Chapter Text
Josuke has never been interested in women, not really. He has never truly had any desire to seek out women, much less touch them.
And yet, he wants to kiss Yukako the next time he sees her.
Koichi has always been a big boxing fan. Likes to spend his time watching fights on TV and treat himself to a live fight every once in a while. Morioh has a decent boxing scene, and amateur fights happen every other weekend at the local arena.
Well, at least that’s what he told Josuke when he offered him his ticket.
“Dude, I really don’t care about boxing. Give this to Rohan or something.”
“But Rohan hates it! And besides, you never go do things anymore. I have to practically drag you out of that apartment to do anything.”
Josuke turned the slip of paper over in his hand. “You really wanna give this to me?”
“Somebody should go, and I can’t get a refund.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Yukako was really pissed last time I missed our date night, and if I skip out again I don’t think I’ll walk away.”
“Yeah, limp away maybe.” Josuke sighed, resigning himself to a Friday night of lackluster entertainment. “Sure, thanks, I guess.”
“Let me know how it goes. It’s an up and coming…”
Josuke had stopped listening, but currently wishes he hadn’t.
At first, he swears he will personally hand Yukako a foot up the ass for backing him into this corner. He could’ve spent his evening inside studying for his next exam (which he has no hope of passing now), but noooo, now he’s compelled to watch two morons in shorts punch each other for two hours. He could just not go, but no use in wasting Koichi’s money. So he spends a good hour looking presentable in case there are any other fine men who just so happen to be as bored with boxing as he is. He uses the good cologne and sets his hair meticulously until he feels like nothing can pull it from its shape. His outfit is a little over the top for sitting in a crowd, but he’s thinking of the crowd he’ll hopefully be in after the fight. God knows he’ll need a drink after sitting in a loud arena for that long.
He takes a cab, chews some gum, and settles into his stupid seat.
The first warm-up fight is just as boring as he expected. Two guys who clearly don’t know what they’re doing taking jabs at each other as they step around the ring. There are a few good punches, ones that leave Josuke’s cheek sympathetically sore, but other than that, he’s hopelessly bored.
The second fight rouses him a little bit. These two women seem a little more prepared, and it’s slightly more entertaining to watch. The fight ends with a near-knockout that has one of them leaving with a bloody lip. Josuke makes a mental note of it to tell Koichi and ask about them once Yukako pulls her strap out of his mouth.
The heavyweight title fight is what really grabs his attention.
The first guy who comes out is pretty unremarkable. Some purple-headed idiot who makes the loudest entrance he’s ever seen. He watches him parade around and knock against the rubber-lined ring.
It’s the second guy who has Josuke’s pupils dilating like an oil spill.
He’s big.
Not tall, big.
He can’t tell if he’s short or if it’s the height of his seat, but he’s built like a brick and looks like he lays punches like them. He’s wearing a robe, but even with it on, he looks like he’s going to burst the seams. Light gray, slicked-back hair sits just below a thick, inky black top layer. His gloves are a deep cerulean, just light enough to offset the deep royal blue and grey robe. His shorts have a hint of teal on the waistband that stands out like a sore thumb.
Josuke’s mouth begins to water once he sheds the robe.
He looks just as boisterous as he imagined, his body defined by thick muscle that earned him his title as a heavyweight. The purple loudmouth looks almost shrimp-like next to him, but his height makes up for the lack of bulk. His opponent, the mouth-watering hunk of muscle, looks almost stoic. His dark eyes are set on his corner of the ring, letting the robe fall off the edge and into somebody’s waiting hands. Josuke wouldn’t know who; he’s too busy wishing it was him.
For the first time since arriving, Josuke is excited to hear the bell chime.
The pain in the ass is named Akira, but he goes by some obnoxious name that Josuke doesn’t even bother to listen to. He’s already annoyed with him from his looks alone.
The guy in the other corner is named Okuyasu. The announcer calls him The Hand in that obnoxious announcer tone that he’s been hearing all night, and for the first time, he actually feels giddy hearing it. Is this how Koichi feels about every fight? he questions himself. If so, he understands his disappointment with being home with his crazy girlfriend instead.
