this part: NC-17
Konomi's, not mine
a/n: This is one of those times where I sit back and think 'Ugh, I actually wrote that.' Still, re-writing it would be a drag, so this is what ye get.
"It's me," says Ohtori, in answer to Shishido's sleepy mumble. He slips through the door and pushes it back, but not far enough to close.
"Wha'? Choutarou?" Shishido sits up in bed and knuckles his eyes. His hair is all on end. Ohtori thinks he looks like a startled porcupine. Then Ohtori's eyes move down to where Shishido's sleeping shirt is crumpled up against his chest -- revealing a broad swathe of bare skin -- and he stops thinking about small mammals altogether.
"I thought I could stay over." Ohtori speaks the words quickly, before he loses his nerve. He knows he's playing with fire, but he also knows that Hideki owes him one. Although Ohtori hasn't spoken one word to his roommate since he punched his lights out, Hideki was watching as Ohtori rolled his uniform into a blanket after bed check. Hideki will cover for him in the morning.
None of it matters if Shishido doesn't want him there, of course. Ohtori tries to explain his plan, to show Shishido the blanket, and ask for a pillow he can put on the floor. Unfortunately, the sight of Shishido -- half-awake and somewhat grumpy -- has struck Ohtori dumb, and not because he's afraid of invoking Shishido's legendary post-slumber ire. No, Shishido's loose t-shirt, the glint of skin as he tosses back the covers, the curiously vulnerable curve of his neck -- these are the things stopping Ohtori's tongue. These are the things making him look like a stammering fool in front of the person he most wants to impress in all the world.
"Slumber party?" mumbles Shishido, his words cut in half by a yawn. "G'on, then."
And he holds out the covers to invite Ohtori in.
For a moment Ohtori can't move. He longs to pinch himself, to see if he's simply fallen into his favourite fantasy and is really tucked up in his own bed, three stories above. Shishido rolls his eyes, combining the move with a yawn. The result is somewhat psychotic.
"Get in, Choutarou," he says. His voice still wavers from tiredness, but Ohtori isn't about to wait for Shishido to wake up properly. Not when everything he's ever wanted is being offered to him right here.
His limbs feel clumsy as he arranges them: bending first one knee, then the other, and levering himself down. Shishido throws the covers over the two of them -- leaving Ohtori with a mouthful of cotton -- and flops his arm across Ohtori's waist before Ohtori has a chance to do it first to him.
"I was planning to sleep on the floor," whispers Ohtori.
"You were not." Shishido burrows his head into the pillow and lets his eyes flutter closed.
Ohtori flushes, but happily -- Shishido read Ohtori's mind. What's more, he liked what he saw.
There's very little spare room in the single bed, but Shishido doesn't seem to mind as Ohtori tentatively snuggles closer. Before the end of ten minutes Shishido's knees are tucked against his chest, fenced by Ohtori's. The arm on Ohtori's waist goes lax with sleep. Shishido's head lolls against Ohtori's jaw, gossamer strands getting in Ohtori's mouth. With the excuse of brushing them away, Ohtori threads his fingers through Shishido's hair. It feels gorgeous, light and silky -- so very at odds with Shishido's tough outer demeanour.
Listening to Shishido's sleep noises -- soft, wet little sighs and the occasional stuttering snore -- is to Ohtori a pearl beyond price. Yes, his back is cramping from being curled around Shishido. True, his foot is going to sleep long before him. No, Shishido's sheets don't exactly smell of pine forests or bluebells. Yet for all that, Ohtori feels warm and content. There's no place he'd rather be.
Shishido rather expected there to be some spooning during the night. That's what always happens in movies, isn't it? The lovers end up stuck together like a bunch of puppies in a basket, and they wake the next morning with the sun spilling in the windows and big smiles on their faces.
