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Kei does not like to be looked down upon.
This is a definitive, inarguable component of himself. The idea contradicts everything Kei knows about his being. He does not like to be made fun of. He does not like to be belittled. He does not like to feel stupid.
Conflictingly, he likes being on his knees for Yamaguchi.
The inconsistency of it all is what keeps Kei silent, brimming with frustration. He’s sat on his knees in front of Yamaguchi, chin on the seat of the computer chair, teeth grit as Yamaguchi continues to ignore him. Easily so, he might add.
They’ve been here for what felt like hours. They have done this for hours before. Kei doesn’t know why. Kei doesn’t know why Yamaguchi would rather watch his stupid documentary than give him the slightest amount of attention. And Kei doesn’t know why he allows it. Or why he continues to sit quietly on the floor. Or why he loves it so much.
It’s an odd, odd feeling. A humiliation that Kei thinks is unique only to himself. A special kind of embarrassment, layered thick with love and indignance, that Kei doesn’t think anyone else has the capacity to experience. Only he can feel it. And only Yamaguchi can give it to him.
That’s why Kei wouldn’t call himself a masochist. He’s watched that kind of stuff before, more so to see if it stirred interest than any actual desire for self-satisfaction. It didn’t. He didn’t like the way people just submitted to others. He didn’t like the way people just took the harsh treatment. He didn’t like the whips and the paddles and the ropes. He didn’t like any of it.
But what Yamaguchi did was different. Yamaguchi took control of him quietly. Casually. He’d never hit Kei before, and he’d hardly ever raise his voice beyond a conversational drone. If anything, he spoke more softly, as if he didn’t need to exert that much energy to get Kei weak in the knees.
It’s exactly what got Kei so hot. It’s exactly what got him so hard he couldn’t think, breathlessness compounding onto itself. The way Yamaguchi oozed confidence. The way he knew he didn’t need to work that hard to get Kei to do what he wanted.
Kei’s hands twitch. He’s been painfully hard for so long now, and all because of nothing. Literally, nothing. Yamaguchi hadn’t touched him at all. He’d just asked Kei to sit between his legs while he watched the documentary.
“Why?” Kei had demanded, red-faced. But it was too late to feign indifference. He could already feel it, that sweet, sick, confusing feeling, hot in his stomach, in the back of his neck.
Yamaguchi had just shrugged. “Because I asked you to.”
He hadn’t said it with vitriol or mirth. There wasn’t a trace of any particular feeling in any letter. If you asked Yamaguchi what color the sky was, he would’ve answered blue in the same tone. And it worked so frustratingly well on Kei.
Granted, he’d sulked on Yamaguchi’s bed for a solid few minutes, but they both knew he couldn’t resist. Yamaguchi had already begun watching the documentary at his computer, legs parted languidly in his chair. Like he knew full well that Kei would crawl over eventually. And Kei did.
Kei sighs now, hands holding the edge of the chair to brace his chin on. If Yamaguchi notices, he says nothing. He casually swings one of his legs in slow rocks, grazing Kei’s hip now and then. His thighs flex and tense with the subtle movement, faded freckles gliding up and down the tanned skin.
All Kei wants is attention. For Yamaguchi to just look down and smile at him. Huffing, he noses at Yamaguchi’s shorts, brushing them higher, the feeling of Yamaguchi’s skin bright hot and soothing against Kei’s cheek. It’s like he can hear Yamaguchi’s blood moving. He licks a small stripe, slow, so as to let his drool truly collect and drag, the soft skin gleaming. Kei can’t help but dig his teeth in.
He hears a hum above his head. Eyes wide, Kei can’t help but shoot his head up at the sound. Yamaguchi still isn’t looking down at him, resting his head on his hand, but there’s an undeniable smooth of blush down his nose, persimmon.
