Midousuji Akira (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discarding) wrote2023-09-12 10:48 am
discarding) wrote2023-09-12 10:48 am
STRANGERSおまけ
There's nothing more aggravating than being an amateur—than doing your best to walk with new legs, aware that you're near fatally clumsy in your lack of skill as you actively push to just stay upright and not trip.
Midousuji has been distinctly aware of his shaky gait, traversing things that are basically alien to him. But human connection has its distinct results, loathe he is to admit it, when it comes to his racing. But the nature of sex and romance and friendship, more than Midousuji even previously understood on an intellectual, eye-rolling basis, has proved to be more confusing than he could have imagined. It's a little embarrassing that his pandora's box has been his own withered little black heart, and he still doesn't enjoy utilizing it this way. It's like the foreshadowing has been right under his stupid dick this whole time in some fruity little red scrawl of a heart against bright chrome.
Eyes wide and empty, Midousuji barely absorbs the tinny, chaotic beats in his ear pods, head slightly hung as his big body sways slightly along with his large cycling bag. There's a lot on his mind, but he's not letting any of that through, at the moment, in an act to preserve his energy and sanity.
He's going to Italy—tomorrow. And he's booked his flight out through Tokyo. Word's not really out, though some of his cycling friends know—not everyone on his team is great at keeping tight lip. After all, Naruko's on his own team—not a legendarily discreet person. But outside of cycling, Midousuji knows there's a good chance word hasn't gotten out all that far, and there's a similarly decent chance that Ishigaki hasn't heard. Midousuji hasn't been wanting to think of it, because of the strange frenetic pressure it wells him with; makes his limbs stiff and locked, his head hot, his heart racing, his skin balmy.
Midousuji and Ishigaki have been spending time together, here and there. Back when he was a freshman, it was once a season. Then in his next couple years, maybe once a month—with the occasional text or call, no less. Calls became more frequent. And in the last six months, so have their in-person meetings, despite the distance. Maybe twice a month. Especially as Midousuji's anxiety began to grow when he learned Ishigaki had outgrown Kyoto, and intended to stay in Tokyo; that Midousuji had taught him the world was so much bigger than Kyoto, and how Midousuji panicked when that also meant that Ishigaki's world was bigger than Midousuji. The same feeling that caused this baffling anxiety was the same thing that chased Komari into Midousuji's bed, and was the same thing that had made Midousuji decide to fly out from Tokyo instead of somewhere closer, and was the same reason he was on this train right this second.
It almost seems Ishigaki's had a taste of his own medicine, though that's not possible, if Ishigaki indeed doesn't know he's going to Italy. And even if Ishigaki was aware... well, on Midousuji's part, it's not like he's moving to Italy. But it's a long trip, far away, with odd timezones. The coincidence of the timing versus Ishigaki's recent behavior all the same feels silly, Midousuji thinks. How Ishigaki's been so in his grill about spending time together lately... It twists his stomach in equal parts embarrassment and butterflies, which in turn makes him feel nauseated with himself.
His hand twists against the hanging plastic loop used to steady its passengers, the motion squeaking under his glove.
Midousuji's aware of it now, that he desires Ishigaki. And that, in fact, he's been in love with him for a while. He didn't realize it until he worried he might have feelings for Komari—and after contemplative comparison, he realized Komari was actually standing in an embarrassingly large shadow. Worse, Midousuji realized that just before his sexual relationship with Komari tied itself off with a bow. They hadn't been fucking too often, due to the same distance, but it was still at least once a week&madsh;and the sex was intense, not to mention. Going from virginity to that sort of regular fix left Midousuji...parched, to say the least. His quiet moments with Ishigaki have been difficult to bear, which has probably made Midousuji seem terser, and quicker to end their time spent together... Maybe that was why Ishigaki was getting so clingy, and not because he caught wind that Midousuji's leaving for a few weeks.
Midousuji steps off the train at last, and politely moves his big body away from traffic, standing in front of a bench. He's had enough. Enough of this unbearable sexual tension, enough of coquettishly tiptoing around the deplorable reality of having feelings for another person, enough of the unsaid and the anxiety. Midousuji had thought about going directly to Ishigaki's, but being he has his travel bag, as well as his bike, etc... it'd be pretty embarrassing, and annoying, to show up with all his shit if Ishigaki's with his stupid friends or whatever.
After staring at his phone for a bit, he pulls his glove off by its fingertip using his teeth, and sends Ishigaki a message.
> Are you home?
> I'm in your area.
No apologies for the short notice, of course.
> Speak now, or for 3 and a half weeks, hold your peace.
Midousuji has been distinctly aware of his shaky gait, traversing things that are basically alien to him. But human connection has its distinct results, loathe he is to admit it, when it comes to his racing. But the nature of sex and romance and friendship, more than Midousuji even previously understood on an intellectual, eye-rolling basis, has proved to be more confusing than he could have imagined. It's a little embarrassing that his pandora's box has been his own withered little black heart, and he still doesn't enjoy utilizing it this way. It's like the foreshadowing has been right under his stupid dick this whole time in some fruity little red scrawl of a heart against bright chrome.
Eyes wide and empty, Midousuji barely absorbs the tinny, chaotic beats in his ear pods, head slightly hung as his big body sways slightly along with his large cycling bag. There's a lot on his mind, but he's not letting any of that through, at the moment, in an act to preserve his energy and sanity.
