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Ogata is just barely smiling, felt only in the wry curl at the corner of his lip where he presses it to the deep scar at Sugimoto's shoulder, feels the space it carves into his skin.
"Wish I could've been there for this one," he purrs, lips fluttering and tongue slipping from his mouth with a lithe, feline grace.
Sugimoto hums in reply, a warbling noise of contentment, like waking from a good dream, "Yeah?"
He kneads at Ogata’s cloak where it rests beneath them, the only article of clothing shed by the other man as he had sat by the riverbed, watching Sugimoto shake himself dry before climbing up to meet him. It is a strange ceasefire they have found, but one nonetheless, with Ogata’s warmed gaze drifting along his sun-soaked skin on each occasion it’s bared--they find themselves, the incomprehensible knots of their insides unfurled tentatively in the form of expectant trysts, Sugimoto sat between Ogata’s legs with his naked shoulder blades pressing against the buttons of his uniform.
“Uh-huh. So I could’ve stuck my dick in it and fucked it.” And his tongue flickers, plunging into the divot of the scar, feeling the way the flex of his bicep tightens the flesh about it; Sugimoto is tensing, breathless and stiff. He mutters something, you're awful and ‘s not that deep, and, oh, Ogata feels a jolt of electricity at his wrist at the thought of that, Sugimoto wanting him that way, deep enough to feel all around him. A rolling laugh flits warmth across the swell of muscle, “Would you have liked that, Sugimoto Saichi?”
A ruddy flush traces the cording of his throat and Ogata can feel the skin at his navel, at the folds of his hips and the path the stone-cut musculature of his abdomen warming beneath his hands. He can imagine the color there, too. Not his own stark tone, blood on snow, but the too-human flush of pinks and browns, just a touch of blues where the shadows run the deepest, the slickest. Ogata's pulse staggers in the slightest half-step.
“How did you get it, hm?” He purrs, rubbing vague circles, dragging his nails into those deep, dark hollows of shadow.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Sugimoto gasps, muscle jumping and contracting as Ogata pinches malleable flesh; there is a looseness that comes with pure physicality, body both weapon and self, sinew knit to sinew with the thread of pure, thankless intuition, and, always, Ogata seeks the way to draw Sugimoto from his skin. Viciously, he makes to remind Sugimoto of the distance between himself and his body, to pull him from his element and sensibility. Often, though, Ogata gets the insidious sense that Sugimoto is already aware, perceptions fractured.
“Right there on the battlefield, maybe?” Ogata hums, arsenic sweet, the very sound burning at his lips. He drops his tone another register, lets it rake hot coals across the bared length of Sugimoto’s spine, coarse and indulgent. Still, his voice is smooth, matter of fact and nearly mundane, if not for the husky edge of elated disgust. “Would you have let me fuck it? Unbuttoned my uniform and crawled into my lap until I got my dick in there?”
“Oh, you really would have, wouldn’t you?” Sugimoto sneers, but he’s so, so pink, the tilt of his head demure and near girlish. His thighs tremble when Ogata slides the V of thumb and forefinger to mold against the apex of his legs, each tendon like a plucked wire.
“Yeah, I would have.” He suckles the scar, the wet of his saliva distant from the hot-sticky rush of blood, but still--enough, enough to make them both shiver, for Sugimoto to start rocking his hips into open air with shallow twitches at the base of his molten spine. “Right there in front of everyone. Fucked it real deep, made it split around me ‘til you were screaming.” Sugimoto gasps, licks at his lips with a wet noise that is, this time, just close enough to the real thing; ugly squelch, iron breath, Ogata dizzied with the pulse of heat around his cock. Screaming, the effluent smell of impacted innards and the acrid sting of gunfire, black smoke that crosses Ogata’s face in a single, dark furl.
“Or maybe,” Ogata slides further inwards, using his palms to frame the stiff weight of Sugimoto’s cock, “you got it while they were patching you up?” Sugimoto turns, this time to meet Ogata head-on, ragged breath sticking tines of melty arousal into Ogata’s throat. He nudges the other's mouth away from the dampened skin at his shoulder to press a wanton kiss to his mouth. He’s rewarded with the firm grip of Ogata’s calloused fingers about the base of his cock, the curl of his index and middle fingers spreading and rejoining to feel the steady thump of blood through a vein that rests below, its slight bulge flattened. Sugimoto doesn’t whimper, but it’s a damn near thing, a desperate noise wriggling through the grating at the base of his windpipe.
