Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5672353.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Eyeshield_21
  Relationship:
      Hiruma_Youichi/Takekura_"Musashi"_Gen
  Character:
      Hiruma_Youichi, Takekura_"Musashi"_Gen
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without
      Plot, Driving, Unsafe_Sex, Blow_Jobs, Semi-Public_Sex, Bruises, Topping
      from_the_Bottom
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-07 Words: 4994
****** Drive ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'I’m bored,' Hiruma announces at the end of his patience. Musashi is
     focused on the road again, has slipped back into the meditative state
     he seems to attain on long trips, and the radio is between stations
     and refusing to pick up anything but static. 'Let’s pull over and do
     something fun.'" Hiruma likes driving with Musashi but he really
     likes pulling over.
Hiruma likes driving with Musashi.
He’s not doing the driving, of course. Musashi is the safer driver of the two
of them, and after seeing the speeds to which Hiruma urges the van from the
driver seat Musashi has entirely forbidden him from taking the steering wheel
for any future trips. But it’s fun even from the passenger side, maybe even
more so because Hiruma doesn’t need to be paying even cursory attention to the
road. He’s left free to frame the best insults he can think of for the slower
drivers, or to roll the window down and lean himself far enough out that
Musashi growls incoherent protest and lifts a hand from the wheel to catch at
the back of Hiruma’s shirt to drag him back into the main cab. He’s still
smiling, though, a quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth that Hiruma
can see without straining for it, and that’s enough to make even the relative
boredom inside the van tolerable for a half hour.
“I’m bored,” Hiruma announces at the end of his patience. Musashi is focused on
the road again, has slipped back into the meditative state he seems to attain
on long trips, and the radio is between stations and refusing to pick up
anything but static. “Let’s pull over and do something fun.”
Musashi glances sideways at him. “We’ve only been on the road for an hour,” he
reminds Hiruma. “It’s too early for lunch.”
“I’m not talking about lunch,” Hiruma says. He tips himself sideways against
the door of the van -- an easy maneuver without the seatbelt he hasn’t bothered
to put on -- and lifts his foot over the center divider to kick against
Musashi’s ribs. “Pull over, old man.”
“Stop kicking me,” Musashi tells him without heat. He lifts a hand without
looking to push Hiruma’s foot away; without his attention on the action it’s
easy to dodge. This time Hiruma slouches down farther in his seat and kicks
higher, pressing his toe against Musashi’s shoulder to tip him sideways in his
seat.
“Pull over,” he says again. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
That gets him a sideways glance, as it was meant to, but Musashi barely takes a
moment to consider him before he looks back to the road, visibly pulling his
attention away from the press of Hiruma’s foot at his shoulder and the line the
motion makes of Hiruma’s leg. “No,” he says. “We’ll stop for lunch in a couple
hours.”
“Don’t be so boring,” Hiruma commands. He lets his leg slide farther, high
enough that he can dig his heel into Musashi’s shoulder and bump his toe
against the short-cropped hair at the side of the other’s head. “You sound like
a grandfather all ready for retirement out in the country.”
“Stop kicking me,” Musashi repeats, pushing at the inside of Hiruma’s knee this
time to steer the other’s leg away from his head.
“Pull over,” Hiruma says, letting his voice dip into the beginnings of
frustration, now. “Pull over and I’ll suck your cock, old man.”
Musashi’s reaction is sudden, this time, a jerk of his head to look at Hiruma
as his eyes go wide and startled; for a moment his grip on the wheel goes
slack, his attention pulled entirely sideways to the other’s face.
“You heard me,” Hiruma says, answer to the question Musashi isn’t putting to
words. “Pull over. Or don’t you want to get your dick sucked?”
Musashi blinks. Hiruma can see the hesitation behind his eyes, the uncertainty
in his expression, and he can see the moment the other rejects the idea, the
moment he decides Hiruma is teasing and not serious.
“Turn on the radio,” he suggests instead, looking away and back at the road in
front of them. “I’m not pulling over until lunch.”
Hiruma doesn’t kick him again. Hiruma doesn’t move at all for a moment
actually; he’s slouched down against the passenger door, the ridge of the
handle digging uncomfortably into the dip between his shoulder blades, but he’s
distracted even from the physical discomfort by considering and discarding
possible reactions as whip-quick as his mind can offer them. Musashi isn’t
looking at him, appears to be entirely focused on the road in front of the van;
if Hiruma didn’t know him so well he might miss the set edge of his jaw and the
tiny uncomfortable shift of his hips as he leans back against his seat. His
knees are angled wide, one tipped out and relaxed while the other foot sustains
even pressure on the gas pedal; the way he’s sitting Hiruma can see the
sunlight catch off the metal of his zipper and shine the bright of an idea into
his eyes.
