Archive of Our Own ^beta

The club is dark save the lights shining overhead. Black. But then it’s blue. Then red. Then green. Yellow. Pink. White. Then back. It's black. It’s dark. But then it’s not and Daken’s on the second floor, arms resting on top of the back pillows of the couch, a sly smile on his face as a lady and a man respectively, grope his body.

They’re a firm presence in his arms. They’re firm, but the man’s firmer. They’re firm, but the lady’s soft and pliable to his whims. They’re firm and he feels the press of the woman’s breasts against his arm and her manicured nails against his thigh. Feels the man’s strong grip on his waist and the hot suction of his lips against his neck and this, this is good, this is power, this is control.

He doesn’t know their names, and they don’t know his, they just know he’s the most attractive man in the club and they know they’re lucky to even have a second with him.

Daken lolls his head to the side and lets out a satisfied sigh, giving the man more room. He figures he should reward them for their efforts. Something to keep them motivated, so he runs his fingers under the woman’s skirt, and fists his hand around the hard line against the seam of the man’s pants. It’s dark. But then it’s not. Then it’s blue. Then it’s red. And the woman is moaning against his chest, and the man is griping at Daken's side like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. And it’s Yellow. Pink. The man sounds like he’s being strangled, the woman can’t stop shuddering, clawing at Daken's thigh, running her hand up and down and—

Then it’s white.

It’s dark.

But then Daken sees him, the blonde, and it’s not. It’s not dark. It’s skipped blue, skipped red. And it’s green.

Daken pushes the other two off of him and straightens out his tie, wiping his hands on the woman's skirt. The blonde hasn’t noticed him yet, but that’s okay. He likes a challenge. It’s all part of the game. He likes the look of surprise on their faces when they realize his attention is on them.

The blonde’s talking to someone, Daken’s not sure who, but whoever it is is gesturing wildly and his glasses are on that fine line between being dorky and so hipster it hurts. Daken stands to the side. Waiting. Watching. Because all of this is part of the game too. Part of the fun.

Glasses spots Daken first. He knows this because he sputters like an incoherent mess over his words and starts pointing at him emphatically. Daken can’t help but grin, and he knows it looks predatory, but it is unavoidable. He smells sex. Sex and copper and adrenaline fire.

The blonde turns and Daken takes that as his cue to move forward, sending a subtle glance at Glasses telling him to fuck off. He gets the message. Daken won’t have any interference.

“Like what you see?” Daken smirks, his breath ghosting like warmed velvet against the shell of the blonde’s ear. He chuckles softly, “Of course you do.” He murmurs, voice smooth like silk. Cocky. Full. Rich. Dark chocolate. Hypnotic.

Daken pulls back. Tilts his head to the side. Moves so his dark hair tumbles across the side of his face and leans ever so slightly forward. Closer. Letting the light catch the mischievous glint in his eyes. Letting it highlight his best features—His cheekbones, high and sharp like marble. His jawline, smooth and strong like granite. His body, soft but firm, coiled and sleek—deadly—like a panther ready to strike.

The smirk stays in place, his body remaining deceptively open, vulnerable, like he’s somehow the aggressed and not the aggressor. Like he’s not in complete control. Like he can’t feel their body-heat sitting between them, hot, so very hot, and just out of reach. Like he’s not the one keeping it that way.

Daken feels the other’s need. He feels it like a tangible, palpable thing—Dirty, steamy, boiling. But he does nothing about it. It’s not his move. Not his play. He can’t force this. He’s got to time it just right, like a gunshot—a second too early and your prey will bolt.

So he stands there, rooted to the spot, heart slamming in his chest like a jackhammer and he waits. He parts his lips a fraction of an inch, droops his eyelashes an inconceivable amount and just… breaths. He waits.

He doesn’t even know the blonde’s name. Didn’t care to ask. Doesn’t care to know now either. All that matters is the game, the play, the effort going into making his wet dream a reality, beause this man, the blonde, he is fit.

His hair’s like liquid gold. Eyes bright and clear and piercing like an azure sky. He’s a picture perfect vision of stereotypical American masculinity. Daken wants to ruin it. Devour it. Mar it. Own it. Have the blonde desperate and begging at his feet. To feel those strong hands on his waist. Grabbing so tight Daken can’t help but gasp. To bruise— Honestly, if he wasn’t already halfway to gagging for it he’d be sick with himself.

