Kojo, please don’t die.
The childish, round face often so sweet and shy was warped by lust into a mask of dominance and non-negotiable sexuality. Miya stopped struggling, even if his initial attempts had been half-hearted, anyway, after a few minutes. Ryo’s eyes looked like a wild thing ready to use the excuse of its feral nature to get away with something violent. Miya personally hoped that the most pain involved had been the initial thrust, that first push into him—Ryo was thicker than anyone might have guessed, but Miya wasn’t exactly a novice in such things—but he supposed as long as it still felt this good, he could take a little roughing up.
Ryo never progressed to an act of violence, however. The power of fucking Miya was enough. The dominance of having the other beneath him, to feel strong to hold him down, to feel the bones of his wrists kiss together when he squeezed, it was enough. Miya spread his legs because he wasn’t about to pretend like it didn’t feel fucking good to have Ryo on top of him and neither of them thought about how they had been fighting over some stupid bullshit before they’d wound up on the floor kissing. One of those things, Miya guessed later, finding his lighter under the kitchen counter. All the tension of being friends, of being Ryo’s mentor of sorts, it had broken up into hot embers of lust, transformed as the air hit it, into raw passion and a stunning lack of denial and they’d just… started fucking.
It was a little strange at first that Ryo had taken the initiative of the dominant partner, but as soon as his slim fingers had found their slick way into Miya, the older musician gave up pretending like it should have been the other way around and sucked the drummer off while the fingers worked him open.
Now Miya was making what he knew could only be described as slut noises, but Ryo had his mouth fixed onto his nipple and a hand around his cock and was ramming into him like they were the last two people on earth and hoping that rubbing two bits of life together would prove fruitful. Half a dumb thought about peaches and cream buzzed through his head before he was cumming, his ass clenching around Ryo who only fucked him harder and he threw his head back, smacking it against the tile of the kitchen floor, his thick tuft of mullet cushioning him from knocking himself silly.
On instinct, Miya gripped at Ryo’s shoulders as the other finished and he realized they hadn’t used a condom. Oh well. Fuck it. Ryo pulled out and Miya felt a sticky line of cum leak from him and his arms didn’t seem to allow him to let go of the other, pulling Ryo against him. The other didn’t resist, resting his weight against Miya on the floor, panting, shaking, still tense like that wild thing in his eyes, but beginning to unwind, the pressure slowly releasing. Miya found himself lazily playing with Ryo’s hair. “Um,” he said dumbly, wetting his mouth. “That…”
“Shut the fuck up.” Ryo grumbled and rubbed his nose against Miya’s shoulder, hugging him. “It’s whatever. We’ll figure it out later. Just shut the fuck up and let me cuddle you.”
Miya chuckled, and it hurt, the laugh jarring his shoulder blades against the hard tile. “Well all right. But can we cuddle in a bed or on a couch or something? I’m dyin’ down here.”
Ryo pushed himself up on his hands and looked down at Miya, the boyishness back in his eyes with the blush that colored his face. He nodded and pulled himself together, giving Miya a hand and leading him to the couch where they fit together against the cushions. Miya didn’t mind. The warmth was nice and the drunken feeling from the orgasm made him want to feel close to someone. He’d pretend later that it didn’t help that it was with Ryo when either of them cared to play the fucked up game of denial, if they ever did. He’d played the game before. It was part of being gay in their business, in their country. You acted like you’d slipped up, like you’d both been drugged. Never attraction. Never lust. Never intent. Certainly never love. Sometimes truth wandered in between the sheets with lovers but those moments were as rare as winter lilies.
Ryo’s fingers tracked down the valley of Miya’s back and Miya was half asleep by then. “Are you mad at me?” Ryo asked.
Miya hummed and sighed. “No, I’m not mad. Are you mad at me?”
Ryo hestitated. “I don’t think so… can I fuck you again?”
The older man laughed this time, a gravelly sounding thing. “Now?”
Ryo shook his head. “Later. I mean, like, indefinitely. Can I fuck you, can we fuck?”
“Like a thing?”
“Yeah, a thing.”
Miya knew this did not mean that the denial and usual script would remain absent. For now he supposed they could both remain optimistic to something that wasn’t bullshit, something that would work without being coated in the disapproval of social expectation and cultural misunderstanding. His eyes had been shut for a long while and he was very warm cupped up against Ryo. “Sure, we can be a thing.”
Ryo seemed content with that. His hands rested at the small of Miya’s back and the heater kicked on. In the hum of it, in the warmth of each other and the air rolling out of the vent over the couch, the thing fell asleep.
★miya/ryo ★porn-gamesh ★tagged ★shit i write for people i rabbu
Max. 24. Boy. Audio engineer. अहिंसा. Pagan. Writer. Queer. Photographer. Fan of: メリー, MUCC, Dir en grey, Kiyoharu, cali≠gari, Poppy Z. Brite. Loves: music, tea, nature, yoga, wit, art, Doctor Who, Supernatural. Not so fond of: trivial bullshit. Past: fog of clinical depression, crippling anxiety, no self-worth. Present: transitive power of the universe. Future: completely fucking liberated. Follow if you like, unfollow if you don't. Sometimes NSFW (*＾ω＾*)ノ☆
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