Once the round starts, Josuke sits up in his seat. Though he isn’t far from the ring, he feels like he’s a thousand miles away. He wants to be so close he can taste the sweat dripping from his temple. Speaking of, his skin is already starting to glisten with perspiration.
He spends the first few seconds setting his feet. He leans back on his heels, being the first one Josuke has seen all night to do so. With his newfound expertise, he assumes you’re supposed to lean forward onto your toes. Maybe this guy makes up for his bad fighting with his absurdly impressive build.
It’s not until the show-off approaches him that he understands why.
As Akira steps forward, he pops his gloves out to tap his shoulder. He skirts back after knocking his shoulder to the side and steps back in to throw a punch or two. The Hand bobs down to avoid them, but doesn’t bother to move his feet.
Akira finally gathers enough nerve to step forward. Once he’s closer, Josuke can see the height difference. Pain-in-the-ass has a few inches on him and enough muscle to put behind his swinging fists. He uses that muscle to land a punch against The Hand’s shoulder.
It hardly knocks it back.
Josuke slides to the edge of his seat. His fingers begin to crease his pants as he waits for The Hand to swing.
And when he finally does, his expectations are not only met but grossly exceeded.
The Hand clocks him dead in the cheek, knocking his head to the side fast enough to crack.
He understands why he set himself so firmly; it looks like he put every pound of muscle in his body into that punch. Akira falls over in a way that proves that true, crumbling like a brittle pillar. His jaw falls open from the force of the hit.
Josuke’s jaw follows suit, clattering down and making his ears pop from the sudden shift.
The pain in the ass stutters to his feet and shakes his shoulders like he’s a dog who fell in a pond. His steps are much more hesitant, fists moving faster, hoping he’ll land another hit before The Hand gets a chance to.
The Hand swings again, harder this time, and nails him in the gut.
Akira lets out a near-wheeze so loud that Josuke can hear it over the constant murmur of the people around him. The Hand finally leans forward on his feet and starts to move, and he seems light on his toes. Seeing his hulking figure step around the ring like a floating feather makes his strawberry cheeks twitch.
He steps forward until he’s within striking distance and lands another hit to his shoulder, tossing him back a few inches. He steps in again, firmer, and swings for his jaw.
Josuke nearly screams as Akira ducks out of the way.
The Hand (can he call him Okuyasu?) looks stern. His face, at least he thinks, is rock-solid; focused and sharp, eyes locked on the purple dumbass shying away from him. Josuke’s eyes stay locked on him, though, watching with an unfamiliar feeling brewing in his gut.
Akira manages to land another hit, landing just below his ribs. Okuyasu grunts, curling into the side he just punched, and Josuke lets out a quiet gasp. He reaches a hand up to his mouth to muffle any more sound before he can embarrass himself further, though he doesn’t exactly respect or care about the two women on either side of him. He hopes they’re too preoccupied with their company to notice his indiscretion.
The bell chimes, signaling the end of the round, and Josuke floods with relief. He squeezes his hands together in an attempt to steady his nerves, but his sweaty palms put him more on edge. Was this normal? Is he reacting the way most men would at an amateur boxing match? His concerns fly out the window as he watches The Hand take his corner of the ring.
Some unremarkable man pulls the mouthguard from between his lips and replaces it with a stream of water that he greedily swallows down. Josuke can’t tell which is worse: the spit-slick mouthguard, the water dripping down his lower lip, or the near-feral look in his eye when he swallows. The answer, he deduces, is that all three are equally awful because he cannot discern which one is making his chest and his pants stupidly tight. His palms grow even sweatier the longer he watches him suck down water.
Once the bell chimes again, the man slides the mouthguard back into his mouth. Okuyasu slides it into place with his tongue, rolling his head along his shoulder line. Josuke has to bite his lip from letting out a titter so pitiful it would put Yukako to shame.
That giggle only resurfaces when the bell chimes again. The Hand sets his gloves and cracks a grin so cocky that Josuke almost squeals.
