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They don’t even get all of their clothes off, they barely make it through the door, there’s too much touching and fingers enclosing around each other’s halfway-done clothing, and there’s so much heat, too much trapped at their base of their spines, and it feels like they’re going to boil inside their skin.
There’s sweat, curling down their faces and under their jaws to collect at the base of their hairlines, and their palms are sweat-slick, too much fumbling with too much desire broiling under their skin. it makes everything fever-hot, and just maybe, just maybe, they’ll burn up from the inside in a cloud of supernova ingredients.
It’s lightning in the shape of desire.
And Koujaku’s pressing his hands everywhere, his fingers press blood bruises just on the surface, and everything hazes and falls away at the edges of his vision, his perception, everything that’s not Aoba, Aoba, Aoba, and his tongue curls around that word, tastes it in the back of his throat, just enough pressure where he thinks it could split his throat.
Just leak out all the desire to rot there on the floor, at his feet.
And Aoba’s burning under a blanket of near oblivion, his fingers claw at Koujaku’s kimono, harsh in their journey, needy in response, and the feel of that fabric against his kindling skin is too much, it’s like evil spun into thread form that Aoba can’t stand, and he needs to get away from it, away from Koujaku, away from this plane of reality, and he pushes his fingers under every layer that he can possibly reach.
And each space of distance between their bodies is just too much for Koujaku, he doesn’t like, he hates it. Aoba’s line of vision shifts upwards and his equilibrium is thrown off when Koujaku slides his hands under Aoba’s thighs, grasps, clenching his fingers against tensing muscles, and he lifts, he brings Aoba up toward his face, situating Aoba in a way that is comfortable for them both.
This is a better angle, where Aoba can swallow the sounds out of Koujaku’s throat, smear his own half-aborted words and sounds and everything his voice thirsts for against Koujaku’s half-open mouth; press his own teeth against Koujaku’s skin. He trails his tongue across Koujaku’s lips, eats a path down Koujaku’s mouth to curl his tongue under Koujaku’s jaw, and salt is sharp at the end of his tongue, all of it roiling around his mouth.
Koujaku walks them towards the bedroom, and he can’t help it, he detours, he’s jerking suddenly to the wall, pressing Aoba against it. Aoba’s back flattens to the wall, molds to it, and Koujaku thrusts his hips upward, pushing and dragging Aoba against the wall. They’re burning into a wasteland of nothing, into a splintered awareness that falls away into white static and desaturated until the only color is right in front of them, formed from fever-pitched skin and hair clinging to their body.
Aoba buries his fingers into Koujaku’s hair, fingers clenching to it, holding onto it, needing it as a support, something for an anchor. The seams of his skin are starting to weaken, coming apart to spill his insides to the floor, but that’s okay, it’s alright if he comes apart and withers away, it’s the desire that matters, it’s the desire that is formed from splitting open and revealed for Koujaku to nourish himself from.
Koujaku wants to leave Aoba’s skin bruised and ruined against the side of this wall, he wants to leave it wasted with bruises enough, and what a poor, sad thing Koujaku thinks of, in the terms that he’s so desperate to leave his marks, he’s desperate to leave his existence stretched and spanned across Aoba’s skin.
To prove his existence really matters there.
He makes bruises bloom across the stark canvas that has become Aoba’s skin, sucking them just below the surface. There’s a voice spearing through his ears, Aoba’s, and it’s thick-hot, it’s sweltered with heat and throaty with, “Koujaku—you’re leaving a mark,” and it’s so absurd for Aoba to be protesting now, not when he’s pressing into these bites, not when Aoba writhes so against the wall in his embrace.
Aoba’s fingers nearly tear at his hair, his legs clench around Koujaku’s waist. It’s anchored to him, this personified form of need clinging to him to bring him down even closer to a white out of perception of everything around him, all of it to narrow down and condense to the form in front of him.
He’s okay with that.
More so than what he can admit out loud.
Koujaku grinds forward, his voice is hot and laced with thirst in gravel tones, steadily grinding against Aoba, pushing him up the wall, grating against it where he thinks briefly Aoba will rub at the paint, peel it, and that sort of spurs him on. He’s vaguely concerned for Aoba’s back, but in the process he thinks of hot red it will be, how it was him who gave Aoba those marks, how he pushed Aoba against the wall to seduce him and keep him there, bones quivering inside his skin, that voice in an ever-expanding crescendo.
He wants everything Aoba can offer.
Aoba is forced to follow Koujaku’s lead, can do nothing but be pinned to the wall, his feet on no solid ground, and it’s Koujaku that is his support against falling (he thinks about that, tastes it on the back of his tongue and chews on it, and yeah, he really is, it’s a wonderful feeling). Koujaku keeps him inside, keeps all that desire pressed into his skin, and he loves it.
Aoba tries to moves hips, pushing his jean-covered dick against Koujaku’s—at least, into the area he thinks he’s getting, and it’s good friction, it burns through his veins and sparks the ends of his synapses, but it’s not enough, it can’t fill the hollow spaces in between each jolt of pleasure sent spiraling through his body.
