Work Text:
Rain is welcomed. The downpour splashes against the dirty pavement, the wave of umbrellas in the street moving hastily from shelter to shelter. Higuruma's umbrella sticks up taller than the rest at first, his height a natural high point. Puddles can't be avoided like the rain. Water soaks his ankles, seeping into his socks and squelching uncomfortably in his once polished shoes. The weight from released moisture and heavy humidity bends his spine lower and lower, and soon he is hunched over and level with the crowds.
It hurts his back. The pain is like ice, stiff and cracking. Shivers claw up his spine, goose flesh erupting in its wake leaving Higuruma's skin prickling, toes pruning in the lake of his shoes. Yet, the rain is welcomed. Higuruma's mood matches the dreary sky, the clouds weeping an echo from the innocent stuck in prison cell.
Not his client, of course. He is guilty, there is no doubt in the evidence. The sentence is as light as Higuruma could negotiate, but the punishment is justified by law. Fair, for the victims. The guilty must swallow their discomfort and manage the consequences of their actions. His client's actions affected multiple people, multiple victims. A roommate at the time, a normal person sharing space in an attempt to save money got caught up in Higuruma's client's mess and labeled accomplice to the crime. There is less evidence, no proof of involvement outside proximity for the roommate but the prosecution is relentless.
The roommate is not Higuruma's client. No, that joy goes to a counsel inept by all measures, who ignores what should be obvious to win the roommate's case. They chose the easy life for themselves, did not prepare or do the work. No fight against the persecution beyond petty low hanging fruit that goes nowhere.
Higuruma could've saved the young man five, ten years off the sentence at a minimum; he could've had the whole case thrown out.
Despair eats at him, draining his energy as he is forced to face the fact that Higuruma can't defend everyone. The emotions from the prison linger, the hatred of the system bubbling inside his sternum, the only part of his body hot and fuming in the steady heartbeat. The rage comes and goes, swelling in the knowledge that Higuruma is trapped in a seemingly eternal struggle, the futility of his work limited by the fact he is a singular man against insurmountable odds. Heavy, heavy is the burden he bares. Heavier is the consequences alleged perpetrators face when Higuruma fails, and fails, and fails, fist slamming on to the brick wall, skin braking, depression gnawing at his heels, waiting for Higuruma to give up like so many of his profession do -
The umbrella handle creaks under his fist. The weight on his back grows, shoulders tight. He needs - he needs something. A fix. A distraction.
Higuruma needs to endure.
Turning abruptly, Higuruma opens the door to the first bar in sight. The place is small, smelling of damp and yeast. Despite the late night crowd of salarymen on the streets, the bar is nearly empty. A lady sits at a table, her hand wrapped around a lipstick marked glass, staring silently off into space. Two men take up the farthest table, their conversation quiet. At the bar itself, four out of five seats remain unoccupied.
Higuruma takes a seat. He doesn't order booze. A tea, hot, please. The steam burns the icy palor on his face, and he hisses slightly as the tugging muscles on his neck sharpens into real pain. He needs a massage maybe, though the idea of allowing anyone to touch him tenderly is absurd. Stress has a tendency to grow, to spread from person to person, and subjecting a poor unsuspecting human to his knots and spots is unthinkable.
Endure. Endure. The tea burns his throat.
The air in the room shifts. The man at the bar with Higuruma pays his bill, and a chair lightly scratches on the floor as he grabs his professional jacket and squeezes broad shoulders into the stiff fabric. Higuruma pays him no mind, no more mind than he does to the lady taking out her phone and texting someone, or the men at the table drinking, drinking, drinking.
Higuruma pays him no mind. None. Zero. He has his tea in front of him. There are no threats here, no reason to be onguard. Normal men commit crimes all the time, but this man has paid his bill, is quiet. Is calm. Presence smart, strict, clean.
The man passes behind Higuruma, and he smells like fresh laundry and something almost electric, a tartness to him that is familiar and not. Higuruma wastes a second to try to place it, distracted. The hand comes within his personal space, breaking the polite boundary of society and forcing Higuruma's gut to clench in warning. The broad hand with calloused palms, nails perfectly trim, and scars disappearing under cuffs comes his way on a collision trajectory. Why, Higuruma ponders, dumb and slow, mind faster than the world of ordinary humans. Why is he -
Touching me, Higuruma gasps in sudden relief, mouth parting.
