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The Broken Bowl: A Story of Kitchen Debauchery	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1260 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Title: The Broken Bowl: A Story of Kitchen Debauc
- 1
Title: The Broken Bowl: A Story of Kitchen Debauchery

Fandom: Weiss

Characters: Ken, Aya, Omi

Pairing: Ranken

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: Oh, standard, violence, swear words, lots of sex

It was a satisfying sort of feel, his knuckles against Ken’s jaw. Hard bone and the sharp sudden pain striking up his own arm—threw Ken off balance, heard his elbow hit the countertop, a bowl falling to the ground—the sound of glass breaking, and the grunt of pain.

Knives on the counter, in their nice wooden box, the handles pointed upward and Aya—right, that was what he called himself now. Remembered Youji’s face when he’d agree with the name, remembered that look because it was the same look he might have given himself two years ago—reached for it. Ken’s reaction, slow, turning back to look at him, fists tight, and then loose, reaching out, grabbing him by the wrist just as Aya’s fingers got to the knife tilted it but Ken pulled—hard.

“Bastard! Fight fair!”

Punched him again, couldn’t reach his face, not with his left wrist caught like that, bent back by too tight fingers, landed his fist somewhere in Ken’s ribs and earned another grunted curse. (Jesus. Or Fuck.) Wrapped the shirt up in his fist and pulled on it. His face too close to Ken’s.

“Let go of my hand!”

Ken’s eyes, couldn’t see anything but them, the brown, the narrow and the angry set of his eyebrows, felt the breathed word against his chin (no louder than the curse,) “Fine.” Pressure gone from his wrist, two and half seconds and the impact of knuckles against his cheekbone—hard—he jerked back, hand still tight in Ken’s shirt, tripped over the chair he’d knocked down back when this had started. (You ever smile Fujimiya? For anyone? Even your sister?) Felt Ken rearing back, trying to pull free, a thumb against the palm of his hand in that shirt—oh no, if I go down you go down too—didn’t help, helped stabilize his balance, maybe a fraction of a second, long enough to get another foot back, and tripped again, chair sliding out from under his heel—falling back.

(Jesus, or fuck) echoing in the air again, couldn’t hear it over the heavy sound of his body hitting the ground, hip first, head, shoulders, Ken landing hard against him, one arm out to catch himself, another curse (FUCK, that one) and his hand slipped out from under him, down to his elbow now. One of his knees between Aya’s and his belly pressed too close to his.

Pain in his head, radiating out from where he’d hit the floor; kept blinking, trying to get through the blackwash of his vision. Could see Ken, out of focus, feel him as he pushed himself up—looking at his hand, blood dripping off his palm, and then Ken looking back at him—heard the impact of Ken’s fist before he felt it—shooting pain in his jaw, numbness of his cheek and tightening back down, all draining to that first point of impact, the middle knuckle digging in against the bone.

Dug his feet in against the floor—slippers had fallen off, just his socks, slipped, hit the chair and knocked it further back, pulled his leg up, balling up his fist and hit Ken back—not enough force, loose wet sound—hit his cheek. Didn’t even move him, Aya pushed up, knocked him over, rolling—shoving Ken’s shoulder down into the floor with his left hand, balling up his fist again, moving to hit him and Ken kicking his legs, getting footing—heard it when they hit the table, heard it when it jerked backward, things rolling.

Landed another hit against Ken’s ribs, same side, close to the same spot, heard something heavy hit the floor, something rolling off the table, hit him on the back, rolling back, between their legs, Ken sneer up at him, lifting off the floor, reaching up and grabbing Aya around the neck, shoving him over—

Turning over again, Aya’s shoulder hitting the table leg, chairs clattering as the table moved more. Ken rolling over on top of him again, both knees between his, hand slipping up to his chest, pinning him down and hitting him again—across the cheek, near the bone, made his eyes water.

