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When he first sees it, he second guesses himself. Perhaps even third and fourth guesses himself – in complete distrust with his eyes, which were surely playing tricks on him. From a distance, he could excuse his confusion, but as he stalked closer, he began to consider the need for glasses.
The blown-up images lining the gallery walls were making him question if he truly knew every inch of Haruki’s face and body. Given their degree of intimacy, he was fairly confident that his hands and lips had traversed every dip and curve – or he was, prior to today.
Or, maybe, he’d simply gone to heaven.
The man in the photos is Haruki – the longer he stares, the more confident he becomes.
His eyes are unmistakable, soft warm amber, as with his hair, smooth honey blond. Only, it’s long in the images – very long, in fact. Longer than it has ever been. Falling like golden spun silk till the ends nearly tickle across his stomach.
His lips are distinctive too – Akihiko’s memorized their shape and how they fit against his when they kiss. He’s not familiar with the makeup – the lipstick, soft pink and glossy to compliment pale skin dusted with blush.
He’s wearing jewelry too, dainty gold hoops peeking from his ears.
And his body! The uncharacteristic clothing is framing the detailed hard and soft lines typically unseen by eyes and hands other than Akihiko’s. They’re feminine, he can say that without a doubt – mesmerized by the way his sheer white blouse hangs gentle over his masculine frame, a thin ribbon tied loosely around his collar, and how the long pleated dark blue skirt cinches his lithe waist. The cut hovers above his shiny black loafers, topped by tall socks scrunched in ripples.
It's conflicting imagery – the clothing reminiscent of sukeban, but plastered onto the softest and sweetest man he’s ever known.
He supposes it makes sense. There is a woman posing with him in the photos too, with short cropped hair, makeup highlighting masculine lines and features, and donning men’s clothes to reconstruct her silhouette.
It’s a thoughtful photograph, or photoshoot, considering the long stretch of similar blown-up images spread along tall gallery walls. They look good together, as much as the thought irks him. She’s pretty yet sharp while he’s pretty yet soft – both meeting along the line of androgyny elegantly.
He walks carefully, soaking in each canvas as he ignores the crowd around him. He’s tall – likely blocking the view, but he doesn’t care. That is his boyfriend, so he can look all he wants.
He’s beautiful.
Akihiko’s overwhelming awe twists into sudden irritation that Haruki never told him that he would be modeling, nor did he share that the photographs would be displayed in the university gallery. No. Akihiko could only happen upon the art show after curiously following other fine arts students who piqued his interest.
He guesses it’s the opening of the show, with the way other students are gathered and chattering around him. He almost wishes they’d leave – annoyed that they had the opportunity to see his boyfriend dressed up so pretty too.
Almost – because he can overhear the compliments. The sweet words of others singing praise for his sweetheart. He’s beautiful. He is. So handsome. Absolutely. Is that his real hair? No, Akihiko wishes. He’s here! He’s…wait-
Akihiko perks up, spinning around to seek confirmation. Haruki was here?
He pushes through the crowd, flowing through the gallery as he searches for the real Haruki in a room plastered with his face. He searches for short hair with long bangs, jeans and a bright t-shirt, scuffed sneakers and a bass case. He doesn’t find that.
To his surprise, he finds chest-length hair, a pleated skirt paired with a flowy blouse, and clean loafers. A beautiful model come to life, chatting plainly with his female counterpart.
Akihiko reminds himself how to breathe – each slow breath shuddering in his chest as he drinks in how fucking incredible Haruki looks. He can’t tear his eyes away, completely disenchanted by the images that fail to capture his truly stunning beauty.
He’s prettier in motion. Graceful as he tilts down to listen to the shorter woman speaking over the hum of the crowd, joyful as he smiles and laughs at her words, and timid as he tucks his long hair behind an ear.
Akihiko’s about to lose his mind.
Haruki spots him when he straightens – gaze catching his when he peeks up into the crowd. Akihiko’s hard to miss, towering over others with his above average height. He’s guilty of staring too. Who could blame him?
Haruki’s features quickly flash from the joyful excitement of seeing his boyfriend to sudden blushing mortification as he’s reminded of where he is and what he’s wearing. So cute.
