Chapter Text
Futa is, usually, not a man of many words.
With his headphones tucked into his ears, blasting constant game music that’s loud enough for anyone standing within his general vicinity to hear. Eyes with bags so deep you could get lost in them. The bags, not his eyes. (Although in Mikoto’s humble opinion, those were also very alluring.)
He’d been watching him from across campus for a while. Slim, short figure with narrow shoulders and a head of bright red hair. To anyone, he could pass as an average 20 year old Japanese college student, sleep deprived with ratty clothes and a bad attitude.
But to Mikoto, he was a rare stain of truth that stood out in the false sense of sunniness that existed in his day-to-day life. (As stupid as that sounded)
Futa had never made the move to talk to him. In fact, it was almost like he disliked Mikoto! Always shooting him strong scowls and sour looks that consisted of his thick, defined eyebrows furrowing so low you’d think Mikoto just murdered his dog and ate the body.
It’s not that Mikoto was unused to people disliking him. That happened all the time, it was an inevitable fact of life. But Futa was honest. He didn’t try to get close. Nor did he spout shit about him to any of their other classmates. Although, Mikoto could tell even if he wanted to, no one would listen.
He was blunt, rude, and quite frankly the guy of Mikoto’s dreams.
So, so many dreams.
Futa on his back, his wrists pinned against a mattress and signature figure-obscuring hoodie rode up to his collar, his soft chest on display.
Sometimes, Futa would pant and beg for things Mikoto was sure he’d never hear him say in real life. Others, he’d swear crudely as Mikoto toyed with him in ways that made him think he might have some deeply buried sexual preferences that he should have realized existed a long, long time ago.
Maybe, Mikoto thinks sometimes, he’s just some horny bastard who can’t stop jacking off to his imaginary conception of his some poor sophomore boy he’s never spoken a single word to.
And maybe that cognitive distortion is correct. It is weird to fantasize about rearranging the guts of some hallway crush you’ve only ever talked to in your lucid dreams. Even if the hallway crush is——really fucking cute. And mean. And fuckable.
Perchance, those crass, dirty, lecherous thoughts are why this all happened in the first place. There’s no saying for sure, but Mikoto will be damned if he can’t use them as an excuse. It’s only nine in the morning, and Mikoto is speed-walking into a bathroom. He’s hiding. Hiding from the girls who couldn’t seem to keep their awfully manicured (I mean really, electric yellow and beige? Who told you those colors belonged together?) hands away from him and the loud-mouthed guys who couldn’t seem to take a hint. The hint being that they were annoying, and needed a breath mint. Or three. He’d been feeling especially pent up that day, agitated with his dick itching to get off to something— anything.
So it’s only nine in the morning, and Mikoto is stomping into a stall, pushing his pants down, and he hears it.
A quiet, whiny noise coming from the stall next to him.
Mikoto freezes.
The guy’s voice is low and rough in texture. Despite this, it carried an undertone of youthfulness. Mikoto feels his dick twitch beneath his underwear. He wants to bite down on his bottom lip until the skin breaks and he begins to bleed, but he knows it would only create problems the moment he leaves this sanctuary of a bathroom.
The guy next to him shuffles a little, so Mikoto can see his shoes are close to the stall on the guy’s left. Away from Mikoto.
Mikoto considers running to another bathroom and sorting out his problem somewhere else. A favor between guys, y’know?
But then the guy speaks.
“Fuck.” He says quietly. It’s breathy, so breathy, and weak. And familiar.
“Fuck.” Mikoto parrots.
Futa is jerking off in the bathroom next to him. Good god, Mikoto has never wanted to screw someone as badly as he wants to screw Futa. Right here, right now.
Futa is still silent. He makes a little growling noise from his corner of the stall, which has Mikoto realizing with a start that Futa knows he’s here.
Of course he does. Mikoto’s brain unhelpfully supplies. You stormed into the bathroom like you were about to take a shit so explosive it would rival the impact of the Tsar Bomba.
Mikoto frowns, and wills away the terrible military shit jokes from his memory.
