Work Text:
Bad ideas, ay
I know where they lead
But I have too many to sleep
And I can't get enough, no
I wanna kiss you standing up
Kaoru’s had one of those fucking days.
One of those days where he spilled coffee on his kimono before he even left the house, where traffic snarled up in the short trip between his apartment and his studio. One of those days where he seemed to be running five minutes all day, no matter how hard he tried to catch up. His afternoon was all back to back meetings with his most obnoxious clients, and he can’t for the life of him figure out who thought that was a good idea. It sure as fuck wasn’t him.
He ends up where he always does on those days—Kojiro’s apartment. Not Sia la Luce, where the noise of conversations and chewing and slurping would overstimulate him to the point of nausea. No, that wouldn’t have helped at all. No matter how good the carbonara, or how expensive the wine. Kojiro might have cleared out a private table for him, he knows, but even that wouldn’t be private enough.
Here, at Kojiro’s apartment, it’s so much better. Kaoru can sprawl out on Kojiro’s couch, shoeless, boneless, careless. He can complain about his day without fear of causing a scene or being overheard and listen to the pan on Kojiro’s stove sizzle. He’s had a glass of wine or two, and after the second one he realizes how little he’s truly eaten throughout the day.
Of course he’s not gonna say that to Kojiro. The dumbass will no doubt lecture him the way he always does, about caloric intake and macronutrients, while he shoves a disgusting smoothie or ‘health food’ mixture at him. Ugh. Anything but that.
Instead, Kaoru pads into Kojiro’s cozy kitchen in his socks. He rummages in Kojiro’s fridge and finds a string cheese, swipes an apple and a small, sharp knife from the counter. When Kojiro complains—”Am I or am I not cooking you dinner right now, asshole?—Kaoru just waves the knife at him in what he hopes is a menacing way. He sits at the island counter; it’s easier to annoy Kojiro from there than the couch.
Kaoru slices pieces off the apple and eats them slowly while Kojiro gets a turn to complain about his day. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Kaoru’s, but he listens anyway. What are friends for, after all, if not to listen to you bitch about the little things? Kaoru makes a mozzarella-sandwich-on-apple-bread, and he’s so focused on getting the proportions of fruit to cheese right that he almost misses the horrified look on Kojiro’s face.
“Kaoru, tell me you’re not going to eat—Oh, my god.”
Kaoru cackles, but the sound is garbled by the very large bite he just took of his culinary masterpiece. Chowing down on horrifying food combinations is one of his favorite ways to rile Kojiro up, always has been. Kojiro turns back to the stove, muttering something about people who might not actually deserve food at all, now that he thinks about it.
All the same, he ladles a healthy serving of ramen into Kaoru’s bowl. It’s not Kaoru’s, per se, but Kojiro knows it’s the one he likes to use. He likes how it feels in his hands, the way it hardly makes a sound when his chopsticks drag against the surface of it.
Kojiro takes his sweet fucking time assembling the food. He hears Kaoru’s stomach grumble hungrily, barely sated by his snack, and he smirks.
“Oi!” The apple core hits Kojiro in the shoulder, leaving a wet splotch. He glares at Kaoru from across the kitchen. “Food! Bring it!”
“You’re a goddamn nuisance, you know that?” Kojiro is grumbling, but he brings the bowls to the island counter anyway. Kaoru pours them both new glasses of wine, a tart Pinot Noir that Kojiro keeps on hand for him, but he pointedly pours a little more in his own glass.
Kojiro, the little shit—big shit, really, he’s annoyingly massive—notices, because of course he does. He snatches the bottle out of Kaoru’s hand and drinks straight from it, staring Kaoru down as he does. His throat works as he drains the rest of the bottle in one go, his eyes simmering in a challenge. Kojiro sets the bottle on the counter with a hard clink. His lips are shiny and dark with wine, spread wide around his smile.
“Barbaric,” Kaoru calls him.
“Greedy,” Kojiro answers.
The counter is big enough to seat four or five people, but their stools are close, knees touching, heat sharing. It’s better that way, Kaoru thinks, he won’t have to reach very far when he needs to smack Kojiro. And he will need to smack him, sooner or later. He always does.
It’s almost too easy, sitting quietly with Kojiro while they eat. They’ve been side by side—’attached at the hip,’ Kojiro’s mom used to call them—for so long, that when they run out of things to talk about, the silence isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable.
Sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes the tension is so thick it’s hard to breathe. There’s the surface tension, their barbs and banter that can turn too harsh too fast, but it’s the tension below it that always screams danger. It’s the tension of Kojiro’s stupid broad shoulders and his ridiculous abs, and the way Kaoru sometimes wants to climb him like a tree and shut him up with a tongue down his throat.