“Fine,” he says aloud, sharp and loud enough for Musashi to hear it clearly
even over the hum of the tires purring against the road. Hiruma sits up in a
rush, reaching out to grab at the edge of the seat so he can pull himself
upright; it’s a smooth movement to tip himself forward as he tucks his leg
under himself and presses his knee into the soft of the seat he’s no longer in.
Musashi glances at him again, surprise starting to come clear across his face,
but Hiruma doesn’t wait to see the other’s reaction; he’s leaning in instead,
angling himself over the center space so he can reach and brace himself against
Musashi’s thigh.
“Shit,” Musashi says succinctly, jerking reaction to the sudden dig of Hiruma’s
hand against his leg. His foot slides, their speed dipping for a moment as the
gas pedal shifts, but Hiruma doesn’t look up; he’s occupied in unfastening
Musashi’s jeans as fast as possible with one hand before the other collects
himself enough to push Hiruma off. “What are you doing?”
“You didn’t want to pull over,” Hiruma says. Musashi’s fly drags down to the
tug of his fingers; it’s easy to get his hand under the elastic edge of the
other’s boxers. “If you’re so insistent about it, you can just keep driving as
long as you want.” Fabric gives way to his pull, jeans and boxers alike sliding
down to bare tan skin; Musashi’s hand lands on Hiruma’s shoulder, pushes to
urge him away, but Hiruma shakes it off and leans closer instead to bring his
mouth in range of Musashi’s skin.
“Hiruma,” Musashi says, a warning that jumps high into disbelief as Hiruma
exhales hard against the other’s stomach.
“Yeah?” Hiruma says. “What the fuck do you want, old man?”
“You--” Musashi starts, and Hiruma presses his mouth to Musashi’s stomach to
catch his teeth against the skin. Musashi jerks, shuddering into the sensation
as his words die to a groan, and Hiruma doesn’t have to lift his head to feel
the surge of heat that swells the other’s cock half-hard in the tangle of his
clothes.
“Drive,” Hiruma taunts, dipping down another inch so his mouth is pressing the
top line of dark hair curling just over the edge of Musashi’s undone pants.
“Keep your eyes on the road. Wouldn’t want to be unsafe.”
“Hiruma,” Musashi says, and Hiruma pushes Musashi’s clothes down by another
inch, enough to free the hardening weight of the other’s cock from the fabric.
Musashi hisses at the motion, his fingers tightening to painful force at
Hiruma’s shoulder, and Hiruma slides down so he can exhale hard against the
darker flush of the other’s length. He can see Musashi twitch at the heat, the
head of his cock going firmer with just the promise of the exhale, and Hiruma
grins even though Musashi can’t see the expression on his lips.
“Don’t crash,” he suggests, and then he ducks in before Musashi has time to
offer any further protest. The motion is familiar, a quick slide to suck
Musashi’s cock back past his lips and over his tongue, and Musashi groans too-
loud and shudders, his hips jerking up off the support of his seat as he
flushes harder against Hiruma’s tongue. Hiruma tightens his lips, taking
advantage of the still-soft give of Musashi’s cock to suck the whole of the
other into his mouth at once, and their acceleration stutters again as
Musashi’s foot flexes hard against the gas pedal of the van.
“Fuck,” he blurts, the rough edges of the consonants tearing in his throat, and
Hiruma can feel his mouth quirk on the threat of a smile before he can fight
the amusement back. Musashi’s let his shoulder go to make fists on the wheel -
- Hiruma can feel the strain of deliberate focus through the other’s body -
- but he’s going harder on Hiruma’s tongue, his cock filling in obedient
reaction to the friction of the other’s mouth. Hiruma hums, the most coherency
he can manage with his mouth full, and Musashi twitches against his lips, going
hard enough that Hiruma has to pull back to keep from choking on the heat of
him. There’s an ache at the back of his jaw, the suggestion of pain along the
muscle like a hint of what is to come; it feels good, matches the strain in
Hiruma’s shoulders necessary to keep him balanced as he is, and he doesn’t pull
away to ease it. He leans in closer instead, careful with the points of his
teeth but reckless with the slide of his tongue, and he’s rewarded by a jerk of
reaction through Musashi’s body and a hand dropping from the steering wheel to
grab a fistful of his hair.