The man is casually powerful, friendly. A commiserating touch to Higuruma's nape, no ill intent. The feeling sinks under Higuruma's skin, warmth radiating out in an absolving friction that unlocks Higuruma's vertebrae, that has his head raise up high once more. The weight is gone. Filth that Higuruma ignored is purged.
The hand grazes Higuruma's shoulder, and the man is gone, the door to the outside swinging closed. Gone and with him the heaviness on Higuruma's back. Higuruma fixes his flushed face, his hand coming around to tentatively trace the place so confidently caressed, healed.
Higuruma makes eye contact with the bartender. He will take the booze after all.
Rain comes and goes, and stays away, and the sun does not match Higuruma's mood at all. He longs to take drastic measures like moving to a different town, city, place - to go somewhere that the soil sops, that the rain exists all year; where the typhoons rage as they please.
Instead, a heavy chain binds him to this place, the real prison and the faulty humans it keeps bordered. Sunshine is salt in his wounds.
Today, he had to inform someone of a family death. That their compassionate grounds for day leave to attend the funeral has been denied. That they must mourn, alone and deprived of human contact while their mother who loved them, and failed them, is cremated.
Yes. Higuruma wants clouds. He wants an umbrella to hide under and rain to drown out the cacophony of birds singing, and the happy conversations by innocent and pure people. He wants the pain in his side to dislodge itself from his ribcage. No breath is deep enough, his lungs unable to expand fully before running into the stiffness thats moving, wiggling through his sternum. Wrapped up, bound up, his shirt too tight and ribcage bars of iron. Acid gurgles in his stomach, burning the lining. Ulcers flare.
Higuruma loosens his tie, his tired eyes squinting against the sun. It's lunch hour, sun at its peak. He needs sustenance, food to calm his starving guts. Then he can return to his cubicle and sludge through provisions and jargon and work, work, work.
The lunch restaurant is busy. One spot opens to sit. Higuruma takes it, takes a salad too. The cucumbers are tasteless, the shredded carrots soggy. Higuruma diligently eats mouthful after mouthful, suffering through the culinary disaster. Noise drums up pain between his ears, his body folding protectively over his plate. Heartburn lashes up his esophagus, burning and awful. Wincing, Higuruma tries to arch in a way that eases up on his diaphragm, coughing lightly into a tissue.
His seatmate leaves, and another takes her place. Their broad shoulders warm Higuruma's arms, and he startles when he catches scent of fresh laundry, tartness layered underneath.
"You again," Higuruma says too bluntly.
The man from the bar's eyes are startlingly kind behind his clean glasses. "I believe that should be my line."
The man introduces himself as Nanami Kento. His meal is the direct opposite of Higuruma's, a large balanced plate of rice, protein and vegetables. Nanami eats delicately, methodically consuming the meal, back straight like a rod.
Higuruma picks at his remaining salad, dissatisfied. A few weeks have gone by since the night at the bar, and somehow Higuruma's mind has grown fuzzy in the in between time. Nanami had brushed against him casually that night, hand firm on his neck. Higuruma felt good, afterwards. Briefly.
Sitting next to Nanami in the current time sends Higuruma's stomach into rolling beetles, tiny legs scraping his insides and gut heavy, his heartburn intensifying. Nanami makes no moves to touch Higuruma. No signs of interest. Higuruma scowls at the dying of his daydream, stupid for making a mountain out of a molehill. Nanami is mountainous enough on his own without Higuruma's wild imagination.
"What is it you do for work?" Nanami asks politely, stiffly formal and oblivious to Higuruma's growing bad mood. "The location must be around here if we continue to run into each other."
Higuruma nods in the direction of the prison. "I am a defense lawyer. Many of my clients are currently in custody."
"Ah, that explains it."
"Explains what?" Higuruma sharply asks. People are terrible at hiding their thoughts about criminals, and how Higuruma's role interacts with wider public perception. He has lost friends, dropped communication with family, and he stands by his passion through loneliness of it all.
Nanami doesn't flinch at Higuruma's tone. "Your posture. It must be very heavy work."
Higuruma deflates, defensiveness collapsing into rubble at Nanami's straightforwardness. "Yes. It can be. What is it you do?"