They don’t talk about it. Sometimes, Kaoru thinks Kojiro might be thinking the same thing. Well, maybe not about climbing Kaoru like a tree. Something different, but just as filthy and stupid. Kaoru tries not to think about what Kojiro is imagining, when he’s glaring at Kaoru with a certain kind of heat in his eyes. He tries, and he fails. He fails so, so hard, it’s pathetic.
Kojiro’s stupid bar stools aren’t very comfortable. Kaoru tells him as much, for the hundredth time, and all he gets for his constructive, objectively accurate criticism is a shove that almost unseats him. Kaoru kicks out in retaliation, aiming for Kojiro’s bad knee, but Kojiro catches him around the ankle with one broad hand. He pulls Kaoru’s foot into his lap and holds it there, forcing Kaoru to pivot in his chair.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Gimme the other one,” Kojiro says, ignoring the question entirely. Kaoru absolutely does not give him the other one. His eyes narrow in distrust.
“Why?”
Kojiro just stares at him. He takes a drink of his wine, almost gone now, as if to say that’s fine, I can wait. It annoys Kaoru even more, that smug patience he’s never had. Kojiro knows it, too. Kaoru tries to pull his leg away from Kojiro’s grasp, but he can’t budge. He puts his other foot on the thin length of wood between the stool’s legs for leverage, but it doesn’t help. The sharp edge of the wood bites into the sensitive arch of Kaoru’s foot. He winces; Kojiro notices. He quirks an eyebrow at Kaoru, and Kaoru thinks: now, now is when I need to smack him.
“That’s why,” Kojiro drawls. He beckons again for Kaoru’s other foot, and his smug smile only widens when Kaoru caves. Kaoru drops his heel into Kojiro’s lap, hard, digging it into his thigh.
It’s Kojiro’s turn to wince, Kaoru’s turn to smirk.
“You’re such a dick,” Kojiro mutters. His voice is frustrated, but his hands are so good. He slips Kaoru’s socks carefully from his feet, one by one, and drops them on the ground. He presses his thumb into the ball of Kaoru’s foot, just the right amount of pressure. Kaoru has to grit his teeth so he doesn’t make a sound. There’s no way he is going to let Kojiro know how good it feels, that he absolutely did need this after a long day running from place to place. “Who complains about a home cooked meal, free wine, and a free massage?”
“Is it really free if I have to put up with you the entire time?”
“Touche.”
Kojiro grins, all teeth. He shifts in his seat to face Kaoru, pulling one foot onto each of his thighs. Thick, muscular thighs. Kaoru tries not to think about that part. He reaches for his wine glass and finds it almost empty. He takes a small sip. Kojiro has more, he knows, but retrieving it would mean Kojiro has to get up, has to stop massaging the ache and tension out of Kaoru’s feet, and Kaoru isn’t ready for that.
He pretends he doesn’t like it, the way Kojiro is always touching him. The way he notices Kaoru’s aches and pains from sleepless nights and long days hunched over a canvas or a computer. Kojiro rarely asks these days, maneuvering Kaoru where he wants him, where he can put those clever, stupid fucking hands to work. He’s so pushy now.
Sometimes Kaoru thinks about the shy, hapless Kojiro he knew in high school. Before he got so confident, and so huge. That Kojiro touched Kaoru too, worked kinks out of his skinny shoulders, wrapped arms and legs around him while they watched movies, fell asleep with his head in Kaoru’s lap. Things have changed since then, it’s not the same. Kaoru knows this.
Now, he feels every pass of Kojiro’s fingers in his entire body. Kojiro strokes Kaoru’s ankles almost absently, tracing circles around the bony joint. Kojiro’s fingers circle his ankle entirely, thumb and middle finger touching. The sight drives Kaoru wild. He looks somewhere else, anywhere else, listening to Kojiro talk about some date he went on last week with a girl he met at the coffee shop around the corner.
Kaoru’s favorite coffee shop. Something about that details is grating, setting Kaoru’s jaw on edge. Did he pick up this girl when he was down there, buying Kaoru a coffee and his favorite raspberry scones? He couldn’t keep it in his pants for ten minutes on a coffee run?
Kaoru’s muscles tense, undoing all of Kojiro’s hard work. He’s not relaxed anymore. Kojiro hisses through his teeth when Kaoru digs his toes sharply into his gut, where he’s soft and vulnerable. The sound makes Kaoru’s blood sing.
“What is your problem?” Kojiro grabs Kaoru’s foot, hard, before he can kick him again.
“You’re my problem, as usual,” Kaoru bites. He sees genuine hurt in Kojiro’s eyes, just for a moment. He’s had a couple glasses of wine, but it can’t excuse the sharpness of his tongue. All the wine does is make his mouth dangerous, loose and reckless. It doesn’t make anything he says less true. In vino veritas, after all.
Kojiro is Kaoru’s problem. The one problem he’s never been able to puzzle out. He drives Kaoru crazy. Kaoru wants to punch him in the mouth. He wants to taste that mouth, and somehow that’s so much worse. Kojiro makes Kaoru home-cooked meals and lets him drink his wine and rubs his feet, and yet. Here he is, talking about some girl he picked up while waiting for a barista to call out Kaoru’s coffee order.
