Without Merit
Without Merit
Kyouya/Haruhi
rated R
6119 words
Kyouya calls in all debts. Written for the springkink prompt - Ouran, Kyoya/Haruhi: dubcon, blackmail - 'Time's up.'
There are small references to parts of the entire anime, so possible spoiler warning? Also, I'm still paddling about the shallow end of the pool when it comes to Ouran fic, but I hope you enjoy. <3
What Haruhi didn’t understand was that not everything Kyouya did had merit. Just, everything he did had the appearance of merit should he be called on it.
Haruhi tended to call him on it.
*
“It’s interesting how you’ve changed, Haruhi, thinking back to the day you first entered our music room.”
Haruhi glanced over, her arms resting across her thighs, hands dangling at her knees. Leaning so far forward, Kyouya couldn’t even see her glance but for the way the hair by her ear shifted with the movement.
She asked, “Why do I think somewhere in this conversation you are going to offer me some sort of compliment, the price of which will be added to my debt?”
Kyouya smiled, small. Without the benefit of bits of hair by ears to give away hidden expressions, Haruhi missed it. “I was thinking of giving you advice instead of a compliment, actually.”
Haruhi sat up at this, shoulders snapping back until they were resting against the crimson fabric of the couch, now parallel with Kyouya. “The price tag on that, Senpai-”
“To prevent students from padding their transcripts without proper effort, the Academy has certain time constraints on clubs,” he began, calmly speaking over Haruhi’s attempt at banter. “A student must be a participant in an extracurricular activity for three consecutive terms before it will be officially listed. You have not been a member for three terms.”
“Ah, well...” Kyouya watched her hair spread across her forehead this time with her head tilt. He often thought, in times of late phone calls from Tamaki about the truly stressful situation of having a daughter dressed as a male, that this shorter haircut suited Haruhi. The abomination of a style she had been wearing at their first encounter completely aside, of course. She was looking at him with puzzlement.
“Haruhi, have you ever considered what having this club on your transcript would do for your chances of being accepted into law?”
The tiny twitch in her mouth and her eyes pulling away suggested that, yes, actually, she had been thinking on it. “If you of all people don’t mind it on yours...”
Kyouya made a point of laughing. “Haruhi, the universities don’t look at my records past my surname.”
Haruhi’s eyeroll said better than any words could have just what she thought about that.
“There is a few weeks left to term. Your window of opportunity is shrinking.”
Haruhi made a complicated hand gesture that didn’t match her flat expression. “Are you forgetting? I’m not exactly a member by choice. Weren’t you the one asking if I had my passport in order? Your family-”
Again, laughter. “Yes. My family.” He slid his glasses back into place, making sure they were tight across the bridge of his nose and the glare of the light was sufficient. “My father has... I suppose he is intrigued, however mildly, since your outburst at the festival.”
Haruhi had her head tilted so far now, curiously, that Kyouya couldn’t track the quick slide of her hair. It brushed her eyelashes as she blinked rapidly, mind quickly trying to sort out where he was leading the conversation. And since, as a rule, he was less than fond of Haruhi trying to figure him out, he proposed quickly and bluntly.
“Because of his intrigue, it would be to my advantage, and hardly to your disadvantage, to have you in my company from time to time. You would be compensated for this time, naturally.”
“But-”
“Your debt could be gone before the end of term. Whether you stayed or not,” he added, not sure but entertaining the possibility she may want to, “it would not be an official membership. No record. Consider it, Haruhi.”
*
Personal information, backgrounds, little tidbits that could later be used to surprise Kyouya (except not, because he already knew them) were good things to collect and record. He had numerous resources and contacts for any number of things, but at a young age he soon realised that any inquiry or request made to his father’s company was inevitably reported to his father.
Therefore, at a young age, Kyouya learned to circumvent.
The simplest form, he found, was not to actually search, but rather to observe. Two years in the Host Club had allowed for some fairly comprehensive data.
Kyouya knew this: when presented with a dilemma, there were always tell tale signs.
Little observation was required for Tamaki; his beloved Antoinette even knew when he was upset. Tamaki would sulk, and protest, and sometimes grow fungi in dark corners.
To spot Kaoru sorting through a dilemma, watch for the times he would fall half a step behind the verbal play work infamous of the Hitachiin brothers. For Hikaru, watch for the picked fights with the person he was confused with. (His English teacher was constantly abused.)
In dark and tricky times, Mori followed Hunni about that much closer, grounding himself to the parts that made sense. Hunni just ate more cake.
Haruhi... Kyouya was finding it difficult to define her state of contemplation. Haruhi was a person almost always in a state of contemplation. There were degrees, of course, to her musings, but even these were hard to distinguish.
Unless, perhaps, one had been observing her for nearly a year.
Haruhi had a dilemma, and she was considering her options with enough effort and energy that she didn’t even make a comment to the twins when they moaned about newspapers being a waste of time and money because you just looked up the news on your palm pilot, right?
In the corner, after club activities, Kyouya typed away. His current calculations gave her three days.
*
“The vase was yours, right?”
Hikaru glanced at her, fingertips paused along Kaoru’s jaw. One of the girls at the tea table was nearly catatonic with glee. “Vase?”
“That I broke.”
“Yes,” said Kaoru, sensing something his twin always failed to sense. He gently pulled Hikaru’s fingers away and looked at Haruhi fully, completely. “We were donating it.”
“So... Couldn’t you forgive me for...” She didn’t continue.
Across the room, Kyouya hunched himself slightly, so his smile would not be seen above his laptop screen. The twins were waiting, but Haruhi only said, “Never mind,” with the deepest of sighs.
Kaoru met Kyouya’s eyes. Eyebrows drawn in confusion, Kaoru missed Hikaru’s laughing remark, and stumbled a reply a second late.
*
“-her mother’s shrine, and so much incense, it smells almost awful, poor Kotoko-”
Kyouya moved the receiver to his other ear and said, “Is that so, Ranka-san?”
*
Day two and Haruhi shuffled over to Kyouya after club hours. She was smaller than usual; hunched in on herself, knitted vest swallowing her in the way her tie and jacket never managed. He considered, briefly, allowing her the dignity of defeat, but instead watched her calmly. She would have to say it.
Fists clenched, hair pushed to either side of her forehead so her lowered eyebrows could be easily seen, Haruhi took a deep breath.
“What do you want me to do?”
Here he could prolong it further and pretend he didn’t understand her question, but that would be unbecoming.
“Think of it as after-hour designations,” he told her, fingers clasped together. The more he looked at her, the tighter her shoulders were becoming. She was agitated in a way that would never do. Sighing, he pushed at his glasses. “Haruhi. There are worse hosts to have calling on you.”
He let that sink in. That was an image not quite worth thinking on. Endless cake parties with Hunni. Dress up with the twins. Anything with the twins, actually. And Tamaki...
“I’ve already spoken with your father,” he continued, not cruel enough to leave her thinking for long. “Your extended time away from home will not be an issue.”
This caused her to unwind. Unravel. Her hair in her eyes again, curling. “What do you mean? How did you know I would agree with you? How did you-”
“It’s as they say, Haruhi. You never put a witness on the stand unless you know what they are going to say.”
*
She stared straight ahead, eyes not wandering or wavering. He wondered if she simply didn’t care or if she didn’t want to seem actually interested in the sprawling mansion they walked up to.
Maybe she felt his smirk, maybe she knew him that well. She scowled, which was not very impressive, and muttered her way up the front stairs not so quietly.
“You can hardly call me a rich bastard, Haruhi,” he answered. “I assure you I’m legitimate.”
