Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8633743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      斉木楠雄のΨ難_|_Saiki_Kusuo_no_Sai-nan_|_The_Disastrous_Life_of_Saiki_K.
  Relationship:
      Nendou_RIki/Saiki_Kusuo
  Character:
      Nendou_Riki, Saiki_Kusuo
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Tsunderes, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/
      Porn_Without_Plot, Sloppy_Makeouts, Rimming, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex,
      Telepathy, Simultaneous_Orgasm, Size_Kink
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-01 Words: 5147
****** Feedback ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "But Nendou’s thoughts are silent as ever, such a perfect match for
     what comes out of his mouth that there’s no need to ignore anything,
     and however alarming that may be on a day-to-day level it’s an
     advantage under the circumstances, when Saiki is looking to lose
     himself to the simple heat of lips on skin and hands on clothes and
     the easy, stupid comfort of physical contact." Saiki loses himself to
     the illusion of normalcy with Nendou's help.
Saiki likes feeling normal.
It’s never anything more than an illusion, of course. Even with his antennae on
there’s a whole host of powers he can’t restrain any more than he can keep
himself from breathing; less, even, since he’s pretty sure breathing is more
optional for him than a necessity. If he really wanted he could just swap the
air in his lungs for the air around him, or rework his anatomy to remove the
need for direct intake of oxygen at all; but while he can work around his
breathing reflex he can’t stop the paralyzing effect of his too-long gaze, or
the constant murmur of telepathy in his head, or the x-ray vision that slides
over his perception if he lets his attention linger too long on a single fixed
point. He relishes the few moments he can imagine himself ordinary, can pretend
for the span of a few heartbeats, a few minutes, an hour that he’s just another
person, that he’s as limited by the scope of a narrow, typical existence as
anyone else.
Nendou helps. This would be an impossibility with anyone else; Saiki has enough
to do with disregarding the low murmur of the thoughts of those strangers
around them, and any kind of romantic interlude with someone else loses all its
charm when their intentions and reactions are telegraphed as clearly as their
thoughts are. But Nendou’s thoughts are silent as ever, such a perfect match
for what comes out of his mouth that there’s no need to ignore anything, and
however alarming that may be on a day-to-day level it’s an advantage under the
circumstances, when Saiki is looking to lose himself to the simple heat of lips
on skin and hands on clothes and the easy, stupid comfort of physical contact.
It’s not as if he couldn’t do this for himself if he wanted. Saiki thinks his
fantasies probably carry more weight and power than anyone else’s on the
entirety of the planet. But there’s too much risk there, too much danger in
accidentally shifting the perspective of the entire world in a moment of
unthinking want, and besides Saiki’s imagination struggles with what it would
be like to be with someone whose thoughts he can’t hear, whose actions he can’t
predict as entirely as if he were settled under their skin. It’s not as if his
preferences come into play anyway, not when he has so few developed ones as-is,
and easy though it would be to persuade some idol or celebrity to humor his
whims the immorality of that is enough to push off any pleasure Saiki might be
able to find in the situation. Far easier to take Nendou, with his excess cheer
and preexisting attachment, and shut his eyes to the other’s unpleasantness as
much as to his own accidental x-ray vision, and let the warm wet of the other’s
mouth on his press him into the illusion of the clumsy mundanity the rest of
the world experiences.
It could be worse, Saiki supposes. Nendou is a sloppy kisser, overenthusiastic
and prone to using too much tongue before Saiki is entirely ready for it, and
his matched inner and outer monologue falls to even more inanity than usual,
until he’s barely forming coherent words as much as groaning Saiki’s name
around low grunts and overheated gasps far louder than they need to be. But
there’s something almost charming about that enthusiasm, Saiki always finds
himself thinking, and maybe it’s the heat in his veins unfolding into
instinctive appreciation and maybe it’s just his usual forced patience with
Nendou finally turning into something near to tolerance, but when Nendou gets a
hand at Saiki’s shoulder to shove him back onto the floor under them Saiki
always goes, always lets himself be forced backwards by the touch that he could
resist without thinking, in other circumstances.