(Pinned down on the floor with your legs spread and your jaw throbbing—you’re not going to win this one, like you didn’t win the last.) No. Wasn’t going to lose to this guy again. Uncurled the fingers of his fist, left hand sliding down off Ken’s shoulder, pressing his too-big T-shirt back up against his chest and lower, digging fingers into his belt—felt the stuttered halt to Ken’s movements, and pushed his hand in deeper, turning it so his palm was rubbing against Ken through the boxers.

Watched his face.

Eyebrows down, fingers uncurling from a fist still caught in the air and his mouth was open—half caught on something to say but had no idea what it was supposed to be. Blank pause of time, Aya’s hand moving, rubbing, and Ken blinking, staring down at him, mouth closing, and then opening: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

(Winning this fight.)

Ken’s left hand still on his shoulder, pinning his arm down, couldn’t get enough room to hit him again, and his other arm dipping down, grabbing his elbow down between their bodies, slick fingers, something sticky and warm against his skin. Aya pulled his legs up, knees bent and spread, heels against the floor, felt Ken shifting against his thighs, saw him tipping his head down, some expression that wasn’t quite disgusted—could be—and he jerked his elbow away from Ken’s grip, curling his fingers in, stroking fingertips against him.

(Let go of my shoulder.)

“Damn, you’re even more fucked up than I thought,” Ken looking back up at him, and his hand moved off Aya’s shoulder, pulling back, pushing himself up, reaching down to get at Aya’s arm again.

Stupid bastard, finally. Aya pulled his hand free, balled up his fist and punched Ken—harder than the last time—edge of his face, near his ear, heavy smack of skin on skin and the grating impact of bone to bone. Ken’s shout, his arm going up instinct and hitting the table, falling to the side, more stuff falling off and the table shoved back up against the wall, chairs dragging on the floor, half tipped and caught like they were.

“You don’t know anything!” Aya shouted. (Presumptive bastard, they all were, standing around and thinking and that stupid woman looking at him with a gun to his head—promising him stupid things and what did it matter—killing people that had nothing to do with—fuck this guy. Fuck all three of them and that stupid woman too.) Followed Ken, pushing at his shoulders again, his teeth bare and a scream rattling somewhere in his chest that he couldn’t find the air to make.

“At least I can win a fight without grabbing the other guy’s dick!” Ken’s body shoving back against him, knocking him back to the floor, and grabbed his hands, pushing them down against the floor. “You stupid bastard.” Like that was the end of it. Shook his head a little, bruises already showing on his skin. Moving back again, pulling his knees under him so he could get up.

(Don’t think so. We’re not finished yet.)

Aya pulled his legs up, hooked them around Ken and held him there, curled his hands up into fists—felt the dampness of Ken’s right hand, might be able to slip free of that grip—tilted his hips up, rubbing back against him. Clenched his teeth against the gasp—(weren’t expecting that?)—felt his eyelids flutter and cursed the stupidity of the fucking situation. Pinned down and rubbing against the bastard, and suddenly—

(Suddenly this isn’t just some technique you’re using to win. Can’t play dirty if you aren’t dirty to start with.) That’s fine; more convincing this way.

Jerked his left hand down, caught half free in Ken’s fist and jerked again, free now—dulled reaction, Ken moving to grab his wrist again, his knees slipping under the pull of Aya’s legs around him, and he was pressed down against him. Heavy and warm weight, rubbing tight—his fingers fumbling to catch Aya’s arm again—knocked that hand away, slipped his fingers around Ken’s neck and pulled. Felt him resist, pulled harder, and lifted his head up, sliding his hand down, curling his fingers up in his shirt—mouth opening to press against Ken’s neck.

Utter stillness, no sudden movements, almost no movements at all—other than the hand on Aya’s wrist tightening down. Slight shift of Ken’s hips—

(Let go of my hand, bastard.)

Sucked on the skin under his mouth, warm and salty with sweat, felt the vein pulsing and the stiffness of Ken’s shoulders. The shake of his left arm supporting his weight and holding Aya’s wrist down. He pressed his teeth in, against the skin—fingers tightening on his wrist and then pulled back.

