KKM Kiss and Tell
Chapter 9: Yuuri's Innocence
"Wolf…" There was a hand on his naked back.
"What?"
Wolfram's voice was muffled by his ruffled dress shirt, currently situated over his pale face and shoulders as he was mid-way through disrobing for bed. He paused to take a long breath and concentrated on ignoring the hand.
"Did I…embarrass you?"
The hand slid down his spine, warm and heavy, coming to rest at his waist. Wolf ignored it all the harder and kept his eyes trained on the inside of his shirt. The buttons were of mother-of-pearl and one of them had a tiny crack; he'd ask the maids to sew on a new one in the morning.
"Embarrass?"
His voice was a little thick, much to Wolf's chagrin. He tried irony instead, knowing Yuuri probably wouldn't get it.
"How could you have possibly embarrassed me, oh Great Maou? Perhaps by toying with me in front of my adoptive little sister? Perhaps by making it so that I couldn't even stand up to greet her when my own mother entered the room? Or maybe it was those noises I was making? I don't believe I've ever been guilty of moaning for 'More!' in the midst of supper before, but evidently there's always a first time! But wait, I wouldn't mind that, would I, since I'm constantly begging at your heels for your favors in public places, and s-seducing you and importuning you, like the sodding little whore and social-climber that I am!"
"I didn't say that, Wolfram! I said—"
But others had. Still did; would always, as if Wolfram's being 'accidental' in the Maou's life had forever removed the possibility his feelings were all too real.
"You said I was practically glued to you, Yuuri, boasted of it, even – as if it's a bad thing! As if you're surprised! What else am I supposed to do, may I ask? I am your de facto personal bodyguard, am I not? I'm supposed to be right by your side every single moment of your day, protecting you, because you are the Maou—our King, Yuuri! Our King! And now Elizabeth thinks I'm nothing but a brainless besotted fool who gratefully submits to be being mauled in public and thinks nothing of your good reputation or mine own! How could you, Yuuri?"
"…No, no, I meant—"
"I don't care what you meant by it – keep your hands to yourself!"
Wolf choked to a stop before he could say anything really horrible, swallowed several times and then finished with tugging his shirt over his head, tossing it on one of the bedside chairs, and picking up his nightgown, only to frown at it in some distraction. He had nearly managed to forget the hand that still curled around his waistband entirely, till it slid further, the breadth of it pressed against his naked belly. Wolf inhaled sharply as Yuuri moved again, scooting across the wide bed to get closer, and stuffed his mussed head into the pink fabric of his nightgown like an ostrich finding sand.
"Wolf," the teenage Maou said softly. He laid his dark head on a convenient shoulder, ignoring the bunched up cloth and the tense of muscles under pale skin.
"D-don't!"
The blonde flinched and tried to edge away unsuccessfully. That way lay madness, he was sure. He wasn't quite ready to give up yet on unilinear thought, either; he had something to say to Yuuri tonight and he was damned well going to say it, no matter how the Maou might attempt to distract him.
But Yuuri must have been born with the innate knowledge of how to distract Wolfram von Bielefeld, because his next question scattered Wolf's anger thoughts like so much dandelion fluff in a hurricane.
"What I meant was…Wolf-chan, are you, um, unhappy that I kissed you? You didn't like it? The, erm, actual…kiss?"
The silk cascaded down with a silent swish and Wolf's features were on full view once more, startled and with bishonen brow furrowed in puzzlement.
Not liked that? How could one not like something like that? He was only Mazoku, a blue-blooded male with a healthy appetite and a three-year case of tightly-reined frustration. Yuuri could've punched him in the face after kissing him like he'd kissed him at the dinner table and Wolf would've cum hard right into the trailing tablecloth. And asked for more.
Wolfram von Bielefeld stared at his blue-covered knees and seriously contemplated lying to Yuuri. His weakness was debilitating and he didn't dare let Yuuri know just how badly he was affected. But only for a moment did he hesitate – Yuuri was owed honesty, after all, at least from him. It was one of the few things Wolfram could consistently do for his fiancé that didn't rebound back on him and bite him on the ass immediately—much.
Well, there might be one more thing he could do…Green eyes were glinting oddly when they met Yuuri's. He really had never thought he'd get to this point. It had been…unthinkable.
"No."
The Mazoku sighed and tapped his fingers against the mattress. He was frowning but he seemed to be…not unhappy, Yuuri decided. Just…just different.