On the surface, the salaryman aesthetics are undeniable. Nanami's way of speaking is professional without any slanging tilt to show signs of thuggish connections. However, Higuruma doesn't know of many corporate cogs that have thighs thick enough to crush heads and intelligence to kill, both attributes evident in Nanami in spades. His pessimistic side immediately jumps to conclusions about the long sleeves and high collar shirt in the hot afternoon heat. Higuruma has met many troublesome men hidden behind veneers of politeness, though Nanami's genuine sturdiness puts Higuruma at ease.
Nanami adjusts his glasses. "Right now? I am a plain boring salaryman. I do monkey work at the building to the left."
Higuruma makes a noise of interest. Based on what he knows about the types of businesses in this quarter, his assumption seems true. Nanami has hidden layers, layers and connections that may one day lead Nanami to be in need of a defense lawyer. Of course, it is possible that Nanami is not involved with illegal business. A thin deniablity is still a crack in beyond reasonable doubt. Working as a salaryman instead of causing trouble for the law like in his youth is a fair alibi and proof of character. Rehabilitation into civil society is the best to prevent future recidivism.
He wonders if there are ink marks on Nanami's skin under his clothes. There is a lot of man sitting next to him. Must be a lot of skin as a canvas too. Higuruma suppresses his reaction to that segway.
"Are you injured?" Nanami asks.
Higuruma raises a eyebrow, knuckles digging into his red cheeks as if that will save him. "Pardon?"
Nanami's eyes shift to the right before returning center. "You've been wincing and favoring your side, and are flushed."
"You noticed," Higuruma shakes his head, quickly finding his excuse, helped by the truth in it. "I am suffering from a touch of heartburn and muscle strain from the sludge they call coffee at the prison. I can't complain."
"Ah, how refreshing to hear that." Nanami purses his lips. "Many of my - previous colleagues complained as often as they breathed. Though I suspect in your case, it is warranted. You seem very uncomfortable."
"It is nothing." Lies. The ache inside pulses, like it knows Nanami's attention is pointed on it, attempting to reveal it. The thing burrows in under Higuruma's ribs, and Higuruma bites his tongue.
"If it hurts, it is important to speak up. I may be able to assist."
Higuruma stares skeptically. The consequence of Nanami's little pat on the back from weeks ago is a coincidence, has to be. No simple touch can fix heartburn. He stares at Nanami's broad shoulders again and sighs, finding a more logical explanation.
"If you imply that exercise will help -"
Nanami cracks a deadly facsimile of a smile, his thin lips tilting up and highlighting the sharp cut of his cheeks. "No. Not that."
"You look the type."
"Type?"
"Your body is very much in shape, Nanami-san. It must take a lot of effort."
"Ah, thank you. I have not been as diligent as I have in the past, however old habits remain." Nanami smiles again, tight. "I have lots of old habits I can't shake. If it's not too bold of me to assume Higuruma-san, would you like to meet up somewhere more private once the work day is done?"
Higuruma sits up straight. He can't mean what Higuruma thinks he means. Nanami leans into him, subtle. No one watching would see anything untoward. A thumb grazes Higuruma's thigh, under the table and Higuruma's mind spins. The moment solidifies, Nanami bracing inaudibly.
"Me?" Higuruma confirms. He does not push Nanami away.
Nanami flushes and adjusts his glasses. "I can do a massage. For the - ah, illness."
Mind blank, Higuruma stares. He hasn't heard many less convincing covers than that, and once a client attempted to try and get Higuruma to tell the judge that 'she really did slip and fall and accidentally stab her ex fifteen times with the garden shears in the bedroom.'
Higuruma looks at Nanami's hands, warm compared to Higuruma's dullness. Selfishly, there is no way he will say no. He wants it. He wants Nanami, even as the heartburn escalates and surges, even if there is no true cure and only a thin veneer to hide behind.
"Yes," Higuruma seals his fate. "A massage. Nine o'clock acceptable?"
One hour before the meeting time, and Higuruma regrets agreeing. The ache has sunk its claws into his stomach. Bone-deep weariness has Higuruma turning as grey as the concrete cells he sees daily. He is miserable, a misery. Not a person fit for company. Nerves flaying, his head drops backwards, face to the plain white ceiling as if it carries the answers to the universe.
Higuruma has not had a 'massage' in many, many years. Work is too busy for paltry entanglements. He doesn't want to cancel. He wants to spend time outside his work with another person, but his mental state is fragile. Pointless. He will simply drag Nanami's mood to the dirt, he isn't worth it for a quick time spent together.