Akihiko grins wolfishly and pursues him, shoving straight through the crowd till they are nearly toe-to-toe. “Hey,” he says over the elated heartbeat in his ears.
“H-Hi, Aki,” he replies sheepishly.
He raises an eyebrow – amused as he carefully twirls a long strand of hair around his finger and tucks it behind Haruki’s ear, “What’s all this?” It’s not only the hair, he’s referring to everything. The show, photoshoot, skirt, makeup, and the fact that he hid it all. How rude.
“Ah,” Haruki blushes pinker than his makeup, “It was a favour to the photographer. For an assignment.” He clears his throat and glances away awkwardly, “She wanted androgenous models and thought of me.” He seems embarrassed by the admission – or, perhaps, the implication that he was a tad feminine.
Akihiko hums, eyes flicking up and down to analyze every inch of his beauty. He matches gaze, then purrs, “You look good,” in a voice lower than he expected. Haruki’s throat bobs.
“T-Thank you,” he mumbles, beginning to fidget with the silky ends of his long hair. “Our stylist did everything,” he offers as if that’s what Akihiko cares about, “Oh, but, Hanaoka did my hair. Added the extensions, I mean.”
“Very nice.” The comment feels pitiful despite the sincerity, a blurted response that didn’t capture how enraptured Akihiko was by his appearance. He wants to tell him, show him – but there are too many close bodies and lingering eyes in attendance.
The longer he stares, the more tension builds. He’s crushing crescent moon dents into his palms in an attempt to keep his hands to himself. Haruki’s quiet and awkward, sinking into his embarrassment as he shuffles his feet and avoids eye contact. But while he flounders, all Akihiko notices is the light swish of his skirt, shift of his shoulders under sheer fabric, and pouty lips pink with gloss. His resolve crumbles with every second that passes – Haruki beginning to look painfully delicious.
Fuck. It’s driving him crazy.
He snatches Haruki’s wrist and jerks him close to whisper, “Come with me,” before towing him through the crowd. He sputters nonsense about how he’s supposed to stay near the other model and how he’s still part of the show.
Yeah. Well. Akihiko’s tired of other people looking.
He drags him to the far reaches of the fine arts building, then shoves him into the nearest unlocked room.
“What are you-“ Haruki stumbles over his feet, tangled up in cloth strewn across the floor. Akihiko flicks on the meager light, the dim hue growing brighter as the bulb warms. Hm. Costume storage for the drama students. He locks the door behind them.
“Akihiko!” Haruki’s lips part to say more, but Akihiko closes the gap instead – kissing him hard and slamming him against the wall too roughly, making him gasp into his mouth. Haruki digs nails into his shoulders and shoves him off, holding him at an arm’s length. “Akihiko!” he snaps, “What has gotten into you?” His features scrunch into an upset little scowl as a hand reaches to dab at his lips, “And don’t ruin my makeup.”
Akihiko whines at the sight – his racing heart thrumming with his swirling thoughts. “Fuck, Haru, you’re so-so,” his hands hover, hesitant to smear the beautiful artwork before him, then timidly touch the edge of Haruki’s jaw. It starts with a thumb, a gentle and tentative glide as his fingers brush against smooth skin. His eyes flick between their point of contact and Haruki’s expression, seeking permission to touch. Haruki doesn’t stop him. He cups his pretty face, allowing the tips of his fingers to dip into the forest of his roots, hair real and untouched by long extensions. “Beautiful,” escapes as a hushed whisper.
“The makeup suits you,” he explains plainly as he drinks in the details. The soft pink on his lips and cheeks is befitting of Haruki, subtle and reminiscent of his true blush. He notices eyeliner now too, complimenting his honey-gold eyes.
Real warmth rises to the surface of Haruki’s skin at his touch. Both of his hands are now buried in his hair, slowly and gently combing from roots to tips. “And the long hair, I-” Akihiko whispers, entranced by the smooth strands spilling through his fingers like hot sand. I missed it is the painful admission that simmers, but instead he says, “It’s pretty on you.”