Koujaku mouths at Aoba’s skin, drags his teeth across Aoba’s neck, his breath hot and frantic, a heady combination that fills Aoba’s senses, and he just needs, he wants, and his brain is a litany of sounds, begging for Koujaku, wanting Koujaku, just wanting, all of it just Koujaku, Koujaku, Koujaku—
"Aoba," burns against the skin it’s breathed into, and oh, Aoba said everything out loud, he said everything. This would be the part where everything is ruined and left at the bottom of the stairs, never to continue on, but Koujaku hitches his legs up, pushes harder into his crotch, positively grinding his cock against Aoba’s. It’s a muted friction, it’s everything Aoba needs, it’s everything he can’t get enough of.
Koujaku’s name unhinges from his throat and breaks passed his teeth but it doesn’t make it that far. In fact, Koujaku steals it from his lips, devours it, consumes it down. His tongue traces against Aoba’s lips, pulling back and returning. Aoba grips at Koujaku’s hair harder, and a groan pushes out of Koujaku’s throat, into Aoba’s mouth, and he’s more than happy to accept it.
It’s a strange thing, when they get like this. There’s embarrassment and shame trying to gain purchase in Aoba’s mind, trying to push to the front of his brain, through all hazes of desire and lust and need and all things taken up by Koujaku. It’s hard trying to gain attention, not when there’s a symphony of sounds that all spell out Koujaku’s name until everything is out of control.
It’s good when that doesn’t reach the surface.
(It’ll be back, it’s always there, ready and waiting, to come barreling back and crack everything into pieces with a conceited, “hello, darling, I told you so.”)
Koujaku’s pressing Aoba back harder against the wall, trying to get something, anything, before he decides it’s enough, and he has to move. Aoba continues to lick at Koujaku’s face, gets his teeth back against Koujaku’s neck.
He gets inside the room and he wants his mouth back on Aoba. He wants to drag his tongue across more skin, he fucking needs, needs, needs, and has to have Aoba filling his senses, has to have everything.
Inside his head is a building lust for Aoba’s voice, needing and wanting in a way that makes him more hysterical, more prone to lust-induced words that slide under the pads of his fingers to paint it all onto Aoba’s skin.
Koujaku sets Aoba down on the bed, feels his muscles loosen, and he’s free to be whatever he wants, to paint and smear his feelings across Aoba’s skin.
Instead, Aoba’s climbing on top of him, he’s situating himself on top of Koujaku, his fingers hungry for touch and feeling, coming back to Koujaku’s hair, craning his neck downward. Koujaku meets him, his hands settling on Aoba’s waist. They swap breath and groans and sounds of encouragement, and it’s all a heady mixture, it serves to burn them further.
They could burn away into nothing like this forever.
Koujaku’s hands settle on Aoba’s waist, fingers squeezing, pulling on the jean-covered flesh below its surface, and he needs to feel it, he wants to feel all of it, and his fingers move upward, reaching the top and sliding under them, passed Aoba’s boxers, settling on Aoba’s ass under his jeans. Aoba doesn’t stop kissing him but he does pull one hand away from Koujaku’s hair, moving it downward to grasp at the button of his jeans.
He undoes them, giving Koujaku’s hands more space to use, and in doing so, he clenches at Aoba’s ass, fingers pressing in, nails biting into the skin, and Koujaku’s sure he’s leaving a mark (it's exciting, knowing that). He kneads, fingers pressing in, clenching and curling his fingers around the flesh, all the while Aoba grinds down on him, wanting friction, wanting something, anything.
“So good like this, for me,” is pressed against Aoba’s mouth, pulling back to let Aoba chase him, looking at Aoba, open-mouthed, face laced with heat and half-conscious thought. He grins when Aoba makes a face, a partially throaty, “don’t—don’t ruin the moment with that,” and he tries to smother what Koujaku might say, if he’ll say anything. He’s done a good job avoiding his usual flustered position in times like this; he’d like to keep it that way.
“How can I,” and Koujaku licks at Aoba’s mouth, pulling back again, but Aoba doesn’t chase them, staring back at him, expression slowly souring, “when you're so adorable like this?” and Koujaku’s pushing it, he knows he’s potentially ruining the mood, but he can’t help it, he has to make these remarks, no matter how cliché and over-used and ran into the ground they become.
It’ll never stop amazing him.
Aoba scoffs, and like that, Koujaku’s knows he’s losing Aoba, so it’s time to step up his game.
His fingers slide against the dip of Aoba’s ass, fingers just pressing there, slightly spreading Aoba open, and his fingers only rest there, not going any further. Aoba makes something akin to a whine, a non-definitive act that’s about to be followed by another series of events of Aoba slowly collapsing under his craving, his need for Koujaku, his very existence burning for each touch.
