A continuation of Junjou Romantica
by Laydee Jiraya
Geez. Why the hell am I so horny of late? This is troublesome. Misaki frowned as fluttered the feather duster back and forth over the top of the TV, thankful that the folds of his apron concealed his growing erection. It was totally embarrassing, and wrong, that he felt like that just from watching Usami out of the corner of his eye. What the? Hell no! That is not why I'm horny! His face went scarlet, and he turned fully away from him. Usami tilted his head gently up to stare at him.
"What're you thinking about, Misaki?" That famous author smiled around his cigarette, and put the newspaper he'd been reading gently down atop the coffee table. "Are you thinking about how you want me to fuck you?"
"WHAT? SHUT UP!" he screeched. It was true. And that just made it all the worse. Suddenly he felt a presence behind him, and the reflection in the TV screen coupled with those cold fingers closing on his wrist confirmed that thought. "L—let go of me!"
"Now why would I do that?" Those words teased and tickled, spilling into his ear from a mouth right next to it. A hard erection pressed between his clothed butt cheeks, and the feather duster dropped to the ground. God, he was already panting from it. He had to get away. He couldn't let that bastard see it was making him hot.
"I'm going out now! To buy soap! Yes! We need lots of soap! To make . . . to make soap things! Yes!" My god, I sound like an idiot. Takashi Misaki, age twenty-one, was beginning to realize what a fool he was. Why deny it? Why not let himself be overwhelmed? All he could think was how embarrassing this all was, as his feet raced across the carpet, and he skidded briefly to a stop to open the door. At least the panic had turned him off again. The door slammed closed behind him, and the last thing he saw was a satisfied smirk.
Takashi Misaki did not go to the store, not at first. He was too flustered to be in public, but he needed distraction—needed it almost as badly as he needed Usami Akihiko's lips to his. Why do I think these things? He put a hand over his flushed face, trying to hide it from the sun's glary gaze. It was the middle of summer, and the sidewalk was baking under the soles of his shoes as he wandered, uncertain of where he was headed. He looked down, realizing that he was still wearing that apron, still had his hair in a bandana, and it was slightly embarrassing too—though not nearly as embarrassing as the blunt ways that pervert expressed his desires. So he walked on, and came to a stop under a tree.
Across the street, a couple and their children were going for a stroll. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and the little girl had pigtails and ice-cream, while the father pushed a stroller, and held onto who Misaki could only assume was his wife's hand. The other person was to the far side of this man, so Misaki couldn't really see her, except that she had short hair. That's so nice, Misaki thought vaguely to himself. I want that someday. A family like that.
Then the little girl dropped her ice-cream, the dripping scoop spilling from the cup onto the pavement below. The further half of the pair went to her, bent down on one knee, and said in a husky, deep voice, "It's okay, Emily, we'll get you another." It was a man! What the hell? When did everyone turn into a homo? Misaki thought, his eyes winced into tiny slits, while his cheeks burned red.
And then, of all the stupidest things to flood his mind, he got a vision of himself and Usami like that, with adopted kids, going for a pleasant stroll. WAAAHHHH! What the fuck am I thinking? He clutched his head, brain spasming at the thought as his fingers curled into his thick, dark hair. Usami isn't good with kids! No! No! He will not be the mother of my children! But then . . . who would? He tried to think of a blank silhouette, a nice, pretty girl with long hair and large breasts, and tried to fill in the template with a face—but he couldn't. There was nothing to fill in that missing gap—nobody he felt that way about . . . except for . . .
He tried to push that thought out of his head, trying to visualize the perfect wife, put a face to her, and the two conflicting visions combined to form Usami's face, on a woman's body. AAAAAAAHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? IT'S . . . IT'S LIKE A NIGHTMARE! The horrifying vision was like a pink elephant—once you think to yourself, 'Don't think of the pink elephant,' it just refuses to leave. Now that monster was waving coyly at him in his mind, with a beckoning smile.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" he screamed, unaware the scream had been aloud, until a hand rested gently on his shoulder, and he looked up to see that blank female silhouette, but this time, with a face in it, though not the face of anyone he could ever imagine himself with. It was Aikawa.