*
His brother gave him a mild stare, which in Ohtori language translated something akin to Tamaki’s jawdrop.
“Miss Fujioka,” Kyouya introduced, one-sidedly. If his brother noticed (there was no way he couldn’t) his own lack of introduction, he made no comment on it. He nodded, politely, to Haruhi, and shifted his stare back to his younger brother.
It was a mark of Kyouya’s current achievement, he would later reflect, that the appearance of a boyish scholarship girl in the Ohtori mansion was not met with a what are you thinking stare, but rather an hm, what are you thinking stare.
That ‘hm’ was the difference between dismissal and the frustrating question of how did this unremarkable girl have any merit at all to my brother Kyouya, because clearly she must?
His hand on her arm lead her to his own bedroom, which wasn’t a bedroom so much as a suite with a bed tucked high and far away. One couldn’t even see the bed from the table she and he sat at, a fact that would calm Ranka Fujioka when he no doubt curiously and gleefully drilled his daughter on her evening out.
“I usually complete my homework here, but I’ve sent for some tea and-”
“Oh, good,” said Haruhi, digging in her school bag. “I find it hard, sometimes, when club runs late. I don’t get in as much studying as I’d like.” She had three textbooks pulled out, her thumb already clicking the lead of her pencil down.
“Do you think it’s fair that you work while I’m designating you?”
He hadn’t quite answered her what do you want me to do question. Vague answers were helpful later on when strategy needed to be changed, as it often did with Haruhi. He wanted her company for the sake of the dance he and his father were in, but also...
Yet she almost looked surprised at his question, and Kyouya had to tighten his teeth, slightly, to make sure his lips didn’t try to smile. “What do you do when you’re designated?” she asked.
When one of the maids quietly brought the tea in, they’d both had the time to recall the girls that do designate him, following him around like a trail of ducklings as he took notes and observed club proceedings.
The tea went cold somewhere between Swift’s satire and graphing economic curves. There were no upright stalks floating in either cup.
*
“Is it strange?” Haruhi asked one day, hands on her knees, sitting quite calmly on the far side of the seat. She startled him, somewhat, his attention previously on whether she’d fiddle with the door switches. Tamaki did, always.
He made a small please continue noise, politely turned to her.
“Is it strange,” she repeated, “that we study in your room?”
“Where do you study?”
Promptly, she answered, “At school.” She shrugged, maybe smiling. “Sometimes at home, but Dad’s usually asleep on the futon.”
“I study in my bedroom.” Then, in case her concern was elsewhere, he added, “You’ve been in Tamaki’s bedroom before...” (Also in Kyouya’s bedroom in his beach house, but that would little serve this argument.)
Haruhi leaned back, folded her arms. Her frown was quite wry. “He was sick. We were all there.” He didn’t answer her, didn’t disagree, and in a moment she reached over and gently pressed the switch on the door that lowered her window. She held it until it was half way down, then reversed it until it was closed again.
“This ride to your house is costing me, isn’t it? Would I be better off walking? Or would the extra time it took to walk not outweigh the extra designation time? I’m sure you’ve done the math.”
He had.
*
He hadn’t been summoned to his father’s study since before middle school. The last time he could consciously remember, his feet hadn’t touched the floor when he sat in the chair opposite. He could remember the feel of sweat behind his knobby knees on the leather seat, gazing over at his father, and hoping he wouldn’t have to speak because his mouth had turned so very dry.
He leaned on that same chair, now. Not quite casually, just a hand on its back, nodding politely to his father. An I don’t have much time, I’m afraid, but please continue pose, which was a tad daring, Kyouya would admit.
His father didn’t look up from his notes, pen scrawling.
“Fujioka.”
“Yes.”
His pen almost paused. “Law, I heard.”
“I believe so,” Kyouya said cautiously, but without letting caution creep into his voice. “After her mother.”
“Very good.”
Kyouya closed the door quietly behind him. The walk to his bedroom, where he had left Haruhi, was no where near long enough. He wondered if Haruhi would be curious about his father’s summons. Tamaki would outright ask, but Haruhi had been raised to be polite, even if she was (unconsciously) appallingly rude sometimes.
Whether Haruhi was curious or would be brazen enough to enquire about it, Kyouya would never know. When he entered his room the look she sent him was, if he had to categorise it in his table of Haruhi expressions, quite similar to the one her face took on when experiencing a Tamaki death grip.
Kyouya had suffered through numerous of those ‘friendly embraces’ when first meeting Tamaki. In France, clearly hugging someone detailed pouncing on them and clinging. Being less sturdy than himself, Haurhi was often treated to a reverse embrace, where Tamaki would grab her off her feet, spin her around, and generally make a fool of himself.
Usually that look was sent towards Mori. It was a bit strange to be on the receiving end of a please help me stare. Kyouya walked over and gently placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder.
She turned her head, smiled at him, and continued without a break in the one-sided conversation. “We’ve tried all of the shops along here, but most recently we bought some night oden in the district here, so now we want to look for comparisons-”
Kyouya had never actually seen his sister and Tamaki’s map of commoner eateries until this moment. It was remarkably organised - colour coding, ranking system, pricing...
“What do you think, Haruhi-chan?”
“I’m afraid I’m not... We mostly buy from the grocery store,” Haruhi admitted, looking to Kyouya again.
“Fuyumi.”
“Ah? Oh, Kyouya, I was asking about some-”
“Don’t spy for Tamaki,” he said with a deliberate sigh. He had no reason to believe that was her intention, but it would be the outcome nevertheless when Tamaki next saw her. His sister huffed like someone half her age, but stood gracefully and made a polite farewell to Haurhi.
Haruhi immediately returned to her books, not watching Fuyumi lean over and whisper, “Your girlfriend is very cute, ne?”
His own pencil in hand, his own book open, his own glasses slid down his nose low enough that he could glance at Haruhi without her noticing. Haruhi certainly wasn’t his girlfriend, and she wasn’t quite ‘cute’ either.
It had taken some time but eventually they all looked at Haruhi quite differently than that first day she stumbled into the music room. Affection, desire, protectiveness... It wasn’t because of her looks, especially with that stubborn hair slipping right there and his fingers nearly twitched with the need to tuck it behind an ear so it would stay in place.
There would always be an appeal in the Other. When one could buy anything, of course one would race towards something unique, even if more practical, beautiful, and accessible things were within closer range. With so many interested parties, it was less of a race and more of a competition.
Needless to say, Kyouya liked to win. He just hadn’t decided whether to enter.
*
“I’m trying to find the exact moment,” Haruhi murmured later that week, flipping through pages rapidly, “where she made the conscious decision to become a commodity. She knew what she was doing, don’t you think?”
Sometimes Kyouya’s silences were words themselves. He might have raised his eyebrow, had Haruhi paused any longer, but as it was, she continued on, not meeting his eyes.
“She gave in to him in the end, and not out of love, I think. She’s supposedly the epitome of morality, but...,” Haruhi sighed. Kyouya tilted his head, glanced at the title of the heavy English novel she was scanning.
“I believe it’s how she gives in that’s important. She set rules and demands that were far beyond her station; she was a commoner, after all.” A smile here that Haruhi forgets to share. “But Miss Andrews’ morality is neither here nor there. You’re missing Richardson’s point.”
“And what’s his point?”
“Everyone has a price.”
*
He thought about Tamaki’s grandmother - prim and proper and in her kimono, glaring disgustedly down at her grandson. Tamaki’s ownership of the Suoh’s heritage was more tangled than Kyouya’s to the Ohtori’s most of the time. It would become a choice, eventually. And between his grandmother and Haruhi, Tamaki would pick...