"No, I-I don't mind – and I'm not sorry—far from it— I just wish you'd do that somewhere private, that's all. It's shameful when I can't control myself. Thank Shinou Greta ate dinner in the nursery with Gisela!"
The Mazoku bowed his head as if he truly had been praying, color returning to tinge his face to a pretty rose. His hands went automatically to his waist, stripping his belt from under Yuuri's hand, easing open the tight buttons of his formal dress blues, doggedly preparing for bed.
Yuuri chuckled, a little bubble of relief rising up his throat. He felt encouraged again; even kind of 'positive'. It felt good after the upset Elizabeth-san had caused him, saying clearly without saying it aloud that he was messing up right and left here—that Wolf-chan was not happy, that he wouldn't be able to make Wolf-chan happy, ever. That he wasn't good enough for someone so special.
And that didn't bear thinking of: Wolf-chan was his priority, his reason-to-be. Somehow honey-blonde hair and green eyes like jewels and a tongue sharp as a rapier and a slim, boyish body that reeked insane amounts of sex appeal had become the catalyst for all Yuuri's own happiness. He couldn't imagine smiling or laughing without Wolf-chan being somehow involved, to share it, or be told of it later, or instigate it in the first place. To…be happy with Yuuri.
Lips brushed Wolf's exposed nape and Yuuri sighed with contentment at the smell of him, the telltale sheen of perspiration, grinning again with devilment in his black eyes as he found one of Wolfram's known 'weak' spots, burying his nose deep in the fragrant hollow where neck met shoulder. Wolfram trembled in reaction, his hands damp where he'd grabbed the loosened waistband of his trousers, ready to remove them.
A shy Wolfram was a cute Wolfram – Yuuri had already discovered that. But a sobbing Wolfram was very, very worrisome. And, well, he'd already been very worried and concerned as to whether his recent campaign to uplift Wolf's spirits was really working out the way he planned it. Sometimes it seemed it was – when Wolfram was gazing at him with stars in those green eyes after having just been kissed silly – and sometimes it definitely wasn't - like this evening, when his fiancé had rushed from the room and shut himself into the bathroom for two hours.
Or a couple of nights ago, when some intangible seventh sense told Yuuri that Wolfram was suffering - somewhere alone, without him. He hadn't been able to tolerate the thought of that and had rushed off in the middle of another one of those damned perpetual receptions, no doubt offending someone important and sending Gunter into fits of blood-letting.
Maybe…just maybe his 'positive' was interfering with his 'reassuring'? Wolfram might not believe Yuuri was willing to go through with this all-important marriage, though, if he didn't keep up with the positive.
And he was doing the best he could, given the hodge-podge of advice he had to work with: Yosak (he'd finally broken down just two days ago and asked the knowledgeable red-headed spy as to what he should be doing next and then had nearly had a nose-bleed himself at the pornographic detail of the answer); his buddy Murata (pervert, pervert, pervert!); and Gunter ('how about a sonnet, your Majesty – they always work for me!') and those books he'd wheedled Shori into buying for his reference. Those books and the videos—some of them very graphic indeed, so much so that both he and Shori felt rather ill afterwards and not from the rice cakes and popcorn.
Poor Shori – he'd probably never think of his deal little 'Yuu-chan' the same way.
But he'd wanted to be positive, had wanted it from the moment he'd realized that the better half of his heart was still back in Shin Makoku, held fast in the careful hands of his bishonen fiancé. He'd wanted to move forward and finally demonstrate to Wolfram, very definitely and without a doubt, that he knew what (who) he wanted – and even understood what to do with it once he got it. The last was a matter of personal pride: he didn't mind if Wolf-chan called him a 'wimp' about everything else, but he'd be eternally damned if he'd be called a 'wimp' in the bedroom!
It wasn't Wolf-chan's fault he was a boy, as Murata had so helpfully pointed out. And being a boy wasn't a fault at all, according to his Mama.
[Well, of course, love goes all ways, Yuu-chan. I just wish your Wolfie had wings. Maybe the babies—]
But it was Gisela who'd actually helped him the most: her and her official Healer-Approved™ bookbag of earthly delights and detailed instruction. He'd had to touch himself more than once just on the first read-through and the thought of doing those things—any of those things!—in that godsdarned manual with Wolf-chan had him gasping and cumming several more times with barely a stroke for encouragement! Hoo boy! If he could actually manage to make Wolf-chan feel even half-as-good as he'd felt just fantasizing, then he was pretty sure they'd be alright! More than alright!