Fuck him, honestly.
Kaoru tries to yank his foot back, away from the heat of Kojiro’s skin seeping into his. Away from those sinful fingers and all the things Kaoru wants to do to them, wants them to do to him. Away from the dangerous, beguiling touch that makes Kaoru boneless and pliant and so, so weak.
Kojiro doesn’t let him go. He holds firm, and looks at Kaoru in confusion. His eyes demand answers, explanations that Kaoru can’t give him. Won’t give him. There’s no way in hell he will explain that the ways he touches Kaoru are never enough. There are no words to tell him that he hates hearing about Kojiro’s dates, at least none that wouldn’t leave him split open and raw and vulnerable to rejection. He doesn’t want his foot on Kojiro’s thigh, pressed against the soft warmth of his abs. He needs to get away from it.
Kojiro has his hand wrapped around Kaoru’s ankle now, holding him still with an unyielding grip. All those muscles really aren’t for show, huh. Kaoru’s foot is free, unrestrained, and he thinks: two can play this game. He flexes his ankle, drags his toes down, over the soft swell of Kojiro’s abdomen, and lower, to the waistband of his faded sweats.
Then lower. Pushing the ball of his foot against Kojiro’s lap, the tantalizing softness and heat there, between his stupidly broad thighs. He presses down. Kojiro gasps; the sound is like wine, it makes Kaoru’s head swim and his skin flare with heat. Kojiro’s dick twitches in his sweats, his hips jerk. Maybe away from the touch, maybe pushing into it.
“Kaoru, what the fuck?”
Kojiro doesn’t sound mad anymore, at least. He sounds surprised; he looks surprised. His burgundy eyes are round and wondering, but Kaoru sees the ghost of something else there. Something simmering and dark. He does it again. Against the sole of his foot he feels another twitch, the soft bulge giving way to firm attention.
“You gonna let me go now, Kojiro?”
“No.” The word is a growl, ripped from Kojiro’s throat.
Oh. Okay. So that’s how it’s going to be.
Kaoru strokes his foot down, up, down again. Kojiro’s cock plumps under his touch, and goddamn, he’s huge. Kaoru can feel it, even through the thick cotton of his sweats. Kojiro clenches his jaw, tenses his thighs. His fingers flex where they’re still wrapped around Kaoru’s ankle, squeezing just this side of too hard. He doesn’t pull Kaoru’s foot way, though. Kojiro lets him touch, guides the touch with his hand on his ankle, even as he half-resists.
Kaoru presses down harder, until a low sound escapes through Kojiro’s gritted teeth. Kaoru can feel the wicked smile splitting his own face; victory zings through his veins. He eases off, then digs in again. Push and pull, too much, and not enough. Kojiro groans louder this time.
“Kaoru,” Kojiro grits out. His voice is crackling and rough, barely restrained. “You’re playing with fire here.”
Kaoru throws his head back, laughing abruptly, even though there’s nothing funny about any of this. “Prove it,” he bites back.
He strokes Kojiro again with the ball of his foot. Kaoru can see Kojiro about to snap and god, he wants it. He wants Kojiro feral and thoughtless and too riled up to think about the morning after they cross this line. He wants to stop thinking too, he only wants to feel. Feel Kojiro’s hands bold and claiming, his mouth devouring and hot, his cock swollen and dangerous.
Feral, thoughtless Kojiro isn’t what he gets. Kojiro’s hands move, resuming his slow, deep massage of Kaoru’s foot. His thumbs dig into the sole, pulling a hiss from Kaoru’s throat. It’s delicious, that sharp pleasure-pain that only comes from pressure against sore aching muscles. It feels so good. Kaoru hates it. He wants more.
Kojiro, with his hands wrapped around Kaoru’s foot, resumes the slow grind of Kaoru’s arch against his dick. His mouth falls open on a soft sound, and his half lidded eyes are still on Kaoru’s face as he guides his foot up and down, indulgent, selfish. His stupid, talented fingers work up to Kaoru’s ankles, rubbing and teasing. Kaoru’s skin ripples with unexpected pleasure. It comes in slow, syrupy waves, loosening not only the muscles he’s touching but Kaoru’s entire body.
He doesn’t want loose. He wants tight, tense, rough.
“What are you doing?” Kaoru tries to snap out the words, like he’s annoyed, but his voice comes out shivery.
Kojiro answers, in a low purr, “Just what you told me to, baby.” He punctuates the words with blunt fingers digging into Kaoru’s calf and a roll of his hips against Kaoru’s foot. “Proving it.”
“Well hurry up about it.”
Kaoru’s knees widen, making room for Kojiro between them. It’s not an invitation, he tells himself, it’s a demand. It says I’m in control of this, do what I say.
