Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2037084.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Makishima_Yuusuke/Tadokoro_Jin
  Character:
      Makishima_Yuusuke, Tadokoro_Jin
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Fluff_and_Smut, Insecurity, No_Plot/Plotless,
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-15 Words: 3624
****** Facade ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Tadokoro starts taking slightly longer steps, gaining on Makishima
     with each stride so by the time they cross over into the other boy’s
     room his fingers are brushing against Makishima’s hip with each
     motion of his arm, his shoulder is bumping into the other boy’s back
     as if by accident with each step." Tadokoro gets Makishima to let his
     facade down.
They end up at Makishima’s house, as they usually do. It’s bigger, for one
thing, and there are fewer people in it, for another, and for a third Tadokoro
has never actually seen anyone during any of his visits there with Makishima.
This is a little unsettling, in a general sense, but in light of his current
objectives it’s more an advantage than anything, and when Makishima holds the
door open for him and Tadokoro catches the edge of a smile behind his hair,
he’s not sure that he needs anyone at all but the other boy anyway.
Tadokoro knows the way to Makishima’s room himself by now, but he lets the
other lead, lets Makishima run through his usual offering of water or food or a
movie as if they both aren’t beelining for his bedroom like they usually are.
Tadokoro politely refuses, like he always does, but he also starts taking
slightly longer steps, gaining on Makishima with each stride so by the time
they cross over into the other boy’s room his fingers are brushing against
Makishima’s hip with each motion of his arm, his shoulder is bumping into the
other boy’s back as if by accident with each step.
Makishima doesn’t protest. He never protests, just tips his head down so his
hair covers his face and Tadokoro can’t see the smile that he knows is there.
Makishima leads the way into the room, lets the other boy shut the door behind
them, and by the time Tadokoro is turning back Makishima has composed his
expression into the faint boredom he usually has, has tossed his hair back from
his face so Tadokoro can see the sharp jut of his jaw and the almost-haughty
tilt of his chin.
“We can do whatever you want,” Makishima offers, waving a hand to indicate the
familiar clutter of his room, the stacks of magazines on the table, the shirts
tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair. “Or watch something. I have last
month’s race taped somewhere, if you haven’t seen it yet.”
“I saw it,” Tadokoro says without following the motion of Makishima’s arm,
keeping his eyes fixed on the other boy’s face. When he steps in closer the
other’s eyes flicker to his features and away, Makishima angles his head away
like it’s a deliberate action and not an instinctive method of covering his
face. Still, Makishima doesn’t pull away when Tadokoro reaches out to touch the
curtain of his hair and push it back behind his ear.
“Something else, then.” Makishima still isn’t looking at Tadokoro, not
properly, and the other boy chuckles low in his chest as he leans in.
“Look at me.”
Makishima’s eyes are sharp as he looks up, darting defiance at Tadokoro’s
order, but his mouth is soft and a little scared, like Tadokoro is going to
pull back and declare this was all a huge, extensive joke. The other boy can
feel the tremble when he leans in to press his mouth against Makishima’s, can
feel the shake turn into steadiness and then the tension of a repressed smile
when the larger boy doesn’t pull away. When Tadokoro licks against Makishima’s
lips there’s a breath of hesitation; then the other boy opens his mouth, quick
and sudden, and when Tadokoro presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth
Makishima’s arms come up over his shoulders, angled so long fingers can trail
over Tadokoro’s short hair while Makishima tips his head sideways until his
head is leaning against Tadokoro’s shoulder. It’s an unnatural angle but it
makes Makishima seem like he’s melting, like the fingers against Tadokoro’s
scalp are just resting there instead of deliberate, like the other boy’s mouth
is open in a sigh instead of deliberately.
When Tadokoro sets one hand against Makishima’s waist, the other boy starts to
move under the touch before Tadokoro has even stepped in, backing up in
anticipation of the push the larger boy intends to offer. It makes Tadokoro
smile, the expression spreading over his face until he has to pull back to
chuckle, and Makishima angles his head down to hide the smile pulling at the
corners of his mouth too. Makishima unwinds himself from Tadokoro’s neck so he
can drop back to the bed, lean back over the patterned sheets and let one arm
fall up over his head. It’s probably not intentional, at least Tadokoro thinks
it’s not; Makishima’s watching him but not like he’s waiting for a reaction to
the picture he makes with his hair and his arm and his wrist, just like he’s
waiting for the other boy to join him. Tadokoro takes the invitation in the
other’s upturned wrist, comes in to lean in against the edge of the bed so his
weight tips the mattress down an inch and Makishima slides in against his knee.
“Is this on purpose?” he asks, out of curiosity more than a need to know,
reaching up to gently curl his fingers around the other boy’s wrist. His hand
looks outsized against the thin bones of Makishima’s arm, like he might break
something just by accident or by moving too quickly.
