![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
KKM AU: Further Drabblethings
(*scowls at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alarielle and her things and her, uh, porn*)
.twine.
Ken sits on a table normally reserved for eating and watches Lukas paint; the dark Mazoku is usually busy with classwork or business and seems rarely at leisure to just perch somewhere and follow the movements of pencil or brush with his eyes. Lukas doesn't mind him there -- if anything, his presence inspires greater artistic flourishes, bolder use of color and more detail. He's a showman at heart and Ken is his favorite audience.
Slowly Ken migrates, finding other, closer articles of furniture to nest upon, until he is leaning to look around Lukas. He can feel the wondering breath at his shoulder.
"Give me your hand," says Lukas, seized by mischief.
"You're not going to take a finger as payment for watching you at work, are you?"
"Just give it."
He uses a detail brush and finds a deep aching blue that reminds him of summer, announcing, "I saw them do this on TV once." The vibrant paint seems to sear Ken's pale skin, thin lines blooming into delicate curving patterns over the captive hand as his lover watches with black eyes wide.
"Mehndi?" Ken says, amused, when Lukas draws back, satisfied. "It's usually done with henna dye. And it's usually done on women. Brides."
"Fine, be a critic." Lukas loves the way it looks, the intricate twining over smooth flesh. He imagines that hand touching him tonight and a shiver runs over his skin. "I'll do my left hand, so your masculinity isn't threatened."
They can be a matching set.
.voice.
Ken has never been vocal -- a fact which would surprise many friends of Murata Ken, who are accustomed to his cheerful rambling and sly jokes, but which would not at all surprise anyone who had known him as the Great Sage. It does not surprise Lukas that Ken is chatty because he doesn't really say anything, he just talks for people who need something to hear in order to place him in some nice convenient category, and in the end Ken doesn't really say much more than the Sage ever did.
The Sage was quiet in passion as well: He would arch against his lover or bear down without a word, without a sound, only the half-heard sounds of his breathing and the occasional gasp or sigh breaking the perfect stillness that surrounded him.
Now, though, it is as if some inner restraint has fallen before Lukas's presence. When they are together the blond's touch drags moans and whimpers from him, and Ken hisses his name or cries out in urgency.
Lukas doesn't know what brought about this change, but he knows that he really, really likes it. There is nothing quite so satisfying as coaxing his silent Sage into volume and knowing that this is for him.
alarielle and her things and her, uh, porn*).twine.
Ken sits on a table normally reserved for eating and watches Lukas paint; the dark Mazoku is usually busy with classwork or business and seems rarely at leisure to just perch somewhere and follow the movements of pencil or brush with his eyes. Lukas doesn't mind him there -- if anything, his presence inspires greater artistic flourishes, bolder use of color and more detail. He's a showman at heart and Ken is his favorite audience.
Slowly Ken migrates, finding other, closer articles of furniture to nest upon, until he is leaning to look around Lukas. He can feel the wondering breath at his shoulder.
"Give me your hand," says Lukas, seized by mischief.
"You're not going to take a finger as payment for watching you at work, are you?"
"Just give it."
He uses a detail brush and finds a deep aching blue that reminds him of summer, announcing, "I saw them do this on TV once." The vibrant paint seems to sear Ken's pale skin, thin lines blooming into delicate curving patterns over the captive hand as his lover watches with black eyes wide.
"Mehndi?" Ken says, amused, when Lukas draws back, satisfied. "It's usually done with henna dye. And it's usually done on women. Brides."
"Fine, be a critic." Lukas loves the way it looks, the intricate twining over smooth flesh. He imagines that hand touching him tonight and a shiver runs over his skin. "I'll do my left hand, so your masculinity isn't threatened."
They can be a matching set.
.voice.
Ken has never been vocal -- a fact which would surprise many friends of Murata Ken, who are accustomed to his cheerful rambling and sly jokes, but which would not at all surprise anyone who had known him as the Great Sage. It does not surprise Lukas that Ken is chatty because he doesn't really say anything, he just talks for people who need something to hear in order to place him in some nice convenient category, and in the end Ken doesn't really say much more than the Sage ever did.
The Sage was quiet in passion as well: He would arch against his lover or bear down without a word, without a sound, only the half-heard sounds of his breathing and the occasional gasp or sigh breaking the perfect stillness that surrounded him.
Now, though, it is as if some inner restraint has fallen before Lukas's presence. When they are together the blond's touch drags moans and whimpers from him, and Ken hisses his name or cries out in urgency.
Lukas doesn't know what brought about this change, but he knows that he really, really likes it. There is nothing quite so satisfying as coaxing his silent Sage into volume and knowing that this is for him.