Kyouya was helping a friend.
Hikaru’s infatuation with Haruhi would only go unnoticed for so long. Kaoru knew already. And when Tamaki realised...
He couldn’t forget the budgets. Haruhi pulled in a surprising amount of business. Yet Tamaki’s desire to keep her happy and his fascination with any off-hand commoner comments, made for some truly ridiculous (and expensive) adventures. The hassle over her almost took out more money than she put in.
Kyouya thought about his father looking at her, contemplatively. He thought about the increase of days he was home on time, since Haruhi spent her afternoons at the Ohtori home. He thought about that afternoon in his father’s office.
But mostly, Kyouya thought about the quiet, fond way that Haruhi gazed at Tamaki when he wasn’t looking. The sort of look that had nothing to do with merit. The sort of look that went unnoticed by nearly everyone, including Haruhi herself.
And he thought about that time Haruhi said, “You said ‘there’s not an inch of similarity between you two’, except...” And he wondered how far she thought that held true.
*
“I’m curious for your opinions.”
Ranka had wanted him over for dinner, but Kyouya had been... hesitant. He was clever and experienced and it was unusual for him to be hesitant, but... fathers had a way when it came to daughters. Kyouya didn’t appreciate the odds.
Dinner at the Fujiokas meant Haruhi in the kitchen cooking while Ranka interrogated him about various subjects which he could answer smoothly and charismatically, unless something went wrong.
Renegotiate.
He brought dinner instead - oden. (His sister had forwarded the address.) No alone time with Ranka, no questions posed that Haruhi couldn’t cut in and answer herself (which she mostly did), and the opportunity to control the situation with a simple, “I’m curious for your opinions.”
“Tastes fine,” Haruhi murmured.
“There are better,” Ranka mused. “This Tamaki is quite moronic if he thinks this is the best oden in town, hm?”
They laughed about Tamaki for some time, enough that the poor boy was probably sneezing quite profusely wherever he was that evening. They laughed until Haruhi stood, played gracious hostess, and went to make some tea.
Ranka’s smile slipped into a frown so seamlessly it looked like his lips had melted.
“I may dress as a woman, but I am that girl’s father,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I am her father,” whispered. Kyouya distantly wondered how long it had taken Ranka to learn the art of threatening someone even when, especially when, there was nothing overtly threatening in what they were saying.
“... Of course.”
*
“And my youngest son,” his father gestured, the group of mingling adults acknowledged him politely; nods from the men, smiles from the women linked in their arms. Kyouya quickly scanned the faces, noting who they were, how they should be approached. Though the superintendent was absent, most of the board of directors for Ouran Academy were clustered there together.
“Kyouya, we were hoping you could shed some light onto something for us. Suoh is being so vague about the whole thing. But you’re close to this, right?”
There was a pause, which Kyouya filled by tilting his head and keeping a calm, pleasant expression on his face that was surely encouraging them to point where light needed to be shed.
“Fujioka is female,” one of the women said, not with disapproval.
“I believe Fujioka,” Kyouya smiled, “is rather indifferent to how she is perceived when it comes to gender.”
A man tsked, frowning. “Some of the girls... They’ll grow fond of her.” Only the greying, slightly beer-bellied owner of half the country’s dairy plants, could say ‘fond’ and mean ‘lust over’. “Completely inappropriate. Why Suoh doesn’t-”
“Perhaps the superintendent realises that as a boy, she is unattainable. As a girl, the male students may become fond of her just the same.” Kyouya shrugged, delicately. “The male students may find her somewhat more attainable.”
“Good Lord, remember the uproar a few years ago when Kiro from class A eloped with Ichira from class D? Can you imagine in this case...”
“Head of her class, conscientious, excellent social ties,” here the woman glanced at Kyouya, “if not familial ones. I think it might be best she’s unattainable.”
The group laughed, tittered. Moved on to other subjects. His father looked at him with scrutiny.
He was not frowning.
*
And then there was that day.
“Haruhi. It’s the end of term tomorrow.” He couldn’t read her expression as she slid her fingers into her book to keep its page. She had to have been keeping note of the dates. He continued, “You still have nearly ten percent of your original debt to pay. I could designate you for the entire next twenty-four hours and the numbers wouldn’t work. Time’s up.”
He had planned numerous counterarguments to anything she might say at this point. They waited, edge of his tongue, ready to spring into logical execution.
“Then what is your proposal?” she said. There was no counterargument to this, though he had anticipated it. Haruhi had decided to waive her right to reading arguments A, B, and C and go straight to proposed resolution D.
Resolution D came with many forms of proposal, too. Up until the last moment, Kyouya had thought he would slyly murmur, if you recall, there was once a different form of payment... (and Tamaki would say, So bold!, and probably scowl because it was boldness to Haruhi.) But here, now, the words didn’t come.
Instead he reached a hand across the kotatsu and tucked that arrant curl of hair behind her ear. Fingers traced down the slope of her jaw, stopping with his thumb at her chin, his smallest finger at the joint of ear, jaw and neck. There must have been something strangely intimate in the gesture, or maybe Haruhi just realised where exactly Kyouya’s thoughts were, because she blushed, barely.
She hadn’t, before. For the first while Kyouya had been more than vigilant in his observations of Haruhi, ready to record all of the moments her gender might be revealed. But Haruhi didn’t blush like a girl. Flirtatious moments, embarrassing moments, even that one time he had actually reduced her debt by a third just because he wanted to see her cheeks flood with red. But even kissing another girl hadn’t brought it on. The closest he had come to seeing it was when she laughed herself silly at something, and her whole face would flush. Not a blush, but at least he could imagine how it would look on her.
Faint, pink, brushed across the height of her cheekbones and burning slightly brighter around her ears.
“Senpai,” she began, but Kyouya’s fingers tightened along her face, and he moved far enough forward his own legs were unbent.
“And before you ask, sometimes the merit involved? Is simply not your business.”
He kissed her chastely. A kiss no one would be upset over. Except maybe Haruhi.
She shoved at him, and her eyes blinked widely, as if she were surprised by her actions. As if she weren’t sure how he got from his lips against hers to an arm’s length away.
He could almost see the You wouldn’t do that on her tongue, but she couldn’t speak the words. Because this time, this time, Kyouya would.
He caught her jaw again, turning it to face him. “Make your own decision, Haruhi. What has more merit to you? This,” which meant this moment, this room, this heartbeat he could feel under his fingers as it pumped up her throat, “or law school.”
When he tugged her to her feet, her fingers slipped from her book and the pages fell heavily closed. Her page was lost. Her footing was lost, too, as he pulled her towards the stairs in his bedroom.
Fingers cupping her face, lips close to hers, on hers, distracting hers. Kyouya waltzed her backwards and stumbling up the stairs.
Her legs caught at the edge of his bed and she sat down harshly.
When she didn’t take the hint and move back, he clasped her by her shoulders and moved her himself. So much time was spent in slender blue jackets, and Kyouya certainly didn’t practice kendo. One forgot that behind clothing and glasses and laptop, Kyouya could hold his own. Even with her bones rigid, muscles tight, body resisting, he easily manoeuvred her to the centre and climbed up with her.
She had abandoned her jacket earlier in the study session, tie loosened but not removed. He took the time to undo the knot, just to observe her expression (the near blush again) and her small noise of protest.
“Why?” She asked him, even as he dropped the length of tie over the side of the bed and worked on his own. Even as he leaned forward to keep her quiet, mouth to hers, not so chaste now. Hard and sure and teeth nipping, asking her lips to part.