"Chibi-tan? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he groaned, on the verge of faint.
"Ah . . . um, okay." She raised an eyebrow, considering the possible fact that Usami had finally driven Misaki crazy, which was undeniably so.
"So . . . what're you doing here?"
"I came to check on the book. Is he done yet?"
"Is it three weeks past the deadline yet?" Misaki asked, and managed to smile.
"I see your point. That jerk better hurry up! He's only got two days!" she screeched, fists clenched to her sides. "How far has he gotten?"
"Fifty thousand words."
"WHAT? But the minimum is eighty thousand!" She cracked her knuckles, and her expression became unbearably dark. "Chibi-tan. Would you help me murder him?"
"Yes," Misaki conspired, also with a dark look. "I've been telling him over and over to get to work, but he keeps messing around with marimo."
"We can bury him in the back yard," the editor concluded. They'd reached the front door by now, having started walking together without really thinking about it shortly after the conversation began. The knob cranked to the side, and the two angry conspirators tromped in, with a ferocious killing intent. A dark aura emitted from the two of them, and Usami looked mildly up from his newspaper.
"What's up?" he simply said.
"Don't you 'what's up' me! You know what's up!" Aikawa shrieked, grabbing him by his ear and pulling him to his office. She kicked the partly-cracked door wide open and flung him inside, then shut it behind her. "Stay in there! And don't you dare come out until it's finished!" Misaki heard her scream. Heavy footsteps sounded as she tromped back downstairs, steaming and scarlet with rising fury. "I've got a lunch meeting I have to get to, but make sure he does his work! Don't let him trick you or bribe you into letting him slide!" she warned, a finger pointed at Misaki, like it was somehow his fault. He frowned.
"I'll try, but . . . I don't really know what I can do . . ."
"You can always threaten him. Or bribe him." The look on her face was completely devious, while Misaki's was completely oblivious.
"You know what I mean. Tell him if he doesn't finish, no more you-know-what for a month!" He knew very well what she meant. That didn't mean he was going to admit it.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The faint blush on his cheeks said otherwise.
"But you need a rewards system too," she went on, ignoring him. "If he's got to seventy-thousand words by tomorrow morning, your body is his." She smiled evilly.
"W—but it's already his!" he blurted, before his own hands clamped over his mouth. "I mean—no! Never! I'd never do something like that with that sick pervert!" Aikawa just scoffed, and laughed wryly. She wouldn't buy it for a minute. She'd seen too much to ever believe that stupid lie.
"Whatever. Later, Misaki." Misaki felt a cold chill as her presence left the room. That woman was, indeed, pure evil.
A pitiful voice spoke gently from the other side of Usami's office door. "Can I come out now? Is it safe?" Misaki opened the door, and Usami fell back on the other side, a cigarette in his mouth and an unbearably sheepish look plastered to his face. He continued to lay there, still frozen in the same position, arms wrapped around his knees, which were pressed to his chest.
"What're you doing?"
"I can't move."
"Too scared." All Misaki could do was laugh. Evidently, even Usami was scared of that stupid editor sometimes, just like Misaki himself was scared of Usami when he woke up. Usami puffed his cigarette, ashes falling to the floor, and stayed like that.
"Don't be dumb, she's gone," he said, and reached an arm down to help the author up. Fingers clamped around his own, but as he tried to pull up, the hand only pulled him down, until he was laying on the floor as well. He got yanked into a death grip of a hug. "W—what are you doing?"
"I'm seeking comfort."
"Don't make me your source of comfort!"
"Why not? You're the only source of comfort I've got." Misaki looked like he'd been struck by ten semis and a train at these words, but Usami just lay there, with that same sheepish look. It was horrible because it was true. Who else but Misaki could provide someone like Usami with a shoulder to cry on? The thought of moving out had been bothering Misaki recently—he'd assumed it was because he was so used to Usami being around him, but those words made him realize something—that wasn't entirely it. He was . . . worried about Usami. What would this guy do, if Misaki suddenly disappeared from his world? Misaki frowned, and disentangled himself from his arms, then stood up.