He carefully brushes the long strands aside, pushing them behind Haruki’s shoulders to admire his body too. He caresses over his shoulders, the silky fabric cool to his hot touch. Even in the subdued lighting, he can see the subtle lines of Haruki’s body beneath translucent white. He seeks confirmation with his hands – sliding to the wells of his collarbones, down his chest and sides, till his grip settles into the snug divot of his waist.
Fuck, his waist. An indescribable whine escapes Akihiko has he sinks to his knees. Haruki’s waist doesn’t look like this in his regular clothes, no, it only looks like this when he’s naked. He admires the way it fits so perfectly in his hands, thumbs tracing his hipbones below.
His hands trail lower, following the curve of his hips and ass. The fabric of the skirt is thicker, pleated cotton that holds its shape. He misses what’s underneath – kneading to feel soft thighs below, then slipping lower towards the border.
He settles back on his heels, rubbing the hem between his fingers before touching below. He peeks at his rumpled socks pooling around his ankles and traces the hem, fingers beginning to sweep higher to explore under the skirt.
His actions are halted – Haruki shifting a foot to break contact. “Aki,” he starts, voice wavering, “We’re at school.”
Akihiko ignores the argument, deeming it weak, then reaches to catch Haruki’s ankle again.
“Aki!” Haruki chides, lifting his foot and pressing the toe of his shiny loafer against Akihiko’s chest to push him back.
Akihiko stares up at him, heart thrumming under his foot. He’s so pretty is his only thought. He swallows, lips parted by shallow breaths as he presses into his weight. “You’re perfect, Haru,” he breathes, hands wanting to slide deep under the skirt but settling to grip the hem, “I want you. I need you. Please.”
Haruki’s features twitch – confusion and irritation melting into wide-eyed curiosity.
Akihiko bunches the skirt in his fists and beams at his boyfriend in desperation, “Please. Please let me touch you.”
A dark flushes rises to Haruki’s cheeks and he hides his expression behind a loose fist, peeking down at Akihiko above his knuckles. “Oh my god,” he murmurs, barely audible in the quiet room.
Akihiko can only imagine how he looks – on his knees and pathetically begging to touch him. He can’t help himself. Haruki looks too perfect and so pretty, it’s sending electric fire through his nerves and redirecting all his thoughts to him.
He opens his mouth to beg again, but Haruki takes pity on him – releasing the pressure of his foot. “Okay,” he concedes quietly, “You can touch me.”
Akihiko catches his ankle, drawing it up to rest the sole of his shoe on his shoulder and holds it in place. He rests his cheek on the cool leather, watching Haruki’s face as his fingers lightly trace the hem of his sock and slip upwards. He’s moving slow, mesmerized by the slide of his hand caressing bare skin as the skirt rides up to accommodate his touch.
He presses a short kiss to the top of his loafer, then another to his ankle, then another against the exposed skin above his sock. His hand roams higher too – reveling in creamy skin as it disappears under curtained fabric. He traces the arch of his calf, then the crook of his knee, till he’s cupping the back of his soft thigh.
Haruki’s staring down at him, never breaking eye contact even as his features twitch at his roaming touch. Akihiko’s feeling bold, desiring to test boundaries as his fingers tease higher – grazing along Haruki’s sensitive inner thighs in search of excitement.
Haruki stops him – kicks him away then presses his foot against his chest again to keep him back. Akihiko sits back on his heels and groans quietly. “I-“ Haruki starts, expression unsure, then collects himself and nudges him with his toe, “Stay.”
Akihiko’s muscles tense and he obeys.
Haruki slowly lowers his foot to the floor, watching closely to ensure Akihiko doesn’t move. He doesn’t – beaming intently as he watches his boyfriend bend and shift. He draws up his skirt to bury his hands, hiding his careful movements behind rumbled fabric. Akihiko’s nearly open-mouthed panting when he realizes what he’s doing, watching Haruki step out of his briefs and toss them aside.
Haruki stands straight and Akihiko cranes his neck to meet his eyes. His hands are balled into fists in the fabric of his jeans, restraining his desperation.
Haruki beckons him, “Come here.”