“You’re feeling it, huh pal?” Nendou offers, his voice dropping into a low
range that appears to be what he considers the height of sensuality. It’s not
Saiki who’s feeling it yet so much as Nendou himself -- it takes only a few
minutes of kissing to heat him to the flush of obvious arousal inside his jeans
-- but Saiki doesn’t comment on this any more than he comments on anything
else. He just turns over, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he can move to
lie on his stomach in silent suggestion, and Nendou laughs as if this is answer
in itself and catches a hand at Saiki’s hip to push his sweater up off his
skin.
“It’s fine,” Nendou tells him, pushing a hand down to the front of Saiki’s
jeans so he can fumble the button open and the zipper down. “Me too.” Saiki
thinks about undoing the fastenings for him, to save them both the awkward
effort of struggling free of their clothes before they can continue; but he
can’t hear Nendou’s thoughts, and with his face turned down he can’t see
anything but the floor, and the whisper of other thoughts is going distant in
the back of his head, losing importance as Nendou’s wrist catches to bump idly
at Saiki’s hip, so he leaves his powers unused and ignored. There’s a shudder
of sensation that hits Saiki, an overlay of Nendou’s arousal with his own that
flushes a surge of heat to his cock inside his jeans, and there’s the
disorienting awareness of someone else’s perspective too, a flicker of vision
like Saiki is simultaneously flat on the floor and gazing down at himself in
front of him. But Nendou’s focus is as restricted as his attention span, and at
the moment he’s focused on getting Saiki’s jeans open and off him, so Saiki
just lays still and feels hands not-his working his clothes open and off his
hips at the same time his fingertips tingle with the feel of a button against
his thumb and the cool of a zipper in his fingers.
“Woah,” Nendou blurts behind him, his hand dropping from Saiki’s clothes to
push inside and grab against the other’s cock instead. “Already?” Saiki wants
to protest -- it’s Nendou’s borrowed arousal sweeping through his veins that’s
flushing him so hard under the other’s touch, not the sloppy attempts at
kissing that Nendou spilled over his mouth and the still-damp side of his neck
-- but Nendou’s hand is tightening into a rough hold around him, and Nendou is
stroking up against the heat of his cock with reflexive speed, and for a moment
Saiki is caught between two sensations at once as Nendou’s fingers draw sudden
friction out into his veins and he feels secondhand the surge of heat in
Nendou’s own body, the rush of appreciative arousal that makes the weight of
his cock jump even against the pressure of his jeans.
“You’re so hard,” Nendou tells him, as if this might be news to Saiki, as if he
might need this fact pointed out to him before he can notice the aching heat
pressing him hard against the stroke of the other’s hand and the flickering
desire unwinding up his spine. He thinks about saying something to the effect
of glad you noticed or plan to do anything about it? but the bite of sarcasm on
either would go completely over Nendou’s head, and he’s already dragging up
over Saiki with that continued rough rhythm, hurried and inelegant but no less
effective for its lack of style. Saiki’s legs are flexing against the floor, he
can feel his spine arching and his shoulders tensing as he braces himself
against the faint sound of heat that wants to break free of his tight-pressed
lips; Nendou is wholly caught in what he’s doing, apparently, his ever-flighty
attention now pinned between the flush of Saiki’s cock and the press of his
fingers. He’s working over the head, now, pressing his touch in close like he’s
mapping the difference between his own body and Saiki’s, as if he’s comparing
the fit of the other’s cock in his hand to the girth of his own, and Saiki can
feel his heartbeat coming faster, can feel the gap between his own arousal and
Nendou’s widening to an uncomfortable level. Just hurry up and get my clothes
off.