"Well, it doesn't matter. You need to get on your book. Or else . . . or else no more sex! For a month!" Misaki blanched at the words which had just come out of his mouth. He'd admitted verbally that they had sex, even if the two of them both knew it was so. Hearing things like that aloud, the rough, unbridled passion with which Usami just had his way with him, without giving him any option—those were the things he didn't like. Those were the things which made him embarrassed. The later made him feel so weak, so young and innocent—qualities which the macho side of him refused to allow to exist—and the former confirmed that those qualities were indeed there, because that's exactly what sex with Usami meant. He clamped his hands over his mouth for the second time that day, while Usami just smiled.
"So, no sex huh?" It amused him to no end, because he knew that, even if Misaki said something like that, it was meaningless as a threat—but it had infinite meaning in and of itself, because it was a confirmation—a verification that the sex they currently had was allowed, because how could he possibly revoke something which was already not permitted? Not that Usami didn't know this anyways. He knew how much this guy wanted him. But it was still nice to hear something aloud. "And if I finish it in time?"
Misaki's eyes averted as he tried to come up with something to say, to collect his thoughts. He . . . hated it being said aloud. Hated being weak. Maybe if . . . maybe if he was the aggressor in this situation, if he was the one who had instigated it, it wouldn't feel like that. His hands fell back down, and he blurted something out without much thought again. "And if you finish it on time . . ." His eyes half-closed at the vision in his mind—of himself conquering the older man, pinning Usami to the ground, kissing him gently, maybe tying him up and blindfolding him so he couldn't see or move as Misaki ravaged his body.
"I'll fuck you. Me. I want to do it." Somehow that vision of himself as the dominant one, of getting revenge for all the times Usami used his body, exerting such power over him—somehow that made him not want to take it back. It wasn't in conflict with his macho side, even if this was another man. He stood over Usami, looking confident for once in his life, and for once, just this once, certain about something. Usami still lay on the floor, looking up at him—Misaki had expected a playful smirk, the usual look when he let something slip like that, but instead Usami looked like he was in complete shock.
The cigarette balanced on his bottom lip for an instant before it fell to the carpet, sizzling as it singed the white fibers. "Wah! You're gonna burn the house down!" Misaki complained, his tone back to that usual worrywart sound. He reached for it, but long fingers just knit with his, halfway through his effort to bend down. He stopped just a few inches from the other man's face, his eyes locked with his.
"What is with this . . . feeling?" Usami's lips barely moved as he softly mouthed the words.
"It's . . . I think it's that you want me to overpower you. Just as badly as I want to do it." The author's breath hitched in his throat as Misaki pushed him hard against the floor, hands pressing his wrists into the carpet. He kissed him as fast as he could, before Usami could do it first, or before he could start feeling awkward and freak out. Then he let go, grabbed the cigarette before it did more damage, and stood. "There will be more of that . . . if you finish." He kept his eyes averted, and walked out.
As soon as the door closed, Misaki went into his usual panic mode. He leaned against the wall, an arm over his eyes, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the long French windows on the landing. Shit. What did I just do? Shit, shit, shit! Some rude person had started banging a hammer inside his ribcage, and he realized it was his heartbeat going out of whack, ready to explode inside his chest. But. He breathed in deeply. God how I want it. . . . Crap! I'm having homo thoughts! The sound of rapid typing let up just inside the door—Usami was evidently having a heart attack as well, trying to finish his manuscript as quickly as he possibly could. I hope he's not just typing random dribble to make up for the missing words, Misaki thought darkly.
The sun slipped from its place in the sky, leaving him alone with approaching darkness, and the busy sound of fingers hitting keys in the other room. There's . . . no sense in denying it anymore though, is there? His eyes closed gently, as the wind flowed slowly in and out of his lungs. His mind was clear and focused, his body calm, not heaving with sexual tension at this moment, not throbbing as his blood flowed into an erection he had no power to control. I . . . definitely want this person. And I don't care if it's gay. I don't care what it makes me. Those thoughts got cut off as he went into panic mode again, biting at his fingertips.