Like an obedient dog receiving his release command, he lunges forward to grab Haruki’s thighs. Squeezing harder as he massages the muscles beneath. He buries his face in the fabric of the skirt, rubbing his cheek against the pressed cotton to feel his faint body heat. Haruki’s fingers comb through his hair, nails scraping his scalp deliciously. He muffles a moan against his thigh.
“Baby,” he mewls, “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” His grip travels to the front and begins bunching the fabric higher as he gathers more in his fists. He watches the slow rise of the hem, swallowing thickly, then ducks his head under. He kisses Haruki’s inner thigh then reddens the skin with a teasing bite.
Haruki yelps quietly, but holds him in place. The encouragement adds vigor to his bites and sucks blooming hickeys onto sensitive pale skin. The marks trail higher, muscles twitching under his lips as Haruki’s tiny whimpers fill the room.
He feels honoured. Thankful such a stunning man would allow him to get on his knees for him. To allow his hands to touch and lips to kiss salty sweet skin. To allow him to hear his sweet sounds in quiet space.
He licks higher, hot breath ghosting over hips as he buries himself beneath cloth and eagerly swallows Haruki’s cock.
“A-Aki~!” Haruki gasps. His nails dig into his scalp as his fist tightens and yanks his cropped hair. The sensation only makes him moan and sink deeper. “Aki!” his tone is sharper this time, and hands insistent as he pulls him off his cock and lets the skirt reclaim his modesty. He rips his head back to glare, “Careful! I don’t – ah,” his conviction falters when he meets Akihiko’s eyes, blush rising quickly. “If you keep…like that, I’ll–“ he exhales hard through his nose to recentre himself, voice smoother when he speaks, “My sounds are only for you, Aki.”
Those words, the right words, spike fire to Akihiko’s core – cock straining in his jeans. He seeks relief with the press of a palm, but Haruki beats him to it, filling the space with his foot instead.
“Don’t you dare,” he scolds, “You’re barely in control of yourself, as is.”
Akihiko whimpers, a desperate and pained sound that surprises him.
It surprises Haruki too.
“I-I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but,” his eyes flick to the door briefly, “I’ll let you touch me, and kiss me, and…” he pauses, tongue darting over shiny lips to taste the vulgar words he never uses, then “If you go slow and keep me quiet.”
“Yes, baby,” he replies without hesitation, entranced by the golden falls of his long hair shining down as he speaks from above. He’s so ethereal – Akihiko will do whatever he wants.
“Good, ah,” he releases his grip and straightens. With tentative fingers, he draws up his skirt, skillfully ruffling it in his fists as he unveils himself to Akihiko once more. “You can, um,” his fingers twist tighter in the fabric as he braces himself, “keep going.”
Akihiko honours his promise. Perhaps for selfish reasons as he pauses to admire how irresistible Haruki looks with his hiked up skirt granting Akihiko access to pleasure him. He moans softly at the sight then reclaims his space under that skirt to welcome Haruki into his mouth again. He savours every inch as he sucks him slow, drawing out the sweetest sounds.
He's careful – steady and deliberate with his tongue as he draws Haruki closer to the edge.
“That’s good, Aki~” he praises, nudging his foot forward to tentatively press against this neglected cock. Akihiko exhales a short suffering groan, adding teasing vibration to his sucks. Haruki hums softly, then grinds the toe of his loafer against his erection deliciously, growing his desperation.
It’s overwhelming. He hastily undoes his belt buckle to relieve the tightness of his jeans. He’s grateful Haruki lets him, only to silently curse when he takes advantage – the pressure of his foot more intense against his now thinly clothed cock.
Haruki’s kind to him – he always is. The pressure is just enough to give him the slight relief he needs, but not all the relief he wants. Not light, but never painful.
Akihiko will take anything this man gives him tonight, happily and eagerly. He shows his appreciation with the deep slide of his throat.
Haruki curses, breathing growing heavy in a way that says he’s teetering over bliss – muscles twitching and sharp moans muffled by a reflexive hand holding them back. Akihiko glides his piercing along sensitive flesh. He guides him with his wicked tongue, each suck rewarded with barely choked back cries. His final note takes the shape of Akihiko’s broken name when he finishes down his throat, the sharp string of syllables fading into whimpers.