Aoba presses down, grinding against him, and Koujaku can feel the shape of Aoba’s arousal through his jeans, and he pushes into it, nearly letting himself be lost in the push and pull his and Aoba’s bodies conduct, and he’s nearly caught up in it, he’s nearly on the verge of letting himself lose his perception, until his mind’s eye tells him how wonderful it would be for Aoba to squirm, for Aoba to be writhing in his lap, to be taking everything, receiving all of what Koujaku can give him.
He loves it.
Aoba doesn’t care what’s happening, he wants to come, he wants release, but he’s not there, he doesn’t have enough, and he wants it so much. There’s still his pride, trying to burst through his muted conscious, desperately reaching past the near bleak parts of his mind to tell him that he needs to stop, he’s being so fucking needy, but Aoba couldn’t care.
(Shame is waiting for him, waiting to break the walls of his mind when he comes down from all pleasures.)
He feels Koujaku shift, knowing Koujaku is getting ready to put him on his back, but he stops Koujaku, a low, “wait, Koujaku—wait,” and Koujaku halts, hands moving back to where they were on his ass, almost where Aoba needs them to touch.
“I wanna—” and it’s so fucking hard, as he’s realized this, and it never gets any easier, each time is like the first, and he’s still some blushing, inexperienced lover looking for self-confidence in all the places he thinks are right, and it still pisses him off, but there’s other things at hand, “I wanna—” and he just fucking can’t get out the words, it’s so frustrating.
Koujaku’s hands move, fingers just resting outside of Aoba’s hole, the touch dry, giving a little drag, and Koujaku presses, “tell me what you want, Aoba. Let me hear it,” against the skin of Aoba’s neck, and he’s tempted to draw away, to snipe at him, to be everything opposite of this moment, but he’s got the reminder when his cock throbs, when he feels the pulse of blood railing against the wall of his veins, ready to split his skin and reveal everything he is, but he needs, he needs so fucking much.
He steels himself instead, but it doesn’t last long, not when the first words of, “I wanna—ride you,” come tumbling from his thickened throat, and he presses his face into Koujaku’s neck, almost muttering into the skin, “r-right here… on this bed,” and god, he sounds so fucking pathetic, he should just remove himself from the world, let it split open and the heat ensnare him and pull him into the center where no one can be bothered by him—
Koujaku must have heard him (just under his ear are where those words sit) because there’s an inhale, Koujaku’s chest expands quickly, and his fingers press harder into his skin, nails digging into his skin, sure to leave half-moon-shaped marks. Koujaku’s fingers press against his hole, dragging, caressing, the dry touch rippling across his nerves, and what a sweet sound it unspools from his throat.
Koujaku wants to catch that sound and swallow it down, he wants to feast from the reservoir of Aoba’s voice, but now is not the time, not when Aoba’s in his lap, writhing, twitching, and asking for things that make Koujaku’s blood sings in his ears until he hears nothing but his arousal thrumming through his body.
Koujaku doesn’t really want to separate from Aoba; he doesn’t feel like taking off his clothes if it means he can’t touch at Aoba’s skin, so he compromises, just peeling down his pants is enough. Aoba must feel the same when he’s moving to kick at them, struggling to get them around one leg. Koujaku only removes one hand from Aoba’s ass, keeps the other there to touch at Aoba’s opening, pressing two fingers against it, just enough for pressure, not enough for it to give.
Aoba pants harshly through his nose, grating across Koujaku’s skin, and he wants it now, he wants Koujaku to forget everything and press into him, he doesn’t care about prep in that moment.
Some other less fever-pitched part of his mind tells him that would not, in fact, be a pleasurable experience.
Koujaku reaches back and showers kisses against Aoba’s kin, tongues at random intervals and gathers up skin between his teeth before sucking, lavishes his tongue across to soothe the slightly irritated skin. It’s a deadly combination as it disables everything Aoba is. It’s a soothing combination, mixed into a perfect recipe and Aoba’s voice is shaky around Koujaku’s name, can’t quite keep its footing.
Koujaku’s got lube in his hand, three-fourths used, and wow, Aoba’s forgotten about it, often puts it out of his mind until he sees it (it comes with other thoughts, how much he and Koujaku go through, almost makes him think he’s a deviant for how fast it’s used) and he should make a note to get more, he really should.
He can’t help but get embarrassed at being reminded just how fast he and Koujaku go through a regular-sized tube.
While he’s locked in thoughts of self-realization, Koujaku’s fingers come back, wet, near cold, and they swipe down the crease of his ass, and Aoba doesn’t expect it, he never paid much attention around him. They swipe down from the top of his ass, pressing in, swipes over his hole, and running over the sensitive skin, and stop just behind his balls, only to reverse.
Koujaku’s other hand is still on his ass, rubbing, petting, soothing him in ways he needs, yet doesn’t want, serves to only further burn his insides. There’s the part in this where Koujaku is all the attentive he can handle and much too patient, just drags out the entire process to the point where he knows he can get the perfect reaction from Aoba.
