KKM 'Poser'
He'd been dragged by one ear to Wolfram's art studio. Not unusual, really, but generally Yuuri tried to cooperate at least to some extent with Wolf's artistic moments. This time, though, he'd been in the midst of doing something he actually enjoyed very much: playing catch with the younger contingent of the Castle town and teaching them the basics of baseball in the process.
"Cute!" Wolfram had yelled at him five minutes ago – accusingly, as if it were his fault. "You're just too cute, you stupid wimp! Come here this moment!"
Up till then, the jealous fire-wielder had been content to survey the gaggle of beginner ball players surrounding Yuuri from his perch in the sideline bleachers, a book (Sun Tzu's Mazoku translation of The Art of War, courtesy of Shori) prominently displayed in his lap, and the young Maou had believed Wolf-chan was simply present to ensure that none of the watching mamas made any impertinent moves on the Head Coach. When Yuuri had protested his hurried removal from practice – and he'd done this fairly belligerently all the way down the Castle's marbled hallways and all the way up the endless granite staircases to the studio– his fiancé had only snagged a sensitive earlobe and forced him along in a nasty version of a Texas two-step.
"But, Wolf – I'm dirty! Like, like, filthy! I've still got my uniform on!" Yuuri whined, dragging his cleats mulishly.
It hadn't mattered – indeed, that was precisely what was so cute, his fiancé explained impatiently – that streak of dust on Yuuri's cheek, his startling dark hair in disarray from his cap, the perspiration—
He'd wanted to paint the 'raw' Yuuri anyway, Wolf confessed absentmindedly over his shoulder, his green eyes a tad misty, and pinched the smarting tab of flesh even harder in his inattention, because he'd been dying on the vine artistically for months now and really needed a break from all those formal portraits of the Maou he'd labored over with such industry – not to mention the fact the wimp never seemed to properly appreciate his efforts no matter how Wolfram portrayed him!
"Humph!" Wolfram sniffed in miffed punctuation, ripping the studio door open and pushing Yuuri across the doorsill willy-nilly before him.
Sunlight and motes of glittering dust filled the cavernous space Wolfram claimed for his artsy hide-away. Sketches that demonstrated a huge lack of creative talent were fastened here and there on the carved stone pillars that supported the looming ceiling with cellotape, courtesy of Shori, who'd brought along any number of useful items in his pockets the last time he'd dropped by. Wolfram's easel lurked stolidly near one of the huge windows.
"F-formal?" Yuuri gulped, clutching his throbbing ear as Wolf-chan shoved him onto a convenient stool and started fussing with various props.
An American-style football (and how had that gotten here? Yuuri wondered fleetingly); a Hanshin Tigers pennant; some ice skates: all were examined and discarded by Wolf-chan in turn.
"Is that what you call them?"
Yuuri shuddered a bit at the memories of back pain and jeweled codpieces, but nonchalantly tried to shrug off his instinctive fear of 'bad art' before his blonde Picasso actually noticed anything amiss.
"Wimp! Tell me, then…exactly what do you mean when you say 'that'?"
"…Uh, um, n-nothing?"
"Right, wimp. You'd better make sure you mean 'nothing'. Now, are you going to sit still for me or not?"
"Uh…sure?"
The Maou manifestly steamrolled, his fiancé clucked at him still in mild irritation as he dashed about, arranging bat and catcher's glove and ball to his satisfaction, and paid no attention to Yuuri's furtive meeps and mopes about fading light and lost teaching opportunities. Finally, Wolf-chan settled into sketching and a solid hour passed, with Yuuri effectively bullied into the utter stillness of a 'casual, sporting, gentlemanly' pose and the inspired artiste frantically huffing charcoal dust off his canvas every other moment.
Yuuri, never one to cause a scene, good-naturedly put up with it, but now - one hour and three minutes later, precisely, from the time baseball practice had been called on account of 'cuteness' – now, he had his mouth fastened firmly on one pinkened nipple and his grubby hands trailing familiarly across Wolfram's long torso. His fiancé flinched beneath him, unable to escape from his newest position, pressed firmly up against a handy nearby pillar. The young Maou's nose was mashed into the warm hollow between Wolfram's shoulder blade and his breastbone and his dark eyes were narrowed in a very dangerous fashion as he sucked viciously, leaving behind a reddened welt possessively emblazoned on Wolf's milk-white skin. A noble Mazoku heart thundered madly beneath Yuuri's cheekbone and the blonde-haired person gasped for breath at the end of the suckling, only barely managing to keep his legs locked under his sagging weight.