Akihiko drinks down every drop, eyes only flicking up when Haruki asks, “You don’t get on your knees for me too often, do you?” through shaky breaths. It’s both a comment and a question. A true statement and subtle curiosity as to why he was in the mood today.
Frankly, Akihiko thinks it’s a stupid question – as if Haruki couldn’t see how he looked in those massive photos filling the gallery. Then again, for Haruki, this was merely a favour to a friend. To help with some assignment, with repayment in the form of a good meal. According to Akihiko, this was a divine gift.
Haruki deserves to know.
Akihiko slowly pulls off him and lets the skirt hang – lapping up excess spit as he admires his boyfriend. “Well when you look like this, I-“ his train of thought falters when Haruki tilts his head, bangs tickling across his cheeks and long hair slipping over his shoulders, “I-I mean, fuck, look at you. All dolled up in women’s clothes and makeup. You’re breathtaking. Of course I need to get on my knees and worship you.”
“O-Oh,” he stutters, “then, um,” he pauses again to search for his words. He locks gaze with Akihiko when he does, throat bobbing as he unexpectedly rubs the sole of his shoe along his hard cock, “How do you want to worship me now?”
Akihiko curses behind a desperate gasp, struggling to compose himself. Haruki’s voice is different – confidence interlacing his words. It’s not quite there, his sentences tentative and shy despite the filthy content, but he’s trying for a dominant effect. Akihiko appreciates the effort.
“I-I want to,” his mind races, overwhelmed by everything he desired to do to Haruki. “I want to fuck you,” is what he blurts, “Against the wall, or wherever you’ll let me.”
Haruki hums, mulling over the idea, coaxing him to continue with the steady motions of his foot.
“I want to make you scream my name,” his hands clutch the fabric of his skirt, “Loud enough for people to hear – for everyone in the gallery to hear the pretty voice that pairs with your pretty pictures.”
“But Aki,” he tilts his head and pouts, “I said my sounds are only for you.”
“Oh, baby,” he whines, enamoured with the too cute sentiment. “I want them to know that you’re mine,” he insists, fists tightening and driven by his desire to tell everyone that Haruki belongs to him. That the exquisite model spread across gallery walls was only allowed to be pinned to the wall by him in private.
“I’m yours?” he asks sweetly with big cute eyes fluttering long lashes – an overt contrast to the searing press of his foot that makes Akihiko keel over and moan. Haruki catches him, hand clutching his jaw as he’s forced to make eye contact. He grins, “It looks like you’re mine.”
His voice, his words, combined with his insistent foot rubbing against his cock and hand demanding his attention – Akihiko’s starstruck. Completely at the mercy of his gorgeous boyfriend.
It’s better than he imagined – and it has certainly plagued his curiosity. He's toyed with the idea of Haruki taking more control of Akihiko's pleasure, filled with all the confidence and control that melted away when he was under him. He's thought about it on more than a few nights, whether he was alone with his fantastic thoughts or if Haruki was in his arms. He was curious if there was a confident and controlling Haruki inside him. He'd occasionally show those colours on days where he had a bit of a snappy attitude, but as per usual, when Akihiko dragged him into the bedroom, his blushing and flustered boyfriend melted into his hands.
Despite the reclamation of their usual dynamic, the thought lingered. If anything, it had him looking forward to future attempts to draw out that confidence during sex. Never did he imagine that he could hear that sexy voice and have those delicate hands on him. Apparently, he was wrong.
He’s grateful to be wrong.
It certainly isn’t easy for Haruki – constantly keeping his breathing in check, trying to ignore his rising blush, revising his words before he speaks, and still tentative when voices commands – but he’s trying.
It’s working too.
“Yes, baby, I’m yours,” he pleads, “I want everyone to know.” He admires Haruki’s gentle features, peering down at him lovingly through light eyelashes and smiling with supple pink lips. Akihiko’s lucky to belong to a man like him. “I-I,” he begins bravely, “I want you to cover me in lipstick marks. Please.”
“Oh, Aki,” Haruki beams sweetly, releasing his foot and drawing him up with gentle fingers, “Of course.”