It is rude to cancel on such short notice. It is more rude to show up ill and possibly contagious. Higuruma cancels.
Nanami's response to Higuruma's updated message regarding his state is a curt: 'All the more reason for a massage. Please join me in room 365. I will wait.'
Tenacious. He must be one hell of a good worker.
Maybe Nanami is a yakuza setting a trap. Many relations or business partners of his locked up clients look to retaliate for poor trial outcomes. Higuruma has faced intimidation, but never has someone angled for revenge by using his sexuality before. Paranoia spirals, his skin prickling. Nanami is large. Powerful. He could crush Higuruma. Not that Higuruma is a weakling. His runners' build and subtle strength gets Higuruma out of enough tight spots. While he isn't out in the world lifting weights, he does keep his fitness in meticulous order. If the worst-case scenario comes to pass, Higuruma may be able to survive.
But.
Nanami's eyes are kind. The type of kindess that Higuruma rarely sees. No ulterior motives to hurt Higuruma shine behind those glasses. Only a motive to - what. Massage his sore muscles?
Nanami could be moonlighting as a masseuse. He has the hands for it. That is slightly less likely than the yakuza theory.
The room listed is in a hotel. An intimate, private setting. Higuruma thrums his fingers on his thighs and remembers the most likely possibility. Nanami asked Higuruma out for a hook up. A date as much as two busy men who like men can finagle when time is limited. Natural, human desire to touch and be touch despite the status of strangers who happen to cross paths twice and spark with mutual attraction.
'I will wait' Nanami's text message taunts.
Higuruma swallows. The discomfort in his body wails a siren song to stay home and wallow.
No, Higuruma does not want that. The risk in meeting Nanami can be mitigated. Nanami can send Higuruma away if the toxicity and wretched nature are not the turn ons expected.
Firming up his face, Higuruma makes his way to the room. Nanami is there, as promised. Suit jacket discarded, suspenders pressing into the blue of his shirt as if his shoulders need more highlighting. Higuruma's drab black suit is wrinkled after a long day, too constricting. Too dull in comparison. Dull, ill Higuruma.
Nanami's face is surprisingly warm. The stoic set of his jaw and nose and mouth twitch up, smiling in his own way. It's nice. Nice to be smiled at.
"Higuruma-san," Nanami gestures to the bed. "Shall we begin?"
Higuruma can't fault straightforwardness. Eyes lidded, he methodically takes off his clothes. Each piece gets hung up or folded as needed, his shoes perfectly aligned on the mat and socks carefully tucked in. He leaves his boxers on, but his chest and thighs and skin are bared and naked before the fully dressed Nanami.
Stealing a glance at the other man warms the room by degrees, Higuruma's skin flushing uncontrollably. Unwavering, Nanami intensely scopes out Higuruma from top to bottom like he is an item out on display.
Nanami's glasses flash, face inscrutable.
Higuruma swallows and purposefully drops his shoulders before crawling on to the mattress, knees digging into the soft pillowtop, his hands worn and dotted in pen ink along the fingertips in direct contrast to the clean white sheets.
"Lie down," commands Nanami gently. "On your stomach. You said you weren't feeling well? Nauseous, ill?"
Higuruma reaches up and grabs the pillow with two hands, hiding their ugly stained state under the plush fabric. He turns his head to the side and catches Nanami's eyes. "It's... I am not sure the cause."
Nanami gives a single nod, and the bed shifts with his added weight. Still fully dressed, Nanami hovers over Higuruma, out of sight. A second pillow is adjusted under Higuruma's hips, Nanami focused on Higuruma's comfort. The room stays in a companionable silence apart from their breathing. The coiled tension in Higuruma's chest hurts, aches and does nothing to stop his cock filling between his legs and leaking against the pillow, anticipation primed for whatever Nanami wants to do with him. To him.
Big hands splay on his lower back. Hot, calloused palms and steady pressure, and Higuruma lets out a startled moan when Nanami begins a slow push upwards on his spine. Pop, pop, pop goes Higuruma's vertebrae, a release of air and tension going inch by inch until the hands rest up on his shoulders and sweep down his arms, groping his biceps in a shuddering quick-as-a-flash caress. The massage runs over Higuruma's ribs, fingers circling and the heel of a strong palm pushing, pushing.