"Yuuri!"
Just a scant three minutes ago Wolfram had taken the measure of an ardent young Maou decisively disrobing and had backed up defensively from his easel, one booted heel tentatively set behind another, until he finally broke under the blacker-than-hellfire gaze and scuttled crabwise toward the door he'd locked himself.
"--For privacy, Yuuri, since I'm sick and tired of always being interrupted when we finally get to spend some precious time together, stupid wimp!" he'd exclaimed with some impatience when the black-haired boy tried to hide his desperate glances at his last tiny hope of escape – a welcome visitor, or one of the maids, or maybe even Conrad --just one hour and four long minutes ago.
"Shinou's Spit, Yuuri! You'd think you didn't want to do this!" Wolf had harrumphed in annoyance, and the Maou had rushed to assure his ardent lover that 'no, no, really, that wasn't it—!'
"Well, what, then? What is it? You have something better to do then spend a few minutes making me happy?" Wolfram had demanded, green eyes aglitter.
A foot had tapped impatiently, staccato in the pregnant pause while Wolf-chan shuffled his art supplies. Yuuri had correctly guessed this sound was a sign of imminent mortal danger – unless he shut up and got on with it.
Well, he had. He had. The problem was, there was nothing to do when one was posing for a portrait. He couldn't very well read a book (like he would, voluntarily, since the book would no doubt be one of Gunter's terrible text-heavy tomes of terminal boredom) or even watch the courtyard's bustle through the open windows, because Wolf-chan barked furiously whenever he twitched from the position in which he'd been arranged and besides, he'd been posed just a little too far from the windows to actually see out.
He couldn't even chat with his fiancé and take advantage of the quiet time they were perforce having together. Wolfram never listened when he was in the midst of a masterpiece; he wouldn't hear even if Yuuri shouted or the actual walls came tumbling down. He was oblivious when the muse took him and, on several occasions, Yuuri had taken advantage of that, getting a good head start on Wolf-chan before his fiancé even realized he was gone.
But this time the young man sat, patiently, still in his sweaty uniform, ball clutched loosely in one hand, bat slung across his lap. Silently he watched Wolfram, his eyes alighting almost by accident on his fiancé's finely chiseled features after a long, boring tour of the same-old, same-old studio. The faint frown that gathered across the blonde's brow intrigued Yuuri; he knew Wolf adored this whole painting thingie – why, then, was he frowning at his canvas the same way he frowned at Yuuri sometimes?
Maybe the work was frustrating him – Yuuri knew he was frustrating as well, since Wolf made sure to let him know fairly often. But Wolfram loved a challenge, as he also often informed his fiancé, and he was more than demon-spawn enough to whip any wimpy little 'challenge' into shape.
The tangential thought of whipping made Yuuri squirm uneasily on his stool and Wolfram snapped at him immediately and verbally chivvied him back into position, momentarily cowed.
Yuuri grinned after some additional cogitation – on the inside, so it wouldn't disrupt the 'properly sporting' expression Wolf-chan demanded of him - and thought about brushes instead.
The Mazoku artist had many; some long and broad, some short and comprised of barely a few hairs. He took excellent care of them, as Yuuri knew from experience, having been roped into washing bearbee-poo from expensive wands of sable bristle and maple all too often for his personal comfort level. Wolf-chan treasured his brushes and kept them stashed away under lock-and-key when he wasn't painting, fearful of Greta's curious fingers and other hazards. They sat behind him now on the bench he used for his supplies, splayed out in a fan of fawn-and-tan. Yuuri considered their apparent softness, their flexibility and their potential uses, and the next time his black eyes landed on Wolf's bishonen face, fierce with undiluted concentration, they were curiously hot.
The Mazoku paid no attention to his gaze and Yuuri did not seek it: he studied the rosy lower lip caught tightly between perfect white teeth instead. He perused the curve of ripe cornsilk that swung before his fiancé's marvelous eyes when he stretched and moved across the face of the large canvas, sketching hastily, and remembered how cobweb-soft those strands were when sliding through his fists, how sweetly they were scented with violets or the teasing whiff of honey-and-almonds.