The reality is somewhat different. Ohtori ended up rolling away from him in the night, not towards him. Half his body is hanging off the bed and his face is smushed into the pillow. The closed curtains make the small room hot, dark and redolent of feet. Shishido isn't in the slightest bit inclined to smile in the mornings -- even on a morning when Ohtori is sprawled across his bed like an oversized plushie, the back of his hair ruffled up and knotty.
Okay, so maybe Shishido smiles a little bit. But it's still nothing like a picture-perfect morning. Shishido climbs over Ohtori to get out of bed, when prodding, shaking and finally shouting his name produce no results. His suitemate has used up all the hot water and left a rim of shaving foam and stubble in the sink. The only thing that saves the morning is returning to find that his bed is already made, with perfect hospital corners and the sheet turned over the top of the duvet.
Ohtori is crouched on the floor when Shishido opens the door of the interconnecting bathroom. Even after being bundled up all night, Ohtori still manages to make his uniform look crisp and freshly ironed. Maybe it's just the way his tall frame stretches the fabric, pulling it tightly over firm, shifting muscles.
Shishido shakes his head, trying to clear it of his massively divergent thoughts. At first he thinks that Ohtori is tidying away Shishido's clothes -- there's already a folded pile on the end of his bed that he knows wasn't there before. (Shishido doesn't fold things; he's genetically incapable of so doing.) His assumption is put to the lie when Ohtori surreptitiously brings a fold of grey cloth to his nose and sniffs it.
Going tomato-red, Shishido darts back into the bathroom. As a cover he loudly clatters his suitemate's aftershave bottles -- of which there are about twenty, stacked in height order. Although one part of him cannot believe he really saw what he just did -- reserved, proper Ohtori of all people! -- another is oddly aroused. The latter part is certainly the more vociferous, and goes to such lengths to get Shishido's attention that he eventually has to take another -- icy cold -- shower.
When Shishido emerges, his wet hair dribbling on to his neck, Ohtori is fixing his tie in the mirror. He has a tongue-out, furrowed-brow look of concentration on his face that would have been terribly cute if Shishido ever thought words like cute, which he doesn't.
There is no sign of the boxers that Shishido wore last night and shucked off prior to having his first shower of the morning. Ohtori's face is as bright as a button and categorically guilt-free. If he were a less suspicious person, and if he didn't know Ohtori as well as he did, Shishido would have been entirely taken in. He doesn't call Ohtori on it, though.
They part ways at the end of the corridor. It's nearly the end of term and morning tennis practices are a thing of the past. They both have different dining halls -- Hyoutei is too large not to stagger meals by year. Shishido suggests meeting up after class. Ohtori bobs his head and says he'd like that.
There are forty-five minutes between the end of classes and the beginning of study hall and club activities. This is the time most people use for shopping trips and dates outside of school grounds. Even people who have no interest in either usually spend the time outside, relaxing, before consigning themselves to an evening in the library or clubhouse. Thus Shishido doesn't really expect to find Ohtori in his room right after school, but as he had to pick up his spare racquet anyway he thinks he'll check before searching for Ohtori elsewhere.
The door to Ohtori's room is slightly ajar. The cleaners leave them that way after vacuuming every day. Shishido puts his hand to the door, about to push it further open and stick his head around, when he catches sight of Ohtori.
His friend is kneeling on his bed with his teeth clenched, every muscle in his neck rippling like the strings of piano. For a stunned moment Shishido fears that Ohtori is in grave pain, before Ohtori throws back his head and smiles.
Shishido's eyes widen with heated realisation. He feels like a bee stuck in a honeypot, for it seems to take an age to get from Ohtori's panting mouth to where his hands are busy between his legs.
Ohtori is still mostly clothed. His school shirt is unbuttoned and slipping off his shoulders. He has two nipples -- one on either side. They are flat and the colour of milky coffee. There are deep lines carved into his chest and belly. His hips jut out in creamy peaks, casting long shadows. His trousers are pushed down around his knees, and Shishido can see the swell of his thigh muscles holding his legs apart. Slightly higher up -- Shishido's eyes widen -- he can see a crumple of grey material. Yet Ohtori Choutarou owns nothing but the whitest of white briefs. Shishido may or may not have noticed this fact in the changing rooms.