Koujaku sits and watches, staring at Aoba, open-mouthed and panting, trying to push back on his fingers, trying to get something, but Koujaku is content like this. He knows why he does it, in this version he knows he’s feeding into everything he’s ever dreamt and daydreamed and when it all became too much, but he can now do something about it, he can do so much, he’s given this platter with an image he can repeatedly wreck on this canvas, and be destroyed with his work.
Koujaku gets more lube on his fingers, replacing his hand back onto Aoba’s backside as his fingers return, messily tracing Aoba’s hole again. His fingers encircle once, twice, three times before moving to horizontal stokes. He’s aware of his own arousal; he’s more than aware of Aoba’s pressing against his stomach, trying to get friction.
“Koujaku,” and there it is, the soon-to-be break of Aoba’s voice, and Koujaku enjoys it, knowing full well what words it’s going to snap against.
“What is it?”
“I—come on,” and Koujaku’s fingers stop right where Aoba needs them but they don’t move, they don’t press anywhere. It’s like metal is coating Aoba’s insides, weighs him down, solidifying in all the places he needs to use to move. His hands are too clumsy, his voice is too shaky, and his whole body is a useless pile of feelings and raw nerve endings.
He knows Koujaku well enough now that he’s not going to hold out long, he’s not going to make it any farther than Aoba, but he knows all these tricks, these subtle little tricks to break Aoba faster over these words, these actions, just enough to where he can take each part and sew him back together with the parts he likes the most, just remake him without inhibitions.
It’s so pesky, what Koujaku does.
(He loves it.)
“I don’t understand, what do you mean?” and that fucking voice continues to press these innocent questions into his skin, grates him like it were an irritating piece of clothing, but it scratches him too deep, the actions behind those words winding him up.
“Just,” he pants, voice heavy, throat constricting, all his important parts shutting down—he can’t speak, he can’t think properly, and it’s so fucking absurd that Koujaku gets off on this.
If Koujaku wants forceful, he can do this.
(Regret slides to the back of his mind into the dark recesses for now.
Pleasantly quiet.)
Koujaku doesn’t see the change coming until Aoba grasps at his hair, pulls him in, and seals his mouth over Koujaku’s thrusts his tongue against the seam of his lips, pulls back briefly before pressing ins closer, his shoulders pushing upward, hunching around Koujaku. Aoba has to work quickly, before his new-found confidence shakes and breaks down before he’s able to utilize it.
“I wanna ride you now,” and oh, no, Aoba can feel it falling away, he can feel the heat coming back, clawing into the pores and digging into his skin. His confidence is fading fast, he’s crashing way too soon, he’s losing his edge as soon as it came, but it looks to be enough for Koujaku, his chest expanding, his lungs threatening to tear.
Koujaku thinks about the rush of heat inside his head, a pile up of all his thoughts until they’re no longer decipherable, and he’s pressing his fingers against Aoba’s hole. He kisses back, puts his wrist into helping stroke along Aoba’s lube-slickened hole, before stopping, pulling his pointer fingers back to let his middle finger slide in, to the first knuckle. He stops, gauging Aoba’s reaction, attentive and tuned to any small twitch of hesitation in Aoba’s body.
He prides himself for being so attentive to Aoba’s needs.
He presses in again, gets to the second knuckle, thrusts out slowly, only going back to the second knuckle again. Aoba’s pushing back, trying to get Koujaku to go deeper, all the while his cock brushes against his stomach. Aoba has to touch, he needs to touch, and he does, his hands darting out before his can really think about what he can touch.
His hands find Koujaku’s shoulder, fingers skating across the firm muscles, curves down his shoulders, almost hesitating, and a hazy realization that he didn’t have a plan on what he wanted to do. Koujaku makes a noise, and thrusts his finger until he gets to the last knuckle. Aoba nearly chokes on Koujaku’s name that comes up his throat, half-bitten off in an attempt to smother the sound, but he fails spectacularly in trying to mute it.
Koujaku grins against his lips, a small, “c’mon, Aoba,” and Aoba knows where this’ll lead if he lets Koujaku continue.
He settles for a huff, blowing hot air against Koujaku’s face, ruffling the curtain of hair that hangs in front of his eye, settling for touching, exploring, and carving out non-linear paths across the broadened muscle and hard planes and shapes of Koujaku’s torso. His fingers trace, the pads of his fingers running over lightly, airily, leaving a trail of goosebumps sprouting, and the intake of Koujaku’s breath is enough to know it’s working.
Koujaku’s finger pushes in drastically, surrounded by heat and suction, and Koujaku just wants to remove his finger and replace it with his dick, he wants to be enveloped in that slickened heat, just grasp Aoba and shove him down on his cock. He doesn’t, won’t, no matter how much his insides liquefy in the heat of his belly. His pores cry for relief, his skin is too hot; it tightens too forcefully over his bones.
Aoba’s fingers are trailing down his stomach, curls into the wrap around Koujaku's stomach, how messy it’s become and unkempt since they started, and Aoba touches against the muscles just below layers of skin and ink. Aoba touches them reverently, gentle, his touch skimming passed the ink and tracing them. He knows them by heart; he knows where they are without looking.