He's going to Italy—tomorrow. And he's booked his flight out through Tokyo. Word's not really out, though some of his cycling friends know—not everyone on his team is great at keeping tight lip. After all, Naruko's on his own team—not a legendarily discreet person. But outside of cycling, Midousuji knows there's a good chance word hasn't gotten out all that far, and there's a similarly decent chance that Ishigaki hasn't heard. Midousuji hasn't been wanting to think of it, because of the strange frenetic pressure it wells him with; makes his limbs stiff and locked, his head hot, his heart racing, his skin balmy.
Midousuji and Ishigaki have been spending time together, here and there. Back when he was a freshman, it was once a season. Then in his next couple years, maybe once a month—with the occasional text or call, no less. Calls became more frequent. And in the last six months, so have their in-person meetings, despite the distance. Maybe twice a month. Especially as Midousuji's anxiety began to grow when he learned Ishigaki had outgrown Kyoto, and intended to stay in Tokyo; that Midousuji had taught him the world was so much bigger than Kyoto, and how Midousuji panicked when that also meant that Ishigaki's world was bigger than Midousuji. The same feeling that caused this baffling anxiety was the same thing that chased Komari into Midousuji's bed, and was the same thing that had made Midousuji decide to fly out from Tokyo instead of somewhere closer, and was the same reason he was on this train right this second.
It almost seems Ishigaki's had a taste of his own medicine, though that's not possible, if Ishigaki indeed doesn't know he's going to Italy. And even if Ishigaki was aware... well, on Midousuji's part, it's not like he's moving to Italy. But it's a long trip, far away, with odd timezones. The coincidence of the timing versus Ishigaki's recent behavior all the same feels silly, Midousuji thinks. How Ishigaki's been so in his grill about spending time together lately... It twists his stomach in equal parts embarrassment and butterflies, which in turn makes him feel nauseated with himself.
His hand twists against the hanging plastic loop used to steady its passengers, the motion squeaking under his glove.
Midousuji's aware of it now, that he desires Ishigaki. And that, in fact, he's been in love with him for a while. He didn't realize it until he worried he might have feelings for Komari—and after contemplative comparison, he realized Komari was actually standing in an embarrassingly large shadow. Worse, Midousuji realized that just before his sexual relationship with Komari tied itself off with a bow. They hadn't been fucking too often, due to the same distance, but it was still at least once a week&madsh;and the sex was intense, not to mention. Going from virginity to that sort of regular fix left Midousuji...parched, to say the least. His quiet moments with Ishigaki have been difficult to bear, which has probably made Midousuji seem terser, and quicker to end their time spent together... Maybe that was why Ishigaki was getting so clingy, and not because he caught wind that Midousuji's leaving for a few weeks.
Midousuji steps off the train at last, and politely moves his big body away from traffic, standing in front of a bench. He's had enough. Enough of this unbearable sexual tension, enough of coquettishly tiptoing around the deplorable reality of having feelings for another person, enough of the unsaid and the anxiety. Midousuji had thought about going directly to Ishigaki's, but being he has his travel bag, as well as his bike, etc... it'd be pretty embarrassing, and annoying, to show up with all his shit if Ishigaki's with his stupid friends or whatever.
After staring at his phone for a bit, he pulls his glove off by its fingertip using his teeth, and sends Ishigaki a message.
> Are you home?
> I'm in your area.
No apologies for the short notice, of course.
> Speak now, or for 3 and a half weeks, hold your peace.
no subject
His phone buzzes with a text bubble, and he immediately sits up.
>What????
Following an immediate:
>Yes I'm home.
He wouldn't be surprised if Midousuji ever showed up uninvited- though he might as well have, given he'd never directly asked to come over before. Sometimes a warning that he was coming over the day of, though only after Ishigaki's contestant requests- and there weren't any as of recent. Although Ishigaki almost wishes he would show up uninvited sometimes, because that would mean something it doesn't.
Luckily Ishigaki isn't a slob, so with enough haste and gay panic to fuel him, he can get his apartment organized well enough. Dinner away, dishes washed. Changing his clothes into something that hasn't been his sweatpants for half the day, poke the few misplaced pieces of his tucked back hair together. Things he wouldn't care to do for many else this late in the day.
Soon enough, Ishigaki opens the door to Midousuji's rigid posture and vacant eyes peering down at him. It's characteristic, but this time there's something just off enough that only Ishigaki's subconscious notices. However, right now, his head is too buzzed by what he sees.
Before he can say anything, Midousuji is quick to explain himself in the least amount of words possible, and Ishigaki's welcoming smile fades into something smaller. He says he's going to Italy, and why. That it's for a while. It's uncomfortable to hear but not the least bit surprising given his success. He blinks, eyes drifting elsewhere, and nods.
"I see. That's... a long time to be gone." Ishigaki replies, his thoughts slow, turning over Midousuji’s words again. He doesn't know how traveling that far out works. There was a time where maybe he did given the context, but the surprise proves those days are one step too far behind him.
What else was he going to say to that? I can hardly handle our time away from each other as is. Three weeks and a half more is too much. I'm going to miss you. I already miss you. It all felt foolishly misplaced.
But Ishigaki is quick to pull himself out of his own head, bouncing back to reality with climbing brows. And then he's beaming with secondhand pride as earnest as his disappointment was.
"Wait- that's amazing, actually!" He invitingly steps aside.
Midousuji comes in with a coltish stride, and Ishigaki stares stupidly at the other's general direction as he absent-mindedly and slowly clicks the door shut.
"I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. It's just..." He starts, voice softening. It's hard to say, exactly. His head is buzzing with prolonged contact, so much so that he has to smile down to his feet. Despite how insistent he's been in keeping in touch, their newfound closeness has not entirely settled into reality- especially so with the little mental preparation this time around. Before he graduated, he was so sure to only see Midousuji from afar, on TV making headlines. And just before their reconnection, he wasn't ever sure if he'd see that, or him, ever again.
