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It starts, like most things do, on the couch.
Nakamigawa’s panting into Takeshi’s mouth, underneath him. Takeshi’s thigh is between his legs and his arms are on either side of his head, bracketing him in, trapping him. Takeshi pulls back and is reaching to run a hand through Nakamigawa’s hair when he stops. He freezes. Nakamigawa can see it in his eyes: the instant regret, the fear. He’s half-going somewhere.
“Takeshi?”
He blinks out of his stupor when Nakamigawa says his name. “Huh?”
“Hey,” he says, soft, affected, stomach clenching with worry. “Do you want to stop?”
“No, I, s-sorry, I just,” Takeshi whimpers, “g-give me a minute.”
Nakamigawa can’t get another word in before Takeshi’s lurching off him and stumbling away into the bathroom. He hears the lock slide shut. He presses his fingers against his kissed lips, heart pounding with nerves. When he doesn’t return for ten minutes, Nakamigawa pads over and raps gently on the door.
“Takeshi?” he says, voice soft. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” Takeshi replies, from the other side. He sounds worried. Nakamigawa slides his back down against the door and sits on the floor.
He’s quiet for a second, trying to figure out how to word what he wants to say in a roundabout way, before he murmurs, “I … I’m sorry if I hurt you. I, um. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories for you.”
“Huh? No.” Takeshi sounds surprised. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Nakamigawa blinks. “Then … what is it? Are you not feeling well?”
Takeshi’s quiet for a second. “I … I think I need to think about it some more.”
“Oh, okay. T-that’s completely fine,” Nakamigawa assures. “But, um, would you mind coming out? Or at least unlocking the door?”
“O-Okay,” he says, and Nakamigawa hears the lock slide open.
They don’t talk about it that night, or the next, or the next. Nakamigawa doesn’t want to pry too hard, and Takeshi deserves more than someone who’s so emotionally dependent that they need to know his every waking thought. He’s in his workshop a week later, the dusky evening making shapes through the bay windows, when he hears Takeshi lingering outside. He pretends not to notice, continuing to chalk out the cherry-red fabric he’s working with, until he knocks gently on the door.
“Hey.”
“Mm?”
“Are you busy?”
He turns to see Takeshi standing in the doorway. He looks small, embarrassed. His ears are red.
“Nah, not really. Just starting some panels,” he smiles gently. “What’s up?”
Takeshi fumbles with his hands. “I … think I’m ready to talk. About the other night.”
He nods. “Alright, just gimme a sec.”
He lays out everything on his workbench for later and spins around in his chair before he stands. He leads Takeshi into the bedroom wordlessly and sits on the bed, leaning up against the headboard, drawing his knees up to his chest. He pats the space next to him. Even without touching him he can feel how he’s radiating with warmth. He’s fidgeting more than usual. It makes him nervous.
“Okay. Hit me,” Nakamigawa says.
“What?” Takeshi blurts, mouth agape, and then blinks. “Oh. Right. Um.”
Nakamigawa pretends not to be frightened. He pretends the massive pit in his stomach isn’t there. He feels like he’s always waiting for Takeshi to turn around and snatch his hand back, to finally draw the curtains and admit he felt sorry for him, all this time, and was just trying to figure out the best way to break the news. He wouldn’t blame him.
“I-I think I just got … scared.”
“Scared?” Nakamigawa’s heart falls to his stomach. He’s glad he’s sitting down. It’s much less obvious that his legs are shaking. His voice raises barely above a whisper. “Of me?”
“No! Not of you,” Takeshi insists, grabbing his hand. It’s out of character. His face is full of color. His pupils are jittering. “Of me.”
“I—” Nakamigawa breathes. He feels a little sick. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. A-and, this is probably gonna sound weird, but, please, just hear me out.” He’s looking away. The hand that’s grabbing Nakamigawa’s is hot, clammy, trembling. The other absently scratches the back of his neck. “I, um. Sometimes, when we’re making out, or, y’know—”
“Having sex?” Nakamigawa supplements.
“Y-yeah. I, um,” Takeshi’s voice breaks. “I want to hurt you.”
Blood rushes through him. He feels a little woozy for a second.
“N-not in a bad way, I think? I just—” Takeshi falters, and his breath is shaking, and his hand tightens around Nakamigawa’s, like he’s afraid that he’s going to let go, “—god, Nagawa, I’m so sorry, What an awful thing to want.”
“Takeshi,” he murmurs, shuffling forwards, putting his other hand on his knee, “hurt me how?”
“Like,” Takeshi squeezes his eyes shut, “I-I want to pull your hair. Or give you bruises. Or … o-or I want to throw you around.”
Nakamigawa stares at him. His heart skips for a different reason. He tries not to let it, tries to keep up his smooth, unaffected facade, but he feels a flush rise into his face. The silence between them is taut with implication. He can’t help but imagine it. Takeshi’s hands. His arms, his shoulders, his back, god, his fucking back, flexed with unapologetic, unabashed power, bruising his thighs, his neck, his ass. Making a mark. Staking a claim. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He makes an effort to keep his breathing level as he tries to figure out what he wants to say without sounding like a complete and utter pervert. Takeshi’s eyes are open again. He’s looking at him like a kicked dog - like he’s just waiting to be thrown out onto the street.
