Hooray for a plotless sarumi story with just- basically making out and fucking. I don't know anymore. Don't make me take a break from writing and come back with this atrocity. I had fun writing it though. So I hope you have fun reading it. Or laughing at it. idk. Anyway. Onwards.
Oh, right. I wrote this for a special someone and if I know her as well as I think I do then I hope she comes across this soon enough. I love you bby.
(image source: 堅 on pixiv)
Two years. They waited two years for this. Two fucking years.
"Saruhiko," lips, tinted pink and delicate like cherry blossoms brushed against pursed, dried, pale ones. "Saruhiko, please."
"No." Goddammit, it should be a sin to be this painfully beautiful. 'If I give in now, I'll—I'll—
I'll hurt you, Misaki.'
"I don't care." It was almost as if those flaming amber eyes were staring past those spectacles, past his head, into his mind. It was like he could read his thoughts. "Stop it. Fuck, just stop." His smaller form pressed closer against him, fingertips brushing against his in a gentle yet cautious gesture of affection. He could hear his heartbeat. No more, no more, Saruhiko, it's been—
A vicious battle of lip-locking. A fight for dominance, a hungry attempt at kissing back all the time they spent without eachother's company. Tongues dancing in a slow, sensual waltz, saliva mixing, tracing one another's mouth so precisely, so accurately, memorizing it. Tugging at the lips with their teeth, hot breath capturing the other and supplying as much oxygen as they could hold with such little distance between them. Small groans resonated from one mouth to the other. And just when they remembered to breathe, when dilated pupils met, they kissed again, this time, slow and passionate. A simple moving of lips against lips. They molded together and fit so perfectly, like they belonged there. And they did. They did.
"—two years," Yata finally finishes his sentence, only to realize the younger boy he's holding onto just said the exact same thing. They laugh, breathless and full of want.
"Have sex with me."
Fuck, he looked too pure for his own good when he whispered those words into his ear, that he immediately regretted telling him that. But much to his surprise, Yata rolled to his side to face him, his fingers absentmindedly clung to the sheets – or as little of them as he could hold onto with the close proximity between them right now – and with a faint scarlet creeping up on his cheeks, bright and vibrant and innocent and no, Misaki, please say no. "Okay."
"I'll break you." He repeated.
"I don't care." He kissed him on the lips. And hell, if Fushimi wasn't blushing already.
"I'll break you." He echoed.
"I don't fucking care." The soft ruffling of clothes scattered around them could be heard, the shallow breathing took over the space of their little apartment. I'm lucky, he thought. No one can see Saruhiko blush like this but him, and he missed this. His midnight blue hair was sticking out at all ends from having lightly tanned fingers run through it all too many times. Fushimi's eyes, devoid of their glasses, were downcast, and Yata had to stifle his laughter when he pressed another kiss to his cheek. Said cheek suddenly felt hot. Those brilliantly long eyelashes, the shadow of his defined collarbones, the colour rushing to his face, it looked simply dazzling against his milky white skin. Yata couldn't hold back anymore. Their bare bodies were rubbing against eachother for so long, getting used to the feeling, and afraid. Until Fushimi felt arms wrap around his slender back and pull him down. And with a glint in the wild yatagarasu's eyes, his long fingers slid down and gripped onto his hips.
The more they grinded against eachother, the newer the sounds leaving their parted lips became. Each took account of the grunts, moans, whimpers their lover made. Gazes, fierce and daring, fixed on one another. Hesitantly, the blunette halted his movements and gave the smaller a suggestive look. A finger nudged at his entrance, and froze from going further because when he glanced down, a small hand had grabbed onto the wrist of the hand of said finger and furrowed brows met raised ones.
"Don't," Yata started. "I want—you."
It took a moment for Fushimi's hazy mind to register that, and when he did—"You single-celled idiot! If I don't prepare you—"
"It's fine! It's fine, so…" He gulped. He didn't mean to raise his voice. Turning his face away, burying half of it into the pillow now flattened behind his head from the many times the taller shoved him down, he mumbled, "Two years, Saruhiko."
For a while, he heard nothing, and his heart sank. He wouldn't be surprised if he ruined the mood. He wouldn't be surprised if Saruhiko thought badly of him, how pathetic he sounded, how desperate—
"Misaki. Look at me." It was unavoidable anyway, because a finger and a thumb under his chin turned the redhead's face to his own. Before Yata could protest, before he could apologize, trembling lips crashed against his, his breath hitched in his throat, their noses ever-so-slightly brushed, and sweat rolled down the side of the younger teen's jaw as he forced all of him inside his partner's heat. He had to groan at how tight he was, he had to control his self-restraint because he was sucking him in, and he could feel those legs wrap around his waist and force him deeper. Eyes shot open during their making-out and he glared down at him, a warning, that if this goes on any further—
"I'll break you." He parted from the kiss, only to be met with another final "I don't care." And Yata was the one to attack his lips this time.
He started moving. It was slow and steady, and he just went in dry for fuck's sake, so it didn't supply any aid in the friction he needed. But hell, the brat was pushing his hips down to meet those small, continuous thrusts, even when they were tearing his insides apart. Whatever self-restraint Fushimi had back then went out the window.
Forceful, rough pounding, stretching him open with each movement of his hips as he pummeled deep into him, the squelching, the slapping of skin against skin coincided with the heavy scent of lust filling the air. He explored all his sensitive spots at different angles, earning cries, screams, accidental slips of 'Saruhiko' each time they broke the kiss for air. Which was rarely.
And Fushimi cried. He cried because his Misaki was beautiful. He cried because his delicate, fragile figure was being broken all over again and he cried the most because he loved it. Yata didn't question it, his own salty tears trailed down his flushed face from the high, the exhilaration, the longing that he waited so long for this and it took him so long to realize.
Their climax was perfectly synced. Fushimi tried to help by wrapping his fingers around the other's hardened flesh, but Yata whimpered, shifting his attention from down there to his own face, his hands cupping the younger's tear-stained cheeks and bringing his face close. And that's when Fushimi sank his fingers into pretty chestnut hair that belonged to no other. Instead, they ended up finishing with a sealed kiss, a simultaneous shudder, mouths parting but tongues remaining finely interlocked, giving way to strangled moans and breathless pants.
"Two years," Yata barely whispered with half-lidded eyes, focusing on how the man underneath him's chest was rising and falling, a hand covering the scarred mark where a certain Red Clan's insignia used to rest.
"Two fucking years," Fushimi spoke huskily, squeezing the shorter boy by the waist, who was currently straddling him. His nimble fingers traced the scars, the touch sending an unintentional shiver down his body.
"Two fucking years and your virginity is finally mine."
A/N: I deeply apologize for the ending. I can't take anything seriously.