Reid hadn’t been intending to go out that night; he’d planned to finish up his job, go home, shower off all the dust and bird crap and dirt and other planet-specific detritus (he missed living on a station so fucking bad, sometimes), and sleep the happy sleep of someone that-much-closer to being a shipowner.
But the job had actually–for once–gone really, really fucking well. In and out with no trouble, no guard animals, no guard bots, nothing but a particularly lame electronic alarm system between him and his score. He’d finished two hours early and stepped out of his shower still alert and twitchy, just as the clubs were getting into swing. So he got dressed again, and now he was here–some new place, would probably be gone again next time he walked by, but he liked the anonymity. And the music wasn’t bad; he couldn’t tell the songs apart, but he liked that in dance music; nothing too distracting.
He’d picked out a couple of prospects from the door; also picked a couple of pockets, just because they were there and he was high on success. There was a girl dancing like she wanted to be fucking, a boy in a tiny skirt, a man who looked like he could pin someone down and make them like it. Reid was trying to figure out what he was in the mood for when he noticed the guy just beyond the boy in the skirt.
His clothes were looser than most people’s in the club scene, but he was pretty enough to have been let in no problem. He was walking along the edge of the dance floor, surveying the prospects; it was a familiar look, but this guy was–somehow–slipping through the crowd without touching a single one. Reid watched for a minute, frowning, and confirmed–nobody touched him. Nobody even brushed against him as they passed. He slipped frictionless through the mass of people, never seeming to notice any of them, eyes fixed on the dance floor. Reid speculated for a second, then slid over into his line of sight, caught his eyes when they passed over his spot.
After that, it was easy, stepping up and asking, in the slightly-too-loud voice of a crowded club, if he wanted Reid to buy him a drink.
“I want to fuck you,” said the guy, in a voice that should have been too low to hear over the music.
Nice and direct; Reid set his glass down on the bar and led the way outside.
Reid’s place was close enough to walk, and on the way, he couldn’t help looking over at the guy. The way he moved–it was fluid and graceful, but not easy; Reid couldn’t see most of his body through the loose black of his shirt and pants, but he’d have bet that this guy was a mass of tension. It was there in his jawline, his forehead, the backs of his hands; tendons moved under the surface of his skin, muscles ready to run or fight or fuck something into the ground.
They were barely inside his door when Reid was up against the wall, his date–shorter, slimmer–pinning him easily, biting his lower lip and sliding his tongue along it.
“Hey,” said Reid, shifting subtly to see if he could get free–no luck, the grip on his shoulders tightened slightly–“nice to meet you. I’m Reid. Do I get a name before the fucking?”
There was a pause while the guy seemed to consider it. Reid wanted to frown–who the fuck went out for anonymous sex and hadn’t decided whether he was going to give his name?–but he finally said, “Shirou. My name is Shirou.”
“Hi, Shirou,” said Reid. “My bedroom’s that way.”
Shirou pulled him away from the wall and gave him a shove in the correct direction, just hard enough to get him to the door, not hard enough to make him stumble. Reid shook his head to clear it, and turned on the light. Shirou followed him in, pressed him down onto the bed and bit his lip again, a quick sharp pain that left him half-hard, on top of everything else, and then kissed him.
Not a great kisser, Reid judged after a minute; he reached up and laced his fingers through Shirou’s hair (black, like his clothes) and used his tongue to his own advantage, taking control. Shirou opened for him with a small noise, and took direction well; the kissing went on until Reid was panting into Shirou’s mouth, fingers sliding down out of his hair, over his neck and along his smooth jawline, down to his shoulders–solid shoulders, hard muscles under his hands. He took a quick break for air, and decided to roll them over, spend some time on top.
There was a quick, blank moment; Reid took a second to interpret what was going on as pain, and by then his face was pressed down into the mattress, both arms twisted too far behind him. He inhaled and got only hot, airless blanket; choking, he struggled against the hard grip on his arms. He was just starting to panic when suddenly all the pressure let up, and he was free to scramble up to the head of the bed and kneel among the pillows, breathing deeply.
A few seconds of oxygen intake and he remembered what was going on, and quickly looked back down the bed. Shirou was kneeling at the foot, hands folded beautifully in his lap, watching Reid carefully. “I apologize,” he said.
“What the fuck was that?” Reid asked, as politely as he could.
“I overreacted. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” The words were quiet and serious; he didn’t move from his position, still watching Reid closely.
Overreacted. Reid’s brain replayed the last few seconds: he’d been about to roll Shirou to the bottom; Shirou had stopped him, flipped him over without moving from on top of him, and pinned his arms behind his back. Somehow. Reid couldn’t reconstruct the exact sequence of moves. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Can I get a guarantee that you won’t overreact again?”
Shirou hesitated. “I wouldn’t try what you did again,” he said finally. “I don’t like being moved around.”
Reid thought about that. The smart thing to do was to ask the guy to leave, obviously; he looked like he’d be willing to go, if he was asked, and Reid didn’t want to be suffocated with a pillow tonight.
On the other hand, the idea of having sex with someone who could pin him that easily was pretty fucking hot.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s try this again.” He slid down from the head of the bed, parting his legs to let Shirou move up between them. Shirou took advantage, moving over him and leaning down to kiss him again–better this time, Reid noted with some surprise, as though he’d really just needed a little bit of a lesson in technique. He wondered whom Shirou had been kissing before now, that they hadn’t taught him anything.
