that was Ken, that lack of pliancy and yielding softness, and him yielding all the same. He moved his other hand to rest upon Ken's thigh and his grasp was too firm and too tight yet he didn’t care and Ken didn’t notice. Youji pushed forward, pressing in deeper and he felt Ken pressing down against him, felt the slant of his hips as he shifted.
Ken moving back against Youji: Youji pressed heavy against him, Youji shifted inside him but the movements felt not quite natural, the angle just a little bit off so Ken shifted, hands braced behind his back as he raised his hips, soft, needy sound dying in his—there. Oh God. (Gasping again, a shiver running through him.) Pushing up against Youji, thigh pressing against the young man’s side, skin sliding against heated skin as Youji drew back, slow and careful and too much of both, and then forward again, hips bumping against Ken's: still too slow, still playing. Still teasing – okay, Youji, you win.
Ken pressed upward, raising one leg to wrap against Youji’s waist and rubbing restlessly against him.
(Move, damn you. Move.)
And nothing innocent about that movement. It spoke of nothing but Ken's need, the heat and the anger of it: it was a demand. An indrawn hiss – Youji had caught his breath, lips drawing back to expose his teeth, a thrill of tension running through his spine.
(Move.) Pushed forward again, faster, surer, head bowed, a damp hank of tumbled blonde hair falling into his face, clinging to his brow, his cheeks: he heard Ken whimper wordlessly, thighs flexing, pressing taut about his waist to pull him closer, the boy’s muscles tightening to clench about him (all heat and pressure and urgent desire: shifting again, a tremor in the limbs and the hips driving up against his and there, oh fuck yes, just like—) as he moved. It was about as much as Youji could do to bite back a groan of his own.
Hands drifting up, dragging across his skin, fingers tracing lazy arcs across the planes of Ken's chest, nails grazing against him, hard enough to leave him marked: something territorial about it. The ball of Youji’s thumb rested atop one of his nipples, already almost painfully sensitized, and rubbed. Drowning in sensation, Ken writhed beneath him, arching up into the touch, head back and lips parted, hot and damp and panting: “Jesus fuck…”
Hushed and breathy and absolutely delicious.
“Fuck.” Youji hissed it, the words forced out from between clenched teeth as he pushed forward again, grinding against Ken and bending. The table creaked a protest as he moved, pressing closer and – shit, slipped slightly, slammed one hand hard against the tabletop to break his fall. Drawing back (Ken moaning something that sounded like a protest and pushing up against him), he shook the hair from his face, regrouping – then driving forward fast and forceful and making Ken cry out, stifled and wordless. His own eyes closing, his lips parted, drawing a single shuddering breath, then another…
Youji placed his free hand back on Ken's hip, the other sliding back down the boy’s chest and down. Down across his stomach, past navel and hipbones and dipping between Ken's thighs to wrap about him: mouth open, the length of his throat bared by the backward tilt of his head, Ken gasped soft and fractured, arching his back and fighting futilely against his bonds, yearning. Wanted to touch.
(And darkness and heat and – Youji, a heavy presence pressing down against him and moving inside him, hot and sweet, and hips grinding against him, his body rocked by the rhythm of Youji’s thrusts and him moving with him and fuck – fuck – there, just like—and Youji’s hands, the tips of his fingers, the slow drag of Youji’s palm against him, caressing and stroking and – until he shivered, until he writhed and whimpered and pleaded and oh God, oh God – it felt like a prayer, desperate and fervent. Desire there – no, need, God damn it, need, and snatching for air, his breath coming in gasps and the blood singing in his veins and all the world was blackness and Youji and oh God yes—)
Felt Ken writhe beneath him, heard him moaning: could have been another curse, Youji’s name, anything or nothing at all.
(Close.) The world closing down. Youji’s eyes were screwed shut, his mind full of static, his own movements becoming erratic, jerky as overwound clockwork – driving forward mindlessly. Ken beneath him and about him, thighs taut about his waist, all tension and heat and flexing muscles, hips bucking as Youji rubbed against him, hard and fast. Falling. A tremor running down Youji’s spine, heat building in his belly as the pattern broke down. (Too damn close and didn’t care.)