He can hear Musashi breathing over him, the other’s inhales going lower and
rumbling over the strain of heat in his chest; it makes Hiruma smile again,
tugs tension at the corner of his mouth, and finally he shuts his eyes to the
tremor of reaction running under Musashi’s skin and lets all his attention come
to bear on the weight of the cock in his mouth instead. Musashi tastes like
salt, with a bitter edge to the flavor like sunbaked dust; when Hiruma sucks at
the head he can feel Musashi jolt with it, his hips rocking up in the beginning
of a thrust he only barely aborts short of hitting the back of Hiruma’s throat.
There’s a surge of salt, precome spilling slick to dissolve on the drag of
Hiruma’s tongue, and Hiruma purrs, braces his fingers at Musashi’s thigh and
digs in hard enough to press his fingernails into the skin, to indent crescents
of color that will cling even after he lets go. Musashi whimpers, his leg
flexing under Hiruma’s hold, and Hiruma knows he’s won even before Musashi’s
fingers in his hair tighten and pull to urge him back and away.
“Get off,” Musashi is saying, his voice raw and trembling. Hiruma twists his
head to shake off the other’s hold but draws back by an inch anyway, enough to
let Musashi slide free of his mouth. The weight of his heat-swollen cock falls
at his hips, the flushed skin damp with Hiruma’s saliva and catching the bottom
edge of the other’s shirt; Hiruma shifts against the edge of his seat, angling
his leg so the seam of his clinging jeans will drag against the ache of arousal
pressing his own cock flush to the front of his pants.
“What are you going to do?” Hiruma asks without retreating to his own side of
the van. He doesn’t look up; he doesn’t need to see Musashi’s face to know that
the other’s jaw is set, to know that his eyes are fixed with desperate focus on
the road in front of them. “If we’re still waiting for lunch I’m going to keep
going.”
“No,” Musashi groans, the tenor of his voice turning the word into more heat
than it deserves, and Hiruma does look up, then, cutting his gaze through the
weight of his hair so he can see Musashi’s throat work on a swallow, can see
the faint color staining heat across the other’s cheekbones. “I’m pulling over,
just give me a minute.”
“Well then,” Hiruma allows, and shoves at Musashi’s thigh to push himself back
upright on his side of the van. Musashi glances at him, dark eyes watching him
go, and Hiruma flashes his teeth into a grin as he slouches down in his seat
and reaches for the fly of his jeans. “As long as you’re pulling over.” His
button comes loose, his fly drags down; Hiruma keeps watching Musashi’s face,
watches the other’s gaze dip to follow the drag of his fingers as he unfastens
his clothes and arches up to push them off his hips. Musashi doesn’t look away
until Hiruma’s jeans are down his thighs, doesn’t even blink until Hiruma’s
curled his fingers around the aching heat of his cock; Hiruma lets him stare
for one stroke, another, and then says “The road” with just enough drawl to
make it a laugh without any more clarification. Musashi jerks his attention
away, hissing a curse too low to be intelligible, and Hiruma lets his throat
tighten on a true laugh as he reaches for the handle of the glove compartment
with his free hand.
“Don’t crash,” he says without looking at the road to gauge the relative safety
of Musashi’s driving. He has more important things to worry about,
specifically, finding the bottle buried underneath registration information and
the emergency flashlight in the compartment. The slick of the plastic makes it
hard to hold onto but Hiruma’s practiced enough to brace his fingers around the
narrowest point just under the cap to hold it still while he catches a nail
under the lid and pushes it open. It’s only as he’s turning it over to spill
the liquid inside towards the opening that he lets his hold on his cock go and
lifts his hand to catch the lube across his fingers. “It’d be such a waste if
we died before I got to ride your dick.”
“Shut up,” Musashi tells him. Hiruma can see the way Musashi’s fingers are
working on the steering wheel, the strain in his shoulders as he hunches
forward like that will get them to a turn-out faster. His erection is showing
no signs of easing; Hiruma lets his gaze wander along the tanned skin laid bare
by Musashi’s rumpled clothes, touches his tongue to his lips as he settles his
attention at Musashi’s cock and slouches down in his seat so he can lift one
foot up against the dashboard and brace himself into an arc half-out of his
seat.
“Keep your eyes on the road, old man,” Hiruma drawls by way of ignoring
Musashi’s command. His fingers are slick, warming fast in spite of the cool of
the liquid over them; he pushes his jeans down by another inch to make space to
fit his hand between the spread angle of his knees, under the heat of his cock
and the weight of his balls. “And pull over soon.”