The second round starts with a resounding smack! as Akira throws a punch to his collar, attempting to catch him off guard. He only seems to catch Josuke off guard as he yelps into his sweaty hands.
The Hand throws his chin over his shoulder, shaking off the shock of the light hit. The look in his eyes is deadly as he slowly turns back.
Before he can fully face him, the purple jackass throws a harder punch aimed at his exposed cheek. This one lands, and hard. The Hand reels back as the announcer yells something stupid that Josuke is too jittery to pay attention to.
Josuke’s eyes are close to buzzing out of his goddamn skull like flies in a lampshade. He swears his heart is going to leap up his throat as he watches The Hand spit out a mouthful of blood toward his corner of the ring. It drips down his swollen lips until it paints his chin in red rivers that make Josuke’s stomach ache. A bright cherry stream spills from his nose and oh, he’s pissed.
The Hand stills himself. He cocks his head back, rolls it over his shoulder line. This look in his eye is dastardly, bordering on feral.
Josuke is so, so going to kiss Yukako. Hell, he might marry her for this.
Okuyasu steps forward, taps his toe twice, and socks Akira dead in the jaw.
Josuke isn’t sure if the ringing in his ears is the bell or the roar of the crowd, but he doesn’t bother to find out. He’s too focused on Akira falling like a ragdoll in the center of the ring.
The Hand steps back, allowing the referee to step in to make the call. Said referee tugs on his head and yells something he cannot hope to decipher into his ear. When he slumps further into the mat, the referee returns to The Hand, who seems to be preoccupied with catching his breath as his coach screams at him.
This is the most excitable thing Josuke has ever witnessed. He doesn’t even realize he’s whistling until the girl to his left covers her ear. His cheering only gets louder as the referee raises his left fist in the ring.
Amidst the chaos, Josuke watches The Hand smile. It’s a nice smile, bright and shiny and so goddamn charming he thinks his belt loosens by a notch. There’s a line of cherry along the side of the mouth, clouding his teeth and slicking those swollen lips.
As Okuyasu wipes the blood from his face, Josuke smiles. He can think of something much better for those hands to do.
—
Josuke isn’t exactly sure how he managed to make it backstage. Maybe he walked with enough purpose, or maybe the workers didn’t get paid enough to give a shit. Or perhaps they saw the devious, sex-crazed look in his eyes and figured it was best not to get in the way. Such details didn’t matter to Josuke, not when he had an amateur boxer to seduce.
It doesn’t take Josuke long to find the locker room. Even through the maze of poorly labeled doors, he manages to decipher which one holds the mammoth of a man behind it with enough accuracy to avoid detection.
Josuke swings the door open before he can convince himself not to.
The locker room is small and poorly lit. One of the fluorescent lights burned out, casting shadows on the blue lockers and cement floor. There are various baskets and cloths strewn about, giving the illusion that it was well-used despite the shine of the cerulean metal.
One locker is being used, though.
The Hand, in all his sweaty glory, is tossing his gloves into one as he lets out a heavy sigh.
Josuke’s stomach flips like a teenage boy seeing his first pair of tits (he might as well be. Josuke swears he’s never seen anybody with a more well-endowed chest than Okuyasu). The body in front of him is way bigger in person and much more imposing at eye-level. His back looks like a fucking marble sculpture as he moves, undulating with untapped potential. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair once the gloves settle into the bottom of the locker. Josuke gulps audibly at the size of his fingers. God, what does this guy eat?
The Hand turns around.
Josuke swears that God himself kissed this man on the forehead. Face flushed with exertion, he looks like the pinnacle of masculinity wrapped in a scarred Japanese blanket. Josuke takes a moment to watch how those scars crinkle around his dark eyes as his expression melts from shocked to apologetic.
“Sorry, I’m almost done. Just needa-“
“I’m not-sorry, I didn’t mean to-fuck, sorry.” Josuke sputters around the words like a rusty faucet, spewing rust that drips down his chin with the drool accumulating at his lower lip. “I’m not a-I don’t work here.”
The Hand laughs. His laugh sounds like crackling firewood. Damnit, Josuke’s pants are so fucking tight.