Usami had stayed up all night working on his book. He'd finished it in the wee hours of the morning, then fallen asleep atop the pile of papers and books on his messy desk, hunched over with circles around his sleeping eyes and the butt of a dead cigarette still hanging from his drooling mouth. Misaki tiptoed in to check on his progress around seven—he was going to ask if it was done and if Usami wanted breakfast, but the author was slumbering, and the gold envelop stuffed with the ragged papers of his manuscript told Misaki that he had, indeed, gotten it done. In record time, too.
Misaki grabbed the envelope and sat down to read the end—well, skim over it at least, to make sure it really wasn't just random dribble. It wasn't. He wasn't that astute when it came to literature, but Misaki could still tell it was good. Undeniably good. He put it back in the envelope, deciding to let the man sleep a little longer. Perhaps a lot longer. The pain in his stomach was that classic nervousness he felt when thinking about going to bed with Usami, and he wanted to have a good chance to calm his nerves.
Some people got nervous at the prospect of giving a speech, or wearing a silly outfit. Neither of these things bothered Misaki. What bothered him, what reduced him to a blurting nervous wreck, was Usami, and the power he held over him. It was too much power—the way the other man made him feel was so strong it scared him half to death. He felt like he was going to be consumed in his fire, reduced to someone weak and totally dependant on him, and only him.
Today was a Monday, but it was a holiday—so a day off. He cooked himself breakfast, dark thoughts turning about in his head all the while. What he'd said yesterday . . . he now regretted it. Even if he was in charge, even if Usami really let him do with him as he pleased . . . he was exerting power over Misaki, in a way. He bit his lip, and blushed scarlet. Nii-chan, I'm afraid I'm losing this battle. No, this war. Usami Akahiro is really . . . really going to . . . But his thoughts got cut off as a figure stumbled from the stairs above, his face shadowed in a frightening look of irritation. There was a sheet of paper stuck to his face which he hadn't noticed. He glanced at it blearily, and pulled it off. Going to . . . destroy me.
He didn't know how he would be, who he would be, if he opened his heart, his soul wide and let Usami fully in, let him claim him, and own his entire being. He didn't know—and that was what scared him the most. The other man made his way to the sofa and lay down on it, putting Suzuki-chan over his head in an effort to block out the morning sun, and possibly sleep some more, although he never slept here. It was a bit disconcerting. "Can you get me some coffee?" The voice was muffled by the bear's fluff.
"Ah," Misaki confirmed, and started to brew some. A few minutes later he placed the cup in its owner's custody, full of rich, dark coffee—he liked it black. The bear slipped unceremoniously to the thick white carpet below, as Usami sipped deeply, eyes closed. "You look like you should go back to bed." He frowned. "Why don't you—"
"No," was the only response. He looked dead tired, ready to fall into a coma on his feet, provided he was standing. Another sip. "I finished it," he mentioned.
"Ah, that's good. Should I call Aikawa-san, and have her pick it up?"
"There's no need. It's not due until tomorrow anyways."
"You didn't need to rush, you know."
"I wanted to . . . so I could get my reward." He glanced slyly up over the cup's rim.
"R—reward?" Misaki managed. He knew exactly what Usami meant, but he decided to play dumb. "I don't know what you—"
"You know what I mean." He wasn't playing anymore—he was serious, dead serious. And yet he wasn't pouncing on the boy, and it threw Misaki off completely. He'd expected those advances as soon as the last word was typed out, the last key hit, but they weren't coming. Misaki wondered vaguely if it was because he was so tired, but then his mind settled on something else. Good, he thought. He's waiting for me to make the first move. And that means he won't do it. I can wait a while longer. Maybe he'll forget.
"No, I don't!" Misaki sang, and ran off to the kitchen again. Usami didn't follow. He leaned against the fridge heaving sighs of relief, but the smallest sting pricked him somewhere in the gut, and he couldn't put a name to what it was—not until he heard the sound of something heavy being thrown in the other room, then something else. He looked across the bar in time to watch the third object—the coffee cup—smash into the wall, dark liquid splattering like a trail of blood. A tall blond figure picked up an ashtray and flung it as hard as he could, a scream exploding in his lungs. It shook Misaki to the core. It was undeniably Usami—but this man wasn't acting at all like the Usami he knew.