A lot has changed.
He nods to himself, gaze returning to Midousuji again. There's a lot he could say, but Midousuji is used to the praise. He doesn't need it, anyhow.
"It's just good to hear is all. Congratulations. Really."
Midousuji props his bags against the coffee table, where Ishigaki stares pointedly. Then it clicks, belatedly, that he's leaving tomorrow.
"Oh."
An uncertain anticipation that he wishes he didn't recognize curls in his chest. He chooses to ignore it.
"So you're staying the night then?" Sure you can. Thanks for asking." There's a smile in his voice and on his face. Ishigaki doesn't mind, and he knows Midousuji knows that. If anything, he's flattered. And Midousuji probably knows that too.
no subject
He lets Ishigaki struggle with it, and watches him the entire time, silent, slinking and stalking, like a watchful predator. The obedience is nothing to be surprised about, nor the joy in being used so inconveniently. Midousuji feels the tension in his core well as he straightens his back, carefully standing to his full height once he’s confident his items are stable where he’s placed them.
“You know,” Midousuji says, ignoring Ishigaki’s playful, no-purpose banter. His head tilts, eyes still wide. His hand lifts to rest on his cheekbone. “It’s not, really.
“A long time, I mean,” Midousuji clarifies, and he takes a long, steady stride forward, head slowly tilting in the other direction—he looks at Ishigaki through the corners of his eyes like that, jaw held slightly agape in thoughtful consideration. His hand travels from his cheekbone to hold his chin, and he blinks. Once.
“I know I’m not a typical case when it comes to that sort of thing, but isn’t it normal? For example… with people, especially in different colleges, who went to the same high-schools—to sometimes not see each other for such an amount of time?”
It wasn’t like Ishigaki wouldn’t probably creep into his texts. And though he’s loathe to admit it, there’s no way he’d be able to fully restrain himself from that impulse either.
Another step forward, and then another—and Midousuji’s posture remains straight, but his neck cranes down, eyes wild and wide as he looms over at Ishigaki, peering straight down at him.
Speaking of the struggle to reign impulses… But that’s not quite accurate. Midousuji’s only thinking about his plan—his strategy. How to move forward, and get what he wants… like he always does.
And it’s so close, too… Even Ishigaki’s scent impacts Midousuji differently than it used to—it’s insane what a little bit of an epiphany can do to a paradigm.
Midousuji’s hand lunges forward, grasping hard with one hand to both of Ishigaki’s cheeks, just beneath his mouth. He pulls Ishigaki’s head up, and his voice is a quiet, hissing rasp.
“You’re being strange. And you’re being strange because you’re hiding something, Ishigaki-kun.”
There’s a chance that Ishigaki actually doesn’t feel that way at all, so it’s a wild bluff with a high risk… but not a probable risk, Midousuji thinks. He’s confident, now. Midousuji pulls Ishigaki’s face, tilting his head as he leans in a little closer.
His voice, no longer a tight, quiet hiss, is simply deep, and smooth—and as he speaks again, his eyes fall half closed. Even this much is making Midousuji’s pulse act right back up as if he’s still riding over. There’s absolutely no way he can tolerate this sensitivity anymore and keep his sanity for it.
“Your whole body is like a silly little chimera of tells.”
no subject
"H…Huh??" Ishigaki responds, as stupid as the smile that hangs awkwardly on his face. He has to crane his neck up for his face to meet his, though his eyes actively avoid him, gaze flickering back and forth elsewhere.
"W-well, yes but..." he stammers to try to pull out some poor defense. It's not unusual for Midousuji to turn something mundane intense, but usually Ishigaki has to do something- anything at all- to earn it. "To be out of the country that long, I meant- That's all-"
He's grabbed, then, and he sucks in a sharp breath when he's yanked forward- holding it in his chest. Shocking, but not unfamiliar. But it's then he's force to see a different light in Midousuji's eyes, his own cautious as they meet again.
Midousuji's voice is magnetically smooth, and it's as new to Ishigaki as the look he's given. He holds his muscle tight to keep himself from shuttering, with the involuntary exception of twitching thighs.
He exhales, finally, throat tight. When spoken to like this, it feels like it's an order- not a question, not a statement. He had to respond.
"I-I see. I guess that is frustrating..." He says slow, like he has to think of each word before he says it. He's surprised he can say anything at all with the familiar kind of panic in that tightens his expression. But he's not in high school anymore. Midousuji is intense, always is and will be, but Ishigaki is not (entirely) scared like he used to be. Like how Ishigaki has taught Midousuji not to flinch away from vulnerability, Midousuji has taught him to steel his own resolve.
That's not to say Ishigaki isn't absolutely confused. An inkling of what it could be, but it's easy to dismiss when he knows his hormones are louder than his logic.
But still, he's curious.
"You always did like how predictable I was..." He says, his tone just a bit more settled now.
"Okay. Then tell me. What is it that I'm hiding...?"
no subject
Midousuji can faintly feel Ishigaki’s pulse, too, and it’s not just because of this heightened sensitivity. It’s because of Ishigaki. His heart is racing—not unusual, as Midousuji, understandably, often puts people into a spike of adrenalized arousal when he confronts them so aggressively. Really, it’s amazing no one has beat Midousuji’s ass—but his intimidation is stronger than his body, and it’s effective.
But that’s not what he’s doing here—not solely, anyway.