Leaned back, almost panting, licked his lips, his hand dropping down, around Ken’s shoulders, down his body, legs loosening and falling down, feet against the ground again—Ken watching him, caught between just hitting him again and leaving. His right hand hanging there in the air, nothing to do with itself, not attempt to stop the hand going down his shirt again, dipping in the bare space between them, the fingers wiggling down and tugging open his pants button.

(Give me back my hand.)

Back inside, thumb under the waist band of the boxers, fingers pressing in and rubbing. Ken’s breath—his eyes closing, half a second—watched his head tilt down, in toward his left shoulder, shake to his arm there, and his hair falling forward, damp with sweat—then looking back up at him. Right hand moving down, grabbing his arm with a thumb digging into Aya’s shoulder. Leaning down—sudden movement—rubbing down against him, crushing Aya’s arm between them, mouth on his. Anger, all the same anger of the fists, all the same anger of his shouts, all that same anger, almost reckless. Pressing against him, and he opened his mouth under the pressure.

Ken’s left hand leaving his wrist, around his throat, pushing his head back, hips grinding down now, against his hand, against his hips. Tongue in his mouth, teeth in the kiss, wet and hard. Could still feel the imprint of fingers around his wrist as he curled his fist in Ken’s hair. His left hand sliding inside of the boxers, fingers stroking Ken—more force in the kiss, more anger, more push—and he pushed the cotton out of the way, giving his hand more room to move, shudder running up and down Ken’s spine, with those fingers on his skin digging in, fingernails biting into skin.

Kiss broken, panting hot breath against his mouth, Ken’s eyes still closed, a bit of a shiver, pass of time with nothing but the warm feel of weight against his palm, fingers stroking, and then Ken pulling back. One of his hands pulling Aya’s off and the other still on his shoulder, tugging, and shoving at him, rolling him over.

Kicked him in the process, not at all by accident; Ken’s hand sliding on his shoulder, toward his neck, shoving him down, face almost on the floor, scooting just enough out of his way that Aya could get his legs free and then he was face down on the floor.

Disaster all around them, noodles, glass, a fallen chair, now worthless octopus lying spilled out of its package, those white suckers staring at him. Little bottle of oil—reached out for that, had to wiggle to get to it, Ken’s fingers hooking into his belt loops and pulling down, over the curve of his hips, felt the tightness of the waist band biting into his thighs.

“Bastard,” Aya cursed back at him. Tight little sound, heavy with the pant of his breath. Got his fingers around the smooth edge of the bottle, pulling it back, his other hand reaching down, yanking at the button to his pants, pulling it free and heard the zipper as it ripped open too.

Ken’s fingers against his hip, under the waist band of his underwear, pulling them down far enough and leaning over him, one hand still against the back of his neck, grabbed the bottle out of his hand—heard the cap land somewhere in the mess and the cool spill of the oil down his back, on his shirt, slipping down, sound of the bottle dropped back on the floor and Ken’s fingers against him, rubbing in the slickness, down and pressing against him.

Bared his teeth—staring at the stupid octopus, just laying there—

Fingers pushing in, stretch and then in deeper, pulling out, fingers dragging through the oil, and in again, pressing deeper—out again—Aya closed his eyes, tipped his head forward, shoulders raising, elbows hard against the ground.

The hand moving up his back, heard Ken shifting, scrape of the bottle of oil across the floor, slick sounds of skin on skin, and reached his own hand down, pulling his pants down, slipping them down to his thighs. Ken pressed against him, felt his fist as he held himself in place and the other hand on his hip. Pulling Aya back—moved with him, elbows digging in for the leverage—and Ken pushing forward.

Half strangled pant, something audible and suffocated the noise on his own arm, teeth against his own skin, eyes squeezed shut but his hips pushing back. Ken inside, and going deeper. Hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and a shivering moment of pause.

Ken’s breath hot, heavy and loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

Aya opened his eyes again; saw that stupid fucking octopus tentacle still sitting there. Tilted his head, mouth still against his arm, eyes looking back over his own shoulder—Ken pressed into him, head bent forward, lips pulled back and teeth bare, half leaning over him—saw him.

(He hates you.)