“Is what on purpose?” Makishima sounds very faintly offended; if Tadokoro
didn’t know that that sound is synonymous with confusion for the other boy,
he’d be more concerned. As it is he huffs a laugh, leans in to press his mouth
against the collar of the other boy’s shirt as he says, “Nothing, never mind.”
Makishima lets him press kisses in against his neck for a minute; then he
sighs, wiggles like he’s trying to get away, and when Tadokoro sits up
Makishima does too, sliding his hand free from the other boy’s grip as he does
so he can reach down for the edge of his shirt.
“This really shouldn’t get wet,” he says without looking up. That would sound
like a criticism if it were someone else, but Tadokoro knows to hold off on his
reaction, wait until Makishima starts to tug the shirt up off over his head.
He’s flushing by the time he gets it free; his chin is tipped down but Tadokoro
can still see the red spreading out over the other boy’s sharp-edged
collarbones, which means he must be absolutely crimson behind the curtain of
cover he has in front of his face.
“Okay,” he says. “You can keep going.”
“That’s not fair,” Tadokoro teases gently. His tone gets Makishima to lift his
head, enough that the other boy is watching when Tadokoro starts to undo the
buttons on his shirt with ostentatious flair. “If you’re going to be showing
off skin I can’t let you do it solo.” That gets him a creeping smile, the edge
almost of a laugh as he pulls his shirt open and shrugs it off his shoulders.
“Teamwork is important, Yuusuke, you can’t do everything alone.”
“Of course not,” Makishima agrees. He sounds sarcastic but he reaches out to
touch Tadokoro’s shoulder, his fingers curl in gentle and tentative against the
back of the larger boy’s neck. “You’ve really taken that to heart, huh?”
“It’s as important as training,” Tadokoro says. Without the shirt in the way he
can see the way Makishima tenses, shivers when he touches the other boy’s hip
even before he lets his fingers draw sideways to the front of Makishima’s
pants. “Can I?”
He asks every time. He’s usually sure, or nearly sure, that Makishima is as
interested as he is, but sometimes it’s hard to tell enthusiasm from shyness
from discomfort in the other boy’s face and he wants to be certain. Not to
mention it’s entertaining to watch Makishima’s face go pink, to see the way he
turns his head aside like he’s looking for escape before he says, as he always
does, “Sure.” That sounds as careless as everything else, cool with boredom
more than anything else, but his skin is flushing under Tadokoro’s fingers, and
when the larger boy starts to pull at the front of his pants -- laces instead
of the more mundane zipper, of course it’s laces -- Makishima makes a noise
that is unmistakably a whine and arches up off the bed to press against the
other boy’s touch.
Tadokoro doesn’t bother undoing the fastenings entirely; he doesn’t need to,
only needs to gain an inch of slack so he can work the clothing down and off
Makishima’s narrow hips. Makishima sits up to help, managing to peel the
clothing off his legs faster than Tadokoro would think possible. He lets the
pants fall to the floor -- a clearer sign of his distraction than anything
else, normally he would pause to drape them over a chair at least -- and only
then does he hesitate, as if just realizing the whole length of his body is on
display for Tadokoro.
Tadokoro doesn’t try to be subtle about his interest. He can watch color creep
up Makishima’s shoulder into his face as the other boy stares at him, can feel
the shiver of an inhale when the larger boy leans down to kiss against
Makishima’s waist. The other boy jerks at the touch so Tadokoro hesitates,
looks up to where Makishima is blinking down at him, looking as wide-eyed as if
he’s never seen Tadokoro before.
“Are you okay?” Tadokoro asks, and Makishima nods jerky affirmation.
“That tickles.” He sounds calm but he’s biting his lip to hold back the smile
Tadokoro can see settling in his eyes, and when Tadokoro brings his head back
down to kiss the same spot he wins a shivery laugh out of the other boy. He
doesn’t lift his head, just keeps his lips against Makishima’s skin so he can
feel reaction tremble through the other’s body when he reaches out to settle
his too-large fingers gently against the angle of Makishima’s hip and drags
down over the slender strength of his thigh. Tadokoro always feels a little
like he’s moving underwater when he’s with Makishima, like if he moves too
quickly he’ll hurt the other boy or startle him away. But Makishima is
breathing faster, Tadokoro can hear his inhales coming anxious up over his
head, and when he traces the edge of the other boy’s hip Makishima arches up
off the bed until he bumps in against Tadokoro’s bare shoulder. Even the
desperation of the motion has the same uncanny elegance Makishima exudes
without trying, without realizing what he’s doing.
“You’re gorgeous,” Tadokoro says against Makishima’s skin, pressing one more
kiss against him before he pulls away and comes up on his knees. Makishima
huffs, grins with the faint self-deprecation he offers so much more easily than
sincerity, reaches across to touch the imprint of Tadokoro’s mouth on his skin.