“Tsk,” Kojiro tuts. He’s never been one to give in to Kaoru’s demands. He pulls Kaoru towards him abruptly, taking up the space offered between his legs.
Kojiro’s so fucking wide. The closer he comes, the wider Kaoru’s thighs spread, until he feels the stretch of it in his hips. Kojiro’s hands are warm, skimming up the side of Kaoru’s thighs. Warm, possessive, like he’s claiming what is already his. He’s infuriating.
“So impatient,” Kojiro purrs.
Kaoru doesn’t trust his voice, so he says nothing. He plucks his wine glass off the counter and takes a drink, meeting Kojiro’s eyes lazily over the rim. Two can play this game. Kojiro just smirks and parts Kaoru’s kimono to reveal his lean thighs. His tanned hands are dark brands across the pale, sensitive skin there. Kojiro’s eyes never leave Kaoru’s.
Kojiro leans in closer, until Kaoru’s sure he’s going to kiss him. Finally. He’ll take Kaoru’s mouth the way he’s been asking for, the way he’s goaded Kojiro into. Kaoru could lose himself in a kiss, he could dive in headfirst and never come back up for air.
Kojiro doesn’t kiss him. Kaoru can feel his breath on his skin, anticipatory like the calm before the storm, but the kiss never comes. Kojiro keeps touching him with a frustrating patience, untying his kimono and hadajuban, slowly revealing the bare skin beneath. It’s when Kojiro’s fingertips brush the sensitive juncture of Kaoru’s hip and thigh that his composure finally slips. Kaoru jerks gracelessly into the touch, a rough sound leaking from his throat despite all efforts to hold it back.
Now Kojiro kisses him. And fuck, what a kiss it is.
The kiss isn’t sloppy and consuming; it’s deliberate. It builds and builds until Kaoru really does feel like he’s drowning. Kojiro’s lips are soft and full and his tongue is demanding, teasing Kaoru’s lips apart and stroking against his own. Kojiro’s hands are on Kaoru’s hips now, a bruising and needy grip that belies the deliberation of the kiss, and Kaoru tells himself that it means something. That Kojiro is just as desperate and foolish as he is.
Kojiro yanks him to the edge of his stool and then Kojiro’s body is on his, hot even through the layers of fabric separating them. Kaoru arches into it, grinding his cock against soft cotton and the ridges of Kojiro’s abs. Kaoru reaches for Kojiro—for stability, he tells himself, so he doesn’t topple right off the stool and break something—but his arms are still trapped in his clothes, pinning them back.
Kaoru has no way to resist, then, when Kojiro grips his thighs and lifts him off the stool entirely. Kaoru’s not a small man, he knows this, but Kojiro holds him like he weighs absolutely nothing. He could hold Kaoru like this, easy, casual, and fuck him like this, hard, serious. It makes Kaoru’s head spin. He hates how hot that is, hates how much hotter it is when Kojiro tells him I’ve got you as Kaoru tenses in his arms.
The cool countertop is a shock against his skin after the heat of Kojiro’s hands. Kaoru hisses, and slaps Kojiro as hard as he can on the chest, hampered as he is by his own rumpled clothing tangled around his elbows.
“Fucking brute,” he hisses. Kojiro just laughs, and Kaoru wants to slap him again. He wants to kiss him, too, but that feels less important at the moment. And less confusing. But when Kojiro leans close again, glancing his lips against Kaoru’s, his traitorous body chases the touch like he needs it.
“You liked it,” Kojiro teases, with a cocky confidence that makes Kaoru want to bite him. Hard.
“You shouldn’t pick people up like that,” Kaoru teases back. “You might hurt your back. You’re not as young and strong as you used to be, you know.”
Kojiro doesn’t rise to the bait. Again. He takes his time raking his gaze over Kaoru’s body, bare and spread before him, and smiles that same aggravating, slow curling smile. It’s almost predatory; Kaoru isn’t accustomed to feeling like prey.
“Just for that,” Kojiro leans in and breathes against Kaoru’s ear, making him shudder, “I’m gonna make you cometwice.”
Every biting response slips from Kaoru’s mind. He splutters, “Why would you—” but that’s as far as he gets before Kojiro is bending and taking one of Kaoru’s nipples into his mouth. Kojiro’s tongue is confident, swirling and flicking, teeth tugging at the piercing there, making Kaoru arch and gasp beneath him. He bites his lower lip so hard it hurts, to keep from making any sound. Kojiro’s maroon eyes flick up, and he frowns, pulling off with a frown.
“None of that,” he tells Kaoru, thumbing at his lip. Kaoru sucks it into his mouth and lets go with a loud pop. Defiant, pouty. Kojiro speaks directly into Kaoru’s panting mouth, fingers surprisingly gentle in his hair. “Always so tightly controlled, aren’t you, Kaoru?”