The realisation that Ohtori has been walking around all day wearing Shishido's dirty boxers makes Shishido's trousers tighter than a high tension racquet string.
Jacking off is a fact of life. Shishido knows this. He's been visited by the urge to indulge at far less appropriate times: in the middle of tennis matches (quite often with Ohtori), in class, even once -- horrifically -- at his mother's dinner table. But what he's watching now isn't a hasty, frantic route to relief. It's Ohtori, pleasuring himself. There's a world of difference, at least from where Shishido's standing, with a bulge in his own trousers that's getting more painful by the second.
One of Ohtori's hands is running up and down his chest, pausing to finger his nipples. The other is just barely stroking his cock, plucking at the head in a movement that looks an awful lot like he's playing a pianissimo decrescendo. One, twice, he rubs his knuckles along the underside. He lets out a breathy sigh every time he does this, like it feels almost unbearably good. Shishido has never touched himself this slowly, but he can guess. Ohtori's obviously been here for a while, because his hair is in sweatcurls, and his chest hazed with moisture.
Shishido shoves his hand against his crotch, trying to stop his own cock from joining the party. Ohtori starts rocking into his own hand, emitting little moans that sound like 'Oh.' Shishido frowns. No. He's saying 'Ryou.'
Shishido freezes. Ohtori has managed to drop the -san, which Shishido's never mentioned for fear Ohtori will add it right back on again. But Ryou? He's never heard that name cross Ohtori's lips.
Shishido backs away from the door on cat feet. When he gets far enough, he runs. He passes several people on the stairs, who have enough sense to flatten themselves against the wall as he approaches. For his own part, Shishido manages to untuck his shirt so that it covers his all-too-obvious erection.
When he gets back to his own room, he locks the bedroom door and shoves a chair under the handle of the bathroom door for good measure. With fingers that might have been trembling slightly, he draws Ohtori's magazine out from under his mattress, where it's been covered in brown paper and shoved into an old t-shirt. None of this would have helped if anyone found it and just opened it up, but Shishido feels that he has to at least make a pretence of concealment.
Shishido liked how it felt to kiss Ohtori. He also likes pretending that it's Ohtori's hand, sliding up and down his erection while he says stupid things like 'You're so big' and maybe even puts it in his mouth for a while. Then there's the magazine, where guys are doing all sorts of perverted things to each other and making Shishido's stomach squirm like a snakepit. The link between the two is what Shishido is prepared to let Ohtori do to him. It would be unfair to keep kissing Ohtori, or tell him that he loves him -- maybe he does, though, but not in any stupid, girly way -- if Shishido gets all prissy about the sex side of it.
Taking a deep breath, Shishido opens the magazine to what he would have called his favourite image, if he'd dared. He unzips his trousers, thinks for a minute, then takes them off altogether. He plants his feet on the edges of the bed, already feeling funny about opening himself up so wide. The air purls cool against his hidden places. Shishido wraps one hand around himself. He has to be careful not to squeeze too hard; if he even so much as thinks about what he's just seen he'll come on the spot, and he needs more time.
The magazine doesn't spare its viewers a single detail, although to be fair neither of the men in question look like they're objecting. The grimace of the man on top is a little too close to Ohtori's most recent expression, so Shishido shifts his gaze to the man's fingers. Shishido gulps, as he's done every time he's forced himself to truly look at what they are doing. As usual, a jolt passes through him -- half thrill, half fear.
Still keeping a comforting hand on his cock, Shishido slips his other hand behind. He lets one fingertip graze the tiny opening back there. He has to stop himself from snatching it back again, out of shame and fear. But he's Shishido Ryou. He's not about to back down from a little pain -- or even a lot of pain -- when something he wants lies at the end of it.