He had all of the buttons on her shirt undone before she managed to tear her face from his. Frustrated, mind racing, and entire body strung tightly, she said, “But why?”
“Maybe it’s for your debt,” he suggested, dragging his palms up her sides, feeling the ridges of her bones beneath soft skin. “Maybe you’re a part of my plan with my father.” He nudged his fingers between the tight fabric of her bra, pushing upwards. He easily cupped her breasts. “Maybe this has something to do with Tamaki and I; he loves you, you know.” His breath on her chest, her neck, her lips. “Maybe there is no answer.”
“And if I say no?” she asked, swallowing audibly. A ridiculous question, considering it came during a spare moment when his tongue was not nearly tangled with hers, and his hands were already unclasping the back of her bra.
“Remember, Haruhi. You don’t put a witness on the stand...”
*
When Kyouya was fourteen he discovered the merits of masturbation. To a degree it was about lack of self control, and he hated that. But to a much larger degree, it was about keeping erections form inappropriate times and letting his ferociously awakened sex drive know that it would be attended to when and where Kyouya saw fit, so it had better otherwise stay hidden and quiet.
He never really thought about anything in particular when taking care of things. He simply took care of things. But sometimes he would think about what it would be like when it wasn’t his own hand. What another’s fingers would be like, their mouth perhaps, other tighter, more wet places he could rock gently roughly into.
Later, he would think back and try to compare the sex to how he had supposed it.
He would be glad of the fact that he was familiar with condoms. (If the masturbation was not in the shower, discretion and tidiness were always a factor.) Haruhi had tensed, mouth gaped, and just stared while he had rolled it on. He couldn’t imagine asking her to do it for him.
He would think of the way she had kept her legs tightly together even as she knew what was going to happen. He tried to think if his imagined sex was anything but eager, willing, messy sex. Had he ever considered reluctant, anxious, messy sex? (Was non-messy sex even possible?)
He would think about the look on her face after he pushed in, tilted so far to the side it was half hidden in a pillow. Scrunched eyes, mouth clenched so tight her lips curled fully in. Nostrils wide as she breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out, refusing to whimper.
He would think that maybe he had chosen the wrong tone, if not words, when he said Just relax.
He would think about her knees bent and pressed against his side, wrapping around him. Pulling him in tighter couldn’t have been her intention, but the other option was to spread wider, and...
He would think about how sex couldn’t be healthy. Heartbeat racing, hands gripping, bruising. Fluids everywhere, and girls were supposed to self-lubricate, of course, but it would be hard to do so if Haruhi were lying back and thinking of law school.
So he would think about the beginning, with his fingers between her legs where it was new and warm and dry until he pressed and nudged and stroked bits of anatomy he had been paying attention to in health class. Haruhi made a noise, like he was dragging a cry from her after hours of torture and after hours of only offering up her name and rank.
He would think how proud he was of that noise, actually.
He would think of the feel of his leg muscles as they pushed him forward, pushed him in. Fingers so tangled in her silly hair. Her own fingers tangled in his bed sheets, refusing to touch him, but they couldn’t not clench. A trickle of sweat that slid from her hairline along the side of her face, and he half regretted that he didn’t lean forward and lick it away.
He would think of the rise of Haruhi’s own hips, every few thrusts. Reluctant and angry and eyes damp, but her body unable to deny the press and burn and grind and his fingers caught between their bodies touching.
He would think that it was a disappointment that he came first. He had wanted her to, but... He had practiced prolonging it, pushing off the moment of orgasm. He hadn’t realised he would need to push it away so far though. Such a slow climb to the plateau, for females.
He would think about the look on her face when he came, how she realised it even with latex holding fluids in, and even with his own throat silent, and even with her eyes closed so she couldn’t see. She opened her eyes, towards the ceiling, towards him, and still she knew. He would wonder if she thought it was over.
He would think about the taste of her, when he pulled out and ran his tongue between her breasts, across her stomach, down and in. The elusive female orgasm would not win out over Kyouya Ohtori, thank you.
He would think about how afterwards, clothes (slightly wrinkled) pulled back on, she went back to the kotatsu, picked up her book, and found her lost page again before she packed up her things to leave without a word.
He would think on all of these things. Then, in the ledger he habitually made his notes and observations in, Kyouya turned to a crisp new page. Pen to paper, he started to write.
*
It was the first day Haruhi did not attend classes, let alone the club.
*
“Do you think it was something I did?”
“Why would her absence have anything to do with you, Tamaki?”
“You’re right. I am her dear father. ...Do you think it was something those devils did? Of course it was! What did they do to my Haruhi?”
“I doubt it was them.”
“Do you know Hikaru called her, and she said it was nothing, that she wasn’t sick, but maybe she wants to hide it from us all, do you think? She’s dying most likely, Kyouya, what should we do? We should go over to her house right now. Bring your doctors!”
“She’s not sick, Tamaki.”
“What is it then? You know, Kyouya, don’t you? Where is she? Why wasn’t she here?”
“I don’t know.”
Tamaki spluttered something about those being three words Kyouya couldn’t say. It took him nearly eight minutes to calm down from his tirade of the world ending, my god, if Kyouya ‘didn’t know’.
Eight minutes.
That night, staring at his ceiling, he wondered how many minutes it would have been if he had answered with the truth.
*
She was waiting at the door, they said. Refused to be led it. The maid was worrying her hands together because this was most improper and unusual and she wasn’t sure what to do. Neither was Kyouya.
He walked as slowly as he felt would be non-telling, which wasn’t very slow at all. He wondered what he looked like from the outside. In this moment, Kyouya was wearing his dilemma face. What cues was he giving to observers that would let them know he was pondering and worrying?
Kyouya always worried about the unknown.
She was looking neutrally at the edging of his front door. She hadn’t even stepped into the foyer. Her feet were firmly planted on the other side of the barrier the open door made. She was wearing her own clothing - sandals, long shorts, and a sweater with sleeves long enough to cover her first knuckles.
“Haruhi,” he greeted. She looked up, her hair for once not distracting him though it swished and fell over her features. She met his gaze directly, with a strange determination he hadn’t been expecting.
She took a step forward and reached for him. Her fingers skittered up the side of his jaw, soft and light. They caught his glasses and gently tugged them from his face.
He blinked myopically at her. Somewhere in that blink, he missed her right hand swinging back. She slapped him, once, harder than his father’s backhand ever was. His teeth clenched shut on reflex and caught his tongue.
He was trying to swallow the dull taste of iron when she slipped his glasses back on.
“Hunni-senpai says it’s cruel to slap a person wearing glasses,” she explained. Her hands were fisted at her side, and now the determination in her gaze was tempered with anger.
“Did you know,” she began, in a tone that said it was alright if he didn’t know because she was going to proceed to tell him. And if he did know, he could keep his mouth clamped shut, bite out some more blood, and listen to her anyway. “Did you know that when someone slips a letter of recommendation into a scholarship student’s file, the school feels obligated to phone and tell them so.”
“Ah.”
“Especially when it’s from Ohtori.” He had never quite heard his surname said that way before.
He refused to blink until she did. He refused to stop scowling until she did. It took a full minute, before her eyes slid shut and away, and her face softened to something nearing normal.
“Haruhi...” he began, cheek stinging. So many things to say with a bleeding tongue. They all caught in his throat. “... I’ll see you tomorrow.” His tongue hollered in pain as he bit it again, trying to keep his words from becoming a question.
“Yes,” she said, and began to turn away.
“I’ll send for a car to take you home.”
She shook her head, and he watched her hair this time. And there was almost a rueful smile when she said, “I’ll walk.”