It’s not acknowledgement. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But Kei is so desperately hard, hot and frantic, that the sight of Yamaguchi’s flush stirs sweet satisfaction through Kei. He squeezes his thighs together, the brief relief of friction seizing what little breath Kei can keep in his lungs. He shuts his eyes, glasses sliding.
“Do you need your glasses, Tsukki?”
Kei fights to not startle, hissing in a breath before slowly looking up. Yamaguchi is finally, finally looking at him, smile sweet and cheeks gently crimson. Faded acne scars dot his chin, the same place it always flares up. The sight of it stirs fondly in Kei, but it also makes his heart squeeze - this boy, he’s owned him forever. Any brief moment of superiority Kei has ever felt was entirely at the grace of Yamaguchi, an indulged delusion. The thought should upset Kei. Instead, he’s so helplessly into it that he has to blink to get his vision straight again.
“Of course I do,” he mumbles, daring to raise up on his knees a little. Would Yamaguchi pet his head? Would he touch his cheek? Just thinking about it fills Kei with total desperation. And the realization of that stings deliciously inside him, the blissful fog of humiliation. “Why would my vision suddenly get cured?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?” Kei says snippily. It makes his cheeks burn, to talk back to Yamaguchi like this. It’s his classic airy tone, his natural retort, words that would make anyone else blister and stalk off. When someone yells back at you, it means what you said had any effect. To cast a chide to someone requires social sacrifice, the betrayal of the fact that you cared enough to notice, which is only satiated by the other person getting riled up in return. When Yamaguchi ignores Kei, he ignores his plaintive stabs for attention. And it does nothing but make Kei dizzy with arousal.
“I just don’t think you need them right now.” Yamaguchi muses, reaching out to Kei. His hand cups Kei’s scarlet face. It’s so soft. It’s so pacifying. There is no tremble in his hands, no mumble of hesitation in the faint heartbeat in his fingers. He holds Kei like a vaguely valuable object.
Then his hand slips down, curling around Kei’s throat. Lightly. He does not dig or squeeze. He doesn't need to. Kei stills instantly. It’s embarrassing, how his body responds. It’s the one thing Kei can’t control: his wretched pulse.
Slow, Yamaguchi pushes Kei back down, stalling for a beat. He holds his gaze for a second, before his hand slides back up Kei’s cheek, to his glasses, plucking them off and swiftly hangs them on the collar of his hoodie. The thick material sags under it, and Kei can’t help but savor the slip of bronze skin that peeks out now. It’s only a few millimeters. And it’s not remotely erogenous, just a glimpse at Yamaguchi’s collarbone. But Kei laps it up anyway, breathing hard.
Don’t take my glasses, Kei thinks, a second too late. His mind is always somehow both racing and sluggish whenever he and Yamaguchi do this. As if his thinking separates into two separate streams, two clocks whirring at different speeds, time dilation.
Kei wouldn’t dare snatch his glasses back now, no matter how much energy he conjured up. And Yamaguchi knows this. He resumes his attention back to the documentary, leaving the glasses hanging on his collar, demeanor as easy as ever.
“‘Dashi…” Kei mumbles before he can stop himself. It always gets like this. Kei pushes himself just over the edge, soaking up the nothingness, the tiny scraps of attention that he can just barely manage out of Yamaguchi, before he loses all grasp on himself entirely. It’s a bizarre feeling - his self-control is something he prides himself on. It’s something most people lack, the ability to keep themselves reigned in.
What Yamaguchi does is a careful slaughter. He bleeds Kei out of this facet of himself, all the way until he’s wringed out and empty, practically floating in an unfamiliar void. Uncertainty, humiliation, dire desperation, all these feelings that Kei normally shields out, they consume him entirely. And it feels so good. It makes Kei buzz with something delirious.
“Yeah, Tsukki?”
Kei doesn’t have an answer. Because Kei does not beg. He does not grovel. He would never dare. So why does he want to? Why does he want to cling feverishly at Yamaguchi’s hips and plead? Why does he want to roll over and show off how utterly desperate he was, how strung-out Yamaguchi got him? Kei’s mind does not have the capacity for it. Because he doesn’t like it. But he does. But he doesn’t. But he does.