Ken gasped it, the words an incidental and all but falling over one another – and white flaring behind his eyes and a sudden flood of sensation, all warmth and giddy euphoria. Sensation pulled him under, and he drowned in it.
And Youji, head thrown back, hair tumbling from about his face as he pressed in deeper, harder, shivering—nails scraping against skin as his hands tightened about Ken's body. White noise and overwhelming bliss, slowly fading and leaving him with nothing but lassitude and a certain heavy-limbed contentment. Sweat cooling on heated skin, and rain on the shutters, and the sound of the rush-hour traffic in the street.
He let himself slump forward, supporting himself on his forearms, his body pressing against Ken's. Kissed him chastely.
“Paperclip,” Ken said, after a time they never counted had passed in companiable silence.
Youji raised his head, blinking. “Wh—” He spat out a mouthful of sweaty hair. “Ugh.” One of these days, hair, you will go too far. “What?”
“My arms hurt,” Ken pointed out. “Can you untie me now?”
“Oh,” Youji said. He smiled apologetically, and only remembered belatedly that Ken couldn’t see it. “Sure thing.”
Straightening and raking his disheveled hair from his face – God, but he needed a shower – Youji reached for Ken, helping him to sit and fumbling for the buckle of the belt. Gently, he slipped it from about Ken’s wrists and stepped back, taking the opportunity to tug up his pants – needed a change of clothing, too. He stooped to retrieve his damp, crumpled shirt, an action which somehow necessitated disentangling it from Ken’s discarded jeans. Rain be damned, he’d almost be better off walking back without a shirt on than subject himself to this thing, damp and creased and dusty as it was…
Draping the shirt over his arm, he turned to watch Ken: sat on the edge of the table with one knee drawn up to his chest, rubbing absently at his wrists. He still hadn’t removed the blindfold.
“Ken,” Youji said quietly, “you can take that off now if you like.”
Ken raised his head, opened his mouth. He nearly, nearly asked what.
“Oh, uh…“ Ken smiled slightly abashedly, tugging at his blindfold – found out the hard way why that wasn’t going to work and – no, I’ve got it – undid the knot, tugging the scarf free and dropping it onto the table. He blinked, then again, running one hand through his hair. Met Youji’s eyes almost by accident, and blushed at the look he saw caught there. I, he thought, should probably get dressed about now…
“Can I have my jeans?”
Youji looked at him for a long moment. He said, “Do you have to?”
“Look, you just got laid, you pervert. Give me back my pants.”
Youji heaved a martyred sigh and handed them over, trying not to look too hard done by as Ken slipped off the table almost as awkwardly as he had climbed onto it, and scrambled hastily back into his jeans. Well, he thought as Ken bent to retrieve his tee-shirt (What? I’m cold, Youji—not a lie but an omission) the middle of the flower shop wasn’t exactly the perfect place to bask in the afterglow, but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss it. (Oh well, there’d be other times, and at least he now knew he was right about that table.)
“You know, Youji,” Ken said, picking up the scarf in both hands and gazing thoughtfully down at it, “I think we’re just gonna have to pretend we never found this.”
“Does that mean you’re going to hang onto it?” Youji asked, slipping an arm about the boy’s waist.
“Well, we can’t exactly wash it and there’s no way we can give it back as it—what?” Ken looked up at him, the flush creeping back across his cheeks. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Shut up,” Ken said irritably. Then, “Ah – well – next time you wear it.”
Youji smiled. “I think I can live with that.”
It wasn’t until Ken came to open up the following morning that he remembered about the bride’s flowers. He found them sitting on the table in the back room exactly where Aya had left them the night before, their petals wan, their leaves sadly drooping. He was still wondering what exactly he could do about it when Aya walked in, immediately sized up the situation, and wasted no time in laying down the law. What, Aya wondered as Ken set to repairing the worst of the damage, trying and failing to hide his smile behind the flowers, exactly were you doing here last night if it wasn’t closing down properly? I don’t see what’s so amusing about irresponsibility and you could at least have put the broom away—
It was just fortunate, Ken reflected, that he’d managed to hide the lube.
This is my first time posting to this community and I know it seems to be largely dead, but hey, I've brought smut fic...
Cross-posted to wk_fiction