There’s a hitch in Koujaku’s throat, knowing that his touch is pushing out his reaction, knows that Koujaku is still ashamed of them, of this forced ink patterns laid upon his skin. Koujaku is hyper aware of him touching his tattoo, and Aoba knows that moment when the projector of this scene malfunctions and everything is suddenly in slow motions and there’s nothing Aoba nor Koujaku can do but watch, see how it plays out.
Koujaku’s finger moves slower, as if savoring the heat, but Aoba knows differently.
Aoba then reaches down for Koujaku’s dick, fingers grasping, thumb coming up the swipe at the head, and this jerks Koujaku into drive again, and his finger presses in harsher, ripping a weak breath from Aoba’s throat. He feels every inch of Koujaku’s finger, the broad shape, the way it slides into him, curls into his walls, swirling, and all kinds of movements that have him wanting to skip the prep.
There’s a moment of respite when Koujaku adds in another finger, his middle and pointer fingers joining in stretching him carefully. It’s a slow burn, starting in the bottom of his feet, lacing through every hollow in between his tissue, the heat growing in intensity as it crawls up his body.
“Ngh,” is the only response he can give, and he does, twice, each time a little stronger than the previous, and it flushes Aoba down deep again.
Koujaku moves his mouth away, pressing it to Aoba’s neck, mouthing at the slope of his neck, trails his tongue across his skin, collecting the sweat, sharp on his tongue. Koujaku finds his collarbones, worrying at the skin there, the tips of his teeth gentle pressing against Aoba’s left collarbone, not pressing in deep enough, only to give Aoba a sure reminder of their presence.
Aoba continues to stroke at Koujaku’s dick, his wrist twisting at different angles—ones he can manage from his position, and he listens to every low grunt that springs from Koujaku’s mouth. He wants to licks them away from Koujaku’s lips; he wants to push his tongue into Koujaku’s mouth and collect all the residue of those sounds, swallow them down, just take it all into himself.
Koujaku must sense it, and his hand finally leaves Aoba’s ass, carving a path upward, leaving behind so much heat where his palm was until it’s settled into his hair. Koujaku brings their mouths together, trailing his tongue across Aoba’s lips, licking along the sides before Aoba opens. He moans softly, the sound low and vibrating from Aoba’s mouth, all of which Koujaku is more than glad to receive.
Koujaku abruptly thrusts his fingers in, expands them and twisting his hand. Aoba breaks away when a moan scrapes his throat on the way up and out his mouth, scalds his tongue with the sudden intensity, and Koujaku’s back to take it into his mouth, fingers flexing in the younger man’s hair. Aoba pulls back but hovers, just barely in reach of Koujaku’s lips, forehead pressed against Koujaku's, just breathing, biting at his own bottom lip as Koujaku’s fingers work faster, quicker, more efficient, and Aoba’s legs begin to shake where he continues to hold himself up.
Their kisses become messy, sloppy, filled his half breaths and grunts, mouthing at each other’s lips. Aoba’s hand is losing technique on Koujaku’s dick, thumb starting to catch more precum that slowly eases from Koujaku’s dick.
With that, Koujaku removes his fingers, the slickened sound of them retreating from Aoba making a slightly squelching noise, of which Aoba winces from. Koujaku must notice as his other non-lubed hand falls from his hair down to his hip, soothing, a comforting weight.
Koujaku pours a generous amount of lube in his hand before setting it down. Aoba wants to roll his eyes—he’s told the older man so many times he’s not fragile, he won’t break, and he’s not some weak-boned creature. His skin isn’t porcelain; his bones aren’t thin wiring readily to bend easy and snap. He doesn’t need to be placed on the highest shelf away from everyone, everything, and if he falls, he won’t shatter into a pile of pretty stained pieces.
Koujaku’s hand trails to Aoba’s ass, hand settling back to where it’s been the majority of the time, and Aoba gets the impression of a garage, like Koujaku’s hand is settling there and parking.
That’s really absurd to be thinking about at this moment.
Koujaku lets Aoba adjust himself, rising up on his knees even higher, reaching behind him to grasp at Koujaku’s dick, brushing his hand with the older male’s, of which Koujaku hisses slightly at the difference in pressure between his and Aoba’s hands.
Aoba breathes, steadies himself, and lets himself drop down slowly, feeling the head slowly push inside, forcing his muscles aside, stretching over and around Koujaku’s dick. He stops for a moment—just breathe, in and out, in and out, rinse, lather and repeat. All of this becomes a mantra in Aoba’s head to breathe, to relax, and to not think about the stretch.
It doesn’t matter how many times he’ll do this, he’ll always need a moment to accommodate.
Koujaku leans in to bite at Aoba’s collarbones, and with the hand not grasping at his dick, soothing at Aoba's waist where its moved to, encouraging lightly, just there for an anchor. Aoba can sense to words rolling under Koujaku’s tongue about how he wishes to take the ache of the stretch away, he can feel Koujaku’s protective mode leaking through the cracks, and he’s trying everything to make sure that doesn’t come out.