It’s one of the best part about all of this - the blind confusion, Kei left with no choice but to reach for Yamaguchi, for anything. It simmers hot inside Kei, fizzling like a sparkler, like a frayed cable.
He continues to mouth at Yamaguchi’s thighs, because the alternative would be to beg. And Kei would rather die than even try that. The tanned skin grows mottled under Kei’s tongue, the prettiest reds and purples, Kei’s bitemarks carefully decorating the dapples of freckles that spilled all over.
Yamaguchi likes it. Though he doesn’t offer anything besides his quiet humming, Kei can see him growing harder and harder, thighs starting to quiver, legs rocking steadily. Dull relief drums through Kei - when left with practically nothing, even the smallest indication of approval makes him flash hot. It feels like getting tased.
Growing desperate, Kei drags his tongue over the cotton of Yamaguchi’s shorts, mouthing at the outline of his dick. The muggy fabric seeps onto Kei’s tongue, saliva oozing with pre-cum and thickly glossing his lips. The way the cloth seems to mold into Kei’s tongue, the way the air seems to be getting hotter and hotter, thicker and thicker, it makes all of Kei’s senses seize up. He can’t resist looking up, and God, Yamaguchi is finally looking at him, a shy smile blooming.
He’s laughing at Kei.
Not really. His lips stay shut, cheeks bashful, no indication of humor. But Kei has known him too long. He can see the crinkle in his eyes, the glimmer of levity in them - he is laughing at him. And it occurs to Kei: it is funny. It’s funny how Yamaguchi really doesn’t have to do anything at all. He didn’t ask Kei to blow him. He didn’t push his head or jog his back with his ankle. All of Kei’s actions are of his own volition.
Kei can’t understand it. How can they both be in full control at the same time? It’s not just an anomaly, it's a complete contradiction. But it’s happening. And it leaves Kei whimpering helplessly around Yamaguchi’s dick, his hips jittering - Kei drives his knees into the carpet, relishing the scrape. He hopes he bleeds. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but reprimand offers context, a narrative that Kei’s own brain is too scrambled to possibly conjure on its own.
It’s what I deserve, he tells himself, exhilarated. His cheeks burn.
“Let me…” Kei starts, but the humiliation consumes him, pours thick with the pre-cum on his tongue and smothers his throat. Why is he asking for permission? Kei doesn’t do that. Kei does what he wants, how he wants it. But, stripped away like this, Kei can’t reign in his wants. His real wants.
Swallowing, he twines his fingers around the band of Yamaguchi's shorts, his briefs, pulling until Yamaguchi's pretty dick slips out from the fabric. Gloriously, it leaks thin ribbons of pre-cum onto Kei’s cheek, flushed and heavy in his hands. Frustratingly enough, Yamaguchi does little else but sit there. He doesn’t even move his hips up a little, so Kei can’t drag his shorts all the way off.
It’s infuriating. Blindingly so. Because Kei has sucked him off a handful of times before, without the bizarre parameters of this strange game they played. And Yamaguchi usually cannot shut up for the life of him, or keep his hands to himself. He’s always crying at this point, begging for Kei to take more of him in his mouth, apologies and broken tsukki’s spilling onto each other whenever he accidentally bucks his hips too far. So the fact that he can stay so composed makes Kei bristle with hot shame, sweet and thrilling.
Kei stares up hopefully at Yamaguchi. At least he has his attention now, albeit somewhat distantly. Yamaguchi regards him with only a vague interest, head perched on one hand - if it started raining or something, he’d probably look out the window with the same expression. It makes Kei feel woozy, his rapture ceaseless.
Yamaguchi tips his head, still smiling. “What are you doing, Tsukki?”