Midousuji’s eyes sweep across Ishigaki; from where his hand connects, down to his body, and then up again, boring back into Ishigaki’s bright, honey eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, studying as Ishigaki talks. Well, stammers.
“Frustrating,” Midousuji repeats slowly, flatly, rolling the word in a venomous, low growl in the back of his throat on the tail end of its intonation.
Not in the way Ishigaki thinks—but Midousuji’s not going to correct it. It’s sexually frustrating, but only in that context.
As for Ishigaki being predictable—yes, Ishigaki isn’t totally wrong, though that predictability was frustrating for a long time as well in its own way. His inability to leave Midousuji the fuck alone was what made that “predictability” also a feature of his tenacious reliability—and before Midousuji knew it, the roots had gotten too deep, too long. Ishigaki had crept in, like cordyceps, hollowing Midousuji out steadily (well, more than he already was) until there was room for nothing else inside but Ishigaki.
To Ishigaki’s question, Midousuji’s eyes are fully open again in a snap instant, finding it interesting. They narrow again, and Midousuji tilts his head somewhat, still imposingly craned over and into Ishigaki’s space, appraising him.
He still has plausible deniability, here, and he’s betting on that as a man of strategy. But he knows that while there is a chance he is wrong, it’s incredibly slim. Midousuji’s not really one for risks; every execution is impossibly scrutinized, but he handles failure variably. Utter devastation, or with a stoic dusting of his knees as he gets up to try another route. And of course, he’s thought of this as well.
If Ishigaki rejects him, he’s not sure how he’ll handle it. Ice up? Break away? Wall off? Find someone else’s body to burrow into? Fall apart? It’s hard to imagine that he can resume as they currently are; this already is unsustainable.
And Ishigaki’s the one who put him here. There’s a pause, as Midousuji considers his response, and watches Ishigaki’s face. And he’s really looking at him—not simply through. Taking in his subtle, few freckles—the thickness of his eyelashes, the shape of his brows, and how his complexion is warmed by his sparkling, golden eyes.
Like golden pearls. The consistent symbology is almost funnier than it is pathetic, but not by much. What is it Midousuji has always vied for, after all? And here he is, vying for a different bit of gold than the one he’s chased for more than half his life.
“I could be wrong, of course,” Midousuji acknowledges in an airy, drawn drawl, and he taps his fingers against Ishigaki’s face like anxious spider’s legs, and he releases Ishigaki’s face, brushing the backs of his curled fingers across Ishigaki’s face. His eyes scan to Ishigaki’s ears, across his neck, and back studiously to his face.
“I’m not psychic,” he continues, almost hissing, and he retreats his hand back—from there, he carefully removes one glove, as before, with a pinch of his salt-white incisors. “So I can’t tell you what you’re hiding.”
He’s being bratty and obtuse, of course. He knows Ishigaki probably knows it, too.
He holds Ishigaki’s face with his bare hand, the skin dry and smooth against the warmth of Ishigaki’s face. The hold is different, this time—he’s more cupping Ishigaki’s chin, and it’s absent of grip—it’s more a cradling, and he brushes his thumb from Ishigaki’s cheek to the corner of his mouth.
“But you can. Only you really know.”
They’re locked in a game, now. But only one of Midousuji’s gloves are off yet.
“After all, Ishigaki-kun… you’re the honest, honorable one. Aren’t you?”
no subject
Midousuji's thumb brushes and stops- a small gesture with a subtle and clandestine sign. And it's then as if something had broken, and Ishigaki almost heard the snap when it did- the barrier between belief and disbelief. He steps back, closing the distance between him and the door, eyes frozen open.
When he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a faint noise in the back of his mouth. He closes it, swallows, and tries again.
"…Yes," he says, like he's responding to a command rather than a question. It's then he's noticed somewhere between then and now, he's tilted his head, just slightly, into his touch. Whatever game Midousuji is trying to play, Ishigaki is clearly following his lead.
What was once labeled as patronizing and condescending is now "honest" and "honorable." If he were to tell Ishigaki that years ago, he would have laughed, marking it off as manipulation, if not vied for more context. And now here is, folding at his words without much of a second thought.
Whatever he wants to call it, he's not wrong. Ishigaki can't lie.
Midousuji is clearly waiting for something as his brain shudders to put the pieces together past every instinct that’s screaming at him to escape. He laughs softly, nervous- a flounder to break the silence he's made.
"I thought maybe you'd have an idea," he says, quietly. "Since it's so obvious."
Ishigaki isn't entirely stupid. He knows what he's been, selfishly, doing overtime. But it's not that Ishigaki is hiding his passion, it's that he is only showing the excess bleeding out from what he can't hold on his own. As if his passion in itself is an essence made to be seen; an active paradox that he must resolve. At one and the same, his love must be known and not known.
He closes his eyes, a look of defeat washing over his features, and he holds up his hand just an inch away from the one that holds his face. But it only lingers there.
Hesitation, still even now. What if Midousuji rejects the idea? Just the thought is what's kept him quiet for so long, protecting him from his own want. Maybe that would teach them both something. Ishigaki not to follow a boy for years on end who tried so hard to keep closeness from happening, and for Midousuji not to hold the face of an unwavering man with a touch so convincing.
A feeling has welled up in chest so large it's suffocating. He feels like he wants to apologize. Midousuji is so gentle with his touch, so patient while Ishigaki finds the words when Midousuji is always so quick to know the right ones. It's unfair. As if punishing him, Midousuji is saying "This is your fault. You made this bed and now you’re lying in it."