Watching him anyway, could see the brown of his eyes even through the fall of his bangs. Hips pulling back from his, pushing forward, quick—Ken’s breath, gritted teeth—repeated the movement, more force to it. Driving back into him, hand pulling him back in time. Exhaled little noise, felt the sound against the roof of his mouth, a hushed mmm, dropped his head again, forehead against his spread fingers, hips tilting—different angle, and when Ken pushed in—

His fist against the floor, felt it counterpoint to the throb of bruises on his face. Smug little answer sound from Ken, hand slipping off his shoulder, curled in his shirt now, dragging it against Aya’s throat, the other hand still on his hip. Knees between his slipping and pushing his thighs open farther, so the pants were digging into his skin again.

Felt his sister’s earring swinging against his cheek, slapped his palm against he floor—teeth digging back into his arm, pushing back against the thrusts, all but begging for it—stifling those sounds—wanting it though, felt Ken inside and out, the roughness of his grip the frantic beat of his hips.

Anger and that was alright.

Reaching behind him, blindly feeling, found that hand on his hip, thumb against the wild beat of Ken’s pulse, pulling at him—stubborn refusal to move, a harsher grip against him, another thrust, throwing off the frantic pulse, shoving him forward, almost fell on his face but rolled back against it all the same, barely breathing through the wet suck of his mouth on his own skin. And pulled on Ken’s hand harder—(bastard, shouldn’t just fuck a guy and)—didn’t move, pulled back away from his grip and then curled around his thigh, another harder thrust.

Aya gasping, too loud. Let his hand fall back down, palm against the floor. Nothing but the heaviness in his hips, building, tightening, the movement inside and Ken’s voice getting louder, noises getting urgent almost mindless, bitten off in anger, hips moving harder. Aya rolling his head back, shoulders lifting up, mouth open and soundless, couldn’t breath, saw nothing but red behind his eyelids—muscles shivering everywhere, and Ken still moving, hand off his shirt and in his hair, fingers curled up, pulling, hips shoving forward—no rhythm, erratic, pushing and pushing.

“….shit.” Exhaled. Aya’s fingernails against the floor, no grip there, everything blanking out, head spinning and nothing mattered except the feel. Ken still moving, sharp little spikes in the white fuzz of his brain, hands still in his hair, holding his head back—hard to breath, neck exposed like that, and it didn’t matter at all.

Too much there, too lost in that moment, and it was ok—could still feel the anger, feel Ken when he pressed in deep, no sound but the hard shake of his body against Aya’s, leaning over him, head against his back.

“Get off,” Aya said and jerked his head forward, out of the loosened grip on his hair.

“I think he already did.” The voice was calm, detached, unconcerned. Sounded familiar, not Youji.

Ken jerking back, hasty, hurried—(ignorant bastard; that hurt)—and falling on his ass, heard the sound of it, the squish of the octopus under his hand, the chair getting moved again. Heavy breathing that had nothing to do with anything but the utter shock of having gotten caught.

Aya shook his head, got the hair out of his face, looked over, saw Omi standing there, book bag still on his shoulders, munching on a skewer of takoyaki as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. “You also,” Omi added pointing to the bits of octopus lying on the floor, “Ruined dinner.”

Looked back at the floor, the blood handprint there, blood on his wrist; Ken’s blood. Too much of it to be something superficial, even as aggravated as it would have been. Ignored Omi, and ignored Ken, pushed himself up to his knees and tugged his pants back up. Oil still on his shirt, on his pants, pressing wetly against his back. Grabbed the table and pulled himself back to his feet—face hurt, his jaw was swelling—

“Look at what you did, you dumbass,” Ken’s voice; he was standing now, pants fixed but still stained with oil. Staring at his kitchen, the disaster surrounding it, food spilled, blood on the floor, a puddle of oil and—

“Your hand needs stitches,” he said. Emotionless. Felt nothing now, not anger, not embarrassment, not doubt—nothing. Turned and looked over at Omi. “Where do you keep the mop?”
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The Broken Bowl: A Story of Kitchen Debauchery