What the fuck does it look like? Kei wants to hiss. But he can’t. He doesn’t want Yamaguchi to pull back now, not when Kei had just barely succeeded at finally wrangling out some acknowledgement from him. Approval is on the horizon. Sweet praise, a comforting hand, it’s all within his reach. Kei just has to be good. But God, just listen to him. What was he thinking? Kei doesn’t think stuff like this. Kei does not scrounge on hands and knees for scraps of approval. So why was he? And why did it feel better than anything else?
“...I want to suck you off…” Kei eventually manages. Shame curls in his throat, white hot. It feels incredible.
“So why aren’t you doing it?”
Because I need you to make me. I need you to tell me. If you tell me to do it, then it’s not my fault. But Kei knows Yamaguchi would never do that to him. This is the good part. The best part. Yamaguchi gets Kei to feel things he never thought he could feel. He breaks Kei down to a point that he couldn’t previously fathom. He works Kei up and gets him to cave in on himself, raw and buzzing all over. And then he lets Kei fall victim to thoughts he didn’t know he could even have.
Breathing hard, Kei kitten-licks experimentally at the tip of Yamaguchi’s dick, blood rushing at the little hiccup that Yamaguchi can’t hold back. Pre-cum pulses onto his tongue, varnishing it in hot, thick coats, already spilling out of his mouth. Barely thinking now, Kei drags his wet lips down the side of Yamaguchi’s dick, laving slow kisses as he goes. Yamaguchi is so wondrously hot under his tongue, twitching with every touch.
Kei doesn’t like to blow Yamaguchi often. Well, no. That’s not true. Kei loves it - that’s what he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like how dumb he feels when he does it, how brainless he gets, how easily all thought floats away from him, hazy, consumed only with the need to get more and more of Yamaguchi’s dick in his mouth. It’s why he tries to keep his movements slow, careful. He’ll lose himself entirely if he doesn’t.
He flattens his tongue as he drags back up the side of Yamaguchi’s dick, relishing the way Yamaguchi’s breaths get heavier and heavier above him. More pre-cum clings to his lips, his cheek. Kei should feel disgusting. He doesn’t. He feels so good he wants to rip his wrists open and see how red his blood bleeds.
Still slow, Kei finally purses his tongue around the flushed head, gratefully lapping at the thick pools of pre-cum spilling from it. Yamaguchi’s thighs quiver, ankles slowly drawing to loop around Kei’s hips. Finally. Kei loves this. When he does blow Yamaguchi, he usually prefers to do it laying down, so Yamaguchi can easily clamp his legs around Kei’s neck. It’s the hottest thing, Kei’s complaining useless against whatever hedonistic desperation that possesses Yamaguchi. But he’ll take this loose hold around him, too.
Kei properly swallows down Yamaguchi, just pass the tip, throat fluttering at the stretch. He’s not very good at this (though Yamaguchi would insist otherwise) but that’s why he leaves his jaw lax, saliva and pre-cum spilling down the length of Yamaguchi’s dick. Kei can’t resist the little noises he makes, the way he just can’t stop himself lapping at all the excess, breathing hard. Inside, he is utterly ablaze, every organ melting, pooling into a hot pool in his stomach.
Kei can’t think. How could he? Why would he? Yamaguchi feels so impossibly good in his mouth. Kei really, truly believes that they’re made for each other - Yamaguchi just fits so perfectly on his tongue, warm and heavy, and Kei can’t imagine anyone else getting to truly savor him like he could.
“Sometimes, I wish I could fuck you in front of everyone.” Yamaguchi sighs happily.
Coughing, Kei starts to pull back off Yamaguchi’s dick, but a soft hand pets at the back of his head. Not pressing, not shoving - just relaxed, soothing his fingers into the blond curls. But the message is simple. Stalling a beat, only to see if Yamaguchi will say more, Kei whimpers as he swallows Yamaguchi back down. The noise is shameful, embarrassing, but all it does is thicken the heavy haze of arousal that seems to envelop him.