His fingers curl back into his palm. He exhales deeply, eyes opening again, but only to gaze half-lidded at their feet.
"That is a long time to be gone. It is to me," he says, tone forced to stay even.
Blood roars in his ears, his pulse loud enough to hurt. But he says it anyway,
"It is when it's you."
no subject
Deciding its enough pussyfooting around, after listening to much more of Ishigaki’s similarly plausible dodging (after all, they’re locked in a game of chess), Midousuji snaps his jaws into a tight, stacked teeth grimace. His hand grips Ishigaki’s face again, and Midousuji exhales a hard, heavy breath through his nostrils; it ghosts across Ishigaki’s face.
His blood is hot, and the blood of his body is racing to uptick its tension. His irises shrink, and his head tilts, the chords of his neck popping as he hisses through his breath.
“Ishigaki-kuuun,” he growls.
“I want you to fuck me, before I go to Italy.”
It doesn’t answer anything directly, but it’s also very direct in answering everything at once.
Midousuji’s free hand grasps its bony fingers awkwardly against the seam of Ishigaki’s pants, at the seam of its waistband.
“Are we on the same page? I’m not bluffing. Just don’t make me miss my flight.”
no subject
He shakes his head, already formulating some sorry apology, but the excuses don't make it to his mouth in time, and Midousuji…
He…
"......Huh?" Ishigaki blurts.
Eyes widen in realization, then look down in sudden horror, because his dick is definitely hard, the timing is telling, and Midousuji's hand is simultaneously too close and not close enough. He'd move back if he could, but his palms just slap flat at the front of the door.
"What-" He tries, but his voice is caught in his throat. His brain misfires any thought he can hold onto.
So he tries again, without any thought at all.
"What. Okay. Yes. We're on the same page."
no subject
"Already hard? Gross. You've got it a little worse than I thought, I guess."
With wide, manic eyes, Midousuji's gaze falls to watch his hands, one of which he pushes against Ishigaki's dick by its palm; he twists his fingers against it, grabbing it through his underwear—which makes Midousuji's dick jump, eyes still wide as he exhales heavily through his nose. He caresses pushily, firmly, and his eyelids flicker slightly as his eyes lid part way, a heavy plume of breath let go from the cage of his teeth as his jaw drops open, ears subtly burning pink at their tips.
"Brace yourself, Ishigaki-kun."
He's officially one to talk; it's not long before Midousuji's urgently hard himself, dick pressing obtusely his grace predictably dumbing down a couple notches from the loss of blood from his head as he fights Ishigaki's dick out of his underwear. He strokes it hastily, at first, then more slowly, rolling the pad of his thumb across it in time to how he licks his lips—and he pauses, then abruptly drops, shifting somewhat before yanking with brattish urgency on the elastic of Ishigaki's underwear and the parts of his fly.
Then, just as abruptly as everything else, Midousuji grips Ishigaki's hip with one of his long, large hands, pulling him forward as he slowly drags his tongue across Ishigaki's cock. A quiet, low sound that clocks somewhere between a sigh and a purr is pulled out of Midousuji from the taste, and the heady scent.
Not romantic, Midousuji knows. But he isn't romantic, and they've had plenty of incidental romance building up to this moment. Midousuji exhales heavily through his nose again, winding his tongue around Ishigaki's cock from the back of it to its base, his lips pulling against it—his tongue redirects Ishigaki's cock in a wet stroke to Midousuji's lips, and he sucks the head wetly, correcting course somewhat with his hand as he descends Ishigaki's dick.
Predictably, grossly, Midousuji's mouth is already overproducing saliva—he can feel it pooling slightly at his fingers where he holds Ishigaki's cock steady, and he can feel a gathering at his chin, pulling into a lengthening cord as gravity descends. He's drooling like a man starved presented a life-saving meal at the brink of keeling over, but he can't help it. He swallows heavily, adams apple bobbing as he pulls off somewhat, still sucking, fore-fingertip and tip of thumb forming a tight circle at the base of Ishigaki's cock to stroke where his mouth doesn't go—and twists his head as he descends again. This time, his tongue follows with Midousuji's movement, pushed out and flat, drenched against Ishigaki's cock.
no subject
"Oh," he says, belatedly, like he had only now realized what was happening- eyelids blinking rapidly before they fall to half-mast.
The fabric between his dick and his hand is simultaneously frustrating and more than he could have ever hoped for. It makes him clench his jaw, stifling any involuntary noises to the back of his throat, because apparently he still has some pride left in him- but it's not for long. Midousuji leaves his side just as suddenly as it all started, sending Ishigaki jerking himself forward and then back upright. And then Midousuji is below him, Ishigaki's dick an inch away from his face and nothing between them.
"O-Oh."
There's no warning passed that. Ishigaki's waist is pulled forward and then assaulted with the painfully slow drag of an already painfully long tongue, and Midousuji's purr vibrates against his dick like he's been waiting for it. It all felt so cruelly calculated, because of course it was. Calculated before Midousuji even came through the door that Ishigaki leans back into with a thud and a moan tumbling out of him haphazardly.
Ishigaki tilts his head up to the ceiling, cupping his mouth with one hand while the other balls up into a tight fist against the door. His eyes roll and shutter closed under the onslaught sensation of his dick submerging into the heat of his mouth, enveloping him just almost whole- fingers quick to make up for what his mouth doesn't do. It bobs in a rhythm of crude noises, drool collecting in wet cords that drip between his legs, and Ishigaki can't do anything but spread them invitingly wider.