“That tickles,” he says again, and Tadokoro laughs, the sound loud and
delighted and winning something a little more sincere in the curve of
Makishima’s mouth.
“I’ve stopped,” he points out, dragging his fingers slow over Makishima’s skin
before he pulls away and looks down to open the front of his jeans. “Better?”
“No.” Makishima twists sideways, reaches out with one long arm for the drawer
in the nightstand alongside the mattress. “You didn’t have to stop.”
“It’s only for a minute,” Tadokoro points out, pulling back farther so he can
kick free of his pants and toss them aside. He really does feel oversized with
Makishima laid out in front of him like this, the difference in their bodies
even more clear without the cover of clothing, but when he leans in Makishima
rolls back with the bottle of lube in his hand, drapes one arm up over
Tadokoro’s shoulder and pulls himself up off the bed so he can kiss the corner
of the other boy’s mouth. Tadokoro can feel the angle of Makishima’s jawline
digging into his skin, the tension in his lips turning the kiss taut with
expectation, but when he touches Makishima’s hip the other boy goes warm under
his fingers, and when he trails his hand sideways Makishima rocks up against
his hand before Tadokoro has really closed his fingers on the other boy’s
length. When he curls his fingers around Makishima all the tension drains out
of the other boy’s body, he goes calm and boneless against the mattress.
Tadokoro keeps his grip light, moves his hand more in grazing friction than
deliberate stroking, and Makishima purrs encouragement and opens the bottle in
his hand to pour liquid carefully over his long fingers.
He’s better at this than Tadokoro, or at least Tadokoro thinks so. Makishima
insists that he doesn’t care, that it’s fine regardless, but Tadokoro already
feels a little like he’ll break the other boy if he moves too fast or too hard,
and it’s just easier to relax when Makishima takes the lead here. Besides that,
there is something a little funny and a little charming about watching
Makishima’s expression as he tosses the bottle aside with the impression of
carelessness, angles his legs apart with apparent boredom across his angular
features. Tadokoro decided some time ago that this is what embarrassment looks
like, this deliberate remove over Makishima’s features like he doesn’t care
that Tadokoro is watching him work himself open, but even his best intentions
can’t quite hold back the unvoiced exhale that gusts past Makishima’s lips as
his fingers slide in past the second knuckle, the flush that’s gaining traction
over his cheekbones even if he’s not letting it touch his eyes, yet. When
Tadokoro tightens his grip Makishima shuts his eyes, just for a moment, and the
larger boy can see the hard swallow as he fights back whatever reaction he was
going to have. Then he opens them, fixes his gaze on the ceiling instead of on
Tadokoro’s face, but his lips part, and when Tadokoro starts to stroke over him
in earnest he can hear the faint whisper of Makishima’s breathing falling into
sync with his movements.
He’s entirely caught up in that, his mind clear of anything except drawing the
air faster up Makishima’s throat, coaxing out the moan he can almost see
starting to form, when Makishima’s free hand closes on his wrist and pulls his
hand away.
“You know where the condoms are,” he says, fast like if he speaks fast enough
Tadokoro won’t hear the shake on his tongue, the edge of a stutter when he
slides his fingers free and moves to sit up. His hair falls down over his face,
covers his features in a shadow of disguise, and Tadokoro twists away
obediently, gets up off the bed to collect one of the little foil packets. When
he turns back around Makishima has repositioned himself; that initial telltale
head tilt is gone, replaced with one long arm angled behind him to brace his
body up at an angle over the sheets. His legs are spread wide, laid across the
bed like he’s some piece of modern art, and his face suits that of the knowing
artist with no intention of explaining his symbolism. If Tadokoro were less
comfortable in his own skin, the smirk in Makishima’s eyes and the twist of
almost a grimace on his lips would flush his skin hot with self-consciousness,
choke him on his own inhales and destroy the moment. But he is comfortable -
- they would never have gotten this far before if he weren’t -- and this is
familiar enough that he can grin right back while Makishima watches him unroll
the condom over his cock.
“You ready?” Tadokoro steps forward before Makishima answers, knowing what the
answer will be as sure as Makishima knows he’ll pause to ask, and the other boy
collapses back to the mattress, shifts his leg to make room for Tadokoro’s hips
between his thighs and arches up off the sheets, just an inch, enough for the
motion to answer on his behalf. Tadokoro reaches out, catches Makishima’s leg
to keep him up off the mattress, and for a moment the other boy is half-
suspended by Tadokoro’s hold. Then Tadokoro looks down, pauses to line himself
up, and starts to thrust forward, careful but steady, and Makishima’s facade
slips, for just a minute. His eyes go wide, his mouth opens like he’s going to
make a sound -- then his hand comes up, claps over his mouth to hold back
whatever noise was about to escape, and Tadokoro huffs a laugh and slides the
rest of the way forward.