"Fuck," he wept, and slammed his fist down atop the coffee table. His whole body shook with sobs. Misaki was scared—no, he was terrified. He wanted to run to him and away from him at the same time, and the two desires conflicted, just like all his other desires did, and Misaki just stood there, staring in disbelief. It seemed . . . that was the summary of what Misaki felt for him—he always wanted to run to and from Usami at once, and they met in the middle, leaving him acting lukewarm. He wanted to run to him because of how strongly he felt toward him. He wanted to run from him for that same reason. At last he pressed his hands against the fridge behind him, making his body move forward. A careful step, and then another—a whole series of ginger steps, until he stood over Usami, looking down at him.
"W—what's wrong?" he stuttered.
There was no response, as a packet of cigarettes was produced by shaking hands. Those same hands tried to light the cigarette which now hung limply from his mouth, but couldn't seem to work the lighter wheel right, so Misaki took a breath, reached down, and took the lighter for him. He made to light it, but his hand got pushed aside.
"Don't." So the cigarette just stayed unlit, still in that famous, super-star author's lips. Misaki knew what was wrong, but he didn't want to admit it to himself. It made him feel like shit to realize the truth, so he denied it, pushed it back, and brought himself to ask that lie of a question again.
"What's wrong? Usami?"
"Like you don't know!" he barked, and leaned his head back against the couch. Those eyes caught his—and he knew what that feeling, that prickling sensation in his stomach, was. It was guilt. Guilt mixed with shame. "I . . . can't take this . . . anymore." His hand still trembled as he caught the lighter from Misaki's grasp and finally managed to light his cigarette, inhaling with slow, shuddering breaths. Those tears kept streaming down his cheeks, and Misaki knew it was from him. Knew this is what he'd done to this person who had never acted toward him out of anything but kindness and love. "I want you to leave the house, Misaki," he said with finality. "Go away for the rest of the day."
"A—and what then? What's after that?"
"Nothing comes after that." His smile was unbearably sad. He stood, and started to walk off toward his bedroom.
"W—what do you mean?" There was no reply. "Usami! What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean I'm going to end this."
"No! You can't! Please! I love you! I . . . I don't want it to end!"
"I don't mean our relationship. I could never end that. Not even if you said you hated me, and left."
"Then what the hell do you mean?" Now Misaki was crying too, trying to pull him back by the sleeve of his wrinkled dress shirt. The two of them stood frozen. Misaki swallowed, and found it was an unbearably hard thing to do. "What are you going to end? Tell me!" Usami turned, and put his arms around the younger, shorter man. This time, Misaki didn't fight back—instead he leaned his face into his chest, feeling the trembling pulse just beneath his shirt, beneath his skin, beneath sinew, muscle, and bone. He couldn't stop crying, as his arms circled the other man's waist, pulling him in as tightly as he could. "What are you going to end . . . Usami . . . please . . . tell me you don't mean . . ."
Fingers pressed under his chin, making his head tilt so their gazes formed a single line. The gentlest kiss imaginable fell on his lips, and he didn't fight that, either. "Goodbye, Misaki." He made to remove Misaki's arms from his waist, but they just wouldn't budge. "Misaki. Let me go."
"No! Fuck you!"
"Misaki! I can't take this anymore. Please. I . . . I can't . . ."
"You've already killed me." His voice was incredibly weak, so weak it barely came out. "Let me end this. This . . . person you see before you."
"NO!" Misaki slammed him to the ground, pressing him to the floor. "I love you," he begged. "I love you. I love you."
"Misaki." The trembling body beneath him was wracked with sobs—he was crying even harder now, Misaki pinning his arms so he couldn't raise his hands to hide his face.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
"Please. Please don't." His eyes closed, his chest quaking, breaths shuddering.