“Takeshi, that’s fine. I– I actually think it’s kind of common,” he says. He doesn’t recognise his voice with how light and understanding it sounds. He’s not lying. He’s omitting. There’s a difference. “I’d, um, like that, I think. You doing that.”
The look that Takeshi gives him makes his chest hurt. He looks so sweet, so surprised, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
Nakamigawa tilts his head. “Obviously. I’m into stuff too, y’know! I just– I just want to go at your pace. I never wanna suggest something that would … y-y’know. Do you get what I’m saying?”
He doesn’t have to say the words aloud for Takeshi to understand.
“Yeah,” Takeshi breathes, “I think that makes sense.”
Nakamigawa leans forward and kisses him before he can stop himself. Takeshi presses back against him, easing him forward by his waist. He makes a little noise against his lips. Nakamigawa breaks away and swings his leg over to settle into Takeshi’s lap, smoothing his hands up his chest.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmurs, all sultry, voice edged with scratchiness, “I think I’d be into anything you did to me.”
“Don’t say that,” Takeshi replies. His pupils are so big. When he splays his hands across Nakamigawa’s thighs, his chest goes all tight. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“You really think I’d just say something like that?” He reaches down and leads Takeshi’s left hand up, and up, until it’s in his hair, right at the back of his head, near the nape of his neck. Takeshi’s breath hitches. “Go ahead.”
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Nakamigawa replies, low and soft as silk, “do your worst.”
He leans forward to kiss Takeshi again, hard, gripping his shoulders, and Takeshi cards his hand through his hair, gentle, hesitating. He’s so warm. His heart is beating so fast - Nakamigawa feels it thrum against his wrist. He’s leaning further into him, harder, pushing his tongue into his mouth, pressing him into the headboard, when Takeshi pulls.
He knew it. He knew that he would be into it, Takeshi’s fist in his hair, but he doesn’t expect to like it as much as he does. When he pulls, dragging him further into his lap, closer, all his nerves stand on end. A spear of lightning-hot pleasure lances all the way through him. He can’t help it. A whine rips right out of his chest, wanton and pitchy. Takeshi reels back but doesn’t slacken his hold on him.
“You … I …” he breathes, “t-that good?”
“Takeshi,” he whimpers, squeezing his arm, “please.”
Their eyes meet and Nakamigawa shivers. Takeshi doesn’t ease him forward to kiss him again. He just holds him there, and then watches his face, intent, as he pulls his hair again. He must see the way his eyes screw up, how his hands clench, and he definitely hears the way he’s panting like a cheap whore. Blood rushes to his cock. He knew the weird stuff he dreamed about Takeshi doing to him couldn’t have been all coincidence. He knew it probably meant something. The Takeshi in front of him right now, though - mouth slightly agape, breathing shakily, icy gaze archiving his reaction - is a million times superior to any worthless copy his sleeping mind could have fumbled together. When Takeshi slackens his grip, he opens his eyes.
“You like it.” Takeshi looks as shocked as he sounds. He can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Yeah, no shit.”
Takeshi drags him forward again into a sloppy kiss. His mouth is so hot, so wet, and his fist tightens in his hair like a pulse, beating, wrenching desperate sounds out of him each time. His hairs all stand on end. Nakamigawa can’t keep his hands to himself. He feels so needy, so intense. He skitters his palms up Takeshi’s body and down again.
“Can I touch?” he pants. He’s surprised at how husky his voice comes out - how affected he sounds. Takeshi nods, and Nakamigawa sighs with relief, sliding his palm between them, pressing between his legs. Takeshi gasps. He pulls Nakamigawa forwards against his lips, his other hand slipping around to grab his ass, to grind him forwards against his thigh.
Nakamigawa’s breath catches. He fumbles with Takeshi’s zipper, his fingers uncharacteristically imprecise. He feels so lost, so turned on he doesn’t know how to act. All he knows for sure is that he needs him. He needs him like he needs breath, needs to touch him, needs to repay him somehow. He has his hands in Takeshi’s slacks when he pulls him forward by his hair to bury his face in his neck.
“Don’t stop me,” Takeshi murmurs as he takes the soft flesh of Nakamigawa’s neck between his lips. The idea that he’d try to stop Takeshi would make him laugh if he wasn't so hard. He whimpers. It’s so overwhelming - the fist in his hair, the mouth clamped against his neck, the thigh pressing against him through his jeans. He relies on his sense of touch as he pulls at the waistband of Takeshi’s boxers and slips his hand around his cock. He’s already half-hard. Nakamigawa is flattered. Takeshi makes a noise from where he’s suckling against his neck. And then he bites.
Nakamigawa yelps. Electricity hammers through him. He feels like he’s been struck by lightning. He goes hot and clammy in an instant. Takeshi lathes the flat of his tongue over the mark for a minute or so, almost apologetic, before he pulls off.
