Fic - Play the Cards with Spades to Start
Title: Play the Cards with Spades to Start (oneshot - 1065 words)
Pairing: technically none, but... yeah. You'll see. XD
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Warnings: Some... implied dirty dancing? And I swear that's not a pun. o_O
Setting: ... the__digiverse, currently. Only this is a side-thing I wrote out on a whim and not sure will ever happen, but heh. I vent.
Dedication: To the other player. XD Not saying who cuz that would spoil the beginning.
Living in my exam-ridden hole I heard this song a while ago and saw this unfold in front of my eyes. I blame the other player entirely. <3
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There's a song for every thought, they say. And every thought reflects in one's eyes. And when the music's too loud, and the eyes are all you can use to convey meanings, they can speak louder than words. They come alive with the song.
Takeru gets up. Not really seduced, but intrigued. He knows Hikari's silently watching him, alert, if not disapproving, as he leaves her and Miyako to whisper between themselves in the booth. But this is just a little game. This is just a little fun. He knows not to fall for those eyes calling him. But tonight it's not about falling in love. Those eyes don't see love the way he does, the line they draw underneath it is not a line at all, but an abstract pattern; in takes context to understand, context that changes. Changes like the changing lights in the club tonight.
The song has a swaying beat to it, and those eyes move deeper into the dancing crowd, where, ironically, surrounded by so many people, they can hide, together. And Takeru follows. A purple light spills and engulfs him, catching the still teen-smooth lines of his face. He doesn't blink, not even when those deep transfixing eyes do. They close and the hair, that long, loosely tied hair, is tossed, once, right when the beat breaks loose. Blue eyes watch; down the line of that pale exposed neck, take in that deep purple button-up hugging to perfection, loose themselves somewhere along the line of those hips-hugging black jeans.
It's a heart-breaker song. Meant to heal a broken heart by the means of deception. Can't read my, can't read my- no you can't read my poker face.
But that's the beauty of it, Takeru thinks, when Ken's hand is on his hip again, just like that night on the beach when they kissed. Lost it, more likely - but not really. They were aware of it, conscious and challenged. Another never-ever come true, yes, but the future is fleeting, unsure, unbound. And every word ending in 'ever' is a blank promise that nobody can stand by in the end. It's all about letting go, shedding what hurts like a used skin and reaching out for something new. For the inviting arms that hold no love. Because love hurts. Love has a poker face.
A slight sway forward and they're aligned. It's easy moving like this; hands sliding up sides that have muscle ripple underneath the thin cloth and taut pale skin. Hands move up his arms now, leaving goosebumps because they're cold, no matter the suffocating heat of the club. They feel wonderful, sky-blue eyes flutter closed as they caress the back of his neck, just grazing, digging up into the fine blond hair at his nape. Because that's not the first time they've done it, they know it'll make him swallow and melt forward, wanting back the feeling from back then, from the beach... but the song is too young, too demanding - it wants to be danced. It's in his veins now, heart pumping with the sultry beat.
A bump of hips, a hand sliding down an arching back, breath shortening but they can't stop. Dancing is like sex but with clothes on, he suddenly thinks. It's a dare, it's a gamble; 'can you keep up?' Russian roulette is not the same without a gun - Ken's hips are pressed to his, when did their thighs intertwine? - and baby when it's love, if it's not rough it isn't fun.
What is it, Takeru wonders, about Ken that makes him want to show him who's got the reigns? Is it the fact that he knows the other would never submit? And why this song?
All the answers lay in those dark eyes as they look into his, from inches apart. They're heavy-lidded, sure and unswayed, lucid. It's all pondered. It's all about about fun. It's all about them. It doesn't have to be for a reason Takeru can understand, when he can feel it. He can't resist something he doesn't know if he wants or not, so he doesn't. He reaches and pulls those long violet locks free instead - because this is something he does know he wants. He also lets his lips graze up one pale lobe that they frame. He wants to whisper something, but he's got nothing to say, for once. So he bites instead.
Suddenly the older boy turns in his arms, pressing back instead. It's like submission, like riding back onto him, but so fake. The blond lets him play it out though, it was his move anyway. I'll get him hot, show him what I've got. It's like a mantra, it's like an empty promise with a lesson to learn.
The music plays up and they move, riding a wave, pressed together. It makes no sense figuring out who's starting and who's just playing along. There's a paradox in wanting to do it, because he's not sure, with Ken he's never sure why. He knows there's no reason he can give when the song ends and when Hikari, just like living conscience, will wonder why had he gotten up to follow in the first place. It's a question he can only answer with questions. Because Ken is an enigma. Kenigma. A poker face you can't read. So he reads what he can; the body language.
A hand's on his thigh, and he presses closer, holding on. He rides the song with him, for him, till the very and, till when Ken turns again, an amethyst spill all over them and latches around his neck, curving close. And Takeru thinks it's coming, that kiss he's gotten all those days back. But he's wrong. There's nothing but a soft mysterious smile on that pale face.
Poker face.
No, he can't read that poker face.
Nevertheless, it's a game two can play. So he leans closer and steals. It's not seductive, it's not meant to enchant. It's the touch of lips of two people that belong to no one but themselves. And while the music's still low, Takeru draws back, an appreciative smirk curving his slightly bitten lips.
“That was fun,” he says.
They let go and walk back to where questioning looks greet them, without touching, as though a switch had been flipped; reasons and thoughts concealed behind aloof, content smiles.
End. Or is it?
Hahah. Humor me people. I find them flirting amusing, sorry? And yes Michelle, that was for you. Come, have a complementary cocktail with me now or something. *eyebrow-wag*
Also. People, mail submissions for the contest! Draw, write! What are you waiting for?