"I love you! I love you!" Misaki's voice rose into a mighty crescendo, even though it was breaking. He had to pause for a second, inhaling a single breath as three small breaths—his lungs couldn't hold still long enough to draw it in as a single one. "I love you! I love you, Usami Akihiro! There! I said it ten times! I'll say it a hundred times more! A thousand! I'll say it until you're sick of hearing it! But please! Don't . . . don't die, Usami. Don't say things like that! Don't ever!" He seized the other man's lips with his, a deep, heartbreaking kiss which lingered and held no reluctance, his tears dropping onto the author's already wet cheeks, mingling their tears together.
He kissed him like he might never see him again, and with the way Usami had been talking, that might be true. He kissed him like he was on the verge of death, kissed him with all the passion he felt no matter how much he tried to deny it. He couldn't deny it anymore, no matter how much it distressed him, no matter how lost in Usami he got because if letting go—no matter how nervous he got when Usami touched him and made him melt, or how it might look to anyone else. Fuck reputation. He didn't care about that anymore. He couldn't deny the way he felt anymore—because doing so . . . doing so had done—this—to the one he cared about the most.
And as he kissed him, Misaki realized he wasn't afraid of it anymore. He wasn't afraid of who he might become from it, wasn't afraid of letting himself be weak from Usami, or letting Usami destroy him, because he'd already destroyed Usami. He just wanted to be with Usami, that's what he'd said, that's what he knew—and Usami was in a very dark place now, completely tethered to Misaki. If he wanted to be by Usami's side, he needed to join him there. He needed to let himself get overwhelmed and be weak, let himself be tied to Usami by strong chains, and not only not resist, but admit that he didn't want to. To enjoy being so close to his fire, even if it meant he got burned.
"I love you," he gasped, breaking their lips apart. "And . . . I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The last word came out with a wail close behind it, his voice cracking with new tears. He raised a hand to his eyes to wipe them away, but that freed one of Usami's hands, and the author lifted his own hand to push Misaki's aside and dry them for him. He let him touch his face, looking down at his eyes, at that awe-struck look in them. Usami had stopped crying, but Misaki couldn't. Crying like this, in front of another man, was something which would normally feel at least a tinge embarrassing. But for the first time, he wanted Usami to see every side of him, including this one. He wanted him to look.
"I'm sorry," was still all he could say, and then, "I love you." He sounded like a broken record as he leaned down for another kiss, letting both of Usami's hands go so he could reach for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as a feverish need crept into his body, spreading from his heart all the way up to the top of his head and all the way down to his toes. The shirt was opened up wide, showing Usami's pale flesh, the delicate bumps where his ribs rose in his sides, his small nipples. Golden strands of hair fell in his bloodshot eyes, his face looking unbearably beautiful in the slanting rays of sun, like it was a painting, like it couldn't possibly be real.
His lips were slightly parted as Misaki stroked his hands slowly up his chest, understanding the feeling of him, going slowly and letting himself enjoy the other man's body for the first time. His eyes roved about his figure, taking it in with his full attention. "Yes. I'm gay." He'd said it aloud. "Yes. I enjoyed every fucking time you touched me." Misaki's fingers found his nipple and rubbed it in gentle circles, making the other man gasp. "And yes. You own me completely. And I like it."
The tiniest smile crept onto his lips at those last words, and refused to fall, even when he bent down and kissed him again, letting desire explode in him, not even trying to fight it. His lips brushed wetly against the corner of Usami's mouth, sucking gently at it before he moved back to his cheek and then down to his neck in a line of moist kisses. It felt good, being so close to him, feeling the heat of his breath, smelling that mingling scent of coffee and tobacco. Misaki pulled him closer, lifting him slightly off the ground as he buried his mouth in the crook of his neck, suckling his soft skin with a passion, then licking him, leaving a streak of wet across his collar bone.
That famous author moaned gently, and Misaki could feel himself getting hard just from the sound of it, could feel precum leaking from his dick, warm, and then cooled as it lost contact with his body on the inside of his boxers. He rocked his hips, pressing their erections together, separated only by a few layers of cloth, while his mouth found that same nipple he'd rubbed before, making that body beneath him shudder in a way that had nothing to do with tears. It was unbearably hot, and he knew it.