Inside Higuruma's gut something gurgles. A burning, itching erupts where Nanami can't reach. Higuruma's moan cuts off into a choked whimper of pain. He moans louder a second time, the knot bunching painfully into a hardened lump.
Nanami shushes him, fingers darting back low on Higuruma's spine. The pressure eases. "It's hiding deep, Higuruma-san. Please bare with the pain for a few more minutes, I do not want to rush this and cause further damage. It must be broken into parts to locate the weakness, do you understand? Can you do as I ask, and cope? The other option is... well. I do not wish to frighten you, or hurt you."
Sweat beads on Higuruma's forehead. "Yes. Do it. I like the pain, Nanami-san."
Nanami's breath hitches. Suddenly, a wall of invisible aura slams into Higuruma, and he shuts his eyes and buries his cries into the pillow, bitting it to avoid screaming out loud. Nanami digs his fingers into Higuruma's ribs, cutting into the flesh nestled between bone. Higuruma's spine arches, his back cleaved clean in two - no, not his back.
Not a part of him. The wiggling mass rises to the surface, wailing out screeches Higuruma refuses to hear lest his world flips on itself.
Higuruma squeezes his eyes tightly shut and endures.
The knot of pressure inside bursts, breaks out of his bones and disappears in a wave of awful chunks. Overwhelming pain subsides as fast as it peaked, there and gone and leaving Higuruma panting, cock throbbing trapped. Nanami's ministrations turn tender, sweet on the loosened muscles and tendons under Higuruma's skin. His next inhale expands Higuruma's chest fully, unlocking his heart behind his sternum.
Fresh laundry scents and electric tartness purge the rot.
Weakly, Higuruma turns his wet eyes back to Nanami, glancing at him over his shoulders. "That technique-"
Nanami interrupts, palm gently working at Higuruma's hip. "I was sloppy and out of practice. I should've handled that better."
Higuruma's limbs take a second to cooperate, but he bullies himself into a sitting position. Nanami's magic hands fall away, and through the brief mourning period in the space of their loss, Higuruma has enough sense to grab Nanami by the tie and reel him in for a harsh kiss. Higuruma tilts his head, angling to lick past the resistance of Nanami's pursed lips. Their mouths part together, widening to taste, to kiss, to share air and more in an intimate connection. This man saved him, Higuruma thinks. A kiss for that is paltry repayment, especially as Higuruma enjoys the softness of Nanami's lips.
Higuruma pulls away when his lips turn numb, swollen. Nanami tries to follow, the pink of his tongue darting out and slick.
"Nanami-san," Higuruma strokes his strong jawline, and revels in the touch. "Take your turn on the bed."
Nanami removes his glasses, his kind eyes bigger when the frames are no longer blocking the delicate eyelids and long lashes. Higuruma finds his strength has returned to him, and he leads Nanami down on to his back. The urge to pluck at the buttons on his shirt grows, hard to resist when the skin will be more delicious when naked. An equal desire to hold the mystery stops Higuruma from his impluse. His imagination thrives by the obscene stretch of the material over Nanami's perked up nipples and the bulge tenting the professional khaki.
Kicking off his underwear, Higuruma straddles Nanami's hips. The expensive leather belt is fed out of the buckle with a clink followed by the zipper's sharp sound as it slides down, down and then open as Nanami's heavy cock is freed.
"Higuruma-san," Nanami begins to say something, his expression wide open and wanting.
Bending low, Higuruma licks from base to tip. Tongue flat and wide, he does it again and again, tasting the flex and firmness on his lips, tracing the veins and texture. Indulging himself in the musk of a man, his body on fire - a fire that is purifying, different from the agony of before yet all the more consuming. It's been too long since Higuruma let himself have this. Let himself touch and please another man, let his own pleasure be known.
Self-indulgence leads to a loss of discipline. Tonight, Higuruma is okay with the taste of his inadequacies.
Nanami cups the back of Higuruma's head. He doesn't rush him, no impatient thrusting of his hips. Hissed noises of pleasure react when Higuruma suckles on the glands, but the fingers stay open and under Nanami's control.
Good, Higuruma moans with a full mouth. He is so good.
Swallowing, jaw sore, Higuruma sits tall. His ass is wet and prepared from earlier, a hurried last minute contingency. Nanami checks anyways, his big fingers sliding between his cheeks and slipping inside. It's a stretch. It's always a stretch. Higuruma clenches around the fingers and bites back a moan.