“No? Then what’cha doing back here?”
Josuke didn’t anticipate this much talking. He thought he’d step into the locker room and Za Hando would grab him by the throat and fuck his face until he couldn’t pronounce his ‘r’s. He didn’t think he would need to justify his stalking.
“That was really impressive.”
The Hand smiles. “Thanks. Should’ve ended it in the first round, but I got cocky.”
Josuke hopes to God he’s cocky.
“I don’t like boxing.”
Josuke can tell by the confused look on his face that he’s making a fool of himself. He bites his tongue to stop himself from letting out a stream of word vomit to compensate for his idiocy, instead opting to let himself be questioned.
And he’s eager to question.
“No? Then why did you come?”
“Ticket was from a friend. I was bored.”
Was that rude? Was it rude to say that he only showed up out of boredom? Would he be offended? Would he still fuck him if he was offended?
“Hope I put on a good show, then.” He cracks a blood-tinted grin that makes Josuke consider how much he really values his self-respect.
Josuke dares to step further into the locker room, letting the heavy door clang against the frame behind him. “You’re, uh-should I call you The Hand?”
He laughs again, running his tongue across his rosy teeth. “Okuyasu is fine. Oku, Yasu, whatever you want.”
He turns to face him fully, broad chest and juicy tits on display. “What’s your name, pretty boy?”
Josuke contemplates not telling him. If it means he’ll only call him pretty boy, he’ll take a vow of fucking silence.
“Higash-Josuke. It’s Josuke.”
“Josuke, yeah? That’s nice.”
Okuyasu crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you want, huh? You don’t seem like a fan.”
“Oh, I’m a fan, alright,” Josuke dares to say. His insecurity is quickly draining from his mouth as his eyes travel down the contours of his chest. His V-line is sickeningly sharp and it’s making his chest ache. He swears he can see two divots in them on either side, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
The Hand flutters beneath his gaze like a woozy moth, fading in Josuke’s dark eyes. The tough-guy charmer he walked in on is replaced by a nervous amateur in too-big shorts. “Yeah? Did you, uh, see something you like tonight?”
Josuke nods, and oh God is his mouth watering as Okuyasu backs into his locker. He briefly considers the idea that he’s scaring him, but when he bites his lip as he scans Josuke’s approaching form, he assures himself that Okuyasu is also immensely enjoying this fan encounter.
“You’re good. Damn good.”
Josuke catches the vague aroma of tonka bean atop the sweat drowning his tanned skin. He wonders if he’ll taste like it when he finally gets his tongue on that skin or if he’ll need to go searching for it. Okuyasu, though he’s hunched, still looks imposing in that locker. Josuke silently thanks Yukako once more as he’s finally an arm's length away.
Up close, he can take in every contour of his battered body. He has a soft bruise on his hip and a red splotch on the leg of his shorts. He wants to point it out but sees something much more amusing than the bloodstains on his pants.
“I bet you get a lot of offers.”
Josuke inches forward, forward until Okuyasu curls a hand around the top lip of the locker. Josuke knows he’s tall enough to reach it as well, but it’s so imposing when Okuyasu does it, gripping it for dear life as Josuke crouches in front of him.
“Offers? Like-like for matches?” He swallows audibly above him like he’s choking back a mouthful of lead. Josuke prays that he’ll be choking back his own mouthful in the next few sentences.
“I’m just starting out.”
Josuke has to fight not to knock his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t,” he sputters out, eyes wide and a little bit scared. Josuke certainly has that effect on men he’s about to suck dry, but the fearful glint in his eye makes him stop to explain himself.
“Do you get anything for winning? Well, besides the title.”
Josuke dares to reach out, running a hand along his waistband. The twitch of his stomach goes far from unnoticed as Okuyasu stutters over his answer with each flick of his fingers.
“I-I get money. Not a lot. I get, uh, a shirt-”
He swallows thickly as Josuke scrapes a nail along his hip. “Sometimes I get a set of g-gloves.”
Josuke thanks himself for the temporary boldness, failing to attribute it to the lack of blood flow to his brain as he throbs in his pants. “This was a big fight. I think you deserve a big reward.”