Kojiro tightens his grip in Kaoru’s hair and jerks his head back. The sting of it is pleasure-pain, yanking a gasp from Kaoru’s throat, a jerk from his hips. “Bet you sound so good when someone makes you let go,” he continues, biting at Kaoru’s jaw and kissing messily down his throat. Kojiro’s tongue finds the hollow of Kaoru’s collarbone, his teeth find the meat of his pec.
“As if you could make me lose control,” Kaoru replies, like the shreds of his control aren’t already pooled around his wrists like so much silk and cotton.
Kojiro’s chuckle is a low, rumbling thing, bleeding into Kaoru’s skin. He still has one hand tightly wound in Kaoru’s hair; the other one curls around his dick. Kaoru feels it everywhere, the slide of Kojiro’s hand as he strokes him with maddening slowness, thumbing at his slit and the thick drops leaking there. Kaoru pushes his hips into it, frantic for speed, but Kojiro holds him in place.
“Like I said, impatient,” he murmurs. He kisses down the plane of Kaoru’s stomach until his breath is ghosting over Kaoru’s cock. There’s too much time like this, too much space left for thoughts about how expertly Kojiro works his body, how pretty he looks in the low golden light over the kitchen island, how his eyes flutter closed as he tastes Kaoru’s skin like he’s savoring it.
“Kojiro, I swear to god if you don’t—fuck-”
Kojiro flattens his tongue and licks Kaoru from root to tip. He cleans up every leaking drop then shifts lower. He sucks a dark mark into Kaoru’s tender inner thigh as he pulls both of Kaoru’s legs over his shoulders. Before Kaoru can say another word—and honestly, he’s not sure he can form any non-embarrassing words at the moment—Kojiro’s mouth is back on him, and not where he expected.
That stupid, agile tongue strokes wetly over Kaoru’s hole, and finally, he cries out. A deep victorious growl vibrates against Kaoru’s skin as Kojiro starts eating him out with fervor. He holds Kaoru in place with his hands spread wide over sharp hipbones. This. This is what Kaoru wanted. Kojiro messy and hungry, driving both of them out of their minds. He just wasn’t expecting it to wreck him so thoroughly, so fast.
Kojiro abandons his single-minded purpose for only a moment to swirl his tongue around Kaoru’s cock again, to swallow him to the root once, twice, until he’s wet and sticky with spit. Then his mouth is buried in Kaoru’s ass again, tongue thrusting against his hole like he’s well and truly fucking him, and he’s jerking him off with one broad hand. Kojiro’s hair is silky against Kaoru’s fingertips. He moans when Kaoru tangles his fingers in it and pulls, a little too hard. Kaoru feels that moan inside him, and suddenly he’s coming, grinding down on Kojiro’s mouth, making a mess of Kojiro’s fingers and his own stomach. Kojiro strokes and kisses and licks him through it, easing off only when Kaoru starts to twitch with oversensitivity.
The way Kojiro kisses Kaoru’s thighs is deceptively sweet. Kojiro is never sweet to him without an ulterior motive, and now is no exception. He lets Kaoru come down just enough that he can breathe and almost think again, then he’s lifting him off the counter and turning down the hall. The bulge of Kojiro’s cock against Kaoru’s ass is insistent as he walks, jostling against him with every step.
“Stop manhandling me!” Kaoru snaps, but the demand has very little impact in his breathless, fucked out voice. He kicks his legs in half-hearted protest, but he only succeeds in shifting his hips against Kojiro’s.
Kojiro stumbles a couple steps and Kaoru’s back hits the wall, hard. Kojiro pins him there with his hips and hands for one heaving breath, then he’s kissing him. This kiss is rough, all tongues and teeth, and Kaoru falls into it headfirst. His nails scrape over Kojiro’s scalp as Kojiro grinds their hips together with purpose now, like he’s fucking him, with heat and pressure that’s just this side of too much.
“I think,” Kojiro pants against Kaoru’s cheek, still rolling his hips, “you like being manhandled, sweetheart.”
Kaoru bites his shoulder hard in retaliation. Kojiro grunts out a muffled fuck, then he pulls Kaoru away from the wall and carries him towards his bedroom. Kaoru notices with a thrill of satisfaction that Kojiro’s steps are unsteady, quicker than before. Knocking Kojiro off-kilter is a heady feeling; he wants more of it. He wants to shatter him into tiny pieces and put him back together with his bare hands.
Kaoru throws himself into it, kissing Kojiro the way he knows have brought lesser men to their knees. He sucks on Kojiro’s tongue like it’s his cock, digs his teeth into Kojiro’s bottom lip a little too hard, tongue sweeping soothingly over the sting. Kojiro’s bedroom smells like him in the most overwhelming way, wrapping around Kaoru until it’s everywhere.
“Lights, setting four,” Kojiro says, and the lights in his bedroom come on slowly, just bright enough to bathe them both in a warm, dim glow. It’s a move, a practiced seduction technique. Kaoru knows this—and he hates how much it works for him. Kojiro is all warm confidence, followed up with kisses and touches that prove it’s well-earned.