Daken licks his lips. “What’s wrong?” he drawls from beneath a hooded gaze. His hands linger in the space above the blonde’s hips, and it’s warm, so warm, and he wants nothing more than to feel that warmth underneath the pads of his fingers—but he can’t—not yet. Not yet, “cat got your tongue?” Daken looks up. The blonde’s not much taller than him, but it’s enough to make a difference. Small. He thinks. He has to make himself smaller. Coyer. More nervous. Unsure. He’s got to play into the blonde’s hand to make him show it.

He forms his most disarming smile. The one that’s all giddy feelings and virgin touches. The one that screams innocence. But he lets his eyes stay as they are, dark and lustful, full of intent. Sure but unsure. Bashful yet provocative. Subtle yet direct. It’s a delicate game, that fine line he rides, and he loves every minute of it. The sex will be better for it.

“No need to be so nervous,” I am too, his body says though it’s a lie, “I don’t bite,” the blonde’s breath catches in his throat. Daken has to force himself not to raise an eyebrow, or grin like the shark he is. So that’s what you’re into hmm?

Slowly, smoothly, as to make it look like a spur of the moment decision, like he’s that fumbling virginal boy this man seems to need—he moves closer, biting his lip and giving the blonde all the time he needs to pull away. Daken pauses a hairsbreadth away from his neck, so close he can smell the sharp tang of man and the sweet sharp scent of his cologne on top of it. He shivers. Looks up again. Makes a show of swallowing his nerves. Looks back down at the blonde’s neck. Breaths out. Slowly closes that tiny distance between them. Licks a stripe up his neck. Up the vein. Past the hollow at the top of it. And tentatively takes the lobe of the blonde’s ear into his mouth.

“Much,” his voice comes out in a rush of hot air against the blonde, sounding thoroughly wrecked and desperate, that little bit between just enough and too much and not quite enough at all.

They’re chest to chest, and Daken goes back to kissing the blonde’s neck. Nibbling. Sucking. Licking. Biting. He can feel the blonde trembling beneath the assault. Against the sensory overload, and the blonde—the blonde still hasn’t done anything.

His hands keep making these aborted gestures over Daken’s body. Lingering above his shoulders like they’re about to touch before gliding down his spine to rest just above his hips only to at the last second pull back completely and lay twitching mutely at his sides. So close to what he wants and nowhere near close enough at all.

It’s enough to make Daken scream, and he does, the vibration of it echoing in the shiver running through the blonde’s body and Daken pulls back, serving one last harsh bite in retaliation before stopping his assault completely.

“Still not saying anything?” He pretends to be teasing, joking, playful, but he’s not. He’s pissed. He's dead serious. He wants the blonde to do something. Say something. Anything. He needs to know where he stands, because he knows the blonde’s into him. He can feel how into him he is against his hip, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get laid. It just means he’s hot as fuck and next to irresistible.

The blonde stares blankly at him, a rosy flush running from his cheeks down his neck and past the hem of the shirt that’s definitely a couple sizes too small. He looks like the kind of guy looking to get laid, but maybe he’s just not the kind of guy who’d been looking to get laid by well… a guy. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But if he would just say something. If he could just say in a fumbling hypermasculine and totally heterosexual way "Oh I don't do this" or "I'm not gay" Daken could work with him, ease him into it saying, "No one's paying attention Blondie", "Darling, a little drunk fun never hurt anybody", "Everyone's a little gay". He's dealt with stiffer pricks.

But this radio silence, this hot mess of quiet desire, this he doesn't know how to deal with. He needs his prey open, responsive. Receptive. He's used to getting what he wants.

"What?" He says drily, "do you not speak English?" Daken laughs and its a pleasant sound, pleasant like a Siren’s song, full of double meaning and dark tumultuous seduction. He's pissed and horny and he's taking it out on him, "Mein süß, sprechen Sie Deutsch?" His voice is still velvet, but this time it's sharp too, mocking, beautiful like a blade.