This is wrong. He says to himself on repeat, like a skipping record in a 50’s film. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
The mantra echoes in his mind as he opens the door to the stall loudly, and walks harshly to the sinks, sinking his feet to the tiles heel first, so the slapping of the soles bounces about the restroom boisterously enough for someone from the outside to hear.
He waves the faucet on normally, letting the automatically called upon water run its five-second course and then stop abruptly by program. He snatches an abundance of paper towels from the holder, a quarter for actually drying his hands and the rest to be stuffed in his pockets for the near future.
Then, with a lump of guilt clotting like blood in the back of his throat, Mikoto opens the door to the bathroom as widely as it can physically go, and then he lets it slam back into place immediately after. He waits a minute, maybe two, his breathing so eerily silent he hardly thinks he’s breathing at all.
“Dick.”
Mikoto hears Futa laugh to himself. He finds the tension seep from his bones, and become replaced by a honeyed pleasure that has him going weak.
Mikoto shifts as Futa resumes his semi-illegal masterbation session in the public bathrooms. He locks the door carefully, and then he shuffles back to his stall from before, relaxing his back against the wall.
“Ah, ah.” Futa groans. His voice has reached a careless magnitude of volume that makes Mikoto happy most students don’t choose to take nine am classes of their own free will.
This understanding allows Mikoto to imagine a more satisfying scene. Instead of a dingy university bathroom, he’s laying on a bed in a sensually decorated room. He imagines, maybe, this is a love hotel. The scenario is one he’s thought of many times, on many a lonely night. Their design class—the class he and Futa shared—was out for dinner, teacher attended and safe. And then, the older adults of the bunch, the legal ones, order some drinks. Alcoholic with a capital a. He isn’t sure how, but Futa has managed a glass and now he’s babbling in his arms about unspoken feelings and crushes and love and then they’re making out all over a velvety sheet.
Futa would have his thighs, just a bit more supple than in reality, wrapped around his waist. His arms could’ve been braced at his shoulders, clutching the muscle there as he tucks his face into the pillow under his head, his cheeks a lovely pink and mouth agape with spit and tears, which are rolling down from his pleasure fogged eyes.
“Mhh…! Fuck, just—“ Mikoto can hear, from the stall next to him or from his imagination he doesn’t really know.
The rose-tinted fantasy dissipates, and he’s back to staring at the ugly green of the bathroom stall door, his hand down his pants and jerking his dick roughly.
He tries fucks into imaginary Futa again, his brain reshaping his palm into Futa’s lower half, quickening his pace as Futa loses himself next door.
“Shit,” He mumbles deliriously, leaning his forehead against the stall door and screwing his eyes shut. Mikoto images groping futa by his thighs as he fucks him on his dick, and it’s enough to have him coming, the paper towels in his pocket long-forgotten. “Shit.“
“Oh god, please.” Is what Futa moans, it’s muffled and Mikoto can figure Futa has his hand clutched against his face, eyebrows furrowed with that infuriatingly cute face he always makes whenever he’s frustrated with something.
The silence is loud in itself, Futa panting and basking in the aftertaste as Mikoto numbly wipes the cum from bathroom floor with the paper towels, his face bright and warm now that he’d been fully aware of what he’d just done.
After another brief moment, Futa huffs, then proclaims; “So, what fuckass stayed around to jerk off with me in the bathroom?” He sounds like he wants to be snarky, but the whine in his voice, the way he sounds so out of breath just doesn’t help his case.
Mikoto clears his throat, pulling up his pants even if Futa can’t technically see him just for the sake of his dignity.
“Hi. It’s Kayano, from design class. My bad.” His voice comes out hoarse and nervous, but Futa says nothing about it.
The only thing Mikoto hears is the desperate unlocking of Futa’s stall door, before his own is kicked in by someone from the outside.
Now he’d glad he’d pulled up his pants.
“What.” Futa stares, his pretty curved eyes wide and cheeks redder than his hair, at Mikoto inside the stall. “The fuck.”
“Aha.” Mikoto wheezes, using his hand to hide the tent rapidly rising in his pants. “Sorry?”