“Not every time,” Yamaguchi continues. “But maybe just once, to prove a point.”
There’s a soft noise when Kei experimentally sucks at Yamaguchi’s dick, a heated stutter in his breaths.
“I just want them to see you like this,” Yamaguchi murmurs, still petting at Kei’s head. “I’d leave you in the clubroom. All your clothes would still be on. You wouldn’t be tied down or anything. But you’d just stay on your knees.”
The thought is near-reverential. Stars burst behind Kei’s shut eyes.
“And the others, they’d be so surprised. At how good you can be. They’d try insulting you, and maybe you’d glare a little, but you wouldn’t say anything. You wouldn’t care, because I’d be standing beside you.”
Fuzzy images float into Kei’s mind. The thought of everyone watching as Yamaguchi showed him off, purring about how pink and soft his tongue was, tanned hands warm as they pulled at Kei’s jaw to demonstrate. The other boys would marvel - maybe not at him, but at the ease at which he complied.
They wouldn’t be allowed to touch. Yamaguchi would silence any wandering hands with a reproachful scowl. But they’d stare with fascination as Yamaguchi tugged at Kei’s clothes. Not all the way off. Just enough to show off how far his blush spilled, how hard he was.
“You’d be already stretched,” Yamaguchi giggles, cheeks pink. “I’d show them that.”
And why wouldn’t he? Kei can picture it easily, the way Yamaguchi would have Kei lean on hands and knees, the way lube would still be trailing down his reddened thighs. More pulling, more squeezing, middle fingers slipping deep inside him, Yamaguchi showing off his dutiful handiwork. Maybe he’d finger Kei until he came. Kei likes it when he does that.
“See? I don’t even need to touch him properly,” Yamaguchi would say, Kei shaking around him, helplessly pleading for just a little more, just a little deeper.
Who would take him seriously after that? He’d lose all respect, anything he ever said only met with eye-rolls. Kei’s careful disposition, his front, his shield, all constructed with meticulous, near-medical precision, torn to shreds in an instant. And all it did is make him feel even hotter, more crazed, more turned on than he even knew he could be, a measly copper wire getting wound around a car battery.
His fragility is something he can block out most of the time. Here, it’s the only thing he can think of.
Kei mumbles some vague approximation of Yamaguchi’s name, mouth too full to possibly be coherent. Yamaguchi still isn’t fucking his hips up or anything, leaving Kei to have to bob his head faster and faster, to truly debase himself. It feels easier, better, now that Yamaguchi’s hands were in his hair, slowly petting at him. Drool and pre-cum slip down Yamaguchi’s dick, Kei’s lips, dripping incessantly - Kei just can’t keep it in his mouth, no matter how much he swallows.
“O-oh…Tsukki…” Yamaguchi breathes, fingers fidgeting. He doesn’t push Kei. He doesn’t need to. Though, his legs do tense of their own accord, trembling under the sweet velvet of Kei’s tongue. They squeeze at Kei’s middle, making his breath rattle, blood stuttering.
He cups Kei’s jaw with both hands, loose, letting them move back and forth with every bob of Kei’s head. “So pretty…”
It’s mindless. Silly. Yamaguchi could come up with much more creative compliments, flattery relentless - if he really wanted, he could get Kei flushed red with little else than a murmur into his neck. He always knew exactly what to say.
So maybe that’s why ‘pretty’ works so well on Kei now. The dull hum of Yamaguchi’s pulse on his tongue, the hot pools of pre-cum that seep between each of Kei’s teeth, the way his own dick strains in his sweatpants, ever-neglected, they leave him so over-wrought. Vulnerable. Even the faintest dapple of praise ripples all through him, surface tension weak and easy.
Kei pumps his head faster, spurred by the little noises that finally spill from Yamaguchi’s throat. He still can’t quite manage all of Yamaguchi, though his throat aches for it - Kei fists the rest of Yamaguchi’s dick in his hands, compensating. Every time his dick slicks across his tongue, back and forth, over and over, twitching even more hot pre-cum with every slide, it makes Kei dizzy with pleasure. He’s so hot all over, his mouth soaking wet, and all he wants is more.