The blonde blinks down at him, eyes suddenly glued to his and shit Daken knows that look—

"Ja, ich kann," the blonde smirks, he smirks and it does things to Daken's body, bad things, bad, terribly, horribly good things, because suddenly what was this quivering blonde mess is confident and Daken's not too sure he knows what to do with this either. "But I know English too." He grins and it’s bright and unabashed and completely unscripted. It’s beautiful in a dangerous way, because Daken’s not used to being unguarded, not used to people wearing their hearts on their sleeve. “’m Johnny.”

“Oh,” Daken knows he’s been caught off guard. He knows Johnny knows it too by the way his smile broadens the longer Daken remains silent. He has to get this back under control. He doesn’t like things being out of his control.

Daken schools his expression into one of sly indifference, “oh,” he says again. Daken looks at him cooly, “Daken.” He hadn’t planned on telling him his name. For that matter he hadn’t planned on finding out Johnny’s but the game’s always changing, evolving. It’s what makes it attractive.

Johnny laughs, and it sounds like nothing Daken’s ever heard before. Like a sudden burst of sunlight, and it sets a fire in his veins.

“Daken?” Johnny says, still laughing with his eyes, “that doesn’t sound German.”

Daken shrugs, some of the tension leaving his body. It’s his play. The ball’s back in his court. “I’m not German.”

He could’ve said more. Could’ve talked about his fucked up family: the daddy that doesn’t want him, the sister who’s daddy’s perfect little clone, the brother that’s probably more fucked up than he is. He could’ve lied too. Said it was German. Said he was too. He knows he doesn’t look it, but then again he doesn’t look very Japanese either, he could’ve gotten away with it.

But he doesn’t. Daken doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to delve into why it is he doesn't feel a need to spin some fantastic story about his life so he doesn’t think about it. Pushes it to the side. Tricks himself into thinking it’s because he wants to seem “mysterious”. It almost works.

Johnny looks like he wants to ask about it. He can see the question on the tip of his tongue and Daken holds his breath. He doesn’t know if he wants Johnny to ask. He doesn’t know if he doesn’t want him to either, and the anticipation … it’s electric. Like lava in his bones.

Johnny closes his mouth and Daken pushes that little ball of feeling that sorely resembles disappointment right next to that little feeling that told him not to lie. He’ll deal with it later. He knows he’s lying about that too.

“You got a place nearby?” Johnny asks instead, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against Daken’s hips, and when did that happen? Not that he particularly minds that Johnny finally stopped being such a fucking girl and touched him, but Daken’s usually aware of these things.

Daken smirks and nods. “Yeah, not too far. You can’t imagine how much of a bitch designer is to replace.”

Johnny snorts. “You sound like my sister’s bratty socialite friends.”

If Daken were another man he might have let it slip on his face how much those words surprised him. Instead, he takes out his flask of whiskey and takes a calculated sip, offering it out to Johnny when he’s done. “I hope that’s not a bad thing,” Daken says.

Johnny eyes the proffered flask for a moment and shakes his head “No.”

“No?” Daken raises a brow.

“No it’s not a bad thing, and no to whatever’s in that,” Johnny says gesturing to the flask, “thank you though.” Such a girl.

Daken shrugs and puts the flask away. “It was whiskey by the way. Macallan 1946. Very expensive.”

Johnny scoffs. “I know.”

“You know?”

Johnny rolls his eyes and on anyone else it might have looked at least somewhat condescending but on him it just seemed like an over exaggerated pout. “I know what Macallan is. Goes for like five hundred grand right?”

“It’s four sixty give or take but that’s beside the point,” Daken pauses and looks Johnny over again, “aren’t you just full of surprises,” he murmurs.

Johnny coughs, and Daken can see a new blush running up his cheeks, “We uh, going to your place?” Subject change. Daken can roll with that.

“If you’re still up for it.” A challenge.

Johnny smirks and Daken shivers. That damn smirk should be illegal, “Oh, I’m definitely up for it.”

Daken huffs out a laugh, and his grin turns feral at the confirmation. “Well it would be rude of me to keep you waiting.”

Johnny nods in agreement, hands shifting on his waist and traveling just that little bit lower. “It would.”

“I should really get to it then hmm?”

“You should.”

“Well," Daken steps back, and has to stifle a laugh at the face Johnny makes when he pulls away. He tilts his head to the side. "After you.”