“God, y-you bruise so pretty,” Takeshi’s voice is hoarse with arousal. Nakamigawa’s hand flexes around his cock. “You’re like a fucking painting.”
He can’t help but feel shy when Takeshi says stuff like that, all earnest with adoration as he pulls him around by his hair. The dichotomy is intoxicating.
Takeshi lets go of his ass to grind his palm against Nakamigawa through his clothes. He shudders. Takeshi wastes no time getting him out of his jeans and boxers, wastes no time pulling him impossibly closer in his lap. Nakamigawa realises a little late what he’s doing. He keens, twitches, as Takeshi spits into his palm, presses their cocks together and wraps his hand around both of them.
“Jesus fuck,” Nakamigawa whimpers. His hands are so big, and feeling Takeshi throb against him is just a lot - feeling how much this affects him, how hard he is from just pulling his hair a little, from just making out with him in his lap.
Takeshi’s hand is back in his hair. It tightens, forcing his head straight, forcing him to look at him. All his nerves stand on end. He’s panting. Takeshi’s looking at him like he’s art, consumable and priceless. He’s his. His to dirty. To unmake. To remake.
“Makes sense why you get so loud when you blow me,” Takeshi’s voice is gravelly, pitchy with need, and the way he can hear the slick sound of his fist around them both is so obscene, “it’s cause I put my hands in your hair.”
His gut clenches, hard. He whines, hard. His eyes fly open. He hadn’t even realized they’d closed. “Jesus, Takeshi—”
“You knew you liked it,” Takeshi continues, breathless, tightening his grip around them, rolling his wrist, pumping faster, “didn’t you?”
And he can’t lie. Not when Takeshi’s looking at him like that, over the tops of his glasses, like he’s going to take him over his knee and cane him if he lies, like he’ll lose it, like there’ll be consequences.
“Yes,” he sobs, “yes.”
“God,” Takeshi pants, “you fucking slut.”
“‘M sorry,” he can’t help it, can’t help apologizing, babbling like an idiot, hips bucking, voice wet with desperation, “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry—”
Takeshi slides his hand out of his hair and around his throat. He squeezes the sides of his neck, hard. Nakamigawa makes a strangled, wanton noise. He sounds barely human. He feels it, too. He's all hot, animal need. “I … I felt so guilty, a-and so ashamed, and all this time, you fucking wanted it.”
Takeshi’s brows are low and drawn. His eyes are glassy. He looks so ruined, so desperate, everything spilling out of him like this. It makes Nakamigawa want to cry. He feels like, sometimes, the only way to get Takeshi to actually say what he needs is to fuck. To fuck hard. Mean. To let him push him to the brink of unconsciousness, like by the time he feels safe enough to let all his wants pour out, Nakamigawa might be too distracted to listen, or miraculously forget by the next morning. But he always listens, and he always remembers. Every single time.
Nakamigawa’s vision goes fuzzy and dark around the edges as he feels the oxygen struggle to reach his brain. It’s better than he ever could have known. Better than all those times he tried to do it himself in the shower, forehead leant against the cold tiles, cock strained against his stomach, the rush of the water muffling the sound of him gasping. He feels himself smile. His mouth is so wet. He fights to stop himself from drooling. He’s so close. He can’t think about anything but Takeshi - his hand close and tight around them both, the way his dick is pulsing against his own, the way he’s choking him like he’s his fucking possession. He’s reduced down to his barest parts, to his simplest wants. Right now, he’s nobody. He’s nothing. It makes him feel more alive than he’s ever felt.
He can’t speak. He doesn’t try. His body speaks for him. His shoulders shake. His hips start stuttering, start fucking into Takeshi’s fist. Takeshi groans and tightens his hand around his throat. He feels his eyes roll back, feels the undone sound he makes.
”Nagawa,” Takeshi’s voice is hoarse with promise, “I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”
That sends him over the brink. His body goes taut and solid, stilling. He feels electric, effervescent, fizzling over with arousal. When he comes, his vision goes completely black. The low, gemmy light of their bedroom is suddenly shrouded in darkness. He might go unconscious for a second or two but he’s not sure, all that he’s sure of is how complete he feels, coming his brains out in Ojima Takeshi’s lap. He paints Takeshi’s hand with himself, but he doesn’t stop. He’s relentless, squeezing them together, smearing his come around them both. It’s only when Nakamigawa starts whimpering, crying, making pathetic, breathy little noises from overstimulation that Takeshi finishes. His hands tremble, spasming madly, weakening, then tightening, then weakening again. His eyes clench shut. He bites down hard on his lip but Nakamigawa still hears how he groans, breathy and deep and desperate.
When Takeshi loosens his hand from around his throat, Nakamigawa feels more disappointed than he should. It settles heavy in his gut that things might never be the same. That for the rest of his life, he might need Takeshi to choke things out of him. In the sleepy, thoughtless euphoria of his comedown, he really, really hopes he’s lucky enough to keep him for that long.