“You like that more?” Ogata whispers, detached fascination, a smile pursing his lips tight and pleasant as Sugimoto’s breath heats his jaw, panting like a dog. "Have me slip into the med tent after they put you through all that, just to pop your stitches with my cock?" Sugimoto's jaw quivers, the steady heat warbling with the motion. "You're filthy." Ogata says, delirium touched; it is near exotic, to feel the mouths of others echoing through the soft part of his own, pushing their words through his teeth in a shallow, perverse mimicry. He pulls the other hand not cupping Sugimoto's dick back, slides it up the crest of his thigh to teeter against a scar at his hip; seamed, pricked with the shallow remnants of sutures, just like the arcing lines that mark Ogata's jaw. The rocking of Sugimoto’s hips deepens, the pull at his navel tight enough to draw the head of his cock through the knit of Ogata’s fingers, brushing wet over the pad of his palm on each stroke.
“Filthy,” Sugimoto echoes in a pant, the tail end of some derision that Ogata drives from his head with the rough slide of his palm, too dry, unpleasant heat. Ogata rewards him, nosing his way into another wet, open mouthed kiss. Sugimoto melts into it, laps against Ogata’s tongue with a narrow curl, the slide and tuck of it nearly too tight, too precise against the topography of Ogata’s mouth; he can’t help the rush of pleasure it stirs in him, the inane belonging it summons from the embers at his navel. Sugimoto, with beautiful intuition, clamps teeth around the tip of Ogata’s tongue, making him spit around a high, fluttery gasp with the consciousness-wrenching flash of pain, too quick to tamp.
Sugimoto turns away at that, a spark of surprise in his eyes that Ogata curses himself for chasing with the barest tilt of the chin, reluctant to part from the insular world of shared breath and iron taste. He catches, it seems, the fractured second of self-contradiction in Ogata’s subtle wanting: Generously, he shifts from Ogata’s hold and turns to face him fully. Bared skin and pink scars presented to his appraisal, a tandem pulse that shudders between them.
His smile presses flat to his teeth, turns down in an attempt to hide his flustered pleasure. Sugimoto simply grins, ducks forward to kiss at Ogata’s jaw as he climbs into his lap. It is almost juvenile, the way his cock butts up against Ogata’s still-clothed front to smear translucent liquid along the seam of his uniform, too caught in the Eden of their affections to glance downwards and realize his own vulgarity. His mouth flutters gently up the furrow of Ogata’s scar to his under eye: no apology in the tender motion, only a near-gracious responsibility, a claiming. Ogata swallows, where is the familiarity in this movement--the wretched instrument of his body, of teeth seeking flesh and flesh seeking pointless pleasures to ply back against teeth, to knock teeth in for warm holes and wet heat?
He nearly can’t stand it, the warmth it stirs in him and the surrender sucked through his thoracic cavity like a punched breath. Instead, it seems Sugimoto seeks him. He spits in his palm and grasps roughly for his cock, the other hand palming at his waist to pull him even closer--a desperation he excuses through its easy leverage, the way it makes Sugimoto gasp against his skin and spread his legs, wanton. He pulls them back in with an indulgent moan, hooking his ankles at the small of Ogata’s back. He knows this, at least.
“Just come, idiot.” Ogata hisses, jerking him off in full, rough strokes, hand guided by a renewed distaste for the lewd sprawl of the man in his lap, irritated with his incorrigibly fond eyes. Still, he is unable to turn from the next kiss Sugimoto offers. Still lifts his hips just enough for Sugimoto to be able to slide his pants down his thighs the scant centimeters needed to free his own erection, still withholds a whimper when those calloused fingers wrap around him. Sugimoto makes an awkward grasp for Ogata’s pumping fist, a bent-elbow motion to press the two of them together, but Ogata snarls instead, pushes against the cleft of Sugimoto’s ass hard enough that Sugimoto needs to scramble for purchase against his thighs.