Kyouya/Haruhi
rated R
6119 words
Kyouya calls in all debts. Written for the springkink prompt - Ouran, Kyoya/Haruhi: dubcon, blackmail - 'Time's up.'
There are small references to parts of the entire anime, so possible spoiler warning? Also, I'm still paddling about the shallow end of the pool when it comes to Ouran fic, but I hope you enjoy. <3
What Haruhi didn’t understand was that not everything Kyouya did had merit. Just, everything he did had the appearance of merit should he be called on it.
Haruhi tended to call him on it.
*
“It’s interesting how you’ve changed, Haruhi, thinking back to the day you first entered our music room.”
Haruhi glanced over, her arms resting across her thighs, hands dangling at her knees. Leaning so far forward, Kyouya couldn’t even see her glance but for the way the hair by her ear shifted with the movement.
She asked, “Why do I think somewhere in this conversation you are going to offer me some sort of compliment, the price of which will be added to my debt?”
Kyouya smiled, small. Without the benefit of bits of hair by ears to give away hidden expressions, Haruhi missed it. “I was thinking of giving you advice instead of a compliment, actually.”
Haruhi sat up at this, shoulders snapping back until they were resting against the crimson fabric of the couch, now parallel with Kyouya. “The price tag on that, Senpai-”
“To prevent students from padding their transcripts without proper effort, the Academy has certain time constraints on clubs,” he began, calmly speaking over Haruhi’s attempt at banter. “A student must be a participant in an extracurricular activity for three consecutive terms before it will be officially listed. You have not been a member for three terms.”
“Ah, well...” Kyouya watched her hair spread across her forehead this time with her head tilt. He often thought, in times of late phone calls from Tamaki about the truly stressful situation of having a daughter dressed as a male, that this shorter haircut suited Haruhi. The abomination of a style she had been wearing at their first encounter completely aside, of course. She was looking at him with puzzlement.
“Haruhi, have you ever considered what having this club on your transcript would do for your chances of being accepted into law?”
The tiny twitch in her mouth and her eyes pulling away suggested that, yes, actually, she had been thinking on it. “If you of all people don’t mind it on yours...”
Kyouya made a point of laughing. “Haruhi, the universities don’t look at my records past my surname.”
Haruhi’s eyeroll said better than any words could have just what she thought about that.
“There is a few weeks left to term. Your window of opportunity is shrinking.”
Haruhi made a complicated hand gesture that didn’t match her flat expression. “Are you forgetting? I’m not exactly a member by choice. Weren’t you the one asking if I had my passport in order? Your family-”
Again, laughter. “Yes. My family.” He slid his glasses back into place, making sure they were tight across the bridge of his nose and the glare of the light was sufficient. “My father has... I suppose he is intrigued, however mildly, since your outburst at the festival.”
Haruhi had her head tilted so far now, curiously, that Kyouya couldn’t track the quick slide of her hair. It brushed her eyelashes as she blinked rapidly, mind quickly trying to sort out where he was leading the conversation. And since, as a rule, he was less than fond of Haruhi trying to figure him out, he proposed quickly and bluntly.
“Because of his intrigue, it would be to my advantage, and hardly to your disadvantage, to have you in my company from time to time. You would be compensated for this time, naturally.”
“But-”
“Your debt could be gone before the end of term. Whether you stayed or not,” he added, not sure but entertaining the possibility she may want to, “it would not be an official membership. No record. Consider it, Haruhi.”
*
Personal information, backgrounds, little tidbits that could later be used to surprise Kyouya (except not, because he already knew them) were good things to collect and record. He had numerous resources and contacts for any number of things, but at a young age he soon realised that any inquiry or request made to his father’s company was inevitably reported to his father.
Therefore, at a young age, Kyouya learned to circumvent.
The simplest form, he found, was not to actually search, but rather to observe. Two years in the Host Club had allowed for some fairly comprehensive data.
Kyouya knew this: when presented with a dilemma, there were always tell tale signs.
Little observation was required for Tamaki; his beloved Antoinette even knew when he was upset. Tamaki would sulk, and protest, and sometimes grow fungi in dark corners.
To spot Kaoru sorting through a dilemma, watch for the times he would fall half a step behind the verbal play work infamous of the Hitachiin brothers. For Hikaru, watch for the picked fights with the person he was confused with. (His English teacher was constantly abused.)
In dark and tricky times, Mori followed Hunni about that much closer, grounding himself to the parts that made sense. Hunni just ate more cake.
Haruhi... Kyouya was finding it difficult to define her state of contemplation. Haruhi was a person almost always in a state of contemplation. There were degrees, of course, to her musings, but even these were hard to distinguish.
Unless, perhaps, one had been observing her for nearly a year.
Haruhi had a dilemma, and she was considering her options with enough effort and energy that she didn’t even make a comment to the twins when they moaned about newspapers being a waste of time and money because you just looked up the news on your palm pilot, right?
In the corner, after club activities, Kyouya typed away. His current calculations gave her three days.
*
“The vase was yours, right?”
Hikaru glanced at her, fingertips paused along Kaoru’s jaw. One of the girls at the tea table was nearly catatonic with glee. “Vase?”
“That I broke.”
“Yes,” said Kaoru, sensing something his twin always failed to sense. He gently pulled Hikaru’s fingers away and looked at Haruhi fully, completely. “We were donating it.”
“So... Couldn’t you forgive me for...” She didn’t continue.
Across the room, Kyouya hunched himself slightly, so his smile would not be seen above his laptop screen. The twins were waiting, but Haruhi only said, “Never mind,” with the deepest of sighs.
Kaoru met Kyouya’s eyes. Eyebrows drawn in confusion, Kaoru missed Hikaru’s laughing remark, and stumbled a reply a second late.
*
“-her mother’s shrine, and so much incense, it smells almost awful, poor Kotoko-”
Kyouya moved the receiver to his other ear and said, “Is that so, Ranka-san?”
*
Day two and Haruhi shuffled over to Kyouya after club hours. She was smaller than usual; hunched in on herself, knitted vest swallowing her in the way her tie and jacket never managed. He considered, briefly, allowing her the dignity of defeat, but instead watched her calmly. She would have to say it.
Fists clenched, hair pushed to either side of her forehead so her lowered eyebrows could be easily seen, Haruhi took a deep breath.
“What do you want me to do?”
Here he could prolong it further and pretend he didn’t understand her question, but that would be unbecoming.
“Think of it as after-hour designations,” he told her, fingers clasped together. The more he looked at her, the tighter her shoulders were becoming. She was agitated in a way that would never do. Sighing, he pushed at his glasses. “Haruhi. There are worse hosts to have calling on you.”
He let that sink in. That was an image not quite worth thinking on. Endless cake parties with Hunni. Dress up with the twins. Anything with the twins, actually. And Tamaki...
“I’ve already spoken with your father,” he continued, not cruel enough to leave her thinking for long. “Your extended time away from home will not be an issue.”
This caused her to unwind. Unravel. Her hair in her eyes again, curling. “What do you mean? How did you know I would agree with you? How did you-”
“It’s as they say, Haruhi. You never put a witness on the stand unless you know what they are going to say.”
*
She stared straight ahead, eyes not wandering or wavering. He wondered if she simply didn’t care or if she didn’t want to seem actually interested in the sprawling mansion they walked up to.
Maybe she felt his smirk, maybe she knew him that well. She scowled, which was not very impressive, and muttered her way up the front stairs not so quietly.
“You can hardly call me a rich bastard, Haruhi,” he answered. “I assure you I’m legitimate.”