For a moment they are both still; Tadokoro trying to steady his balance,
Makishima trying to steady his breathing so he can pretend he isn’t on the
verge of panting. Then Tadokoro lets Makishima’s leg go, reaches out to brace
himself over the other boy’s shoulder, shift his angle and lean down so they’re
close enough to touch, and after another moment Makishima lifts his hand from
his mouth, replaces his fingers tentatively at Tadokoro’s shoulder. He’s biting
his lip, teeth working unconsciously over it until Tadokoro laughs, and leans
in, and kisses it free.
“Stop that,” he says, the words going so gentle in his throat that they are
more endearment than chiding. The tone draws Makishima’s mouth into a smile
Tadokoro can feel against his lips, even though the other boy has mostly
composed his expression by the time Tadokoro pulls away to look down at him.
Makishima angles one leg up against Tadokoro’s waist, pulls himself in closer
by the point of contact, and when Tadokoro pulls back Makishima arches up to
meet the gentle friction of his next thrust. He’s biting his lip again, but
Tadokoro doesn’t comment on it this time; he can feel the tension in the
fingers balanced at his shoulder, like Makishima’s trying to hold himself in
place from that one point of contact. Tadokoro shifts his weight sideways on
his next motion, settles his weight over one arm so he can reach between them
to give Makishima more sensation than just the incidental friction of their
bodies together.
That’s what breaks the other boy’s concentration for good. Tadokoro can feel
the shudder of reaction ripple through the body underneath him as clearly as
the momentary wave of gasping pleasure that washes over Makishima’s features.
His mouth comes open again, stays open this time; his eyes shut, like he’s
trying to keep the heat in them hidden, but the hand against Tadokoro’s
shoulder is holding now instead of just touching, and Makishima’s other hand is
forming a fist of the sheets under him. Tadokoro smiles, even though Makishima
can’t see how soft his expression is going, and starts building a rhythm,
looking for the reaction he knows he can win.
It takes a while. It always does. Makishima tries to hold himself back, either
deliberately or unconsciously, keeps his eyes shut and his breathing as steady
as he can, like it’s a race and he’s fighting to keep his breath. But Tadokoro
knows how this works, knows to pay attention to the flutter he can see at
Makishima’s throat and the jump of muscle under the other boy’s skin, and when
he shifts his hips to adjust his angle he gets a choking moan from the other
boy before Makishima can think to hold it back.
“It’s alright,” Tadokoro soothes, although the words come out low and rougher
than he intends, drawn tight over the anticipatory heat climbing up his spine.
“It’s okay, Yuusuke, just relax.”
Makishima makes a sound that is supposed to be a laugh and comes out more like
a whimper. The hand at Tadokoro’s shoulder comes sideways, his fingers drag
against the other boy’s short hair as he arches back into the mattress, pushing
himself harder against Tadokoro’s hand. When he takes another inhale it catches
in his throat, turns audible and desperate, and Tadokoro knows he’s right at
the verge. Makishima only ever gets like this when he’s too far gone to
remember how to keep up his facade, too lost to sensation to feel self-
conscious about his reactions. It’s Tadokoro’s favorite part, getting to see
Makishima truly relax into his own skin, even if only for a few seconds. When
he strokes over the other boy’s length Makishima takes a deep, gasping inhale
of inevitability, and when Tadokoro draws over him once more Makishima’s
expression relaxes entirely, the ripple of pleasure washing his features into
the warm relief of satisfaction and turning him impossibly, breathtakingly
beautiful for a moment.
Then he sighs, and self-awareness settles back under his skin, reforming his
mouth into the ironic twist that is bearably appealing instead of crushingly
perfect. But when he opens his eyes there’s still a hint of pleasure clinging
to the blue, heat lingering behind the color, and Tadokoro has to shut his own
against that glow. When he leans in to press his mouth to Makishima’s he can
feel the softness under the perpetual amusement in the other boy’s lips,
pulling his own mouth into a smile before he thrusts forward and the
approaching edge of orgasm forms into a wave and washes over him.
Makishima stays still under him while the heat ripples out into Tadokoro’s
blood and body; the only motion from the other boy is the slow stroke of
fingers against Tadokoro’s hair, idle affection too easy to be deliberate. It
makes Tadokoro smile, reach out to twine his fingers into Makishima’s own hair,
and when he pulls the other boy in closer by his hip, Makishima goes soft under
his touch, like he’s melting into comfort just from Tadokoro’s hand against
him. Tadokoro takes a breath, lets it out, and when he opens his eyes Makishima
is watching him, his expression still showing the last edges of that uncanny
soft comfort.
It lasts a little longer, every time.
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