Akihiko stands eagerly, falling into Haruki’s arms wrapping around his shoulders to lure him into tender kisses. He starts with his cheek, pressing a pink mark there, then trails kiss marks down his neck. He slides his warm hands over his back and shoulders to delicately unbutton his collar, parting the fabric to kiss his collarbones.
Akihiko sighs in relief, soothed by soft lips and enthralled by the image of him walking out of the room covered in pink kiss-marks with Haruki following behind. Maybe holding his hand. He wants the gallery to know he’s the one who Haruki kisses behind closed doors. He wants everyone to know he belongs to Haruki.
“Bite me,” he asks without thinking, the words escaping his foggy mind. He swallows and finds his place, “Please.” Haruki merely hums into the next kiss, and Akihiko tenses as he waits. Then teeth graze his neck, playful until biting. “Yes,” he hisses, hoping the hickeys bloom bright for days, “Thank you, baby.”
Each bite blossoms with sucks, then tender marks flushing red are eased by pink kisses. He’s blessed by every flower sprouting across his skin.
Akihiko hands roam from his waist to his hips to his ass, bunching the fabric in his grip.
“Aki…” Haruki warns. He freezes. A light hand traces a line down his chest, slipping down to palm his erection. Akihiko buries a groan in his shoulder – unknowingly baring his ear to Haruki’s breathy words, “Tell me. Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yes,” Akihiko hisses painfully, hands hastily gathering fabric to expose his ass to squeeze bare skin, “Please, baby.”
Haruki’s façade crumbles slightly when his touch dips low – his hands clutching Akihiko’s shirt as he leans into him. He buries his face into his chest when Akihiko slicks his fingers with a packet of lube found tucked in his wallet, and groans when they slide in.
Akihiko holds him close, comforting, as he watches him simultaneously fuck himself on his fingers and grind against the thigh pressed between his legs. It’s an intoxicating sight.
His fingers make quick work of stretching him, Haruki’s breathing growing ragged and legs quivering as he rocks against him. He’s panting hot breath against the exposed skin between his parted collar and wrinkling the fabric in his desperate grip. Akihiko can tell he’s fighting the urge to whine and beg, trying not to fall into their usual routine and continue to explore the new dynamic.
Luckily, the sight only makes Akihiko more desperate – eager to do whatever Haruki tells him. He’ll follow every command he gives, unwavering and without question.
Haruki peels himself off Akihiko reluctantly and steels himself when he looks up – lashes fluttering as he blinks away his own arousal to speak clearly: “Fuck me, ple- ah,” a pause, “now.”
Despite the correction, the words are effective. Akihiko obeys immediately, carefully removing his fingers and ducking down to hook his hands under his thighs. Haruki drapes his arms around his neck and wraps long legs around his waist as he’s hoisted up and pinned against the wall. He hikes him high, assisted by squeezing thighs and hooked ankles as he shimmies his jeans and briefs lower to free his cock.
Haruki’s feeling eager too – pressed tension holding him up as he frees a hand to yank up the front of his skirt, bunching it high to grant more access. The back of it flows long over his thighs, pleats fanned as it drapes just above the floor. It’s maintaining a semblance of modesty – pointless given their conspicuous position. If someone were to walk in, they’d see very little, but know everything.
Akihiko’s breathing is already ragged when he sinks into him, the overwhelming relief of pleasure urging him to press close and muffle his moan against Haruki’s chest. The sweet scent of his skin is dizzying. It’s more floral than usual, the lingering smell of cherry blossoms surrounding him. He’s wearing perfume too. “Fuck,” is all he can manage, his lips merely shaping the word against his collarbone.
Haruki’s not immune to the sensation, though he continues to cling to the façade by a thread. Akihiko can tell in the way his body tenses – the muscles in his legs twitching as he secures him closer, the gasping sigh as he’s filled to the hilt, and the delicate yet persistent hand encouraging Akihiko to kiss his exposed neck.