He also knew he couldn't wait much longer, so he just did it—unbuttoned Usami's pants, and pulled them down to his thighs. Kisses lingered on Usami's stomach, going slowly down, while he pumped at that slippery, throbbing erection in his hand, letting precum slip between his fingers. Those strong thighs twitched as he kissed the inside of one of them, tauntingly licking upwards. When that tongue flicked across the head of Usami's dick the other man screamed and bit into his sleeve, more precum bubbling from his slit, his hips thrusting with a will of their own. It tasted good, Misaki thought—surprisingly good, now that he'd let himself accept it, and he wanted more of that taste in his mouth.
His lips parted so Usami's dick could enter them. That feeling of having a cock in his mouth, that sensation of Usami's shivering thighs around him, the pressure in the back of his throat—all of that mixed with that taste—it was undeniably arousing, he thought, as he started to suck him. He let each suck be slow and tantalizing, but have enough pressure to feel good—and he knew what felt good, after all those times of Usami doing that to him.
One of those large hands he loved do much reached forward, long fingers winding through his hair. At first he thought Usami might be trying to guide him, to make him go at the right speed or rhythm, but that wasn't the case—he was just gently fingering his bangs, letting himself feel the light bobbing of Misaki's head. Usami sat up on one of his elbows and those pale eyes locked with Misaki's, refusing to drop their gaze even as he whimpered with pleasure—and holy fucking god that was hot. The younger man couldn't take much more of it, it was making his chest tingle, making his hips buck so he could feel the friction of his own dick against the cloth of his pants. His eyelids fell slightly as that warm feeling swelled in him, making his balls ache with longing.
"Oh, Misaki," he managed, before running his fingers down the side of Misaki's face, putting his thumb in the side of his mouth as Misaki slid up his dick, in effect replacing that hot, tight, smooth erection with the slight roughness of his fingerprint. Misaki sucked on it slowly, then moved to his forefinger, middle finger, and the other two, before moving back to his much-neglected dick, wrapping his mouth around it, sucking it slowly, deeply, each suck making it go further back into his mouth, making it disappear in Misaki's body.
He wet his fingers with some of that precum and let his fingers slip between the author's ass cheeks, pushing his finger in and rubbing him where he knew it felt good. The combined pleasures reduced him to a trembling mess, thighs splaying even further to invite more. He was so incredibly needy, thrusting those thin hips like that, begging to go deeper into Misaki's mouth, begging Misaki's fingers to go deeper into him. Misaki thought he might get off just from the sight of him—at any rate, it was making his heart quicken, making his whole body hot.
"S—stop, Misaki," he cautioned, and pressed lightly at his forehead with those fingers still wet with saliva. "Wait. I . . . want to draw it out," he breathed. He was hyperventilating, that splayed body writhing from Misaki's touch, toes curling, chest heaving with gasps. "Wait. I'm gonna come." It was like hearing his own words, and it made Misaki smile wryly, playfully, as he ignored them and kept right on sucking. If anything, that protest just made him want to go faster, so he did. "Oh! Ah!" Those beautiful long legs wrapped around him, drawing him in, and he knew what he wanted, what he needed, so he kept giving it to him, making him crazy, making him lose all control.
The author's head tilted back, chest lurching upward along with his pelvis, lost in oblivion as his fingers clawed at the carpet, trying to get something to grab on to, but finding nothing. "Ah! Ah! Oh my god! Ah!" It made Misaki endlessly happy to see him in that state, because it was so unlike himself, so wild and turbulent. His eyes were wide open as that thick, white liquid poured into Misaki's mouth, as the climax made him shake, moan, gasp, twisting in Misaki's grip.
The cum felt thick and slippery on Misaki's tongue, but it didn't taste bad, as he let it trickle down his throat and swallowed, but his mouth stayed on Usami's dick—he knew it would feel so good it would hurt, if he kept going, so he did. Usami lurched upward, trying to detach Misaki from him, but Misaki refused to stop. "Ah! No, stop! B—brat! It's too sensitive! Ah! Mmm!" Usami bit his lip and fell back, eyes rolling back into his head, screams sounding so loudly from his lips that Misaki had no doubt the neighbors could hear.