Finally, he can feel Yamaguchi start to rock his hips. Only in time with Kei’s movements, but it’s glorious, especially when each one is matched with a breathy whimper, Yamaguchi breathing hard above him.
“Tsukki…Tsu…hah,” Yamaguchi pants, head slumping. “S-so good…”
This shouldn’t be enough. Kei should demand more. Kei should find it in himself to pop his tongue off Yamaguchi’s dick and dictate more pleading, more begging. But the thought of letting Yamaguchi go now is entirely unfathomable. He drools freely down Yamaguchi’s dick, sucking hard as he bobs up. Kei feels dizzy with the degeneracy of it all, with how stupidly obscene he was being - every slick sound just makes him harder.
Heat fogs up in Kei’s blood, every vessel, every artery. He wants more. He can’t help it. It’s all he’ll ever do: clamor and take, over and over. That’s why it feels good to have Yamaguchi do this to him. It’s the only way to put him in his place.
“God, you f-feel- hah, your throat’s so soft, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi mumbles.
Kei barely feels alive. No, wait, he feels more than alive. Which is it? He doesn’t care. He’s transcended the stupid inanity of the mortal world, slipping into a thin veneer beyond tangible perception. He rises on his knees, pushing further and further down the length of Yamaguchi’s dick.
“Tsukki-!”
Nothing matters. Nothing. Just Yamaguchi. Just Yamaguchi, and making him feel good. Just Yamaguchi and the way he thrashes under his tongue, moaning helplessly. Kei is little else than an overcomplicated fleshlight now. He rejects humanity for the thrill of swallowing around Yamaguchi over and over. The carpet digs into his knees. There will be thin cuts on them tomorrow. Kei doesn't care. No, Kei welcomes them. He wants Yamaguchi to look at them, kiss them, spit at him, mock him, hurt him, hate him, hold him down and love him.
He wants Yamaguchi to hold him down and love him.
Yamaguchi’s fingers clutch desperately at Kei’s short hair, each painful jolt grounding, exhilarating. Kei is right here. And he is so desperately, unequivocally, undeniably loved. Who else would do this? Who else would have the patience for it? Nobody sane would. That’s why Yamaguchi is so dear to him, so utterly perfect. In Kei’s greedy, deliriously aroused haze, he is certain that some force beyond his comprehension has hand-crafted Yamaguchi for him. Yes, Kei is sorry for whatever Yamaguchi went through, to render him insane enough to do this, but Kei is still selfish. He's grateful for it. He's grateful for him.
Kei blinks up at Yamaguchi now. Evidently, whatever he looks like is too much for Yamaguchi - he just about manages a strangled gasp before he’s cumming down Kei’s neck.
Silky coats of cum sleek down Kei’s raw throat, the soft roof of his mouth, quickly spilling out past his lips. He could swallow, but why would he? Kei loves this. It feels so much better on his tongue than anywhere else. So Kei lets his mouth hang, glories in the feeling of Yamaguchi’s cum trailing down his tongue, spilling back onto his dick, each gloss of it gorgeous.
He doesn’t realize how hard he’s breathing until he feels Yamaguchi’s hands petting at the sides of his neck, faintly purring to him.
“My Tsukki...” Yamaguchi says appraisingly, soft. Kei’s eyes flutter shut. He feels good. He feels ‘pretty.’
“...Tadashi,” he mumbles. He wonders if he’s brain-dead yet. “I hate this.”
“I know, Tsukki.”
“I love this.”
“I know, Tsukki.”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”
Yamaguchi giggles. “If I knew, would we be doing this?”
Kei can’t conjure any argument. He just sighs blissfully, dropping his head to Yamaguchi’s lap, and revels in the quiet way Yamaguchi pets his head.