Akihiko groans, bucking his hips upwards to revel in the sensation. His lips seek more too – kissing at the slender column of his throat. His teeth graze sensitive flesh, resisting the urge to bite lest Haruki scold him for leaving fresh marks. He finds the edge of his collar, mouthing at the sheer fabric till his teeth find the tail end of the ribbon fastening his collar. Carefully, he draws the ribbon between his teeth and pulls, head tilting back as the bow’s loop shrinks and unfurls. The fabric of his collar loses structure without the ribbon in place, collapsing to expose his collarbones. Akihiko thinks they’d look delicious covered in purpling hickeys and, even better, barely hidden under sheer white fabric when Haruki redresses.
He laps at the newly exposed skin, the ball of his piercing tracing curves and divots intimately to appreciate his beautifully unwrapped gift as his hips begin to move.
Now Haruki moans – achingly. A sounds that resonates with every moan he’s bit back since they stepped into his room. He’s letting go now, or maybe he’s finally losing his last shred of control.
Akihiko keeps his movements slow – steady and predictable to encourage Haruki to adjust. To give him a chance to seize the reins. He’s compelled, once again, to serve him his submission on a silver platter.
He takes it. Fingers twist roughly in his cropped hair, stinging pleasure across his scalp as Haruki rips his head back and stares down at him with intensity. “Good boy,” he hisses then suffocates his embarrassment in a searing kiss.
Akihiko’s nearly startled, both by the words and kiss, succumbing to his sweetheart as he melts into him. He’s crumbling faster than Haruki now, struggling to maintain the steady roll of his hips. The slow pace is criminal, but he remains faithful to Haruki’s approval.
He’s recognized for his restraint, Haruki’s intoxicating whispers ghosting over his ear: “That’s so good. Yes, Aki. That’s perfect. Just like that,” so he persists to please him.
All he wants to do is please him.
“Haru. Baby,” Akihiko pants into the crook of his neck, “Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything.” He’s begging for more, to devote himself, to conform his needs to whatever Haruki needs too.
Haruki draws his head back again, more tender as if to simply drink in Akihiko’s expression with those soft half-lidded eyes. He hums, vibrations low, then, “Fuck me harder.”
Their needs align.
Akihiko nearly makes him regret the request, snapping his hips up roughly enough to make him shout in surprise. He claps a hand over his mouth, self-consciousness spiking, but welcomes the rougher pace with a needy whine.
Haruki’s coming undone again, his control waning with each moan muffled into his palm. Akihiko prepares to pull back again, to go easy to give him a fighting chance – but Haruki demands otherwise.
He uncovers his mouth and digs his shaky hand into Akihiko’s shoulder, features scrunched cutely as he finds an ounce of composure. He gasps at the next thrust, letting his head thud against the wall, “Aki! Yes! Ah~ Faster!”
Akihiko’s eager to oblige, finally reaching a rhythm that suits them. He’s persistent, pace even and practiced as his body adheres to Haruki’s desires. He notes every reaction – watching carefully to admire his blissful expression. Nails and thighs digging into him and throaty moans humming free.
He’s beautiful when he gets fucked too. The long hair is stunning, silky threads spilling messily as his bangs fall forward – a strand clinging to the stickiness of his lipstick. It’s pleasant seeing his unraveled state of dress too. His shirt parting to display his chest and modest skirt hiked high on his thighs, a stark contrast from the prim and proper model immortalized on gallery walls. This artwork is only for him.
He's close – unbearably so – but so is Haruki. He’s teetering on the brink of another orgasm, the sounds of his crescendo building thematically. It’s filling the room magnificently – potentially pushing the barriers of the room, setting Haruki up for embarrassment when he finally walks out.
As much as Akihiko wants that – wants everyone in the gallery to know what Haruki did and who he did it with, he feels responsible for him. It was his idea, after all. His next groan is partially in annoyance, contending with his own desires and his promise to keep Haruki quiet.
He lets his cries ring for a moment longer, savouring the sound until he’d wager he’s been loud for long enough for someone to notice – then obeys Haruki’s orders. “Fuck,” he curses as he slaps a hand over Haruki mouth, mourning the loss and accepting the muffled alternative.
Haruki finishes soon after – shouting Akihiko’s name into his palm. Akihiko curses again, wishing he and everyone outside could hear it ring full and free. He thumps his head against Haruki’s chest, groaning long and slow in both irritation and satisfaction as he comes inside him.