“There hasn’t been anywhere yet,” Musashi tells him.
“Hope there is soon,” Hiruma teases, and presses a slick finger against
himself, gauging the angle without thrusting in yet. His skin flares hot in
anticipation, his chest tightening on a groan he doesn’t let free; he bites his
lip instead, working his teeth into an indentation against the soft skin as he
looks back up to Musashi’s face. The other’s not looking at him, as promised;
he’s staring at the road with aggressive intention, even the frown at his lips
speaking to how much effort it costs him. Hiruma angles his wrist, drops his
free hand to drag his fingers over the head of his cock; when he thrusts in he
can feel the friction arc electric into the small of his back and arch him
forward off the seat to strain at the air. Musashi makes a sound, a faint gasp
of air as he exhales hard, but he doesn’t look sideways. Hiruma grins.
“You have a few minutes,” he says, kicking his leg farther up the dashboard and
letting his touch sink deeper inside himself. The stretch is shocking, the
friction of his fingers only somewhat mitigated by the lubrication coating
them; he has to lean back against the seat behind him, has to let the soft of
the support take the angled weight of his shoulders. “Then I’m climbing on top
of you whether we’ve stopped or not.”
“You wouldn’t,” Musashi grates.
“You sure?” Hiruma teases. Musashi’s not wrong -- he might like risks but he’s
not stupid for them -- but he maintains a grin anyway, holds the reckless edge
of adrenaline for Musashi’s benefit when the other cuts his gaze sideways.
Musashi frowns at his smile, his eyes going dark with frustration; and then
Hiruma sinks his finger in deeper, tilts his hips forward until his cock bumps
the inside line of his wrist, and Musashi’s attention drops down to track the
shift of his hips instead of the cut of his smile.
“I’m sure,” Musashi says, and he sounds sure, he probably is; he’s the one
person who can see through Hiruma’s facade, if he puts his mind to it. It
doesn’t really matter; his eyes are hot on Hiruma’s skin, flushing him as warm
as if it’s Musashi’s hands on him instead of just his gaze, and that’s enough
for what Hiruma wanted anyway. Hiruma laughs, lets the sound spill to broken
glass in the air, and angles his fingers back so he can push a second in
alongside the first.
“Your risk,” Hiruma says. He can feel the ache all the way up his spine, now,
the sharper when he angles his fingers apart to push himself open. His cock is
going slick at the head, droplets of precome catching against his thumb; when
he presses his fingers over himself they slip into heat against the flushed
head of his cock and burn pleasure into a fire low in his stomach. Musashi
shifts again, rocking his hips against the seat as if the movement will give
him any relief; Hiruma lets his gaze drop, trails his eyes over Musashi’s cock
again, and when he pushes in it’s deeper still, twisting his wrist to the point
of pain so he can thrust harder in search of the friction his body is shaking
for.
“You’d better be ready for me,” he says, the threat turning into heat before he
can even steady the edge of promise under it. “As soon as we’re stopped I’m
going to be on top of you.”
“Soon,” Musashi promises, his words hot and hard as rock. “Just a minute.”
“It had better be fucking soon,” Hiruma manages, his attention skidding out on
the drive of his fingers into himself, his focus melting under the force of his
touch dragging against sensitive skin. He curls his fingers, presses against
himself, and his cock twitches against his half-formed hold, flexing into heat
as his leg strains against the support of the dashboard. “Otherwise I’ll be
finishing myself off.”
“Fuck,” Musashi says, sharp and sudden, and he jerks the wheel so suddenly
Hiruma goes sliding across the seat to be thrown against the passenger door.
For a moment he thinks Musashi’s pulled off onto the shoulder, has given up on
waiting for a more convenient turnout, but then there’s a burst of dust, wheels
skidding on the gravel of a sideroad, and it’s enough, Hiruma knows it is even
before Musashi has hits the brakes to bring them to a halt.
“Good,” Hiruma says, sliding his fingers free even before he braces his hand on
the car door to push himself upright. Musashi is reaching for the emergency
brake, yanking it up so hard it creaks protest, and his hand is on the key but
Hiruma’s faster, maneuvering forward over the center divider with minimal
concern for the paraphenalia in it and less for keeping his knees unbruised.
His boot catches Musashi’s thigh, winning a hiss of sudden pain from the other
with the impact, but Hiruma doesn’t pause, and by the time Musashi has twisted
the keys free of the ignition he’s angling his knee wide over the other’s lap.