And he does want Ohtori, he knows that much. Even if he'll never be able to say it properly. Even if there'll never be cherry blossoms in Ohtori's hair when Shishido finally makes him his. Even if there's no thunderbolt or flurry of pink hearts or elegant speeches.
So he puts his hand back down there and pushes the finger past the tight ring of muscles. It is a hot and intimate pain that ranks right up there with getting hit with a tennis ball at two hundred Ks an hour, though in theory Shishido can't understand why. He leaves his finger in place while he remembers to breathe, and tries not to think how bad this grating friction will feel when something as large as Ohtori's long, slender cock is trying to get inside.
When he finally slides it back out he can't bear to try again right away, so he lets his mind drift as his other hand moves up and down. When he comes he's thinking of Ohtori, and how crazily hot he looked. Perhaps they can just do this for a while, together. Or Ohtori can drug Shishido beforehand and then fuck him while he's too doped to feel the pain.
But no, he can't give up this easily. Shishido is stubborn and hard-headed and a lot of people have said these traits will bring him to grief one day. This appears to be that day.
Gloomily, and with hands still slippery, Shishido pushes his index finger back inside. To his surprise, it goes in far easier now. He gets as far as his knuckle without feeling anything worse than a throbbing stretching sensation. His brain is foggy from arousal and it takes a good few seconds to realise that his come eased the way. When he does he almost laughs out loud. Of course -- lubrication! They were talking about it only the other day in physics. Shishido is new to all of this, but from what he's seen in the magazine he's willing to bet that someone somewhere sells stuff that does the job properly, and on purpose.
Now that the pain factor is all but gone, Shishido experimentally wiggles his finger. From Ohtori's point of view Shishido can see the attraction, but it's not doing much for Shishido. Still, it doesn't hurt now. That's the main thing. If he can fit a few fingers up there, then Ohtori's cock shouldn't pose a problem. All a bit stupid and uncomfortable, but if Ohtori enjoys it ...
Shishido's wrist is starting to cramp from the odd angle, so he lifts his hips a bit to draw his finger out. He's at the second knuckle when he bends it to speed up the process. Suddenly the world is all dark angles and fiery shooting pleasure. Shishido's muscles loosen and he collapses back to the bed. His finger slams into that spot again. Shishido lets out a startled shout, but his body is one step ahead of him. His fingernail scratches against the sensitive skin and his knees start to tremble. In seconds he's come for a second time, hard and all over his school shirt.
"Choutarou," whimpers Shishido, because it's the only word his brain remembers.
He eventually gets to tennis practice, bringing along a book Ohtori wanted to borrow and an apology for his no-show earlier. He's nothing if not disciplined, so he doesn't think his tennis is worse than usual because every five minutes heat twists in his belly like he wants Ohtori's fingers to twist inside him. Shishido is stronger than that.
He's also, by the end a trip to the pharmacy and a sleepless night, up to three fingers.
Ohtori finds a folded note in his locker. Stay over? it reads. It's scribbled on a bit of torn-off notepaper, grubby from handling and with the tail end of a chemical equation on the other side. Ohtori treasures it like a Shakespearean sonnet on the original manuscript.
There's only one week left of Ohtori's freshman year. At this stage he doesn't even care if he gets caught, but why bother when Hideki still owes him a debt of honour? In his heart Ohtori will never forgive his roommate for what he did, but with his mouth he says the words. It's sad, the way Hideki brightens. He bobs his head like a dog and says of course, he'll tell the dorm master that Ohtori went to an early piano practice tomorrow morning.
Shishido is awake and waiting, a torch planted in the middle of a nest of blankets like a bouquet. The side of his mouth tugs up at the sight of Ohtori, although he tries to hide it. He untangles his legs and makes room for Ohtori on the mattress, and Ohtori feels his heart turn over and nearly choke him.