Kaoru think about teasing Kojiro, telling him that he’s apparently just as reliant on technology for seduction as Kaoru is on Carla for daily life, but he doesn’t get a chance. Kojiro tosses him on the bed roughly, unexpectedly. It’s not the hot kind of rough, but the kind that pairs perfectly with the smile Kojiro wears now: crooked, petty, playful.
“Do you treat all your conquests this way?” Kaoru glares up at him.
Kojiro follows Kaoru down onto the mattress and looms over him, blocking out the lights with the breadth of his body over Kaoru’s. “No, only the ones who like it.”
Then he’s gone, straightening to pull his shirt over his head, in that infuriating way hot men always do. He grabs the back of his collar and yanks on it, pulling it smoothly from his body and revealing every curve and plane of his torso. It makes Kaoru’s mouth water, and from Kojiro’s preening expression, he can tell.
Kaoru lays flat, letting his hair fan out around him in a way he knows makes him look ethereal and delectable. He stretches one leg out, trailing it over Kojiro’s stomach; Kojiro’s abs tense and flex under his tough. He teases at Kojiro’s cock through his sweats. It’s a bold tent in the fabric now. Kojiro groans, shoulders curling in on themselves as Kaoru strokes him.
Another time, Kaoru might want to do only this. He can see it in his mind, Kojiro kneeling under him while Kaoru reduces him to a quivering, whimpering mess; he’d push Kojiro to the edge with only the elegant glide of his feet against Kojiro’s dick and harsh, demeaning words, until he came with a whined apology.
Kojiro isn’t having that today. He swats Kaoru’s foot away—with some effort, Kaoru notices—and hooks his thumbs in his waistband, pulling his sweats down and off. When Kojiro presses Kaoru into the mattress with his body, it’s all warm skin against skin, sensations like fireworks wherever they touch.
“You sure you want all this, baby?” Kojiro asks. His voice is playful and seductive, but his eyes are genuine, like he’s giving Kaoru a chance to back out, but it’s too late now, isn’t it? The line they’ve both been toeing for years is far behind them now, so far in the distance they can’t even see it anymore.
Kaoru rolls his eyes. He pulls Kojiro down for a searing kiss, unequivocally answering the question. Kojiro takes control of the kiss, and Kaoru hates relinquishing control to anyone, he really fucking hates it, but Kojiro sets a perfect tempo. He kisses Kaoru deep and devastating, matching the rolls of his hips with the ebb and flow of his tongue. He thumbs at Kaoru’s nipple, circling it with a whisper soft touch at first, then flicking it fast and rough.
When Kaoru breaks the kiss with a whine, Kojiro looks just as affected.
“God, these are so hot—”
Kojiro sucks one of Kaoru’s nipples into his mouth again, and Kaoru feels himself unraveling with each pull of his mouth. That won’t do. He wraps a hand around Kojiro’s cock, then both hands, and fuck, he’s thick, hard and dripping. Kojiro pulls back to watch Kaoru touch him, thrusting into the circle of his fingers. He looks mesmerized.
Good.
“Are you going to fuck more than my hands sometime this century?” Kaoru asks. Kojiro chuckles, but it’s breathless, shaky.
“Your bitchy mouth, Kaoru, god sometimes I just wanna—”
Kojiro reaches for his bedside table, almost moving out of range of Kaoru’s hands. What does Kojiro think he can do about his bitchy mouth? Kaoru would have said something in response—and it would have been perfectly witty and biting and it would prove that he still has control of his brain, he tells himself—but the first touch of Kojiro’s slick fingers against his rim makes the words dissolve in his mind. Kojiro’s fingers are thicker than his, blunt tipped and only a little rough, but he fingers Kaoru open without hesitation.
Kojiro seems to be able to tell when Kaoru is ready for more, giving him two fingers, then three, working them in and out of his body with precision. Is it because he’s so good at this, Kaoru wonders, or because he knows Kaoru so well? Before Kaoru can follow that troubling train of thought much further, Kojiro changes the angle of his fingers, dragging them greedily over his prostate. He smiles that stupid smug smile each time Kaoru clenches down on him, each time his cock twitches and dribbles against his stomach.
“Stop playing with me, you asshole—I’m ready—”
“Oh, is that begging I’m hearing?” Kojiro teases, before he pulls his fingers out and leaves Kaoru empty, bereft. His voice is an infuriating and sexy purr that drips down onto Kaoru like hot oil. “You gonna beg for me baby?”
“It’s frustration,” Kaoru growls, but he can’t help the way his thighs clamp around Kojiro’s waist, pulling him closer.
“Mmm.” Kojiro lines himself up, teasing the head of his cock at Kaoru’s hole, but not pushing in. Even after having his fingers, he feels massive. Almost impossibly big. Kaoru wants it so fucking bad it makes his head spin. He grits his teeth against the urge to say so.