Hell, the neighbors? Probably people in China could hear. And Misaki realized that, at this moment, he didn't care. All he cared about was that writhing mass of pleasure tangled around him, whose body lurched in spasms, face flushed, covered in sweat, skin unbearably hot from what this other guy was doing to him. More moans as a second dose of cum spurted into his mouth, Misaki sucking it out, effectively draining him. When he finally let Usami go, the man was shivering, so awe-struck that he looked almost traumatized, gasping for breath. Misaki wasted no time—he pulled Usami's trousers off down to his ankles, then pulled one leg out, leaving them hanging bunched around his left leg alone.
He unbuttoned his own shorts, letting them and his boxers fall down as he stood over that world-renowned author. He was so wet now he wouldn't even need lube, but he still wanted to prepare him for what was about to come, to loosen him up. He didn't think about it, he just did it—rubbed that quivering entrance in circles, making him gasp before his fingers slid in—first one, and then two, still wet with Usami's own precum and some of the cum which had trickled out of Misaki's mouth. His fingers stretched slightly apart, and Usami was tense—hell, he probably hadn't had it in the ass for at least three years, maybe longer.
"Usami. Relax," Misaki advised him, sounding like he was used to doing this, when really he was just used to Usami doing it to him—but the older man did as commanded, and Misaki felt him loosen, telling him without words that he was ready. As his dick pressed to that tight, hot opening Misaki was just about dying with excitement, wondering what it felt like, being inside another man, and if it really felt as good as Usami made it seem.
At any rate, he knew it would feel good—but when he pushed inside him, it was beyond reason to try and describe how it felt—the heat, that constrictive feeling, the slipperiness of the precum, all of these things were making him melt, making him gasp, digging his fingernails mercilessly into Usami's back as the author stared up at him with half-closed eyes. He tried to remember what the writer had done to him all those many times before, how he had moved, but his mind was being shattered by the incredible pleasure, and all he could do was thrash in and out—thankfully, his body knew what to do, even if he didn't.
His fingers loosened his grip at Usami's lower back as his mind cleared, as the initial shock of feeling such pleasure became normalized, and he moved them instead to Usami's thighs, pulling them up so he could gain a deeper angle. "Ah! AH! Oh, U—Usami . . . Wah . . . Oh, no wonder you like this so much! Ah!" All he got in return was that familiar smirk. It was back on his face, and that made a warm feeling spread in Misaki's chest. After about a minute of it his dark bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his breath hissing in and out from his frantic pace, and he realized that he might be going too fast—that maybe he was hurting him. "Usami . . . should I . . . slow down?"
"No," he gasped, and leaned forward to kiss him. With that kiss Misaki felt his toes curl, his legs clench, his whole body writhe in pleasure, mind gone blank. It felt like his spine had turned into hot liquid silver and was pouring out of him when he came—all he could do was scream, no longer afraid to let his voice out, no longer afraid to call out to his lover as he stared without shame into his eyes.
"Usami . . ." His chest shook as he breathed in. "I love you." The last drip of cum flowed into Usami, the last twangs of pleasure making Misaki's body twitch before dissipating and leaving on the wind. He stayed inside him, trying to catch his breath, and let his hand fall against his cheek, then let his forehead fall against Usami's. Their eyes were still taking in nothing but each other. "I love you. I love you. There. There's fifteen times."
"How many times are you aiming for?" Usami asked, with a smirk.
"I'll stop when I . . ." he gasped ". . . reach infinity." Usami's eyes flexed a little wider, lips lightly parted with a look of awe—a look that was, indeed, innocent, making him look younger than he really was. It was a look Misaki wanted to see on his face more often. "No. Beyond that. To infinity, and beyond!"
"Who do you think you are, Buzz Lightyear?" Usami asked, his face completely deadpan.
"Shaddup!" Misaki's eyes narrowed. "That's how I feel." And he pressed their lips together. He could see it now, that vision in his mind of himself and Usami a few years from now, with a pair of adopted kids, going for a leisurely stroll on a lazy Sunday afternoon—and he wanted nothing more than that.