"Wolfram…are you…tired?"
Yuuri kissed the pale shoulder again and felt his bedmate tremble. A slight shift of his weight and his pajama-clad torso pressed against fully Wolfram's back, warming it. The blonde's trousers were down around his ankles now, having been shimmied there by a shifting, red-faced, silent Wolf-chan, who was evidently working his own apparently difficult way up to saying something.
Yuuri didn't want it to be 'No.' He didn't want it to be 'Later', or 'We should wait', or anything that would prevent them from getting closer. He wanted Wolf-chan willing and eager and feeling the way he felt—
"Yuuri…? I need to talk to—"
The blonde head turned sharply and Yuuri chuckled in satisfaction at the glimpse of widening emerald eyes. Exactly what he'd been biding his time for, the perfect opportunity – he took Wolfram's mouth before the blonde managed to finish his sentence, effectively diverting his fiancé from whatever other faults of Yuuri's he no doubt wanted to discuss (Wolf-chan had been in the bathroom for a very long time) and whatever excuses he might've come up with in the meantime. On cue, Yuuri's devilish Maou-driven hands went into action, travelling here, travelling there, leaving throbbing, hungry Wolfram-body parts behind them wherever they went. Wolfram moaned helplessly after a moment, any feeble resistance well dissipated, brainwaves seriously disrupted, and Yuuri was able to successfully carry him down to the mattress, straddling the soldier's hips to keep him there.
Not that his fiancé objected.
Not at all. He was actively helping and Yuuri found that to be excessively reassuring. In turn, Wolfram found Yuuri's obvious desperation to disrobe him unbearably hot. He trembled before it, warming himself in the fires that filled those dark eyes and finally allowed himself to let it happen, all of it, with no further misgivings.
Misgivings could happen later; Yuuri was far more important now. Always.
The barely wrinkled nightgown was discarded, tugged over Wolf-chan's head and flung indiscriminately at the floor. The pants and boots and hose were torn off the delicate bones of Wolfram's ankles and feet and tossed in a heap somewhere near the windows. Wolfram didn't care where any of it went as long as it was Yuuri taking the clothes off his aroused body. He'd been waiting for this, seemingly forever. He'd been dreaming and hoping and wishing, even when it seemed that hope was abandoned and dreams were dust and wishes were only reserved for a better class of beggar than he. He groaned his acquiescence to all of it; his neck tilted uncomfortably at an angle under the force of Yuuri's eager mouth, and let himself sink into the pillows, lost in sensation.
Wolf bit down on the corner of one pillowslip a moment later, trying to keep his whimpers of pleasure from spilling out into the breathy silence. He sounded too needy; he would frighten Yuuri and he couldn't let that happen—not when they were so close.
Yuuri stopped his ardent attack on a hardened nub of a nipple and looked up inquiringly, his black eyes burning like hellfire and oddly wise, and then tugged the pillow away with one impatient hand. He swarmed up Wolfram's flinching limbs, his weight leaving in its wake a flaming mark of possession, and captured the Mazoku's chin in stern fingers.
"Let it out," the Maou ordered his trembling fiancé, his voice husky with barely tamped-down passion. Green eyes went wide in the moonlight, wondering. Fingers touched Yuuri's pajama-clad shoulder, just lightly.
"Yuuri…?"
"I want to hear it. I need to hear it. So say it, scream it, I don't care. Tell me—I want to hear every noise you make, Wolf-chan, so I know you like it," there was a nip to his pointy chin that had Wolfram sighing in pleasure, "so yell or bitch or moan or something–anything—or let me have them, Honey-chan, all those sounds you make—I love them. I'll swallow them all, Wolfram. Nobody'll know but me, I swear it."
The mouth that covered Wolfram's was firm-edged and confident at last; Wolfram melted entirely, his anxiety subsumed by sweet words and sweeter actions.
"And I need to know, Wolfram. I want to make you happy. I need to be sure of it."
He was Yuuri's, the blonde affirmed silently, to do with as he liked. If he had not known this before—if it had somehow escaped him, this moment alone would have convinced him.
Of course, he had to tell Yuuri this, and soon, so that his Maou would know he expected nothing further than what he was given; that he only wanted to be allowed to love. It was all that Wolfram had ever wanted – to be allowed to love Yuuri.