Josuke sinks to his knees, finally ready to suck the boxer off so hard he sees stars or get clobbered trying.
Okuyasu seems to finally get the message. He blinks, sucks in a heavy breath, and relaxes.
“Oh yeah? You gonna give it to me, pretty boy?”
The boldness seems to pay off as Okuyasu wipes his bloody lip with his hand and uses that same bloody hand to loosen the drawstring of his shorts. The bandaging on his knuckles threatens to unravel with each pass of his fingers over the string.
Fervent need swims behind Josuke’s eyes. He licks his lips as Okuyasu slowly pulls himself from his shorts and boxers and smiles down at him from his newly appointed pedestal.
He’s big.
Oh, he’s stupidly big. Flushed and thick and big. Josuke feels a thick lump settle in his throat as he stares down likely the thickest cock he’s ever seen in his life. Josuke briefly considered whether this was just another larger-than-life part of his fantasy or if he had hit his head on the way down.
He looks up, eyes wide and mouth hung open, and swears he sees God in that locker room as Okuyasu stares down at him.
“Is it, like…okay?”
Josuke swallows. Fuck, he should talk. Say something. Calm down the boxer he just shoved in a locker and threw himself at. Do anything but gawk at his stupidly thick cock.
“Yeah. You’re perfect.”
He swallows again, stills himself, and grabs the cock ahead of him in a too-firm grip that forces Okuyasu to flinch like he’s been punched again.
“Easy!” He reaches out and grabs a handful of Josuke’s hair, an action that single-handedly drains any self-respect Josuke had left in his desperate body. He keens as his hair is tugged from its pompadour, short strands falling from Okuyasu’s grip as the gel cracks.
“Shit, sorry! I wasn’t-shit, this is weird, I’m sorry-”
“Shut up,” Josuke demands, leaning into the hand. “It’s fine. Relax, baby.”
Josuke prays that the pet name does something for him, and by the darkness that swallows his eyes, his prayers are answered.
Josuke swallows patheically for a third time and relaxes his jaw, hoping he didn’t spend so long staring at his dick that he forgot what to do with it. He slowly lets his tongue fall from his lips to catch the tip of Okuyasu’s cock, his apprehension melting as the sharp taste of precum hits his taste buds.
The shudder that Okuyasu lets out is damn near life-ruining, dripping into his ears like thick syrup that leaves his teeth aching. He cocks his head to the side to drink in the sound, circling the head of his meal until Okuyasu cants his hips forward.
A soft clanging catches his attention, but he continues teasing Okuyasu’s length as he looks up to find him gripping the edges of the locker. He looks scared out of his mind, but just steady enough to convince him to keep going. Josuke plants his hands on his hips and works the head of his cock into his mouth until his lips curl around the edges comfortably.
“Y-You, uh…”
Josuke looks up at him through his lashes, earning a furrow of his brow and a twitch of his lip.
“You look, uh…good.”
Josuke swallows the compliment along with the rest of his cock. He slowly, surely works his way down until he can feel it bump the back of his throat. He’s no quitter, but he can feel how much is left with his thumb, and it’s making his chest ache.
When he finally, finally has it fully sheathed in his throat, his eyes begin to water. Okuyasu has a fist over his mouth to muffle the soft noises that keep rising in his throat as his tongue slides along his shaft, as if his fingers can stop his arousal from bubbling up his throat. Josuke blinks away the tears and looks up at Okuyasu with dewdrops splattered along his lids.
“Shit, pretty boy, you look good.”
The purr in his voice is subtle, like an idle engine, but he can feel it rumble along his esophagus. His eyelids flutter at the praise until he finds his resolve along the freckles dotting Okuyasu’s pelvis. He’s sporting short, thick hair that matches the inky patch cresting his head that has him seeing stars. He swears he’ll floss with it if Okuyasu will let him when he’s done sucking his soul out of his dick.