But muting himself proves itself worthless, because Ishigaki is quick to unravel. His hand, damp from hot breaths, shakily uncurls from his mouth- a choked noise releasing itself in full volume when he does. At this point he can't visualize what Midousuji's mouth is doing anymore- it all blurs into a rapid, wet haze. There's no sense of time in Ishigaki's head right now, but he recognizes the building pleasure between his leg, and it's not good.
"Wait, wait-" he begs with a voice hoarse and broken.
Ishigaki places a trembling hand on Midousuji's forehead, giving it a weak push, but all it achieves is slipping up and into his hair, brushing his bangs away from his face and into his fingers. His thoughts lag and his limbs drag, like his whole body is betraying him, because he really, really doesn't want this to stop.
His fists curl into his hair, not taking notice if it's painful for the other or not. He's melting into a series of soft, airy sounds that ends with a crack of his throat, and he doesn't recognize his own voice when he hears it. He didn't think he was the vocal type- never was before- but Midousuji's shamelessness is contagious and the building want brings out something that was buried deep away.
"Midousuji, please, slow down-"
Ishigaki pushes hard, once. The heat of Midousuji's mouth disappears with a pop, causing Ishigaki to shudder in both relief and disappointment.
"God," he gasps and swallows thickly. His head drops, rising to full height to slack his body heavily against the door.
He tilts his head back and he drags both hands slowly down his face, groaning. "You never make anything easy, do you?" And of course Midousuji doesn't. He couldn't have started off with kissing, or foreplay, or whatever else it is you do in these situations. But it's very… him.
He gains the courage to look down, knowing better than to try beforehand or else this would have ended much sooner. Midousuji's face is a mess: hair disarray and chin dripping, and Ishigaki wonder's if his own is just as red.
His eyes roll away, mouth forming a tight line as he does so. His bottom lip quivers almost unnoticeably, just once.
"I'll, uh. Finish..." he admits. "If you keep that up..."
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With regards to not making anything easy, Midousuji just grins with teeth as he strokes his tongue along Ishigaki’s dick once more. Nothing easy but cumming prematurely, apparently—but Midousuji says nothing.
Then he feels Ishigaki looking down at him—but Midousuji makes no reaction or move to it. But he pulls away with a wet, gaping maw exhale, his tongue loose and unfurled, cords of thickened spit stuck from Ishigaki’s cock to the long path of Midousuji’s tongue variably.
“That’s the idea,” Midousuji mumbles, and laughs in a low, quiet chuckle, stroking Ishigaki’s cock as he licks his lips. “Get the stupid, quick one out of the way…”
Midousuji then leans back, and gives a quick, hard slap across Ishigaki’s thighs. And when Ishigaki is shocked out of his hiding, Midousuji meets his eyes finally—his lightless gaze all hazy with arousal, mouth long and spread thin corner to corner, his ungloved hand splaying its thin, girlish fingertips against his shiny lower lip as his shoulders shake with laughter.
“Go ahead, dummy,” he indicates—and leans slightly forward, extending his tongue so that the base of it flattens and expands, the tip of the grotesque thing basically curling against the bottom of his chin; his eyes roll to the unfurling of his tongue, and his cock twitches hard. He glances back up to Ishigaki, and makes a lewd jerking off gesture with his gloved hand, laughing again—suggesting that Ishigaki finishes himself off against his tongue, on his face, or into his mouth.
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Midousuji is kind enough to return to himself, leaving Ishigaki slacking heavy in defeat. The quick one...? He can hardly think of five seconds from now, let alone how tonight will unfold. And when he tries, the comment Midousuji said earlier spins dizzily in his head. What did Midousuji say earlier, about fucking him? How did that work properly, between two men?? Who's fucking who???
But the thoughts he desperatly tries to piece himself back together with are interrupted, ass cruedly slapped like he's just some boy-toy, releasing a started gasp and a pointedly bewildered stare.
Ishigaki eyes are forced to meet his, eyelids now raised from their lusted daze, and he wonders then if finishing in his mouth prematurely would have been less embarrassing than having to look down at him from this angle. Passed his dick, Midousuji's face is intoxicatingly sweet, incredibly foul- mockingly gifting Ishigaki the illusion of control.
"Oh my god," he says, exasperated, too stunned to say much else. "I- uh, okay. Okay."
Obviously shocked stupid, but he doesn’t have to be told twice. Ishigaki is already too pent up to put in the effort to challange Midousuji, let alone his own desires. He tentively gives himself a slow stroke, chills running up his spine from the subsequent relief. Definitely not as good as the heat of Midousuji's mouth, but his saliva gives plenty of lubricant.
"How can you be so-" He breaks off, caught off guard by the sensitivity just the following few strokes does to him.
"So, shameless..." he breathes out, and it comes out too airy, too quiet for it to mean anything. While one hand finds an even pace, the free one cups clumsily around the back of Midousuji's head, edging him forward with a gentle scratch of his nails into the soft locks of his hairs.
Ishigaki finds he enjoys how easy his head empties in carnal desire, sighs rolling off his lips, the direct eye contact gradually losing its difficuly. He can feel the damp air of Midousuji's mouth against him, his dick barely hovering over his welcoming tongue. The timid strokes meant to prolong whatever dignity he thought he had quickly evolve into something rapid and messy, focusing on the upper half of his dick and to the tip- no longer chained by shame, his mind a buzzing mess.
"Midousuji," he pants, eyes fluttering closed.
The tell-tale throb in his stomach resounds up his torso in a tight, deep wave, and he tucks his chin into himself when it does- jaw dropping with a moan that starts out low and grows into a vibrating octave too sweet for Ishigaki to recognize himself.