"Wolf-chan, I want you to want this," Yuuri growled impatiently when he received no verbal response and the ex-Third Prince thought vaguely about telling his fiancé he was already ecstatic and speechless under the onslaught of unpracticed fingers and a drifting, damp brand of a mouth – and then forgot all that completely, when a tongue invaded his navel. He shuddered instead and grabbed at Yuuri's black hair, tugging him closer, abandoning words for action. His hands were at Yuuri's pajama top buttons in a flash, pulling at them impatiently, ripping the threads in his need. Yuuri took that as a good omen, but it was Wolfram's extraordinary eyes that truly convinced him he was going in the right direction with all this.
They were as bright as he'd ever seen them, hazy and full of all the warmth he'd felt rolling over him when the bearbee babies hatched, or that sickening second when the world had fallen away at his feet and it was the hand of someone dear who'd flung himself willingly into the breach between Yuuri and oblivion—when there was only Wolfram, Wolfram, and he'd been struck dumb then, unable to verbalize how much that silent message meant to him, but he was not now—not now, having learned what it was to roll over seeking comfort and the scent of the one he couldn't do without and then not find his Wolf-chan where he was supposed to be.
"I want to please you," Yuuri stated, just to make sure Wolf-chan knew he knew. I want to make you happy, and keep you that way, so you'll always be with me…so you'll never leave.
Blue cotton cloth crumpled into Wolfram's avid hands and he tossed it blindly, his eyes never leaving Yuuri's serious face and the story it told him. It was only when Yuuri's seeking fingers found his pulsing erection and gripped it carefully that Wolf's long lashes fell, quivering like the rest of him. The tentative fingers slid gently, slowly, and the blonde arched his back, emerald eyes stunned.
"You like that, Wolf-chan?"
It was whispered against his stomach and the brush of lips against his abdomen was almost, but not quite, as good as the fingers wrapped around him. He could cum like this, just with anticipation and the lightest of Yuuri's touches.
"Ungh!"
The tongue slipped from the shallow indentation and found its way up the shivering skin that bloomed with heat, trailing up a throat white as marble to brush teasingly against at Wolf's parted lips and then down again, across finely boned shoulders that had borne more weight and for far longer than anyone—not even Yuuri—had ever realized.
"Hah!"
The other nipple was captured, played with, adored, and Wolfram breathed out his lover's name soundlessly as soon as he remembered how to form words. But there was only one word that was important.
"Yuuri, Yuuri..." Wolfram sighed and then bit down on a shout when the mouth slithered down his torso once more and unerringly found the well of his desires. Lips went slip-sliding, waltzing across turgid flesh with gay abandon, and there was a nip of teeth that had Wolfram's hips jolting up and almost entirely off the mattress, emerald eyes golden-hazed and wide against the night.
"Ahhh!"
Wolfram caught fire, almost literally, skin crackling with energy, charged with delight, and buried his fingers deep in Yuuri's dark hair for grounding, all the blood in his body concentrating at the joining of his trembling thighs. He scrabbled for purchase, curling himself up toward Yuuri in a mindless attempt to meld with one he loved.
"Gods, but you're beautiful," Yuuri gasped. "I'm so lucky—"
Wolfram was slick and trembling when Yuuri was at last satisfied, dripping with excess saliva and the salty dribbles of his own desire. He was limp, too, having had his soul extracted – sucked out, or so it seemed – and taken very carefully into someone else's hands. He never wanted it back – it could stay with Yuuri, safe and cosseted. He wouldn't miss it, he knew; it had been in Yuuri's keeping so long it wouldn't know how to act, what to do, how to survive without him.
"Is this…okay? Wolf-chan?"
There was a sweaty palm cupping his balls, caressing them, and while the last remnants of his brain were melting, the hand moved back, and a fingertip tentatively ringed the opening Yuuri had read about. Wolfram flinched…and whimpered with longing when it petted him.
"Then… gomenasai!"
"Ahhh! Oh, gods!"
The moistened finger slid fully into him, twisting. Another joined a moment later, swirling, seeking. A third entered when Wolfram jerked his legs wide to receive it, grinding himself into Yuuri's palm and wriggling madly, and the Mazoku thought he'd die of delight when they finally found 'it' – the special spot inside him that made the wind rush by and all colors flame to vermillion. He gulped and sputtered and could find no words to describe his gratitude, his devotion, his utter inability to deny Shibuya Yuuri anything he wanted.
He angled his elegant hips instead, wrapping long firm legs round Yuuri's middle, and thrust up, taking in the fingers as deeply as he wished to take in their owner.
