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Ryuji had… well, he’d once again found himself in an awkward situation made only partially by him. He has these weird ass feelings towards Akira—his best friend of several months now, who he’s been through absolute hell and somehow always come out on top with.
It’s cheesy, but his heart skips a beat when he makes him smile, he asks him to go to places like the park and diners and waits for him outside their classroom in the hopes that Akira will ask him to hang out.
He can’t pin down what he’s feeling, all he knows is he feels really damn warm around him and— it’s totally normal to wanna see your best friend’s dick, right? Teenage boys compare dick sizes with friends all the time… well, that’s what he tells himself, at least.
He shoots him a text, asking if he can hang out for the night, Akira says he’ll ask Sojiro and Ryuji spends five or so minutes impatiently pacing his bedroom, constantly glancing between the time and Akira’s response—he jumps when he sees bubbles, and then an affirmative “He said sure.”
He’s never rushed out the door that fast—after quickly yelling to his mom that he’s going to see a friend, of course.
The shop’s closed when he gets there, but the light is still on and when he tries the door, it opens. Akira’s just hung up his apron, and Morgana makes himself scarce pretty quickly, probably going to hang out with Futaba.
“Hey, man! How’s it goin’?”
“Good, go to my room, I’ll lock the door and then we can hang out.”
… holy eff, his heart should not be beating that fast at the idea of being alone in the café with Akira all night.
Regardless, he nods, and rushes up, kicking his shoes off once he’s in the attic. He still can’t get over how the entire room just screams Akira, from the posters, to the trinkets on his shelf—hey, is that the ramen figure he got him?—and even down to the way he’s made his bed and how well-cared for his plant is.
“I’m all yours for the night.” He jumps out of his skin when Akira appears at the top of the steps, stepping out of his shoes in a far more… weirdly elegant manner than how Ryuji had. He walks over to sit down on his couch, patting the spot next to him for Ryuji to join him, which he eagerly does, twiddling his thumbs for a minute.
“… hey man, uh… it’s normal for a guy to wanna compare dicks with his friends, right?”
The face Akira makes tells him his answer is no, but it quickly shifts to something else.
“Well, if it was, I would lose everytime.”
“Haha, nice joke, man!”
“I’m not joking.”
“… huh?” Now he’s dumbstruck as Akira stands up, and he hasn’t processed what’s happening until Akira’s jeans have been undone and pushed down to his mid-thighs.
… there isn’t a bulge in his briefs, but instead a… crease?
Akira doesn’t have a dick? But he’s a guy, how can he not have a dick??
His face burns red and his hands fly to stop him, but it’s too late, Akira’s pulled his briefs down too, and…
Holy shit.
“Not what you were expecting?”
“No way… how the eff??”
“I was born a girl, but it didn’t stick, so now I’m a guy, have been for a few years now.”
“… so am I gay or straight for wanting to kiss you?”
“Pft, gay, Ryuji, it would mean you’re gay—or bi, up to you, but you definitely like guys.”
He’s kinda stopped processing Akira’s words by now, blindly taking ahold of lean, firm hips—Akira doesn’t stop him. God, he’s taking in way too much right now, every inch of—God, shit, he’s even shaved —smooth, near flawless skin covering muscles he’s seen in action too many times to count.
He’s completely stopped thinking by the time he has Akira sitting on the couch, pulling down his jeans and briefs to press a sloppy kiss to his pussy lips, and Akira doesn’t stop him, even carding a hand into his bleach blonde hair and holding firm.
Part of him no longer regrets his nights, horny beyond compare, where he looked up probably a few too many pornos of women getting eaten out. While he’s far from good at it, Akira doesn’t complain…
In fact, he’s moaning, grinding his hips against Ryuji’s face and using his grip in his hair to push and pull him to his heart’s content.
Having his mouth on Akira probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does—is it because he’s a virgin? Or maybe just the rush of arousal and excitement? He finds himself liking— no, loving the bitter taste, nosing and pushing as deep as he can to lap at every last inch of Akira’s warm, wet, and welcoming pussy. His tongue feels right at home being put to work, and the whiny keen he gets from pushing it inside Akira’s tight heat… shit, he might pass out.
“ Ryuji!! ” A rush of new fluids—Akira’s cum, he thinks dizzily—washes over her mouth and chin in lazy pulses, and he laps it all up on nothing but instinct and lust.
He’s pulled off, gasping and coughing as he catches his breath while Akira wheezes and shakes while doing the same. It takes them probably ten or so minutes before they’re on each other again, Ryuji pulled up onto the couch and into a searing kiss by Akira, a strange, bitter-sweet combination of coffee and cum mixing in their mouths.
Slim but callused hands find Ryuji’s dick, and he’s embarrassingly hard, aching and rocking into Akira’s touch. It’s barely three minutes before his hips buck hard, cum painting Akira’s hand and both of their shirts, which are quickly tossed aside in the commotion—Ryuji’s pants and boxers, socks absentmindedly toed off along the way, follow.
They’re on Akira’s bed, Ryuji under him again, rocking their aching—both from stimuli and need—crotches together, his dick sliding between Akira’s wet folds and soft lips sinfully smoothly.
Fffuckkk, his head feels like it’s about to explode!! It’s too damn much, but he still needs more. He’d rather die than stop rutting into the wet heat between Akira’s legs.
Akira leans up, breaking their sloppy kiss to try and position Ryuji’s dick to his entrance, and clarity smacks him dead in the face—
“Shit, uh, don’t we need a condom??”
“We can use one, if you want. I’m on birth control—hormone regulation, ask later—so… it’s up to you.”
He only spends a minute warring with his thoughts before mashing his face against Akira’s again, and the ravenet sinks his hips down and—
Holy. Shit .
Ryuji almost passed out again, wind knocked out of him as Akira works his way down, tight walls squeezing Ryuji within so many inches of his damn life.
He has to bite into Akira’s pillow to muffle his near-feral scream as his best friend—boyfriend?? They’ll talk about it later—lifts his hips, dropping them after and sending another mind-numbing wave of vertigo to Ryuji’s head.
One hand has a death grip on Akira’s hip, and the other is gripping his pillow just as tightly. His feet shift to a more solid, stable position to let him better thrust and buck up into Akira’s pussy, way-too-pretty moans following the firm thrusts—it’s a mess of Akira trying to bounce on his dick and Ryuji thrusting into him like a madman, but both of them feel good and quickly race towards another, this time shared, climax.
It’s— well, climactic is both accurate and a pun, with Akira gripping onto Ryuji’s knees—which will definitely hurt like a son of a bitch later, but he couldn’t care less about the future right now—and Ryuji still biting and white-knuckling Akira’s pillow.
He’s dazed, dizzy and completely out of focus, but Akira’s, shockingly, not much better. The slimmer boy falls down onto Ryuji, just as sweaty and gross and exhausted as the blonde is, and they both promptly… pass out.
But they passed out together, in the safety of Leblanc’s attic, sure to wake up sore in places they didn’t know could be sore and needing to have… well, quite a few talks, honestly—Ryuji will be glad he asked to hang out on a Saturday night, they’ll have all of Sunday to recover…
And they’ll recover together, but for now, they sleep in a mess they’ll clean up in the morning.