He doesn’t want Koujaku to clam up on him and switch.
Koujaku grunts when Aoba’s backside meets with his pelvis, fully seated, more of Aoba’s weight pressing into him. It’s a moment when he marvels, when his hands can’t stop brushing over Aoba’s skin, the heat of it, the softness, the complete difference in roughness between his own calloused and scarred skin, to Aoba’s softer, more delicate skin. The color, the contrasts, it’s all what Koujaku marvels at.
All these little things are just so important to him.
There is something else, however, when he looks again, as his fingers trail across Aoba’s skin, watching goosebumps lay in the wake of his fingers, the way they fit over Aoba’s skin, when he takes Aoba’s hand, lacing his fingers and brings it back to his mouth, placing a kiss on the top of his hand.
There’s the far off sound of Aoba spluttering, tugging on his hand, a chorus of sounds all merging into questions about what Koujaku thinks he’s doing, why does he think he’s doing this and how he’s not delicate and fragile and Koujaku needs to cut it right the fuck out, but Koujaku looks up, keeps his eyes half-massed, staring at Aoba.
That look cuts the sound in Aoba’s throat, causes him to look away and shift on his knees, redistributing his weight to what he feels is an even flow, all the while it causes Koujaku to press in, the shifting of his muscles putting a different amount of pressure on Koujaku, and he sighs as his eyes close briefly.
Koujaku continues to stare at Aoba, of which Aoba keeps looking away.
“What’re you looking at? Stop that,” is almost petulant of his tongue, obviously trying to distract Koujaku from openly staring.
But there’s a reason why Koujaku stares, and not for what Aoba thinks.
It feels like some sudden revelation even though it’s always been there, always crouched in the corners of his mind. Koujaku has always noticed in the ways that he’s always been aware of—it’s the same sequence of thoughts, through every different variation it happens in. It becomes less important over time.
However, with this single shot of his hand grasping Aoba’s own, the picture of Aoba’s body placed against his, this single canvas placed by his own, all of the skin and muscle that’s presented to him calls for this sudden change of his thoughts, this new type of direction calls forth previous scripts of his imagination for changing.
It’s the way his fingers fit over Aoba’s, in between the openings of Aoba’s fingers, the way Aoba’s palm rests on inside the older man’s, the absolute differences in between their sizes and broadness all sparks this resonating heat through his body, burning through him to leave behind a desert of inability to think beyond this sudden revelation slamming against the walls of his mind.
Inside Koujaku’s head is ever present whirlwind of thoughts about just how small Aoba is compared to him and his strength.
This thought about their size differences and all these sudden possibilities, it drastically inspires Koujaku to want to embark on them, needs to somehow experience (funny, he already does) all the way through has his mind snapping to attention with this collapse of endless possibilities and scenarios dinging into the cosmoses of his mind, eating up any free spaces with this sudden need.
He thinks his mind could break from this sudden weight of desire pressing into him, heavy with need.
Aoba finally snaps back, an irritated, “Koujaku, stop staring like that,” and it’s impressive, with the way Aoba keeps shifting, trying to avoid Koujaku’s gaze, the way Aoba feels every shift and graze of Koujaku’s cock in him, with the way he’s very aware of his thighs slightly shaking with exertion—all of it doesn’t provide the distraction he needs.
Koujaku seems to come down from his sudden thoughts, smiling, a pleasant, “was just thinking how I’m still honored that you let me do this with you,” and Aoba while thinks it might not be completely true, it sparks a heated reaction in his gut, his already heated skin flushing even more, and if it’s possible, Aoba would think he could get a heat stroke from this.
“Sh-shut up, don’t start with that,” and isn’t Aoba so smooth and at his greatest moment.
Koujaku only smiles that infuriating look.
Fucking just—
Aoba can’t win against that look.
Aoba takes the situation into himself (Aoba cringes internally—and, wow, isn’t this the time for puns?) and his own hands and pushes his hips upward, whitening out half his mind, and that infuriating look off Koujaku’s face.
Serves him right.
Aoba moves his hips, to which Koujaku’s hands find their way back to his hips, helping Aoba adjust if he needs any. It’s not really hurting anymore—it’s this constant pressure, this stretched feeling that never really goes away, only fades into the backdrop to be forgotten about. It’s this fullness, this feeling Aoba can’t quite describe that comes with penetration, but he welcomes it, needs it as a distraction from anything embarrassing that Koujaku, stupid, stupid hippo that he is, wants to suddenly wax poetic pleasantries about.
Aoba pulls himself up, knees tensing, his hands finding Koujaku’s shoulders, fingers clenching into the muscle under his fingers. He slides down, languidly, surely, his breath stuttering, clacking against the back of his teeth, trying to find an opening to escape through.
