Spoiler Warning: If you haven't read the Weiss manga, An Assassin and A White Shaman, drawn by the inestimable Tsuchiya Kyoko, it would be best not to proceed unless you are prepared to be spoiled about certain scenes in book 1. There are also references to a certain girl, a certain organisation that Weiss works for and a certain man who ruins the lives of the Weiss boys.
Whaddaya mean, that's too vague? I'm trying not to spoil you, after all...
Author's Preliminary Notes: This story is about sex. The plot, like the rating implies, is non-existent, and the way they get together is probably a little unlikely. Nonetheless, it worked for me, and I wrote it. Try to read it with an open mind, and keep in mind the sole purpose of this fic is to get my two favourites in bed together. Enjoy. The rest of the notes are at the bottom.
They don't suspect. But then, that was why we agreed on meeting outside in the first place.
He pulls his cap down lower, shielding his features and hunches into his leather jacket. His shoulder brushes mine as he steps aside to avoid a collision with a passerby; the streets around us ebbs with the afternoon crowd. The crowd is a bewildering mixture of colours and sounds; staid businessmen in dark suits, travelling in packs; giggling schoolgirls, still in their fukus, clutching the standard black satchels; the more trendy with their hair dyed in unlikely colours, decked out in the latest techno styles from Shinjuku. Life.
And we are two pieces who don't fit... silent boys moving through the throng, not stopping to look at anyone or anything. Killers among the innocents. Wolves among lambs. We do not look at each other, but we move in tandem anyway, each step in time with the other's.
I can sense the tension in him, the fury tightly bound up until it can be released. It's not easy for him; his anger has always been quickly and violently released; a thunderstorm that comes and goes, leaving only calm and peace behind. For now, he is containing the storm, but it is still only a matter of time before it is unleashed.
The streets we are walking on change slowly; the steel and glass towers changing to the seedier part of the city, reflected in the squat buildings and shadier people around us. The sidewalk gradually empties; it is midday, after all, and here the clientele only come out at night. The pedestrians are scurrying on their way, heads ducking deep into high collars, everybody studiously avoiding everybody else's eyes. Dark clouds gather overhead, threatening, and there is a distant rumble of thunder.
Without saying a word to each other, we turn and enter a small doorway. It is dim and cool inside, even as lightning cracks the sky and rain begins to fall, small drops that promise to become fat and heavy. A thunderstorm.
He tosses the money to the man behind the counter, and receives a key in return, no questions asked. It is part of the reason we come here again and again. We stride towards the stairs, the worn carpet that may once have been red muffling the footfalls. The stairs themselves offer only dubious support, and we pick our way carefully, though the sense of urgency still drives us both.
The corridor is badly lit; the main source of illumination from a few lightbulbs dangling on thin wires from the ceiling, spaced as far apart as possible. From the sounds of it, the rain has really started to come down, pattering heavily against the walls. I shift from one foot to the other impatiently as he unlocks the door.
When we step inside, I barely note the layout of the room, the position of the bed, I am already stripping off my jacket and tossing it aside. He does the same, chucking the keys on the bedside table, before dropping into a fighting stance.
I spring, aiming a punch towards his face. I'm fast, but he's faster, dodging and aiming a kick into my stomach. I grunt as it connects, but ignore it and use my momentum to throw another punch into his jaw. His head snaps back from the impact, and we move apart, both judging and taking stock of the other's injuries. The punches have no real force behind them; we don't want to kill each other, but they would still faze a normal person. We attack again almost immediately, struggling to overpower the other. He has more muscle than I do, and is, out of all of us, the best at hand to hand combat, but I can hold my own, and have the advantage of height.
I don't remember when our fist fights began resembling a dance more than violence. After the first time Birman stopped me from trying to kill him, we have been careful never to seriously injure each other, since it could interfere with our performance in a mission and displease Kritiker. When there was less violence, we actually began to enjoy the sparring. The fire was still there, in his eyes, but there was also a certain playfulness, a fierce joy that I had only ever seen when he was playing soccer with the neighbourhood kids. He takes joy out of moving, out of the physical contact, out of being alive.
Unconsciously, we had begun moving together, in and out, attack and defend and repeat, and it was perfect. It was as though we had stopped being separate, that the different bodies, and the space between us didn't exist, but we were now one being. I don't recall how long it lasted, but when it stopped, we were just locked together, breathing harsh and panting and mingling in the minute space between our faces. My body was tingling and I had never felt so alive, so very aware of every nerve ending, of every inch of my skin. The air tasted sweeter and headier, filled with musk and sweat and burning me alive as I breathed. We were pressed against each other, chest to chest, hip to hip, sex to sex, and it felt amazingly good and right. Maybe it was why we kissed, though who kissed who first was unclear. It wasn't important. What was important, more than anything else in the world then, more than Aya-chan and Takatori and Kritiker, more even than Weiss, was that we were kissing, sweet mouth on mouth, and his tongue was in my mouth, warring with mine, and his hands were fisted in my shirt, and I was grinding my hips against his, and it was so, so good... Then we were against a tree, moaning into each other's mouths, the need for oxygen only a dull distant ache, our own need burning and consuming us, and I was pushing him down, grinding him into the soft earth, while the dappled rays of sun lit up his face and shifted in his hair, pain and pleasure glazing his eyes as I entered him...