Josuke puts his obnoxiously depraved thoughts aside as he slowly pulls back, hollowing his cheeks out as he does so. Okuyasu’s hips stutter as he tries to follow him back, Josuke pressing his palms into his sides to hold him steady. His wrapped hands clench the locker as if it’ll keep him from floating off, but Josuke wants those hands somewhere else. Somewhere they can do much more damage.
His hands wander, shifting past fabric that shrieks as he touches it. He moves until he finds Okuyasu’s clenched, bloody hand on the locker and peels it off like a stubborn orange peel. Citrus fills his nose as he guides that battered hand to the back of his head.
Using his hand over Okuyasu’s, he guides him through pushing himself back down on his cock.
Okuyasu sounds pitiful, groaning like a rusted wheel as Josuke greedily sucks him down his throat. The salt-splattered slick slithering down his tongue brings a sickening giddiness to his chest. He loses himself in the motion, feeling Okuyasu slowly gain the confidence to drag him up and down his cock like he’s nothing but a goddamn sleeve. He can feel himself harden, slicken in his pants, but he can’t focus on himself, not now, not with the World’s Best Cock down his throat and the World’s Best Boxer shoving it in further.
Okuyasu’s movements grow sloppy. He can tell he’s losing himself as he lets out whining grunts with each roll of his hips. Josuke fights back a gag as he thrusts himself forward with a shuddering, “Oh f-fuck!”
After a moment, he sticks his fingers in Josuke’s sticky, stiff hair and breaks apart the pompadour as he begs to fuck his throat.
“Can I-?”
Josuke nods, nods again, nods a third time, and Okuyasu yanks him down hard.
The noises coming from his throat are gross, bordering on disgusting, but he doesn’t particularly give a shit. He doesn’t have any room left in his brain, not with Okuyasu fucking his brains out on that locker room floor. His knees are starting to throb as they fight to keep him upright. He wonders if the floor of his bedroom is hardwood, or if he would get rugburn from sucking him off against his bed. Would he get to find out? Would he fuck him in his bed, or would he demand they get a hotel room? Would this be the last time he saw him? Should he beg him to fuck him stupid before he never sees him again? Fuck, he’s throbbing in his throat.
It takes a moment for Josuke to realize that he’s speaking. His words are fuzzy and muffled by something, like he’s speaking through a mouthful of toothpaste. Josuke looks up, and the sight alone almost makes him cream his fucking jeans.
Blood is dripping from Okuyasu’s maw like he’s a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth as he fervently chases his orgasm in Josuke’s mouth. It’s dripping down his bare chest. A droplet lands on his forehead. He can’t tell if it’s coming from his nose or his lips, because each time he thinks it’s one or the other, he’s yanked back down onto Okuyasu’s cock.
Josuke’s eyes are watering again. He lets his throat be used, fucked, and battered until Okuyasu comes like he’s dying; he shudders out a loud groan as thick cum floods his mouth like he’s spitting that blood directly into his mouth. He swallows every drop, hoping the blood will follow.
They sit in silence for a moment, the only noise in the locker room being their breathing and the soft plink! of blood hitting Okuyasu’s collar. Josuke wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he remembers what it feels like to swallow around nothing.
“Sorry, I should’ve…warned you.”
Josuke tries to come up with a way to tell him that he’d let him come unannounced for the rest of his life if he could be the one who keeps swallowing it without sounding depraved, but comes up empty, instead choosing to suck hot, open-mouthed kisses along his waist and V-line. He can feel him rumble out a soft groan below his lips.
Okuyasu slowly, softly helps him to his feet. He keeps a hand on his shoulder as he rises, but it falls off when he slams himself forward onto bloody lips. He can taste pennies and desperation on his tongue, all but sucking off the ichor from his teeth as he kisses him like a starved hyena ravaging what was left of the poor boxer.
After a minute of gross, sweaty making out in the dingy locker room, Josuke pulls back.
“When is your next match?”
Okuyasu blinks and manages a soft, “Two weeks.” His hands run over the valleys of Josuke’s neck and collar as he silently apologizes for his hair, an apology he swallows down with a nod.
Josuke places a hot, bloody kiss on his jaw and smiles. “I’ll be there.”