"Ff-ahh, hah- Midousuji--" Ishigaki rasps his name in a way that he had only done on particularly pent up, lonely nights with flexed imagination- and that did it. His face contorts tight and the noise that follows is hardly one at all; his mouth opens soundlessly wide for a stilled moment, and then a throaty, desperate crack. He stroked a few times more and then cums like someone had punched it out of him- all force and tightly-snapping hips.
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After all, to his delight—and expectation… Ishigaki remains obedient, despite his shock and embarrassment. Which Midousuji likes. And he likes it when Ishigaki calls him shameless, too. Such that Midousuji slowly, discreetly, moves his long, bony arm, stroking the callous of his thumb softly in short, slow back-and-fourths across the straining head of his cock.
Of course he has no shame. He’s never quite had that exact luxury, but he’s also never cared to. In fact, it feels like the further he leans away from shame, the more power he has! —Except, of course, that’s confirmation bias. Midousuji never thinks about the reflex revulsion he has towards positive, loving feelings, romantically and or platonically, being a shame response. Embarrassment, like he’s being belittled. Even now, he’s only barely aware of it.
Anyway, Midousuji has a feeling Ishigaki enjoys Midousuji’s shamelessness as well. Or else, certainly, they wouldn’t be here.
Midousuji squeezes at his own cock thru his cycling shorts, leaning forward so his tongue is pressed against Ishigaki’s wet-tipped cock; when he notices he can feel Ishigaki’s fingers brush his tongue in his quickening self-stimulation, he suppresses a shudder that only comes through subtly as he lets go a heavy, wet sigh against him.
The way Ishigaki says his name—in this context—feels like it has some vestigial charge of the softer, fonder ways he says it too. A lewd mutation. His name strains out of Ishigaki again, and Midousuji feels himself tense in anticipation, knowing what’s to come (—ha).
He closes his eyes, and Ishigaki’s frantic jerking, likely from the way his body jumps from the over-stimulation of his nerves while being made to stand through (what seems to be) a powerful orgasm, lands inconsistent shots of his load. He involuntarily flinches a bit when he feels it streak across his cheek, against the corner of his mouth, and again, and Midousuji tilts his head, cupping his tongue against the lower under half of Ishigaki’s cock.
It’s then that Midousuji feels the thick, warm cords of Ishigaki’s cum streak across his tongue, pooling in the pocket its positioning has caused.
“Haa,” Midousuji sighs out hard, his shoulders shuddering again as he clumsily squeezes his cock again, squeezing his eyes shut. And when it’s over, he groggily opens his eyes part way, for a moment resting, catching his breath—his tongue partially receded back into his mouth, still hung open.
And shakily, he then stands after a stern push against his knee—and though it’s mostly to catch his balance, it also thankfully works well to come across as an aggressive, domineering gesture, when Midousuji’s palm slams beside Ishigaki’s head.
Eyes half lid again, Midousuji stares directly into Ishigaki’s eyes. His other hand grips Ishigaki’s chin, as if forcing Ishigaki to watch him—his flushed face, streaked here and there in Ishigaki’s semen on one side, and the where it all collects against his tongue, strands of the salacious substance stuck too to his palette from the couple of times Midousuji has reflexively swallowed (careful to mind the mess in his mouth, wanting to keep it where it is). From there, he grabs that same hand, moving it to press the backs of his fingers against his throat. Then, finally, Midousuji shuts his mouth, tongue slowly back behind his teeth, and he swallows, eye-contact held strong. He doesn’t deliberately make a noisy show of it, though it’s still audible, his adam’s apple bobbing against Ishigaki’s fingers.
He lets go of Ishigaki’s wrist, and leans forward heavily, this time now leaning against his elbow instead of his palm. Shakily, he smooths his open hand across his cock, as if trying to smooth it down—and he turns his head just slightly, towards Ishigaki’s head, breathing heavily, voice a bit dry, but watery, as he catches his breath.
“Bitter… Bet you’re feeling better, huh? Nastyyy…”
Midousuji says that like he isn’t about to whip out his own dick and finish himself off right here, looming over Ishigaki. He contemplates it, in fact. Something is pulling his desire, like the idea of just crudely ejaculating all over his object of infatuation.
Humans are so gross like that.
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Midousuji moves himself closer, then, caging Ishigaki against the wall. He's close enough for Ishigaki to hear the wet sounds of saliva thick in his mouth and the deep breathes in between, otherwise subtle sounds now unbearably loud.
"Yeah, just...." He finally says, quietly, trying to control his breathing into something less noticable. There was an atmosphere here, one he didn't want to break by speaking too loudly. "Surprised is all. That was pretty bold. Even for you..."
Ishigaki then notices the subtle movement of Midousuji's shoulder, and his eyes follow down his spidery arm to impatient fingers that sprawl across his crotch. His brows raise, face twitching in a worrisome motion- not surprised in the action itself, but from his reeling reality.
His original instinct to Midousuji's audaciousness is to challenge it with martyred temperance, perhaps out of habitual self defense, but Midousuji has shown there'a no waiting for time to smoothen out Ishigaki's uncertainties anymore. Midousuji has been waiting- patiently, he's now sure, and long enough for his base, animal instincts to boil over. Ishigaki breathes in, eyes flashing a shy look- a trickle of wonder and wait showing through them, before falling back down to poke curious fingers under Midousuji's.
"Hey, let me," he whispers. Ishigaki instictually moves forward, forgetting for a moment they're already so close, his nose now at the side of Midousuji's almost non-existent one, foreheads brushing. Ishigaki's eyes roll between Midousuji's waitful stare and the room around them, nerves still prominently staining his face pink up to his ears, before they fall on their joined hands again.