"Do you need more?" Nanami asks.
A deprecating smile curves Higuruma's lips and he longs to kiss this stoic and kind man. "You are very considerate, Nanami-san. No, this is how I want it."
Nanami must like the bite of pain, too. Higuruma rises up to his knees. Nanami works together with him to set the blunt head of Nanami's cock against his hole. Higuruma is tight. The furl struggles to stretch over the first few inches of cock, and Higuruma plants his palms on the rock solid pane of Nanami's stomach and rolls his hips back. Forcing himself open, spearing himself with something good and filling. Down, down, down Higuruma goes, his hole straining and rearranging. Finally, his cheeks meet the meaty cushion of Nanami's thighs and Higuruma pants, sweating and swaying on his new perch.
"Higuruma-san," Nanami repeats, repeats like he has been calling for Higuruma's attention for a while. "Does it hurt?"
"Not yet," Higuruma replies. "Can you handle it?"
Nanami groans and Higuruma feels the vibrations deep inside, his balls tightening in the spike of pleasure. "I can."
Higuruma lifts up and drops down fast. His hole protests, squeezing Nanami's cock as he sets up a punishing pace. Nanami's expression is twisted up, his teeth bared and neck straining. Red blossoms high on his cheeks, eyes dark. Ten finger shape brusies will mark Higuruma's hips for weeks from where Nanami holds him, branding his pale skin in the shape of Nanami's hands.
The bedframe rattles. The mattress screams. Delirious pleasure clouds Higuruma's vision and he arches his whole body, slamming himself down in one pure line. He remains soundless, no ability to move his mouth or make noise when his body is yearning, moving, working hard. He doesn't need to touch his cock to get off like this, he could come like a shot right here and now grinding his ass on Nanami's generosity.
Higuruma's greed swells. He runs his nails on top of Nanami's clothed stomach. Higuruma grabs his cock, long fingers wrapping around the base in a sturdy grip. Pinching off his orgasm at the base, strangling himself to breathless heights. The sharp denial tightens his skin, his pores, his core. Nanami twists under Higuruma, groaning, moaning. His eyes snap to where Higuruma is torturing himself, and Nanami curses, the word filthy on his lips.
"There’s one more."
Cockstupid, Higuruma blinks at the non sequitur. "Ha?"
Nanami sits up, jostling the cock inside and making Higuruma tremble. He reaches for Higuruma again, for his hand, his wrist. Nanami wrenches the captured hand forward, powerful fingers bone breaking and mean. Cruel for a second until Nanami's stern expression eases. Calmer, the fingers stroke from his wrist up to the webbing between thumb and fingers, and pinches, rolling the tense muscle that tortures Higuruma daily.
Higuruma's cock fights gravity, slapping up in an echoing sound of flesh untethered.
"It's sensitive." Higuruma gasps redundantly. "And my dominant hand, the one I need to write with, so be careful."
"It hurts you here," Nanami brings Higuruma's hand up, palm first. Wildly, Higuruma flushes. Nanami's lips are so close to the thin skin of his wrist. The intimate position feels lewd, worse than the cock in his guts. "You never said."
"Carpal tunnel. I've had it -"
"Since you first visited a prison, I gather."
Higuruma nods silently.
"I'll take care of it." Nanami promises.
"Can you do it later," Higuruma pointedly rolls his hips up, the angle different with Nanami sitting but still amazing, still scrambling his insides perfectly. "We are in the middle of something."
Nanami smiles, chuckling. Confidence oozes, attractive without arrogance. "I am great at multitasking, I promise."
Nanami throws Higuruma backwards. Higuruma's wrist lifts up and gets slammed back, body tumbling with the momentum. Dizzy, Higuruma's sharp shoulder blades dig into the mattress. Nanami bares down on him in framed broadness, pinning Higuruma in place by the wrists locked above his head in the heavy hold. Higuruma's knees clamp defensively to Nanami's sides, feet kicked up uselessly in the air. All of a second passes, a questioning noise busting out before he rolls his hips up in a dirty grind. His head lolls in the sheets under Nanami's grip, his mouth hanging open and eyes rolling.
Deep, Higuruma groans.
Like a machine, Nanami begins thrusting, fucking. Thrusting, and holding him down, cock working in time with the methodical stroking of Nanami's thumbs on Higuruma's wrists. A massage inside and out, no escape possible.