Shirou eased himself down, maybe afraid of frightening Reid away. The gradual lessening of the space between them was surprisingly good, moving from being just barely able to feel Shirou’s body heat against his clothes, through the lightest of touches–chests brushing, thighs slipping against each other, the slow downward slide of Shirou’s knees against the blankets–until their hips lined up, cocks touching, and gravity pressed them closer and closer together. Reid made a noise into Shirou’s mouth, and moved his hands–slowly, carefully–to Shirou’s back, pulling his shirt up and out of his waistband, sliding up underneath it along firm muscle. Shirou kissed him harder, making a quiet noise, then pulled up to let Reid tug the shirt over his head. There were pockets in it, with things inside, so Reid set the shirt down onto the floor instead of tossing it, and then reached down to start tracing the edge of Shirou’s pants.
Shirou let him undo the fly and pull them open, then caught his hands, and pulled back to take off his pants and boots himself; Reid took the opportunity to get his own clothes off, dumping them on the floor and reaching for Shirou as soon as he had them off. Naked, Shirou was even prettier than he had been clothed; he had an absolutely perfect body, with muscles moving fluidly under dark golden skin; a few scars ran quietly along his torso, and Reid wondered how he’d gotten them.
Shirou lowered himself again, and the feeling of all that skin touching gently down onto his was too much; Reid groaned into Shirou’s mouth and slid his fingers through the black hair again; God, he felt good. “Stop being careful,” he said against Shirou’s lips, and when Shirou pulled his head back to look inquiringly at him, “Don’t worry about me. I can take it. I want to take it; that’s the whole reason you’re here.” He reached blindly for the drawer next to his bed and pulled the lube out. “Fuck me.”
Shirou’s eyes darkened, and he took the lube out of Reid’s hand, opened it, and slicked his fingers with quick, economical movements. Reid shifted his hips in anticipation, so it was easy to move with it when Shirou took hold of his right thigh and pushed it back, dipping his own right hand down between them and tracing Reid’s hole with slick fingers.
“Yeah,” said Reid–this was what he’d been waiting for all night, what his adrenaline high needed, the icing on today’s cake. “Yeah, come on. Fuck me.”
Shirou shuddered, fingers clenching too hard on Reid’s thigh–handprint bruise, probably, and the thought made his cock twitch–and pushed a finger in. It went easily–Reid breathed sharply and canted his hips up further–and the second one opened him up a minute later, the fingers spreading him, getting him ready. Sweat stood out on Shirou’s forehead as he pulled the fingers out and pressed his cock inside. Just the right amount of pressure, enough to get inside without pushing in too fast, and Reid let his head fall back and breathed.
Shirou fucked into him slowly, and Reid could see the echoes of the tension he’d noticed earlier, tension that had disappeared after Shirou’s overreaction, buried under whatever kept him kneeling with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He grinned to himself, and clenched around Shirou’s cock. Shirou made a strangled noise and thrust in hard. Reid clutched at Shirou’s biceps and made appreciative noises, and Shirou thrust again, and again, until he was starting to work up a rhythm and sweat was standing out on his forehead.
“Good,” Reid gasped, “that’s good, fuck me–”
“Shut up,” Shirou ground out, and Reid laughed, surprised, and shot back, “Make me.”
Shirou shifted, and was supporting himself on one arm, the left hand coming up to clamp down over Reid’s mouth. Reid licked the fingers and bit lightly, and Shirou’s expression darkened and he started fucking Reid faster, harder–Reid groaned against Shirou’s fingers, spread himself out further, and took it. Oh, it was good, Shirou’s fluid grace translating effortlessly into his fucking, each thrust hard and perfect inside him, sliding against his prostate, speeding gradually into a blur of pleasure. He lost track of the noises he was making against Shirou’s hand, couldn’t taste anything but his own spit on it; he was soaking the sheets with his sweat.
“I want,” said Shirou, voice grating like he’d swallowed broken glass, “I want to make you come.” His hand lifted, slid down Reid’s chest, balance shifting with no break in the rhythm.
“Touch me,” Reid managed.
“Ask me for it,” said Shirou, and fucked into him harder, just this side of pain.
“Please,” said Reid, and rode the next thrust along with the charge from having to beg, “please touch me, put your hand on my cock, please, oh fuck, please–”
Shirou’s hand clenched too hard on his hipbone, where it had settled–another bruise–and finally moved to his cock. “Please,” said Reid again, watching Shirou’s face, bringing himself right up to the edge–and then Shirou’s hand, hard and perfect, jerked him right over, and he came in long, wrenching pulses, all over Shirou’s hand. Shirou thrust in hard as he was finishing, gasped for air, and came hot inside Reid.
When they had come down and caught their breath, Shirou collected himself and started to reach for his clothing.
Reid debated asking him to stay, but decided that he wouldn’t accept and he probably shouldn’t waste the time. “I hope you got whatever you came for,” he said instead, and handed Shirou his shirt.
“Yes,” said Shirou slowly. “I–yes.”
Reid looked down at the thing he’d palmed from the shirt’s pocket. “Thanks for not killing me,” he said, after a strangled second.
“You’re welcome,” said Shirou. He hesitated. “Maybe I’ll come back.”
Reid looked up. “That would be okay.”
Shirou bowed, archaic and weird and so graceful Reid had to look away again. When he looked back, Shirou was gone.
He put the throwing star carefully into the drawer beside his bed and turned out the light.