*
His brother gave him a mild stare, which in Ohtori language translated something akin to Tamaki’s jawdrop.
“Miss Fujioka,” Kyouya introduced, one-sidedly. If his brother noticed (there was no way he couldn’t) his own lack of introduction, he made no comment on it. He nodded, politely, to Haruhi, and shifted his stare back to his younger brother.
It was a mark of Kyouya’s current achievement, he would later reflect, that the appearance of a boyish scholarship girl in the Ohtori mansion was not met with a what are you thinking stare, but rather an hm, what are you thinking stare.
That ‘hm’ was the difference between dismissal and the frustrating question of how did this unremarkable girl have any merit at all to my brother Kyouya, because clearly she must?
His hand on her arm lead her to his own bedroom, which wasn’t a bedroom so much as a suite with a bed tucked high and far away. One couldn’t even see the bed from the table she and he sat at, a fact that would calm Ranka Fujioka when he no doubt curiously and gleefully drilled his daughter on her evening out.
“I usually complete my homework here, but I’ve sent for some tea and-”
“Oh, good,” said Haruhi, digging in her school bag. “I find it hard, sometimes, when club runs late. I don’t get in as much studying as I’d like.” She had three textbooks pulled out, her thumb already clicking the lead of her pencil down.
“Do you think it’s fair that you work while I’m designating you?”
He hadn’t quite answered her what do you want me to do question. Vague answers were helpful later on when strategy needed to be changed, as it often did with Haruhi. He wanted her company for the sake of the dance he and his father were in, but also...
Yet she almost looked surprised at his question, and Kyouya had to tighten his teeth, slightly, to make sure his lips didn’t try to smile. “What do you do when you’re designated?” she asked.
When one of the maids quietly brought the tea in, they’d both had the time to recall the girls that do designate him, following him around like a trail of ducklings as he took notes and observed club proceedings.
The tea went cold somewhere between Swift’s satire and graphing economic curves. There were no upright stalks floating in either cup.
*
“Is it strange?” Haruhi asked one day, hands on her knees, sitting quite calmly on the far side of the seat. She startled him, somewhat, his attention previously on whether she’d fiddle with the door switches. Tamaki did, always.
He made a small please continue noise, politely turned to her.
“Is it strange,” she repeated, “that we study in your room?”
“Where do you study?”
Promptly, she answered, “At school.” She shrugged, maybe smiling. “Sometimes at home, but Dad’s usually asleep on the futon.”
“I study in my bedroom.” Then, in case her concern was elsewhere, he added, “You’ve been in Tamaki’s bedroom before...” (Also in Kyouya’s bedroom in his beach house, but that would little serve this argument.)
Haruhi leaned back, folded her arms. Her frown was quite wry. “He was sick. We were all there.” He didn’t answer her, didn’t disagree, and in a moment she reached over and gently pressed the switch on the door that lowered her window. She held it until it was half way down, then reversed it until it was closed again.
“This ride to your house is costing me, isn’t it? Would I be better off walking? Or would the extra time it took to walk not outweigh the extra designation time? I’m sure you’ve done the math.”
He had.
*
He hadn’t been summoned to his father’s study since before middle school. The last time he could consciously remember, his feet hadn’t touched the floor when he sat in the chair opposite. He could remember the feel of sweat behind his knobby knees on the leather seat, gazing over at his father, and hoping he wouldn’t have to speak because his mouth had turned so very dry.
He leaned on that same chair, now. Not quite casually, just a hand on its back, nodding politely to his father. An I don’t have much time, I’m afraid, but please continue pose, which was a tad daring, Kyouya would admit.
His father didn’t look up from his notes, pen scrawling.
“Fujioka.”
“Yes.”
His pen almost paused. “Law, I heard.”
“I believe so,” Kyouya said cautiously, but without letting caution creep into his voice. “After her mother.”
“Very good.”
Kyouya closed the door quietly behind him. The walk to his bedroom, where he had left Haruhi, was no where near long enough. He wondered if Haruhi would be curious about his father’s summons. Tamaki would outright ask, but Haruhi had been raised to be polite, even if she was (unconsciously) appallingly rude sometimes.
Whether Haruhi was curious or would be brazen enough to enquire about it, Kyouya would never know. When he entered his room the look she sent him was, if he had to categorise it in his table of Haruhi expressions, quite similar to the one her face took on when experiencing a Tamaki death grip.
Kyouya had suffered through numerous of those ‘friendly embraces’ when first meeting Tamaki. In France, clearly hugging someone detailed pouncing on them and clinging. Being less sturdy than himself, Haurhi was often treated to a reverse embrace, where Tamaki would grab her off her feet, spin her around, and generally make a fool of himself.
Usually that look was sent towards Mori. It was a bit strange to be on the receiving end of a please help me stare. Kyouya walked over and gently placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder.
She turned her head, smiled at him, and continued without a break in the one-sided conversation. “We’ve tried all of the shops along here, but most recently we bought some night oden in the district here, so now we want to look for comparisons-”
Kyouya had never actually seen his sister and Tamaki’s map of commoner eateries until this moment. It was remarkably organised - colour coding, ranking system, pricing...
“What do you think, Haruhi-chan?”
“I’m afraid I’m not... We mostly buy from the grocery store,” Haruhi admitted, looking to Kyouya again.
“Fuyumi.”
“Ah? Oh, Kyouya, I was asking about some-”
“Don’t spy for Tamaki,” he said with a deliberate sigh. He had no reason to believe that was her intention, but it would be the outcome nevertheless when Tamaki next saw her. His sister huffed like someone half her age, but stood gracefully and made a polite farewell to Haurhi.
Haruhi immediately returned to her books, not watching Fuyumi lean over and whisper, “Your girlfriend is very cute, ne?”
His own pencil in hand, his own book open, his own glasses slid down his nose low enough that he could glance at Haruhi without her noticing. Haruhi certainly wasn’t his girlfriend, and she wasn’t quite ‘cute’ either.
It had taken some time but eventually they all looked at Haruhi quite differently than that first day she stumbled into the music room. Affection, desire, protectiveness... It wasn’t because of her looks, especially with that stubborn hair slipping right there and his fingers nearly twitched with the need to tuck it behind an ear so it would stay in place.
There would always be an appeal in the Other. When one could buy anything, of course one would race towards something unique, even if more practical, beautiful, and accessible things were within closer range. With so many interested parties, it was less of a race and more of a competition.
Needless to say, Kyouya liked to win. He just hadn’t decided whether to enter.
*
“I’m trying to find the exact moment,” Haruhi murmured later that week, flipping through pages rapidly, “where she made the conscious decision to become a commodity. She knew what she was doing, don’t you think?”
Sometimes Kyouya’s silences were words themselves. He might have raised his eyebrow, had Haruhi paused any longer, but as it was, she continued on, not meeting his eyes.
“She gave in to him in the end, and not out of love, I think. She’s supposedly the epitome of morality, but...,” Haruhi sighed. Kyouya tilted his head, glanced at the title of the heavy English novel she was scanning.
“I believe it’s how she gives in that’s important. She set rules and demands that were far beyond her station; she was a commoner, after all.” A smile here that Haruhi forgets to share. “But Miss Andrews’ morality is neither here nor there. You’re missing Richardson’s point.”
“And what’s his point?”
“Everyone has a price.”
*
He thought about Tamaki’s grandmother - prim and proper and in her kimono, glaring disgustedly down at her grandson. Tamaki’s ownership of the Suoh’s heritage was more tangled than Kyouya’s to the Ohtori’s most of the time. It would become a choice, eventually. And between his grandmother and Haruhi, Tamaki would pick...