"Ha - ah, oh -" none of the filthy swear words Higuruma knows to curse, none of Higuruma's many words of schooling and books or his deep well of experience are adequate to describe his level of sensation. His body isn't his own now, no - it belongs to Nanami's hands, Nanami's cock, Nanami's bright and heady gaze cleansing Higuruma from higher thought.
"How dare it touch you," murmurs reach Higuruma's ears, Nanami nuzzling up his neck and back down, lips slack and burning. "I'll fix it. I'll offer up my protection, etch an ofuda into your clothes -"
Nanami's hips hitch into Higuruma, drilling deep. He keeps Higuruma arms stretched, thumbs branding the thin bones on Higuruma's wrists. A swelling bruise of blood broken under the skin stings sharply, stings through the soreness that has lived in Higuruma's nerves for years. The pressure is agony, sweet and dulling, discomfort reaching the plateau of good, good and purposeful pain.
Higuruma's fingers spasm, extending wide. Nanami's cock thrusts. The material on his shirt rubs Higuruma's stomach, scratching his dark nipples raw. Air saturates with a misty, humid aftertaste, something powerful brewing until Higuruma is surround by Nanami. Higuruma skirts around the edge of awareness, his focus sliding from Nanami's aura to his physicality - the clenching muscles at his jaw, the firm grip and related tensing, activated muscles dancing in the created creases of a practical shirt.
Naked and exposed, pinned and fucked, Higuruma slams his eyes shut and throws his head back, overwhelmed. The orgasm shocks him, his veins on fire and the world spotting in starbursts behind his eyelids. Nanami's answering groan vibrates where their chests rub together. Nanami loses composure and his pace falters, stuttering. Higuruma whimpers weakly at the hot rush of cum spilling deep inside, his hole spasming tight enough that Nanami's hips jerk hard.
Strings cut, Higuruma sinks into the bed with his legs spread and arms loose. Nanami rolls off him, sits back on his haunches. The feel of his eyes is not unwelcomed, and Higuruma is past shame. He does nothing to stop the gaze, doesn't even bother to stop the flow of Nanami's spend from dripping out his swollen and slack hole.
Nirvana can apparently be found at the hands of salarymen. Or - to be more specific - at the hands of this strange Nanami Kento. A decadent mess made of Higuruma, filthy and free of worries. To stay in the soaked sheets is barely a blip on his radar.
Nanami has other plans. Tissues mop up the fluid collecting on the dips of his stomach, carefully cleaning through his mess and then to where Nanami left his own wet mark, swiping his inner thighs free of the extra juices. Nanami makes a move, lifting Higuruma like he is weightless despite his lanky and shaking limbs, all so he can kick the soaked sheets to the bottom of the bed.
When he tips water in his mouth for him, Higuruma sighs and forces his brain back into working order on this plane of existence "What are you doing?"
Nanami lifts his eyebrow, expression stern. "Higuruma-san, your legs are still shaking. There is no reason why I shouldn't take care of you when I am the cause."
"I truly have no complaints," Higuruma assures him. The hand that had grabbed Nanami's attention smooths weakly down Nanami's collar. "Of your care, or of you being the cause. But you should rest with me."
Tension visibly melts off Nanami's face. "Are you sure you don't need anything else?"
"Lay down, Nanami-san." Snorting lazily, Higuruma tugs and pushes and arranges them on the mattress. Side-by-side, a pillow each, Higuruma under the covers and Nanami clothes zipped up, and a cigarette a piece.
Words don't need to be said. Sated bodies, minds and souls have other ways to communicate, and the silence is golden, calm, perfect.
No promises to meet again are given. Neither of them are looking for complications, and neither of them are dripping with romantic ideals. After a second, slower round of sex, Nanami offers to call Higuruma a cab home. Higuruma slips Nanami his work card.
A new lightness infects Higuruma for a time, and the woes of his chosen profession aren't as crushing in the first few days after meeting Nanami. But work is shit, and life is ugly. Criminals need protection from legal overreach, innocents need help navigating a system set out to place blame regardless of truth or nuance. Higuruma walks into the prison, and has the luck to escape the physical walls at the end of the day.
And when he leaves the cases with heavy thoughts and a tired body, dark and evil feelings polluting his innards and clinging to the strands of his hair, Higuruma can only stare gratefully at the sight of Nanami Kento standing firm outside the prison walls, waiting for Higuruma with his magic hands.