“Wait,” Musashi says. There’s a rattle of metal, the keys falling to the floor
to be kicked aside by Musashi’s feet, but Hiruma doesn’t look for them; he’s
reaching for Musashi’s shoulders instead, fisting one hand into a grip on the
other’s dark hair and digging the palm of the other in against the support of
his shoulder. “The back, there’s more space.”
“No,” Hiruma says, arching himself forward, feeling his pushed-down jeans
strain against adrenaline-shaky thighs. “Right here.”
“Let me--” Musashi starts, reaching down to fumble for the buckle to his seat
belt, but Hiruma doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He’s moving instead,
lowering his weight to settle over Musashi’s lap and the hot shape of his cock,
and Musashi’s hand abandons the buckle to seize at Hiruma’s hip instead.
There’s a slick drag of friction, Musashi groaning incoherently as Hiruma
grinds himself into position, and then pressure where Hiruma wants it, the
weight of Musashi’s cock sliding against his slick-stretched entrance.
“Here,” Hiruma says again, tasting fire on his tongue, and rocks his weight
down, letting the force of gravity drive Musashi into him as he falls. His
fingers tighten, clench hard at Musashi’s hair, and Musashi’s hand jerks at his
hip, his fingernails catching to tear a flash of hurt into Hiruma’s skin.
Hiruma doesn’t care; he’s too all-over hot to pay attention to a minimal surge
of pain, too stretched open around the friction inside him to notice the way
Musashi is clinging to his hip as if to steady himself. Hiruma rocks himself
forward, grinding himself closer just to feel the way Musashi shifts inside
him, and Musashi grunts, a low, rough sound that twitches heat into Hiruma’s
cock pinned between them.
“Yeah,” Hiruma says, ducking his head in closer so he can rest his forehead
against Musashi’s. “Like this.” Musashi turns his chin up, angling like he’s
expecting a kiss, but Hiruma doesn’t close the gap; he just breathes hard,
gasps a lungful of heat off Musashi’s mouth, and pushes his weight up over his
knees so he can sink down onto the other’s cock again. Musashi’s hand digs into
his hip, fingers bruising into the skin, and Hiruma does it again, faster this
time and hard enough that the ache of the force jolts up his spine and tenses
sudden electricity against his back.
“Hang on,” Musashi says, but his hips are canting up to meet Hiruma’s downward
motions, his fingers are spreading wider to bracket the whole edge of Hiruma’s
hip. “Let me get my seatbelt off.”
“I’m not stopping you,” Hiruma snaps, or tries to snap, but it comes out caught
into heat in the back of his throat, whimpering high into a moan as Musashi
slides deep into him and sparks the fire in his veins hotter. “Do whatever you
want, old man.”
“Shit,” Musashi says succinctly, and his hand drops from Hiruma’s hip
completely to shove at the buckle again. Hiruma doesn’t try to stop him; he has
what he wants right now, with his arms looped around Musashi’s shoulders and
his body dropping into a rhythm on Musashi’s cock, and even if he’d appreciate
a grip around his own length this is enough for now, the stretch and burn of
his movements enough to satisfy the tight-wound want in his shoulders. He takes
another movement, settles himself flush against Musashi’s hips, and Musashi
growls and shoves the undone seatbelt to the side so it can retract out of the
way. His hand comes back to Hiruma’s hip, his fingers flexing into a hold tight
enough to take all Hiruma’s weight, and then he moves, surging forward out of
the support of his seat and towards Hiruma’s chest. Hiruma falls backwards, his
own shaky balance compromised past saving by Musashi’s speed, and his back hits
the steering wheel, the arc of the handle settling in just against the top edge
of his hips. Musashi is leaning close, his hair falling forward off his
forehead to brush Hiruma’s lashes, and his eyes are dark, shadow and smoke and
blown black on sensation.
“Like this,” he says, and then he rolls his hips up, shoving Hiruma back
against the resistance of the wheel. The support digs bruises into his spine,
the angle arches his back into an uncomfortable curve, but Musashi sinks deep
into him, and when Hiruma’s head goes back it’s to put voice to a moan of
pleasure instead of a yelp of pain. Musashi’s other hand touches his knee,
slides under the angle of it to hoist his leg higher, and Hiruma doesn’t
protest, just lets Musashi pin his knee against his chest with one hand while
bracing him back against the steering wheel with the other. He can’t move
himself, can’t gain enough traction on the seat to effect action of his own,
but it doesn’t matter; Musashi is moving instead, angling his knee wide to
brace against the door of the van so he can fuck up and into Hiruma. The
angle’s sharp, the upward thrust of Musashi’s hips dragging friction into the
other with every stroke he takes, but Hiruma doesn’t protest; he’s gasping
instead, filling his lungs with heat with each of Musashi’s movements and
letting the fire low in his abdomen spike higher and hotter with each thrust.