There’s a clench of fingers at his waist, and he wants to keep look up at Koujaku, wants to see his expression, wants to see so much but he can’t, he doesn’t want to look up and see that look, that whole-heartedly smitten expression that Aoba can’t look directly at, can’t keep himself from falling into and sealing himself under the depths of its persuasion, so he steels himself to focus on other things.
Koujaku looks at his hands on Aoba’s waist, the way his thumbs press gently to Aoba’s hipbones, the way his thumbs rest on them. He looks at the way his scarred knuckles stand out against the painting that is Aoba’s skin, everything that his hands are comprised of standing out so starkly against Aoba’s skin.
Is it really any excuse that he’s caught up in the differences of his and Aoba’s sizes? He’s had time to notice; he’s had time to dwell on this subject matter, but is he supposed to be thinking about it while he’s balls deep in Aoba?
He should be walking through this situation and inventing pleasurable rhythms to sink Aoba’s mind into the depths of the sea, to not allow him to return until Koujaku feels like Aoba can’t hold a thought any longer than a few moments.
But he notices it, in the way Aoba’s hips are practically dwarfed in his hands, the way his thumbs stand out, the svelteness of Aoba’s thighs—everything about it, all of it, it’s burning through Koujaku, it’s destroying his hold on the world, it’s taking up too much of his thoughts.
Aoba continues to move, feels each slide of Koujaku’s dick inside him, clenching around him, rubbing against everything, and Aoba sighs, mouth jarred slightly, his breathing starting to come in shallowly. There’s the buildup of heat, kindling, low enough for him to be aware of it, not enough for it to be anything he needs.
He fucking needs so much, he needs so much more than what the pace he’s going at can offer.
Aoba shifts, Koujaku’s hands tightening in response, and Aoba rises up faster, nearly cries out at the slide of Koujaku’s dick inside him, and he’s coming back down, a light sound of his skin meeting the older man’s. It’s good; it’s a nice prickle through him, and the sensation is curling at the edges of his awareness, slowly consuming and blurring.
Koujaku’s hips make a small hitch, driving up off the bed slightly. Koujaku watches Aoba, sees the movement, eyes trailing to his face, watching with an almost concentrated look. There’s sweat curling there, clinging to his skin, soaking his skin, and Koujaku follows it when it drips. Watches it carve down Aoba’s skin, leaving behind a small trail, and he wants to dart forward, he wants to press his tongue to Aoba’s skin again, he wants his teeth in Aoba’s skin, he wants to mark, bite, lay waste to Aoba’s skin and leave it bruised and blooming with petals of blood under the skin.
His hands tighten over Aoba’s hips, his hips jerk upward, slightly coming off the bed and Aoba’s breath hitches, and it vibrates across his tongue. Koujaku’s awareness is filled with Aoba, with the clenching heat around him, the slickened inside, the absolute velvet clutch Aoba’s body has him in.
Koujaku has to breathe, stop himself from just thrusting up, trying to get inside Aoba as far as he can.
Koujaku’s developed a slight obsession with this, and his mind denies that word—it sounds harsh, like a pervert’s behavior, someone not of a respectable position, but Koujaku can’t help it. His right hand moves on Aoba’s waist, toward his ass, and his fingers slide to the top of Aoba’s ass, feeling the stretched skin of Aoba’s hole around him.
Aoba’s breath stops briefly, an aborted moan through his clenched teeth, and, “Koujaku, you—” but he can’t actually speak, not with the way he’s starting to frantically move, thrusting himself down on the older man’s cock. But Koujaku likes touching where they’re joined, where he can feel the physical connection between them. It sparks so much in him; it ensnares him in ways he can’t quite describe, in ways he can’t really figure out.
Aoba doesn’t really understand why Koujaku has to touch where they’re joined, he doesn’t really want to know why, and it’s so fucking dirty, it’s really embarrassing, but Aoba would break off his own fingers before he admitted that he sort of enjoys it. He likes it, when Koujaku touches him there, when those broad fingers dance across the stretched skin of his rim, when Koujaku strokes and presses down and he can feel Koujaku’s dick and his finger pressing into him at once, on the outside and the inside.
Koujaku’s fingers linger, the other hand tightens, and it’s hard to focus, to keep track of the darker-haired male’s fingers, his hand, the way Koujaku splits him open, all the while Aoba's fingers clench in Koujaku’s shoulder, his nails leave half-bitten marks, his voice is trying to break his teeth to get free—there’s too much sensation, too much feeling digging into every pore in his body, burrow past the skin deep sweat that collects, and it’s just so much to keep track of.
Aoba’s moving faster and Koujaku is sure that Aoba has adjusted to his length and he begins to move with short, almost hesitant thrusts upward, his hands gripping a little harder at Aoba’s waist—and there’s a thought, the way his hands have been encircled on Aoba’s waist, how hard he’s been gripping, and it reminds him of there’ll be bruises there, there’s going to be proof of his presence pasted to Aoba’s body, blooming as spring time flowers from the rain his fingers have given to Aoba’s skin.
It’ll be one of the prettiest sights.