“Oh,” Nendou says aloud, sounding as surprised as if this suggestion is wholly
unexpected. “Good thinking, pal.” He lets his hold go at once, reaching to
close his hands at the waistband of Saiki’s jeans instead; he’s not
particularly gentle about stripping the other down to skin any more than he was
about the press of those curious fingers, but Saiki doesn’t put protest to this
even when Nendou’s pull tangles his jeans around one knee and he has to lift
his leg so the other can work the fabric free. It’s easier to focus on his
breathing this way, to let the rush of his heartbeat ease back from the
unfamiliar adrenaline that gripped him for a moment, and by the time Nendou is
pulling Saiki’s jeans off his legs and casting them aside Saiki feels nearly
steady again.
“Okay,” Nendou says, sounding as self-satisfied as if he’s achieved some
noteworthy thing by getting Saiki’s clothes off. “So now it’s -- oh,” with the
shock of forgetfulness coming right on cue. “I didn’t bring the lube with me!”
I know. Nendou never remembers and is unlikely to have started now; Saiki has
been expecting this particular revelation for a while. His clothes are in a
heap on the floor, his wallet is in the pocket of them; the bottle is hardly a
valuable item, it would be easy to trade it for a few bills and then swap them
back after Nendou’s done with it. But Saiki doesn’t want to deliberately use
his powers for this triviality, not after he’s committed to doing his best to
imagine they don’t exist at all for the interlude, and likely Nendou will get
the wrong idea about Saiki’s enthusiasm if he thinks the other carries lube in
the pocket of his jeans. That could be more trouble than it’s worth later, if
Nendou gets ideas about ways to pass their lunch break or something, so Saiki
turns his head down against the angle of his arms and heaves a sigh that goes
unheard by his audience. Just use your mouth.
“Oh,” Nendou says, sounding awestruck, as if Saiki has just offered some truly
inventive idea. “Good idea, pal!” Saiki rolls his eyes unseen -- Nendou is easy
to inspire -- and is just about to shift his knees apart while Nendou sucks
over his fingers when a hand lands against his hip, fingers spreading wide to
brace him steady while a thumb digs in against the curve of his ass.
“You should relax,” Nendou says in the tone of one with far more experience
than Saiki knows he actually has, and then his other hand is weighting at
Saiki’s skin too, his fingers tensing to draw the other open and exposed to the
light overhead. Saiki huffs against the floor, starts to turn his head to say
something to Nendou behind him; and then there’s a tongue against him, the
slick heat of Nendou licking hard against his entrance, and his eyes go wide,
his attention fracturing to scatter apart with the touch of Nendou pressing
against him. He should say something, he thinks, ought to offer some kind of
protest or rejection to push Nendou away and off him; but Nendou is just
pushing in closer, his tongue is pressing harder, and Saiki can feel his body
easing to the wet heat before he can think through the reaction. He takes a
breath, feels the pressure of the air tensing inside his chest, and then
Nendou’s sliding into him, his tongue breaching Saiki’s entrance to dip into
the heat of his body. Saiki loses his breath, his lungs empty themselves in a
startled rush he can’t restrain, and against him Nendou makes some incoherent
sound of appreciation and pushes harder to thrust his tongue deeper into the
other’s body. It’s too slick, Saiki thinks, Nendou’s mouth is too warm and wet
for him to even think through the logic of resisting, and he can feel the other
working inside him, can feel the drag of Nendou’s tongue over sensitive nerve
endings as the other licks deeper into him. His body trembles, muscles
clenching in helpless response to the pressure, and he can feel that too,
secondhand through the unthinking connection of Nendou’s skin pressed against
his until he can feel the ripples bearing down on him as if he’s existing in
Nendou’s form as much as his own, as if the tight heat of his body is someone
else’s under his lips instead of the other way around.