A moment's distraction and he has backed me up into the center of the room. My knees hit the edge of the bed, and I allow myself to fall back, tangling my legs with his and pulling him down with me. The bed creaks in protest under our weight as I roll over, startling a yelp from him, but it is too late and I pin him under me with my weight. The ending is inevitable; the warmth is already kindling a flame between us even as I lower my mouth to his and thrust my leg between Ken's to keep them open.
His lips part on a groan of pleasure and I press my advantage, sliding my tongue into his mouth. We fight, of course, even as he moves against my thigh. I smile against his mouth. Even when having sex, we are stubborn. Neither of us gives way without making the other work for it.
He is already tearing at my shirt when we come up for air, almost ripping it in his haste, but I am beyond caring, pulling savagely at his t-shirt and clawing at the closure of his jeans. Finally, we are skin to skin, without the barrier of cloth between us and I draw back slightly to admire him. Too often, he wears loose, slightly baggy clothing for ease of movement; he has practically no sense of vanity, but it sometimes frustrates me to no end. Ken's body is beautiful; firm and toned, and slender, with narrow hips and subtle muscles ripple underneath the skin when he moves. His hands are callused with work and with fighting, and I know the strength they have, but he has deceptively long, tapering, sensitive fingers, and delicate, almost femininely slim wrists which fascinate me when I dwell on them.
His eyes burning as if with a fever, he clenches his fingers in my red hair and draws me back down for another searing kiss. I draw my hand to his chest, flicking at his nipples and pulling torturously, almost painfully at them. His head falls back in helpless whimpers of pleasure, and I place soft, biting kisses down his neck, pausing at his ear to breathe hotly into it dark promises of pleasure, and he shivers in response. Cool air rushes between us as I move down his body, the air conditioner whirring softly in the background. It is drowned out by his cry when I take a long lingering lick, burningly hot, over his nipple. He arches up into it, eyes half-lidded and heavy with pleasure, locked on mine. I smile at his glazed look and, keeping my eyes on his, close my lips over his nipple and begin to suck, purring softly from a point deep in my body as I watch his helpless writhing beneath me, playing with his other nipple absently as I watch all of his reactions, his responses with an intensity that I don't dare think too deeply about.
I close my hand around his need and he moans out my name in a pleasure near pain. I build up a rhythm, sliding up and down smoothly, letting him thrust into my hand, his own curled into my back, nails digging into the skin, leaving small red marks. The sounds he makes sizzles in the still air in the room, his low, rich voice sighing and moaning and cursing into my ear like music, spilling out almost unconsciously, delirious.
I release him just before he comes.
"Bastard, Aya, you son of a bitch..." he half-sobs, half-moans as he tries to push his hips into me again. Rearing up, he bites into my shoulder, sharp teeth drawing the warmth of blood, and while I reel in shock, his hand squirms down my body, brushing over my stomach, so achingly close and I cry out desperately when his hand fists itself around me, and the world grays out and narrows down to the pulse of his hands, pushing me closer and closer to madness.
My fingers move his hand away in a painful grip, holding it over his head, and I can't wait anymore, Ken is open and vulnerable and panting beneath me, soft brown strands of silk framing his face like a halo... I fumble for my jacket, frantically searching for the lubricant, his mouth nibbling at the skin laid bare to him. I open the tube with one hand, kissing him fiercely, and I push two fingers into him, slick with lube, hurting him a little, but gentleness is overwhelmed by the hot need for the exasperating, stubborn, sexy boy, and I enter him roughly and this is heaven, his heat surrounding me and he's so fucking tight... His lips, swollen from my kisses, part in a soundless gasp of ecstasy - pain and his head tosses from side to side, falling back as his hips move to meet my thrusts, crushing him deep into the mattress. I struggle to keep my eyes open, to watch the beautiful face twist in shock and ecstasy as he comes, liquid warmth exploding between us and triggering my own as the world shatters into a million shards of pleasure and light ignites behind my eyes, blinding me, and I'm distantly aware I'm screaming as I spiral away from reality.
I collapse on top of him, boneless, my body still spasming with small aftershocks of pleasure. My heartbeat is racing, and our soft puffs of air, ragged and uneven, mingle again, peacefully, our sweat-slick bodies cooling in the afterglow. My fingers come up to smooth the soft damp strands of his hair away from his face, a few clinging stubbornly, making me smile. I turn over onto my back, bringing his limp body with me, our arms and legs tangling with quiet ease. His head nuzzles its way beneath mine, soft bittersweet chocolate eyes already drifting shut.
"Aya... gotta get back t' th' store by four, or Omi-kun 'll have our heads," he murmurs. I brush a hand down over his spine, over his still over-sensitized skin, enjoying the quick tremor that runs through him.
"Go to sleep, Ken..."
"Mmmnnnn..." He snuggles into me like a kitten, all warmth and softness and trust. I bite back a yawn and draw the covers over us, close my eyes and fall asleep holding him, even while he holds me.
Outside, the storm passes.
I love Ken ^_^ I love Aya ^_^ In that order ^_^ I'm much fonder of the manga than I am of the anime (the quality of the animation is enough to make a fangirl weep) and both Ken and Aya always look much better drawn by Tsuchiya Kyoko. And I've always been intrigued by the way the two met, both times, in the mission and at the Koneko Sumu Ii. And pleased by the factoid that Aya's apartment is right next to Ken's.
Yes, I know I have a hentai mind.
I have plans for a further Aya x Ken series, later on. looks up That is, one that actually has a PLOT. Consider this the random raving of a deprived mind. shakes head Exams really do the strangest things to me. niko Well, it'll all end tomorrow. And I can bombard you with more of this stuff!
People stampede away screaming
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