Pairing: technically none, but... yeah. You'll see. XD
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Warnings: Some... implied dirty dancing? And I swear that's not a pun. o_O
Setting: ... the__digiverse, currently. Only this is a side-thing I wrote out on a whim and not sure will ever happen, but heh. I vent.
Dedication: To the other player. XD Not saying who cuz that would spoil the beginning.
Living in my exam-ridden hole I heard this song a while ago and saw this unfold in front of my eyes. I blame the other player entirely. <3
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There's a song for every thought, they say. And every thought reflects in one's eyes. And when the music's too loud, and the eyes are all you can use to convey meanings, they can speak louder than words. They come alive with the song.
Takeru gets up. Not really seduced, but intrigued. He knows Hikari's silently watching him, alert, if not disapproving, as he leaves her and Miyako to whisper between themselves in the booth. But this is just a little game. This is just a little fun. He knows not to fall for those eyes calling him. But tonight it's not about falling in love. Those eyes don't see love the way he does, the line they draw underneath it is not a line at all, but an abstract pattern; in takes context to understand, context that changes. Changes like the changing lights in the club tonight.
The song has a swaying beat to it, and those eyes move deeper into the dancing crowd, where, ironically, surrounded by so many people, they can hide, together. And Takeru follows. A purple light spills and engulfs him, catching the still teen-smooth lines of his face. He doesn't blink, not even when those deep transfixing eyes do. They close and the hair, that long, loosely tied hair, is tossed, once, right when the beat breaks loose. Blue eyes watch; down the line of that pale exposed neck, take in that deep purple button-up hugging to perfection, loose themselves somewhere along the line of those hips-hugging black jeans.
It's a heart-breaker song. Meant to heal a broken heart by the means of deception. Can't read my, can't read my- no you can't read my poker face.
But that's the beauty of it, Takeru thinks, when Ken's hand is on his hip again, just like that night on the beach when they kissed. Lost it, more likely - but not really. They were aware of it, conscious and challenged. Another never-ever come true, yes, but the future is fleeting, unsure, unbound. And every word ending in 'ever' is a blank promise that nobody can stand by in the end. It's all about letting go, shedding what hurts like a used skin and reaching out for something new. For the inviting arms that hold no love. Because love hurts. Love has a poker face.
A slight sway forward and they're aligned. It's easy moving like this; hands sliding up sides that have muscle ripple underneath the thin cloth and taut pale skin. Hands move up his arms now, leaving goosebumps because they're cold, no matter the suffocating heat of the club. They feel wonderful, sky-blue eyes flutter closed as they caress the back of his neck, just grazing, digging up into the fine blond hair at his nape. Because that's not the first time they've done it, they know it'll make him swallow and melt forward, wanting back the feeling from back then, from the beach... but the song is too young, too demanding - it wants to be danced. It's in his veins now, heart pumping with the sultry beat.
A bump of hips, a hand sliding down an arching back, breath shortening but they can't stop. Dancing is like sex but with clothes on, he suddenly thinks. It's a dare, it's a gamble; 'can you keep up?' Russian roulette is not the same without a gun - Ken's hips are pressed to his, when did their thighs intertwine? - and baby when it's love, if it's not rough it isn't fun.
What is it, Takeru wonders, about Ken that makes him want to show him who's got the reigns? Is it the fact that he knows the other would never submit? And why this song?
All the answers lay in those dark eyes as they look into his, from inches apart. They're heavy-lidded, sure and unswayed, lucid. It's all pondered. It's all about about fun. It's all about them. It doesn't have to be for a reason Takeru can understand, when he can feel it. He can't resist something he doesn't know if he wants or not, so he doesn't. He reaches and pulls those long violet locks free instead - because this is something he does know he wants. He also lets his lips graze up one pale lobe that they frame. He wants to whisper something, but he's got nothing to say, for once. So he bites instead.
Suddenly the older boy turns in his arms, pressing back instead. It's like submission, like riding back onto him, but so fake. The blond lets him play it out though, it was his move anyway. I'll get him hot, show him what I've got. It's like a mantra, it's like an empty promise with a lesson to learn.
The music plays up and they move, riding a wave, pressed together. It makes no sense figuring out who's starting and who's just playing along. There's a paradox in wanting to do it, because he's not sure, with Ken he's never sure why. He knows there's no reason he can give when the song ends and when Hikari, just like living conscience, will wonder why had he gotten up to follow in the first place. It's a question he can only answer with questions. Because Ken is an enigma. Kenigma. A poker face you can't read. So he reads what he can; the body language.
A hand's on his thigh, and he presses closer, holding on. He rides the song with him, for him, till the very and, till when Ken turns again, an amethyst spill all over them and latches around his neck, curving close. And Takeru thinks it's coming, that kiss he's gotten all those days back. But he's wrong. There's nothing but a soft mysterious smile on that pale face.
Poker face.
No, he can't read that poker face.
Nevertheless, it's a game two can play. So he leans closer and steals. It's not seductive, it's not meant to enchant. It's the touch of lips of two people that belong to no one but themselves. And while the music's still low, Takeru draws back, an appreciative smirk curving his slightly bitten lips.
“That was fun,” he says.
They let go and walk back to where questioning looks greet them, without touching, as though a switch had been flipped; reasons and thoughts concealed behind aloof, content smiles.
End. Or is it?
Hahah. Humor me people. I find them flirting amusing, sorry? And yes Michelle, that was for you. Come, have a complementary cocktail with me now or something. *eyebrow-wag*
Also. People, mail submissions for the contest! Draw, write! What are you waiting for?