Kyouya was helping a friend.
Hikaru’s infatuation with Haruhi would only go unnoticed for so long. Kaoru knew already. And when Tamaki realised...
He couldn’t forget the budgets. Haruhi pulled in a surprising amount of business. Yet Tamaki’s desire to keep her happy and his fascination with any off-hand commoner comments, made for some truly ridiculous (and expensive) adventures. The hassle over her almost took out more money than she put in.
Kyouya thought about his father looking at her, contemplatively. He thought about the increase of days he was home on time, since Haruhi spent her afternoons at the Ohtori home. He thought about that afternoon in his father’s office.
But mostly, Kyouya thought about the quiet, fond way that Haruhi gazed at Tamaki when he wasn’t looking. The sort of look that had nothing to do with merit. The sort of look that went unnoticed by nearly everyone, including Haruhi herself.
And he thought about that time Haruhi said, “You said ‘there’s not an inch of similarity between you two’, except...” And he wondered how far she thought that held true.
*
“I’m curious for your opinions.”
Ranka had wanted him over for dinner, but Kyouya had been... hesitant. He was clever and experienced and it was unusual for him to be hesitant, but... fathers had a way when it came to daughters. Kyouya didn’t appreciate the odds.
Dinner at the Fujiokas meant Haruhi in the kitchen cooking while Ranka interrogated him about various subjects which he could answer smoothly and charismatically, unless something went wrong.
Renegotiate.
He brought dinner instead - oden. (His sister had forwarded the address.) No alone time with Ranka, no questions posed that Haruhi couldn’t cut in and answer herself (which she mostly did), and the opportunity to control the situation with a simple, “I’m curious for your opinions.”
“Tastes fine,” Haruhi murmured.
“There are better,” Ranka mused. “This Tamaki is quite moronic if he thinks this is the best oden in town, hm?”
They laughed about Tamaki for some time, enough that the poor boy was probably sneezing quite profusely wherever he was that evening. They laughed until Haruhi stood, played gracious hostess, and went to make some tea.
Ranka’s smile slipped into a frown so seamlessly it looked like his lips had melted.
“I may dress as a woman, but I am that girl’s father,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I am her father,” whispered. Kyouya distantly wondered how long it had taken Ranka to learn the art of threatening someone even when, especially when, there was nothing overtly threatening in what they were saying.
“... Of course.”
*
“And my youngest son,” his father gestured, the group of mingling adults acknowledged him politely; nods from the men, smiles from the women linked in their arms. Kyouya quickly scanned the faces, noting who they were, how they should be approached. Though the superintendent was absent, most of the board of directors for Ouran Academy were clustered there together.
“Kyouya, we were hoping you could shed some light onto something for us. Suoh is being so vague about the whole thing. But you’re close to this, right?”
There was a pause, which Kyouya filled by tilting his head and keeping a calm, pleasant expression on his face that was surely encouraging them to point where light needed to be shed.
“Fujioka is female,” one of the women said, not with disapproval.
“I believe Fujioka,” Kyouya smiled, “is rather indifferent to how she is perceived when it comes to gender.”
A man tsked, frowning. “Some of the girls... They’ll grow fond of her.” Only the greying, slightly beer-bellied owner of half the country’s dairy plants, could say ‘fond’ and mean ‘lust over’. “Completely inappropriate. Why Suoh doesn’t-”
“Perhaps the superintendent realises that as a boy, she is unattainable. As a girl, the male students may become fond of her just the same.” Kyouya shrugged, delicately. “The male students may find her somewhat more attainable.”
“Good Lord, remember the uproar a few years ago when Kiro from class A eloped with Ichira from class D? Can you imagine in this case...”
“Head of her class, conscientious, excellent social ties,” here the woman glanced at Kyouya, “if not familial ones. I think it might be best she’s unattainable.”
The group laughed, tittered. Moved on to other subjects. His father looked at him with scrutiny.
He was not frowning.
*
And then there was that day.
“Haruhi. It’s the end of term tomorrow.” He couldn’t read her expression as she slid her fingers into her book to keep its page. She had to have been keeping note of the dates. He continued, “You still have nearly ten percent of your original debt to pay. I could designate you for the entire next twenty-four hours and the numbers wouldn’t work. Time’s up.”
He had planned numerous counterarguments to anything she might say at this point. They waited, edge of his tongue, ready to spring into logical execution.
“Then what is your proposal?” she said. There was no counterargument to this, though he had anticipated it. Haruhi had decided to waive her right to reading arguments A, B, and C and go straight to proposed resolution D.
Resolution D came with many forms of proposal, too. Up until the last moment, Kyouya had thought he would slyly murmur, if you recall, there was once a different form of payment... (and Tamaki would say, So bold!, and probably scowl because it was boldness to Haruhi.) But here, now, the words didn’t come.
Instead he reached a hand across the kotatsu and tucked that arrant curl of hair behind her ear. Fingers traced down the slope of her jaw, stopping with his thumb at her chin, his smallest finger at the joint of ear, jaw and neck. There must have been something strangely intimate in the gesture, or maybe Haruhi just realised where exactly Kyouya’s thoughts were, because she blushed, barely.
She hadn’t, before. For the first while Kyouya had been more than vigilant in his observations of Haruhi, ready to record all of the moments her gender might be revealed. But Haruhi didn’t blush like a girl. Flirtatious moments, embarrassing moments, even that one time he had actually reduced her debt by a third just because he wanted to see her cheeks flood with red. But even kissing another girl hadn’t brought it on. The closest he had come to seeing it was when she laughed herself silly at something, and her whole face would flush. Not a blush, but at least he could imagine how it would look on her.
Faint, pink, brushed across the height of her cheekbones and burning slightly brighter around her ears.
“Senpai,” she began, but Kyouya’s fingers tightened along her face, and he moved far enough forward his own legs were unbent.
“And before you ask, sometimes the merit involved? Is simply not your business.”
He kissed her chastely. A kiss no one would be upset over. Except maybe Haruhi.
She shoved at him, and her eyes blinked widely, as if she were surprised by her actions. As if she weren’t sure how he got from his lips against hers to an arm’s length away.
He could almost see the You wouldn’t do that on her tongue, but she couldn’t speak the words. Because this time, this time, Kyouya would.
He caught her jaw again, turning it to face him. “Make your own decision, Haruhi. What has more merit to you? This,” which meant this moment, this room, this heartbeat he could feel under his fingers as it pumped up her throat, “or law school.”
When he tugged her to her feet, her fingers slipped from her book and the pages fell heavily closed. Her page was lost. Her footing was lost, too, as he pulled her towards the stairs in his bedroom.
Fingers cupping her face, lips close to hers, on hers, distracting hers. Kyouya waltzed her backwards and stumbling up the stairs.
Her legs caught at the edge of his bed and she sat down harshly.
When she didn’t take the hint and move back, he clasped her by her shoulders and moved her himself. So much time was spent in slender blue jackets, and Kyouya certainly didn’t practice kendo. One forgot that behind clothing and glasses and laptop, Kyouya could hold his own. Even with her bones rigid, muscles tight, body resisting, he easily manoeuvred her to the centre and climbed up with her.
She had abandoned her jacket earlier in the study session, tie loosened but not removed. He took the time to undo the knot, just to observe her expression (the near blush again) and her small noise of protest.
“Why?” She asked him, even as he dropped the length of tie over the side of the bed and worked on his own. Even as he leaned forward to keep her quiet, mouth to hers, not so chaste now. Hard and sure and teeth nipping, asking her lips to part.