Yuuri!
"Wolfram!"
He was answered with a grunt of pure male satisfaction, a rumble that echoed deep in his own groin. The young Maou fought for balance as he rose to his knees, shucking pajama pants and positioning himself between the blonde's convulsively thrusting hips, replacing the horrible loss of fingers with the very crown of his manhood. There was spit coating it and Wolfram's passion and Yuuri could think of nothing better to be anointed in when entering the temple that was Wolf-chan.
"Ungh!"
The blonde took that, too, eagerly shoving himself forward and upward so as to engulf the Shibuya family jewels in a desperate hungry rush that literally knocked the air out of him. The answering movement kept him that way, tight and unwilling to inhale, till friction and fortuitous circumstance found that spot again and Wolf keened, the tiny sounds buried against Yuuri's mouth, and fell gradually into a dreamy, earth shattering rhythm initiated by his betrothed.
It went on and on, sometimes painful, sometimes so sublime that Wolfram marveled vaguely at the concept of not ever doing this – how could they; did they know what they were missing? – but always enthrallingly heady, like internal fireworks wheeling against the black velvet canvas of his mind or the sweet gush of juice from the strawberry Yuuri had fed him on their picnic. It was a frantic eternity, hot and sweaty, sticky and uncomfortable, and his back ached like a bitch from the awkward position, pushed against the pillows in a collapsed arch, his knees drawn up to his perspiring face. He was panting harshly, for oxygen seemed to elude him, and his partner's hands were never still, roaming like lightening across his straining muscles and highly sensitized skin. He couldn't bear it, for the pressure went on building to an infernal level and he could've sworn little licks of flame had set the sheets afire around them and they'd be consumed alive if Yuuri didn't kill him outright with pain and pleasure first….and pleasure…so much pleasure…and Yuuri was talking to him all the while, murmuring continuously, his mouth moving against Wolfram's flushed chest and though his dampened hair. Wolf couldn't quite hear the words through the roar of rushing blood in his ears, but they were reassuring and positive and the possessive tone in Yuuri's voice made him shake and continuously fall out of rhythm until the Maou's hands gripped his hips and got them back on course once again.
Wolfram found he loved everything about it, sticky and messy though it was: the bruises on his skin and the dryness of his throat. He wanted it to never end, ever, for in a dreamy sort of way it meant that Yuuri was an integral part of him, finally, and he'd become an extension of the one he'd loved so well and for so long. When it did, at last, with Yuuri ferally grunting his satisfaction and driving so deep Wolfram was slammed hard into the mattress, whimpering and mewling, knees clamped tight to Yuuri's flexing shoulders, his own heady ejaculation spraying Yuuri's chest with a web of tiny pearls, he cried out silently, shaking his head in denial at the ending of dream.
No! It couldn't be over – it couldn't be over—
"Wolf!"
He had wanted a little more – just a little more. He wanted it not to be over—never over, never done—
Yuuri kissed him, hard and sloppy, marking him again, as if Wolfram needed that. The Mazoku was silent under the Maou's assault, nearly gagging on the comforting tongue thrust down his throat. He swallowed hard, returning the suction, and pressed himself into the tight embrace Yuuri had engulfed him in, reveling in the triumphant knowledge that Yuuri was trembling only because of him.
They lay there, fused at hip and chest and mouth, Yuuri still half-buried in Wolfram, twitching faintly and Wolfram jerking now and then with aftershocks and muscle memories of wishes fulfilled, until the cloud of passionate steam eventually receded with last of the nibbling kisses and Wolfram could focus once more on something other than his body and Yuuri's body and the magic they'd made together. He blinked, untangling his long sweep of lashes, and regarded his lover with a shy hope rising phoenix-like from the long-awaited meeting of bodies.
The Maou shifted, dark eyes always fixed on his fiancé, rolling to one side so that Wolfram could finally use his lungs to full capacity, and slid a questioning palm down the Mazoku's damp flank.
There were marks there, too, on both hips and the thighs between them, of fingers that had imprinted where they'd been clenched so hard, and the reddish-purple blossoming of tooth-petaled flowers that claimed and staked and cordoned off the Maou's territory. There were bruises blooming on Yuuri's neck and shoulders that told the same story and Wolfram—when he noticed—flushed at his own audacity and was at the same time very fiercely proud.
"You…you're okay, Wolf-chan? I didn't hurt you?"