“Ogata,” Sugimoto snarls, hands on Ogata’s hip, the word staggering into a choked wheeze when Ogata grips him even tighter in reply, the crank of his wrist near furious. Ogata’s erection slides against the underside of his thighs, skin sparking in gratitude at the heated contact after resting so long against the material of his pants. He couldn’t be trying to… there’s no way he…
Sugimoto blames the wicked twist at the head of his cock for how badly he aches for Ogata to force him open unprepared, to bisect him on his bayonet and--
(He doesn’t recall being this much of a pervert; never in his past has he felt such inclinations, but he cannot find it in himself to disavow Ogata’s sickly magnetism. Perhaps, too, if he can get back there, with him, with the air gone to ash and the trench gone muddy with blood. With Ogata pulled against him and fingers looping his wrist, together, they can…)
“What are you--”
Ogata angles his head down--with Sugimoto pulled so close, there is no need for him to lean any further--and presses his incisors through the sensitive muscle at the base of his neck, cleaving through the cording beneath his teeth until he tastes blood. He whips his head back, teeth threaded with Sugimoto’s blood, face dusted with flush and the flats of his eyes too dark, swallowing.
It is only then, when their gazes catch, that Sugimoto comes, spilling into Ogata’s pistoning hand with a low groan, head falling forward but chin tilting up so he can catch glimpses of Ogata’s vaguely pleased scowl through the flutter of his lashes and the dark spots leaching into his vision.
“Getting inside you,” he mutters, licking his teeth viciously, and Sugimoto’s pulse pounds in his ears with enough heat he’s sure they’re bleeding, another weak spurt jolting his cock from inside the cocoon of Ogata’s fist. He pulls it away, sticky, and rubs a smear of the pearlescent liquid down the length of Sugimoto’s chest. His wrist aches vaguely and the corners of his mouth crimp in displeasure, causing the man above him to whine.
“Fuck me,” he starts, still riding the high of his orgasm, when Ogata opens his mouth.
“Go wash again.” He shuffles his coat off his shoulders in stuttering motions, efficiency unimpeded by the jerkiness of pleasure, “And clean this.” Sugimoto is pushed unceremoniously from his thighs as he tucks himself, still half-hard, into his pants, his jacket thrown over Sugimoto’s head haphazardly. He then mutters something derisive about his weight and gives himself a dusting of the knees--his thighs are already damp and unclean, his hands even more unclean, Sugimoto is sure Ogata is only looking to approximate composure. He clears the pout from his face with a shake of his head, reminding himself Ogata is not so easily won to his wiles as their other traveling companions. Instead, another strategy, gathering himself to his feet and stepping behind Ogata as he turns away and makes to smooth back the stray strands that had fallen in his face during their encounter:
“I don’t know if you trust me to do that, Ogata,” He smiles, pressing his chest against the shorter’s back to soil his relatively clean undershirt with the cum that Ogata had so graciously smeared there earlier. He slips a hand down Ogata’s front with eyes closed, an indulgent smile at his lips as he imagines the vague recoil crossing his marble features, the disgust furling his mouth as Sugimoto’s hands so readily reach for him. “Since I’m incompetent, you know, maybe you should clean…”
“Sugimoto.” Ogata says warningly, and the tone replays in Sugimoto’s mind, layered on memory with an accompanied imaginary flare of the eyes. Subtle, sparking, like embers beneath ash. Yes, he knows exactly how this will go.
And with that, he squeezes at Ogata’s shoulders, pulls him to himself fully and tucks his folding torso in against his so he can shield him from the nick of dirt and underbrush as he sends them tumbling down the bank, splashing lamely into the shallows at the bottom. Ogata near-shrieks as he’s soaked through, a low noise that manages to squeeze past the clamp of his teeth, eyes widening, but Sugimoto howls, a cackle that kicks up into a long, pathetic whine when Ogata’s knee forces itself against the tender inside of his thigh, narrowly missing his still-exposed dick.
He manages a twitching smile as his pained noise subsides, pulls the man to him and loops his fingers around Ogata’s wrist, the older still thrashing in his grip at the shock of cold water that rushes over their reclined forms. A flash of fondness buried there, despite the throb of pain, at the sight of Ogata damp and kicking without any sense of measure or calculation. The two of them, they can...
With his other hand, he forces Ogata’s head underwater. Ogata scrabbles to do the same.