“Wow,” Nendou says as he draws back and lifts a hand to finally press in
against the wet of his mouth. With the absence of the other’s touch against him
Saiki can feel the damp over his skin chilling to cold, can feel a shiver run
up his spine at the sensation as Nendou licks makeshift lubrication over his
skin. “You really like it like this, don’t you, pal?” Saiki would protest that
if he could, if he had the voice and the sincerity to manage it; but Nendou’s
spit-wet fingers are dragging against him, teasing against his entrance to
slide in as easily as his tongue did, and all he has to offer is another
reflexive shudder of tension as the other’s touch pushes deeper into him. “Huh,
maybe I shouldn’t bother bringing lube at all.”
As if you ever remember anyway, Saiki would say; but Nendou’s pulling back out,
his fingers dragging friction in their wake as they draw against Saiki’s inner
walls, and he’s gasping instead, choking for air that seems to have absented
itself from around him as Nendou’s fingers work him open. The motion is going
choppy, dragging rough as Nendou falls into an instinctive rhythm; but then
he’s leaning back in, saying “Hang on, pal” before he’s spitting against his
fingers again and licking another spill of wet over Saiki’s entrance. Saiki is
feeling dizzy, distracted, his attention breaking apart between the rough force
of Nendou’s fingers inside him and the borrowed heat of the other’s cock going
slick with anticipation inside his jeans; and then Nendou’s wrist shifts, and
his fingers slip suddenly forward, and Saiki’s entire body jerks with the force
of the sensation that hits him.
“Oh,” Nendou says, his tone straightforward and simple without any indication
of awareness of what he’s just done. “Too rough?”
No, Saiki thinks. You just-- and Nendou’s fingers drive into him again and his
thoughts fracture, his mouth comes open on a groan of heat left silent in the
absence of air in his lungs.
“I’ll just finish opening you up,” Nendou’s saying, his voice distant on the
mental horizon of Saiki’s awareness. He is moving more slowly, Saiki thinks, in
consideration to some half-formed thought of care, but that’s just making the
forward thrust of his fingers an exercise in anticipation, until Saiki can feel
each wave of heat coming for him well before Nendou’s fingers draw another jolt
of sensation through him. Nendou’s mouth presses against his skin again,
Nendou’s tongue drags over him to dip just inside him, and then: “You’re
relaxing really fast today,” inane observation to go along with the addition of
a third finger with the first two. Saiki’s fingers tighten against the floor,
his shoulders flex to strain as he tries to brace himself in place, but he can
feel himself opening to Nendou’s touch twice over, once in the shuddering heat
of his body drawing the pressure deeper into himself and once in the echo of
Nendou’s experiences, in the feel of tension giving way under the push of
clumsy fingers. They two sensations feed into each other, doubling and
redoubling in Saiki’s head, and for a few moments he can’t even pull the one
apart from the other. There’s just the heat, pleasure rising in his own body to
run up against the limitation of Nendou’s still-distant orgasm, until finally
it’s frustration that braces Saiki’s arm against the floor, that brings his
forehead down to press hard against the support under him. Hurryup, Nendou.