Kojiro seems to know anyway, because he continues, “Bet I could make you beg though.”
“Shut up—” Kaoru gasps. With his arms around Kojiro’s neck, he buries one hand in his hair and pulls it too hard, making Kojiro grunt, “—and fuck me, Kojiro.”
Kaoru thought he was ready; he wasn’t ready.
Kojiro pushes into him with an astounding patience, the stretch of him leaving Kaoru breathless, thoughtless. Kojiro works himself into Kaoru’s body with tiny, smooth thrusts, careful, like he doesn’t want to hurt him. But this close, with his limbs twined around Kojiro’s body like clinging vines, Kaoru can feel the way his muscles tremble with the effort of holding himself back. Kojiro’s patience is a Herculean effort. Good.
“Fuck,” Kojiro groans when he’s only halfway inside, “You’re so tight, Kaoru—”
Kaoru kisses him. No sweet words, no fondness, no tender care, he tells himself. Only this, Kojiro’s fat cock splitting him open until he sees stars. Only harsh words and biting teeth, nails scoring skin. Kaoru digs his heels into Kojiro’s back, trying to force him deeper; Kojiro, for once in his goddamn life, complies.
When he’s fully sheathed inside Kaoru, huge and throbbing, his hips still. Kojiro takes over the kiss, turning it filthy and deep. It’s not enough, not for long. Kaoru tries to goad Kojiro into moving again, lifting his hips, trying to ride him with no leverage. Kojiro breaks the kiss with a groan. He lets Kaoru keep trying, watches him fruitlessly try to fuck himself on Kojiro’s cock. He finally relents, pulling back and snapping back in, eyes on Kaoru’s face as he does.
The band of tension stretched between them snaps.
There’s no more gentle care, and Kaoru can’t say he misses it. Not when Kojiro’s fucking him like this. He’s so fucking verbal too; he’s all god, baby, and fuuuck, and you’re taking me so well, and each word is gasoline on the flames. Kojiro rears back and manhandles Kaoru into place, pulling one of his legs over his shoulder and holding his other thigh with one hand, keeping him spread open as he fucks him. The new angle has Kaoru’s toes curling. Kojiro’s cock drags over every place inside him that makes him see stars.
Pleasure is electricity crackling up Kaoru’s spine; Kojiro is everywhere. His mouth against Kaoru’s calf, mouthing gracelessly at the smooth skin there, his hand spread wide and dimpling the soft flesh of Kaoru’s thigh, his hips sharp and hot against Kaoru’s ass. He’s a Greek statue come to life, warm and bronzed and sheened with sweat.
Kaoru forces himself up on his elbows , arms shaking, so he can watch Kojiro fuck him. He watches Kojiro’s cock disappear into his hole, his body making room for him again and again. It’s not fast now, but it’s hard and deep. It’s everything.
“O-oh my god—”
“Enjoying yourself?” Kojiro’s cocky smirk is back. Kaoru wants to slap it off his pretty mouth; he wonders if Kojiro would enjoy that. He probably would.
Before he can think the words next time, Kaoru grits out an unconvincing, “Shut up.”
“Yes, princess.”
Fuck. Kaoru hates it when Kojiro calls him princess, when he’s picky about his food and when he insists on flying first class and when he would rather shell out for room service than join the rest of the filthy peasants at the continental breakfast. But the way he says it now, in that voice Kaoru’s never truly heard before tonight, it makes him combust. His cock twitches, blurting thick precum onto his stomach.
The problem is, he is enjoying himself, maybe a little too much. Kaoru has always enjoyed sex, and he knew before telling Kojiro to prove it that he would be a good lay, but he wasn’t expecting this. It’s like the first taste of a heady drug, the moment when he realizes Kojiro might ruin him for anyone else’s touch, leave him craving this and nothing else for the rest of his days. Kojiro fills him up, stretches him out, thrusts into him experimentally until he makes Kaoru cry out, drilling that spot over and over again.
Kaoru’s arms give out and he collapses back onto the bed. When he turns his face away from Kojiro and buries it in the bedspread, the smell of Kojiro—sunshine and spice and salt—floods his lungs. Heat coils in his stomach, exploding up his spine and through his limbs, and that’s it—he’s coming. He hears Kojiro faintly over his own thudding heart and pathetic moans, saying his name, calling him so good and gorgeous and perfect.
Kojiro keeps railing into him, fucking him through the peak of white-hot pleasure to the border of oversensitivity, and Kaoru realizes in a daze that Kojiro is still talking. His voice is breathless and shattered.