His orgasm had lulled his nerves with its soft waves, and although his pulse still thumps loud in his ear, he thankfully finds that it's easier to act on impulse now. His hand slides underneath Midousuji's until it's fully cupping him through his pants, dick prominently hard under his palm. A needy warmth spreads out and downwards in response, pooling into his stomach as he imagines the shape under his fingertips.
"I didn't expect you to be waiting for me... If I knew, I-" He fumbles, guilt guiding him through his words.
Ishigaki's expression drops into something smaller then, now glaringly aware that he doesn't have the confidence to say anything meaningful. He doesn't even know, not entirely, if what Midousuji is doing has any meaning outside of being pent up without Komari in the picture now. He can only make an educated guess, that this was Midousuji's characteristically bizarre way of showing interest, and not Ishigaki's hopeless projection. Or at the very least least, hope that his careful touch makes up for anything otherwise- the stimulation probably the only thing keeping Midousuji from cutting him off.
"You'd think for someone so persistent towards you, I'd catch on." There’s the sound of a laugh under his voice. "Always a step behind... You'll have to forgive me."
His palm strokes more firmly this time, and again, until it's a rhythm purposely too slow for what Midousuji is asking for. He’s almost doubtful, ready to wake up from another one of his wet dreams, but there’s a weird gentle sincerity sliding under his defenses instead- his mind empties with each stroke, telling him that he's content with whatever Midousuji throws at him next, open to whatever crued sincerity he has to offer. He reminds himself there’s familiarity here, something to ground himself against in a situation that otherwise leaves him thoroughly at sea.
He leans in then, body raising off the wall and into Midousuji's frame, an arm lifting when he rises to wrap over Midousuji's neck. He hasn't looked up from their hands until now, though it doesnt matter much that he has. Midousuji's eyes are a lightless blur reflected in his own with how close they are, too dark to be anything distinctive. What's apparent now is that he can smell his signature scent closely, one that usually only lingers faintly from his clothes, or his wordlessly designated side of Ishigaki’s couch, and it's probably no more than the select laundry detergent he ritually uses, but it's enough for the subconscious of Ishigaki's want to push him forward.
Ishigaki doesn’t think through what he’s doing, doesn’t process the implications or the actions- he just closes the little distance they do have, Midousuji's lips against his and Ishigaki tipping his head into something comfortable.
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Ishigaki’s words, once again, are persistently, and annoyingly, distracting—with a wheezing exhale rasp let from between his teeth, his eyes roll down to Ishigaki’s, his broad chest heaving once or twice as he struggles to regulate his excited breathing.
“Waiting?” he grounds out, more interrogating than curious, and narrows his eyes, his narrow nostrils flaring as his teeth then clench tight again.
He feels annoyed, but isn’t immediately sure why, which makes sense—his hard dick has left little room for much cognitive crunching, but he knows there’s still a bone (ha) to pick there, somewhere. He hadn’t been waiting on Ishigaki—not exactly—as he hadn’t been aware of his feelings with any meaningful clarity for too long.
“For one second, see if you can resist being such a terrible martyr…”
Despite the teeth in his phrasing, the words struggle out with some labored, distracted strife. As usual, Ishigaki lets his words get in the way of their potential bonding outside of the superficial—but he realizes the same may be true of himself as well, at this point, grown enough to understand his lack of understanding and clarity, embodied by silence and stoicism may be just as detrimental. So, realizing this, he squeezes his eyes shut, letting go of a heavy, hot, frustrated breath, slapping a hand over his eyes. His jaw drops to give him more ease in breathing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, stupid,” Midousuji half says, half pants, recognizing it’s a partially a lie. Midousuji had maybe given signals, but he only realized recently that he’d been doing that at all; his feelings weren’t properly contextualized until shortly before this boiling point. Losing the carnal release and the power in the carnal interaction with Komari’s subservient body had indeed been part of what illuminated that… but disturbingly, Midousuji’s been forced to realize that this condition of his has been existing for longer than he’d possibly ever care to admit. Even alone.
As Ishigaki begins to stimulate him lazily, but firmly, through too much obstructing layers, Midousuji’s thin lower lip is snatched between his perfect teeth, and his shoulders shudder as he struggles to regulate his breathing. He recognizes then how hot his face feels beneath his fingers and palms, and the corners of his mouth downturn in a frustrated grimace.
Then, he’s distracted—this time in a way unexpected and also somewhat welcome—when Ishigaki’s arms come across his neck. When their eyes meet, a second longer than he’d like, Midousuji diverts his gaze away with a drop of his head and a full lidding of his eyes—and his whole body rolls with a shudder as his gaping jaw lets go of another heavy, warm breath. His hips roll forward with a rumbling, hungry groan. It’s not enough.
Midousuji is surprised when his dodging is superseded with a—kiss?
Ishigaki is kissing him?
Heart stopping, Midousuji’s eyes flicker partially open, and he grunts into their kiss; his perfectly toothed maw parts to bossily push his tongue into their kiss, and his thin waist and broad back retract in a bowing motion as the hand that doesn’t rest against the wall along with its elbow struggles to yank down his cycling kit. When Ishigaki’s head tilts, Midousuji makes a small, deep grunting noise in his throat, clumsily grasping Ishigaki’s hand to guide it towards the urgent heat of his warm, urgently hard arousal.
“Just—shut up. Just touch my cock,” he breathes between kisses. “Stop talking so much.”