“Guess you’re ready, huh pal?” Nendou asks, the question made uselessly
rhetorical by the drag of his fingers as he pulls them back and out of Saiki’s
body. Saiki gasps a breath, feels the relief of settling into the sensations of
a single body as Nendou’s hands pull back from his skin; he can hear the other
working over his belt to unfasten the weight of it, can hear the low murmurs of
half-voiced thought in the back of Nendou’s throat, but he ignores them both,
grateful for the moment to just breathe within the trembling heat of his own
body. He was closer to orgasm than he had realized he was; his cock is slick
against the floor, pre-come spilling from the head to catch sticky against the
surface under him, and his legs are trembling so helplessly he can’t find it in
him to stop them. It helps to shift his knees a little wider, helps to rock his
hips up to raise sensitive skin away from the friction of the floor; and then,
from behind him: “I’m working on it,” shaped around the dull weight of a laugh
in Nendou’s throat, and Saiki realizes what his shift in position must have
looked like to the audience still kneeling behind him. “Just a minute, pal, I’m
almost ready.” There’s a rustle of fabric, denim falling over itself and the
click of metal on metal, and then the wet of Nendou spitting against his palm
and the slick sound of damp skin dragging over itself. Nendou groans, giving
unselfconscious voice to the satisfaction of closing his fingers around
himself, and Saiki presses a hand flat to the floor, feeling his heart race in
anticipation of what’s about to come. Nendou shifts his weight closer, his knee
sliding wide to bump against the inside of Saiki’s thigh, and Saiki shuts his
eyes with the first rush of secondhand heat that hits him, with the sudden feel
of Nendou’s cock pressing hard against the grip of a hand larger and rougher
than Saiki’s own and the purring tension of anticipation for pleasure simple
and straightforward as it never is, for Saiki. He can almost imagine what it
would be like, just for a moment, can see how direct the pursuit of friendship
and affection and even sex must be inside the clear space of Nendou’s mind; and
then Nendou’s hand closes at his hip, and Nendou’s weight tips forward, and
Saiki’s attention is chased back into the sensation of his own body as the
blunt head of Nendou’s cock presses against him.
“Woah,” Nendou says, his voice heavy with the weight of surprise. “You’re
really wet.”
Yeah, Saiki thinks without opening his mouth. That would be your doing but
Nendou is moving without waiting for even the indication of a response, rocking
his hips forward with a low groan to punctuate the stretch of his cock sliding
past Saiki’s entrance. Saiki’s eyes go wide, his mouth comes open on a silent
exhale of heat, and behind him: “And soft,” Nendou’s continuing without any
trace of embarrassment in his voice. “Hey, is that from my fingers?” Nendou’s
still rocking forward, sinking deep even on his first thrust, and Saiki can
barely pay attention to the low note of appreciation on the other’s voice for
the surge of sensation hitting him in a rush.
The first thrust is always a strange one; Saiki thinks it would be enough even
if he were only in his own awareness, if all he had to contend with was the
flare of friction that runs up his spine from the stretch and press of too-much
straining against the inside of his body. But he’s bearing the weight of
Nendou’s sensations too, and what to Saiki is a strange almost-discomfort is a
purr of satisfying tension to Nendou, a slick pull of friction against his cock
that never fails to be far more satisfying than the pressure of his own hand.
It knocks what little coherency he has entirely loose, as Saiki has come to
expect; all he gets from Nendou now is a low groan of appreciation, the sound a
tell for the motion to come a moment before Nendou rocks back over a half-inch
of movement only to thrust forward again. He slides deeper, this time, his cock
pressing Saiki open to untouched depths, and Saiki’s breath spills out of him
in a gust of heat as his body strains to take the breadth of Nendou sliding
deeper into him. It’s too much, he thinks, it ought to be painful, he can feel
the ache of it arching all up the length of his spine; but he can feel it in
reverse too, can feel the way the strain bears down against the head of
Nendou’s cock until it’s his own that jerks towards his stomach, his veins that
go alight with satisfaction as Nendou sinks fully into him.
“Oh,” Nendou says, a open-mouthed sound of complete unintelligibility. “Pal.”