Skin mottled with his finger prints, how it’ll be in full bloom after tonight.
Aoba’s resisting the urge to throw his head back, his chest heaves with neediness for air, and his fingers find it more difficult to hang onto Koujaku’s shoulder. He’s aware of Koujaku’s hands becoming more forceful in their grip, the growing lengths of his thrusts, and Koujaku’s still staring at him, still looking at him like he’s the only piece of color worth it in his black and white world.
The older male is shifting, sitting up a little, changing angles and—
Aoba can’t completely taper down on the jolt that shoots out his lungs to his mouth so quickly, skidding on his teeth as Koujaku wraps an arm around his hips, thrusting upward, harsher than any before, quicker more precise, and more importantly, coming in contact with Aoba’s prostate.
Aoba’s eyes drop dangerously, his mouth falls open, and with this vigor, he thrusts downward to meet Koujaku, his head resting on Koujaku’s shoulder, elbows resting on Koujaku’s shoulders where they wrap around whatever he can get.
Koujaku grunts, his breath is harsh, labored, choppy from exertion but he can’t be bothered to care. Aoba’s moving in time with him, meeting his thrusts, detecting the tenseness in Aoba’s thighs. He can hear Aoba trying to stop himself from moaning, biting his lip, reddening from irritation, and he’s gonna draw blood, paint his lips like lipstick, and smear it all over.
Briefly, Koujaku thinks about the Aoba with bright red lipstick smeared across his lips, glossy, and those lips wrapped around his dick.
That’s gonna be some fodder Koujaku will never quite get over.
Aoba is thrusting down frantically against him, and Aoba could just moan (he won’t) with how good the angle is, the delicious slide of Koujaku inside him, the way his toes curl at this speed they’re going, and he just wants more, he needs more, he just needs—
Koujaku’s leaning back, falls back into the pillows, bringing Aoba down on top of him (Aoba does not make an undignified squawk, he will deny everything in those few seconds). He gets his arms wrapped around Aoba’s back, and Aoba lands on his knees, staying up, and Koujaku thrusts upwards, and the angle is so fucking good, it’s goddamn perfect.
Aoba presses his forehead into Koujaku’s chest, mouth agape as Koujaku fucks into him, quick, hard thrusts, the sound of it muted but still easily heard. Koujaku’s embracing him, not really allowing him to go anywhere else. Koujaku stops thrusting so quickly to give slow, long thrusts, arms uncurling to grab at Aoba’s ass, pulling him up toward him as he pulls out, only to push him back down as he thrusts in. Aoba can’t stop the sounds from pouring from his throat, sliding so easily passed his tongue, and there’s nothing he can use to mute himself, there’s nothing to bite, to scream into, there’s nothing.
The older male repeats this, these slow, hard thrusts, and the angle that Aoba feels is just so good, Koujaku hitting him directly at his prostate, and his dick is grinding against Koujaku’s stomach, against the hard, tensed flesh there, and Aoba isn’t gonna last, not when he moans again when Koujaku starts up fast again. His hair is sweat, in his eyes, sweat becoming a blindness factor, but he doesn’t care, he can’t care, not this time, not with the way Koujaku is fucking him.
He’s so close, so fucking close, and he must voice it, and oh, he is, with, “gonna come. Koujaku, I’m—” and it’s a siren song for the man under him, uncurling one arm, the other tightening, and it’s almost so fucking possessive to Aoba, the way this is like ownership and he feels so small in Koujaku’s broad arms. Koujaku could crush him; use his strength to make Aoba submit but Aoba knows better, he knows Koujaku would rather cut out his own tongue, but it doesn’t stop Aoba from thinking about it.
Koujaku’s hand finds his, grasps it, and there’s maybe five or less thrusts before this ends, but Koujaku thrusts upward and grinds, holding himself there, and Aoba actually cries out, unmuted, unable to stop himself, and the sound aims at the headboard in front of him, bouncing back at him to tell him that he’s about to come.
Aoba’s name sings from Koujaku’s vocal chords, and Aoba can’t take the constant pressure on his prostate, and he’s shaking, he’s so wound up, he just needs—
And then Koujaku’s pulling out to thrust in one more time and that does it for Aoba.
Everything cracks and breaks and collapses around his head in clouds, the pillars of his mind turning to falling down walls to a symphony of car crashes that eats away every piece of awareness.
Koujaku hears Aoba make that sound before he comes, and he knows he timed it just right. His last thrust has his body seizing up, and briefly, he’s worried he’s crushing Aoba, he’s using too much strength on him.
He could probably crush Aoba.
The amount of strength he has could do it, he really could.
It’s a further reminder that Aoba 's body is much smaller compared to his own, their size differences are just so stark, and that the last thing before his mind annihilates itself into white noise and pitched-black oblivion.
It’s also noted that he shouldn’t tell Aoba about these thoughts, that’d be a very awkward conversation that he’s pretty sure Aoba might actually kill himself from embarrassment and shame.
Better save Aoba nerves from becoming frazzled.