He had all of the buttons on her shirt undone before she managed to tear her face from his. Frustrated, mind racing, and entire body strung tightly, she said, “But why?”
“Maybe it’s for your debt,” he suggested, dragging his palms up her sides, feeling the ridges of her bones beneath soft skin. “Maybe you’re a part of my plan with my father.” He nudged his fingers between the tight fabric of her bra, pushing upwards. He easily cupped her breasts. “Maybe this has something to do with Tamaki and I; he loves you, you know.” His breath on her chest, her neck, her lips. “Maybe there is no answer.”
“And if I say no?” she asked, swallowing audibly. A ridiculous question, considering it came during a spare moment when his tongue was not nearly tangled with hers, and his hands were already unclasping the back of her bra.
“Remember, Haruhi. You don’t put a witness on the stand...”
*
When Kyouya was fourteen he discovered the merits of masturbation. To a degree it was about lack of self control, and he hated that. But to a much larger degree, it was about keeping erections form inappropriate times and letting his ferociously awakened sex drive know that it would be attended to when and where Kyouya saw fit, so it had better otherwise stay hidden and quiet.
He never really thought about anything in particular when taking care of things. He simply took care of things. But sometimes he would think about what it would be like when it wasn’t his own hand. What another’s fingers would be like, their mouth perhaps, other tighter, more wet places he could rock gently roughly into.
Later, he would think back and try to compare the sex to how he had supposed it.
He would be glad of the fact that he was familiar with condoms. (If the masturbation was not in the shower, discretion and tidiness were always a factor.) Haruhi had tensed, mouth gaped, and just stared while he had rolled it on. He couldn’t imagine asking her to do it for him.
He would think of the way she had kept her legs tightly together even as she knew what was going to happen. He tried to think if his imagined sex was anything but eager, willing, messy sex. Had he ever considered reluctant, anxious, messy sex? (Was non-messy sex even possible?)
He would think about the look on her face after he pushed in, tilted so far to the side it was half hidden in a pillow. Scrunched eyes, mouth clenched so tight her lips curled fully in. Nostrils wide as she breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out, refusing to whimper.
He would think that maybe he had chosen the wrong tone, if not words, when he said Just relax.
He would think about her knees bent and pressed against his side, wrapping around him. Pulling him in tighter couldn’t have been her intention, but the other option was to spread wider, and...
He would think about how sex couldn’t be healthy. Heartbeat racing, hands gripping, bruising. Fluids everywhere, and girls were supposed to self-lubricate, of course, but it would be hard to do so if Haruhi were lying back and thinking of law school.
So he would think about the beginning, with his fingers between her legs where it was new and warm and dry until he pressed and nudged and stroked bits of anatomy he had been paying attention to in health class. Haruhi made a noise, like he was dragging a cry from her after hours of torture and after hours of only offering up her name and rank.
He would think how proud he was of that noise, actually.
He would think of the feel of his leg muscles as they pushed him forward, pushed him in. Fingers so tangled in her silly hair. Her own fingers tangled in his bed sheets, refusing to touch him, but they couldn’t not clench. A trickle of sweat that slid from her hairline along the side of her face, and he half regretted that he didn’t lean forward and lick it away.
He would think of the rise of Haruhi’s own hips, every few thrusts. Reluctant and angry and eyes damp, but her body unable to deny the press and burn and grind and his fingers caught between their bodies touching.
He would think that it was a disappointment that he came first. He had wanted her to, but... He had practiced prolonging it, pushing off the moment of orgasm. He hadn’t realised he would need to push it away so far though. Such a slow climb to the plateau, for females.
He would think about the look on her face when he came, how she realised it even with latex holding fluids in, and even with his own throat silent, and even with her eyes closed so she couldn’t see. She opened her eyes, towards the ceiling, towards him, and still she knew. He would wonder if she thought it was over.
He would think about the taste of her, when he pulled out and ran his tongue between her breasts, across her stomach, down and in. The elusive female orgasm would not win out over Kyouya Ohtori, thank you.
He would think about how afterwards, clothes (slightly wrinkled) pulled back on, she went back to the kotatsu, picked up her book, and found her lost page again before she packed up her things to leave without a word.
He would think on all of these things. Then, in the ledger he habitually made his notes and observations in, Kyouya turned to a crisp new page. Pen to paper, he started to write.
*
It was the first day Haruhi did not attend classes, let alone the club.
*
“Do you think it was something I did?”
“Why would her absence have anything to do with you, Tamaki?”
“You’re right. I am her dear father. ...Do you think it was something those devils did? Of course it was! What did they do to my Haruhi?”
“I doubt it was them.”
“Do you know Hikaru called her, and she said it was nothing, that she wasn’t sick, but maybe she wants to hide it from us all, do you think? She’s dying most likely, Kyouya, what should we do? We should go over to her house right now. Bring your doctors!”
“She’s not sick, Tamaki.”
“What is it then? You know, Kyouya, don’t you? Where is she? Why wasn’t she here?”
“I don’t know.”
Tamaki spluttered something about those being three words Kyouya couldn’t say. It took him nearly eight minutes to calm down from his tirade of the world ending, my god, if Kyouya ‘didn’t know’.
Eight minutes.
That night, staring at his ceiling, he wondered how many minutes it would have been if he had answered with the truth.
*
She was waiting at the door, they said. Refused to be led it. The maid was worrying her hands together because this was most improper and unusual and she wasn’t sure what to do. Neither was Kyouya.
He walked as slowly as he felt would be non-telling, which wasn’t very slow at all. He wondered what he looked like from the outside. In this moment, Kyouya was wearing his dilemma face. What cues was he giving to observers that would let them know he was pondering and worrying?
Kyouya always worried about the unknown.
She was looking neutrally at the edging of his front door. She hadn’t even stepped into the foyer. Her feet were firmly planted on the other side of the barrier the open door made. She was wearing her own clothing - sandals, long shorts, and a sweater with sleeves long enough to cover her first knuckles.
“Haruhi,” he greeted. She looked up, her hair for once not distracting him though it swished and fell over her features. She met his gaze directly, with a strange determination he hadn’t been expecting.
She took a step forward and reached for him. Her fingers skittered up the side of his jaw, soft and light. They caught his glasses and gently tugged them from his face.
He blinked myopically at her. Somewhere in that blink, he missed her right hand swinging back. She slapped him, once, harder than his father’s backhand ever was. His teeth clenched shut on reflex and caught his tongue.
He was trying to swallow the dull taste of iron when she slipped his glasses back on.
“Hunni-senpai says it’s cruel to slap a person wearing glasses,” she explained. Her hands were fisted at her side, and now the determination in her gaze was tempered with anger.
“Did you know,” she began, in a tone that said it was alright if he didn’t know because she was going to proceed to tell him. And if he did know, he could keep his mouth clamped shut, bite out some more blood, and listen to her anyway. “Did you know that when someone slips a letter of recommendation into a scholarship student’s file, the school feels obligated to phone and tell them so.”
“Ah.”
“Especially when it’s from Ohtori.” He had never quite heard his surname said that way before.
He refused to blink until she did. He refused to stop scowling until she did. It took a full minute, before her eyes slid shut and away, and her face softened to something nearing normal.
“Haruhi...” he began, cheek stinging. So many things to say with a bleeding tongue. They all caught in his throat. “... I’ll see you tomorrow.” His tongue hollered in pain as he bit it again, trying to keep his words from becoming a question.
“Yes,” she said, and began to turn away.
“I’ll send for a car to take you home.”
She shook her head, and he watched her hair this time. And there was almost a rueful smile when she said, “I’ll walk.”