He kisses Shishido because he senses Shishido wants him to, but mostly because Ohtori wants to. Shishido's mouth is warm and yielding. He can't stop a faint tremor when Ohtori's tongue finds his and his hands clench slightly on Ohtori's arms. Ohtori doesn't mind at all, because he's not exactly the posterboy for cool and collected at that moment. He's too hungry for more. He moans in disapproval when Shishido draws away.
"D'you want ..." Shishido's eyes are shy in the torchlight. He looks as if he'd like a cap to hide under. His fingers slip between the buttons on Ohtori's pyjama shirt, brushing the hot skin underneath. Ohtori feels his cock grow full and heavy and he's embarrassed by his lack of control.
Shishido can't seem to finish his question. He wriggles back a little and pulls his own shirt over his head. Ohtori watches the golden-washed muscles move with something close to asphyxiation. There are wisps of dark hair under Shishido's arms, a trail of it down his tummy. Ohtori wants to rub his face against them. He thinks this is probably totally uncool.
Shishido's hands are back at Ohtori's buttons. Ohtori realises he's closed his eyes, but he doesn't open them until he feels the hesitant fingers start to move. When Shishido is halfway down Ohtori finds his need and starts to help him, ripping the buttons out so fast he catches up to Shishido's fingers in a matter of seconds.
Their hands twist together. Shishido uses his grasp to pull them down so they're lying chest to chest. The torch falls to the floor and rolls away. A loop of light on the wall allows Ohtori to clearly see the way air is shuddering in and out of Shishido's mouth and the edge of his shoulder, but not much else.
Ohtori nuzzles around till he finds Shishido's mouth, accidentally kissing his ear and neck and hair along the way. Shishido's hands convulse against his bare belly, then spread out to hold his hip. When their mouths meet Ohtori dissolves. His tongue sinks straight into Shishido's mouth and he grinds mindlessly, wrapping his arms around Shishido to hold him tight.
"Choutarou, stop," gasps Shishido. "You're ... you're going too fast."
Ohtori detaches right away, feeling his face burn with shame. The last thing he wanted was to force Shishido into doing anything, especially when he hadn't even decided if he liked Ohtori that way or not. It's just ... Shishido makes him hot. So hot that reason and logic fly out the window. When they're half-naked and in bed together, there's no way Ohtori can hold himself back.
"I'd better leave," he mumbles.
"Choutarou, I --" Shishido sits up, and Ohtori can't help but notice the tent in his shorts. "I like this, honestly I do, and I like you, but --"
"What?" A grin of delight breaks across Ohtori's face. "You like me?"
"Of course." Shishido looks at him like he's insane. "I really like you, Choutarou. I want us to do ... everything." His hand goes to adjust an imaginary cap. His bemused look is so cute Ohtori wants to kiss him immediately, but he resists. "But not yet. I'm sorry."
"Why?" Ohtori takes Shishido's hand and laces their fingers together. "All I wanted was for you to like me back. And, well, to sleep in your bed with you." He feels a blush rise at his admission. "Anything else is just a bonus."
Shishido's smile is big and beautiful. Ohtori wants to tell him so, but he's not sure Shishido is ready to hear things like that yet. Instead, he prods Shishido until he's lying with his back to Ohtori and lays a hand on his hip, just like he always imagined.
"Are we spooning?" asks Shishido gruffly.
"Yes." Ohtori nestles his chin against Shishido's head. His soft hair rustles as Shishido heaves a deep sigh.
"I thought we were." He leaves a long enough pause that Ohtori thinks he might have drifted off to sleep, then says in the quietest voice imaginable, "Are you okay with waiting?"
And because Ohtori's nearly asleep himself, he says something that is both true and far too soppy to say aloud normally. "I'd wait forever for you, Ryou."
"You're such a sap, Choutarou," sighs Shishido. And moves Ohtori's hand up to cover his heart, holding it there until they fall asleep.