He drops his hand to hook under Haruki’s leg once more – all his strength dissipating at the edges of his orgasm. His legs feel weak, slowly giving out as he squishes Haruki against the wall and they slide to the floor. He wants to apologize for dropping him, but Haruki’s too busy hugging him tightly and panting into his shoulder to make any comment.
When he finds the energy, Akihiko blindly searches for anything to clean them up. There is a box of scrap cloth that will have to do the trick. He cleans the mess under Haruki’s skirt, silently praying they could get it dry cleaned before returning it to the stylist.
“It’s okay,” Haruki breathes softly, sleepily watching his worried face, “I can keep the skirt.” He huffs a small laugh, “How many women are this tall? It was tailored for me.”
Akihiko swallows his excitement, realizing it would be a permanent piece in his wardrobe from now on.
“I can keep the whole outfit, if I want,” he adds, then tilts his head curiously, “Or, if you want.”
“Yes, please,” he answers embarrassingly quick. It makes Haruki laugh.
He carefully slides out of him, catching and cleaning any mess that follows. Haruki clumsily shifts in his lap when he’s done, managing to plant his feet and stand on wobbly legs. He smooths down his skirt, reorienting the waistline and pressing the pleats neatly.
Akihiko admires him for a moment – reveling in the careful way his hands reclaim his decency. He’s proud to be the one who disheveled him. When he notices Haruki struggle to align his shirt buttons that have slipped lose, he quickly redresses himself and stands to help.
He takes over the task, veiling pale skin in sheer fabric with every button fastened. Haruki relents easily, and Akihiko briefly wonders if the stylist already dressed him like this once today.
He dotes on him, babying him as he ties the ribbon around his collar and finger-combs his long hair smooth. “Are you going to grow your hair out again?” is the absentminded question that floats free, his blissed out mind feeling hopeful.
Haruki hums, vibration resonating between them. Then he rises to his tippy-toes to plant a chaste kiss to Akihiko’s lips. “I think I might.”
Akihiko’s heart swells and he kisses Haruki’s crown. “It looks good on you.”
Haruki giggles, “So I’ve heard.”
Akihiko hums low and lets his hands wander from hair to shoulders to waist to hips, “You look good.”
“Yeah?” he languidly drapes his arms around Akihiko’s neck and grins, “The skirt really did it for you, huh?” It’s not a real question – he had a clear answer.
Akihiko dips down to whisper in his ear, “I think you knew it would,” his words playful and teasing, “Yet you didn’t invite me to the show.”
“Ah~” Haruki prods at him, pushing him off with a hand to his chest, “I planned on it.”
“Did you?” Akihiko flashes unimpressed disbelief, “And when were you going to tell me? After the gallery closed?”
“Yes,” he says with too much conviction masking his lie. Akihiko prepares a rebuttal, but Haruki prods him again – driving him back as he steps forward. “I’d come to your place. I know you’d be home to receive me,” he tilts his head and advances again, “I’d surprise you, dressed like this.”
Oh. It’s not a lie.
“Then you could have me, in private, like a pretty gift wrapped up in a bow,” fingertips graze the tails of his ribbon for emphasis, “delivered to your doorstep.”
He jabs him back again, till he hits the far wall. Akihiko tenses when Haruki crowds him.
“But someone got impatient!” then a small tch of annoyance.
He’s so pretty when he’s mad.
“Can I take you home with me?” he asks thoughtlessly, voice dreamy as he loses himself in his boyfriend’s gentle features scrunched cutely with irritation. He wants to iron out the creases and kiss his expression soft again.
Haruki sighs in exasperation, careful eyes surveying Akihiko’s appearance. From his shameless face to his raw kiss-bitten neck. The marks travel low down his chest, on display through his unbuttoned shirt.
“Please?”
That catches his attention, gaze flicking back up to meet Akihiko’s. His shoulders creep higher and a pink tint graces his cheeks once more. Eye contact breaks, then a quiet, “Okay.” He reaches for the door handle next to them and unlocks it, “The show ends at eight,” he twists the knob and breaks the seal of the closet, staring hard at Akihiko when he commands, “Be good while I’m gone.”
Then he leaves, and Akihiko thinks he’s the luckiest man in the world.