“Fucking hell,” Hiruma manages, straining for some kind of amusement, the edge
of laughter, anything to complement the trembling reaction quivering through
his throat and aching in his chest. His legs are shaking, the motion
uncontrollable in the face of Musashi driving into him; his fingernails catch
at skin, drag what must be lines of red against the back of Musashi’s neck and
along the curve into his shoulder. “You’re fucking athletic for an old man.”
“Quiet,” Musashi tells him, but he doesn’t sound like he means it; the sound
rumbles in his throat, spills hot over the loose edge of Hiruma’s collar. He
shifts his hold on Hiruma’s knee, adjusts his position; when he thrusts up
again Hiruma’s head goes back, his throat curving itself into a line of
involuntary submission. “This is what you wanted.”
“This is what I wanted,” Hiruma confirms, pulling at Musashi’s hair so he can
drag himself back to upright, can turn his chin down so he can see the other’s
expression. Musashi’s eyes are half-lidded, his gaze fixed at the edge of
Hiruma’s collarbone; Hiruma doubts he’s seeing much, doubts he’s paying
attention to anything except for the rhythm of the movement bringing their
bodies flush together. “Don’t you fucking quit on me now.”
“Hiruma,” Musashi says, his lashes shifting, his eyes closing. There’s tension
across his forehead, a frown settling at his mouth; his shoulders are tense,
his neck strained on effort. “Hiruma.”
“Fuck,” Hiruma manages, and drags at Musashi’s hair, hissing protest at the
inevitable conclusion. “Not yet, not yet, just give me another minute, old man,
don’t you--”
“God,” Musashi groans, sounding agonized, his fingers tensing to dig instant
bruises into Hiruma’s hip and through the weight of denim at his knee. His eyes
come open, his jaw tensing as he braces himself, and he’s hot, he’s swelling
harder inside Hiruma but he’s not coming yet, he’s not-- “Youichi.” And it’s
Hiruma who jerks, who arches himself backwards over the support of the steering
wheel and the dust of the dashboard, his entire body seizing convulsive-tight
as his cock twitches and spills hot over the dark of his t-shirt. He can’t see,
can’t pay any attention to the sunshine bright of the input his eyes are
offering him; there’s only the heat in his veins and the helpless, involuntary
tremors jolting through him as he comes under the hold of Musashi’s hands and
around the heat of Musashi’s cock. Musashi is groaning, the sound of his name
coming at an impossible distance, and he’s still moving, thrusting up through
the last few desperate jolts until his cock pulses and spurts hot into Hiruma’s
body, but Hiruma barely notices the heat or the sound any more than he notices
his vision; everything in him is washed into white pleasure, the electricity of
orgasm quivering through him to leave him shaking and boneless and satisfied.
“Shit,” Musashi says, his voice coming from what feels like very far away. The
hold at Hiruma’s knee eases; Hiruma lets the weight of his leg drop down to
land at the seat. When he blinks his vision clears; some of the strain along
his spine comes into focus, his shoulder aching protest as he starts to sit
back up over Musashi’s lap. A hand closes at his other hip, bracing him still
as he tips himself forward; when he curls his back Hiruma can feel the press of
bruises from the steering wheel against the line of his spine and digging sharp
into one shoulderblade.
“This is a mess,” Musashi comments.
Hiruma slides his hand sideways, fits the angle of his elbow around the back of
the other’s neck. Musashi has dropped back into the support of the seat; his
skin is flushed with heat, a few strands of hair caught to stick to the sweat
across his forehead. He blinks as Hiruma leans in, his gaze dropping to settle
against the other’s mouth even before Hiruma flashes his teeth in a grin.
“Yeah,” Hiruma says, and leans in close to breathe the heat off Musashi’s skin,
to catch his teeth at the edge of Musashi’s lower lip. Musashi groans, a noise
low enough to be protest but too hot for such by the time it hits Hiruma’s
lips, and Hiruma grins and arches in closer, fitting the sharp edges of his
ribcage against the support of Musashi’s chest.
By the time they separate again, they’ve both lost track of time.
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