The young Maou swallowed hard, salivating, and thought that Wolfram von Bielefeld made him hungry in so very many ways. Those ears, for instance, delicate and full of hidden shadows. When he thrust his tongue into their hollows, his fiancé always whimpered softly in pleasure and rolled his hips invitingly. Or that deliciously long and elegant throat, almost always carefully hidden behind a froth of silly lace, now exposed by the more forgiving neckline of the blonde's loose artist's smock. The blue-veined flesh of that column called him, begging the Maou to bite it and lick it, echoing the practiced movements his lips and tongue so often performed on certain 'other' parts of the beautiful Wolfram.
Yuuri could not help but go on to admire the exquisite lines of the form that flexed beneath the fabric: long and lean and muscled in all the right places, curved and soft and sensitive in all the 'other' right places. The thought of white skin captive beneath all that royal blue serge and tight-laced frogging made Yuuri yearn. He discovered he wanted to paint his own picture: the two of them in the privacy of their shared bed, wrestling and panting in the mock-battle of love.
Of course, the Maou didn't need a bed to enjoy the pleasures of his fiancé. Almost any surface would do – desk, tree trunk, stone wall….floor. Anywhere that had sufficient support so that he could drive deep into those velvet depths and make sure Wolf-chan realized exactly how much he was appreciated.
Under his dusty baseball uniform, the teenaged Maou felt the stirrings of his ready 'appreciation'. He swallowed back an embarrassed huff – this kind of thing happened all too often these days, no matter what the circumstances – and dutifully resolved to continue waiting till Wolf-chan was finally done. It was the least he could do. Besides, the honey would be sweeter still if Yuuri's mercurial fiancé was pleased with him for being so godsdamned patient…and he'd learned he couldn't live happily without his daily dose of 'Wolfram sugar'.
He was kind of like the lab rat of Love, wasn't he, then? And Wolfram was cheese, enticing and golden and full of wickedly interesting 'holes'.
The moments ticked past in this manner, a quiet hush falling over the Mazoku's sacred 'art' studio. But Wolfram's unhappy pout grew at the same pace as the bulge in Yuuri's striped knickers; the last quarter-hour was dense with stifled tension of one sort or another.
The Maou's fiancé sighed eventually, still unusually inattentive of the real live Maou right in front of him, and threw down his charcoal and his shading wedge with a stifled snort, obviously exasperated.
"Take a break, Yuuri," the Mazoku artist ordered offhandedly, and retreated a pace or two to give his recent attempts a good gander.
"Shinou's Blade! What can't I get this?!" Wolfram demanded of his canvas a tense moment later, eyeing the grayish scribbles on it with utter disgust and waving his soot-coated fingers in the air. A whole hour had fled and still he was no closer to firmly grasping the nebulous concept of the 'real' Shibuya Yuuri and plastering it firmly down in clear black lines and white spaces.
Wolf was distressed: he'd so wanted to capture Yuuri's playfulness, too, that boyish charm that tickled even his own rather austere fancy. It would be the perfect complement to those regal life-size images of the Demon King he'd already composed and decked every available hall with.
"What am I, untalented or something?" Wolfram asked the echoing room rhetorically after yet another extended sneer at his own progress, still not actually 'seeing' the Maou's slow rise to his feet in the corner of his peripheral vision. The baseball bat was laid gently on the floor, the mitt and ball stashed next to it, and long-fingered hands whipped over the Maou's long back and flat stomach, lifting and tugging the dirt-streaked striped knit shirt from sweat-chilled skin. Yuuri shook out leg cramps as he stretched, and tugged off his cleats and socks without any of his usual stumbling, advancing in a deliberate manner as he stripped.
"….Wolfram?"
The query was in a slightly deeper register than the Mazoku noble expected; when he finally shifted his gaze from canvas to 'cute' betrothed, the Maou was at his elbow, his jersey and belt hanging limply from broad, tanned hands. He was also rather taller and broader across the shoulders than he'd been just sixty minutes ago, at the beginning of their artistic endeavour.
Wolfram inhaled sharply. The Great Maou! But why now? And why here?
Immediately, he cocked his head, ears keen for the sound of steel clashing and shouting guardsmen, but the air was peaceful, with no sounds of attack to react to – so why was Yuuri going Alter Ego?
The Maou smiled (Danger! Danger, Wilhem von Robinson!) and acted with lightning speed, deliberately forcing Wolfram to back up a step or be run over. The Maou's dark eyes glittered with intent and Wolfram gulped down another sharp breath, his abdomen clenching in visceral memory of his dealings with 'other' Yuuri.
That was the minute in which Wolfram von Bielefeld stepped quite carefully away from his abortive artwork and glanced a little wildly at the studio door.