“Kaoru—m’gonna come—tell me where to come, oh god—fuck—please I’m so close—”
Language has completely abandoned Kaoru, but he hopes the way he tightens his legs around Kojiro, the way his nails dig into Kojiro’s tanned skin, all of it locking their bodies tightly together, tells Kojiro what he needs to know. Maybe it does, or maybe it’s just too much for Kojiro to escape. He moans, deep and almost pained, and his cock twitches and throbs. Kaoru can feel Kojiro coming, each hot splash of it branding him from the inside out.
In the sticky, heart-racing, breath-heaving, aftershock-rippling haze, Kaoru’s brain comes back online slowly. His hip aches from the way Kojiro has him bent in half, a burgeoning cramp thrumming in the muscle of his calf. He’s sweaty and covered in cum and when Kojiro shifts his weight, letting Kaoru’s bent leg fall to the side, he can feel the mess trickling out of his hole around Kojiro’s softening dick.
“Scoot over, my legs are gonna give out,” Kojiro grumbles, clumsy hands trying to push Kaoru further onto the bed.
“You scoot over,” Kaoru grumbles back. It makes no sense, but Kojiro doesn’t call that out, just makes a grumpy noise against the skin of Kaoru’s throat. Between the two of them, they stumble farther onto the bed. Kojiro slips out of Kaoru, leaving him empty and full all at once, and Kaoru swallows back his embarrassment at the ruined mess of his body. Kojiro flops onto the bed next to him and they lay side by side, still fighting for breath.
Kaoru knows he should leave. He should find the crumpled mess of his ruined clothes and put them on, and seek the safety of his own shower, his own bed. He might have done it, too, if his legs would work. But Kojiro, damn him, he starts to laugh. It’s a quick huff of breath at first, building on itself until he’s honest to god laughing, loud and silly.
It’s infectious. Kaoru chews on his cheek, trying not to smile. But the moment he glances at Kojiro, sprawled next to him, eyes crinkled with disbelieving mirth, he loses the battle. Kojiro’s laughter pulls Kaoru’s out of him, until they’re laughing together. This, at least, is familiar.
Kojiro reaches for Kaoru’s hand, laying between them on the tangled blanket, and tangles their fingers together. He squeezes; Kaoru squeezes back.
“So, Pinky, what’s the verdict?”
“I’d give your mood lighting a six out of ten. The voice activation is nice, though.”
“You’re the fucking worst,” Kojiro sighs, but his voice is all familiar fondness.
“It was pretty good,” Kaoru relents. He looks at Kojiro through his lashes. He’s the picture of casual ease, one arm bent behind his head, one leg bent against the bedding, his eyes closed, lips parted. But Kaoru knows him too well; there’s a tension in his muscles that screams uncertainty. Kaoru nudges his shoulder into Kojiro’s, making him frown. He’s cute when he pouts like that, all full lips and round eyes. “I guess.”
“Coming from you, that’s like a five star review,” Kojiro teases. Kaoru hums noncommittally. He needs a shower; he can feel sweat and cum and lube drying and tacky all over his skin. Kaoru lets his eyes drift closed, resisting the need for just another moment. Just one more, before the mood shatters and they have to figure out how to pick up the pieces they smashed. The bed dips as Kojiro moves, then Kaoru feels a soft warmth against his temple: Kojiro’s lips.
Kaoru sighs. He lets Kojiro kiss his forehead, the sharp curve of his cheekbone, his jaw. Not his lips. Not until Kaoru opens his eyes to meet Kojiro’s, and he leans in to meet Kojiro halfway. This kiss isn’t like the others; it’s tender reassurance, not heated desperation. Kojiro is tender reassurance, and heated desperation.
“Let’s get cleaned up, before you make an even bigger mess of my bed,” Kojiro whispers, smiling wide when Kaoru glares at him. He’s a menace. Kaoru insists on being carried to the bathroom, blaming Kojiro for the way his legs have turned to rubber. If his skin burns hot when Kojiro calls him princess again, it’s nobody’s goddamn business.
Kojiro runs his fingers through Kaoru’s wet hair, and pinches his ass, and the two of them have a slippery near death experience when washing each other’s back turns into a competition of roaming hands in ticklish spots. The laughter and competitive silliness are familiar, even if they’ve never before happened when they’re wet and naked together, and they’ve never before been interrupted by slow, lazy kisses.
Kojiro doesn’t protest when Kaoru pulls one of his old t-shirts out of a drawer and puts it on; Kaoru doesn’t protest when Kojiro leads him to his bed, pulling him close under the blankets. Warm and clean and tangled up in Kojiro, Kaoru can feel sleep threatening to overtake him. He knows they’ll have to talk about it, maybe in the morning, or more likely, days or weeks from now when they are done being stupid and stubborn. But not tonight.
Kojiro runs his fingers through Kaoru’s damp hair, fingers scratching soothingly over his scalp. Each stroke is slower, clumsier, until Kojiro succumbs to sleep with his arm heavy and draped over Kaoru’s side, and his fingers still buried in the ends of his hair.
Actually, Kaoru thinks as he drifts off, it wasn’t that bad of a day.