And he’s moving without offering more warning than that, without offering more
thought than that, his action guided entirely by instinct and reflex instead of
the more structured intention that Saiki would be able to read from the murmur
of thoughts in the back of his mind. His fingers are bearing down at Saiki’s
hip, his grip tensing to brace the other in place, and Saiki can feel that too,
can feel the echo of Nendou’s hold in the strain of his fingers against the
floor underneath him. Nendou’s moving with force, the weight of his forward
thrusts enough to demand the grip of his fingers to hold Saiki still, and Saiki
can feel the drag of Nendou’s cock inside him with every stroke, can feel the
reflexive waves of reaction in his own body tensing in helpless tremors around
Nendou’s cock as if it’s his own, as if he’s the one fucking into the grip of
Nendou’s body under him and not the other way around. Nendou’s bigger than
anyone has any right to be, Saiki thinks, the thought coming distant and hazy
around the pattern of the other’s hips moving to drive hard into him; it’s not
that his technique is anything remarkable in itself, but the sheer size of his
cock is enough to pull shuddering heat into Saiki’s veins with every drag of
the head pulling over sensitive nerve endings. Saiki would reach for himself,
would close his fingers into a grip around his length and jerk up over the
flushed resistance to offer some kind of supplementary friction; but he doesn’t
have to bother, not when his shoulders are trembling with borrowed heat, not
when he can feel the reflexive clenching of his body against Nendou as tension
to draw his own arousal higher and hotter.
“Oh,” Nendou’s groaning, now, his coherency fracturing to a drawn-out noise as
much reflexive as intentional. “Oh, oh, oh” and he’s moving faster, bucking
forward to drive harder into Saiki’s body, and Saiki’s breathing is spiking
faster in answer, sticking to the shape of Nendou’s inhales and pulling to
audibility in his own throat. He can hear the raw edge of his inhales in his
ears, can feel the strain taut against the usually-silent motion; it feels like
a shout, to have sound forming itself over rarely-used vocal chords, but he
can’t stop the noises spilling from his chest, can’t help the tiny breathless
gasps forming themselves to each forward stroke of Nendou thrusting into him.
He could stop himself if he wanted, he knows, he could...but he can’t remember
what it is he can do any more than he can spare attention for the low murmur of
far-off voices blurring to unimportance in the back of his head. Nendou’s
fingers are digging into his hip, and Nendou’s cock is driving into his body,
and it’s all too much, Saiki can’t think straight around the rising tide of
heat in his veins, under his skin, aching to trembling anticipation low in his
stomach. He can hear the damp sound of Nendou’s thighs smacking against the
back of his own, can feel the edges of Nendou’s fingernails catching to
traction at his hip, can feel the dull weight of Nendou’s balls swinging
against him with each forwards thrust; over his head there’s the sound of
breathing, rough and frantic with heat, and Saiki doesn’t know if it’s his own
adrenaline or Nendou’s tensing so hard in his chest. He’s gasping for air, his
lungs straining with the effort, and then Nendou thrusts forward and Saiki’s
throat opens up, his chest constricts to spill an “Ah” into audible sound in
the air. His voice sounds strange, the resonance of it odd outside of the
confines of his own head; but Nendou’s groaning, his arousal apparently spurred
on by the sound of Saiki’s voice, and he’s moving faster still, hitting an
inhuman rhythm that leaves Saiki’s breathing dragging into moans with every
exhale he sets free. Nendou can’t continue with this, there’s no way he can
sustain this pace; but he’s sustaining it, if anything he’s speeding up, and
Saiki can feel the rising tide of impending orgasm building along the curve of
his spine in perfect synchronization with what Nendou is feeling.
“Oh,” Nendou groans, “You feel good” as if Saiki can’t feel that for himself,
as if each stroke Nendou takes into him isn’t urging him helplessly closer to
the precipice of climax. “Pal, hey, feel good?” Nendou’s fingers slip, Nendou’s
hips jolt, Nendou’s cock drives deeper. “Gonna come?” Nendou’s leaning forward,
his hand lands on the floor alongside Saiki’s shoulder; Saiki can feel the heat
of the other’s breath ruffling his hair. “Pal?”
“Uhn,” Saiki moans, feeling the vibration against the inside of his chest,
feeling Nendou stroking against the inside of his body, deeper than his fingers
could reach, pressing against him and undoing all the lines between them until
Saiki can’t tell where he is, can’t tell who he is, can’t tell-- and Nendou
groans, his voice breaking over the lowest depths of his range, and Saiki’s
wailing, “Nendou” spilling free of his throat on a high skid of heat as
Nendou’s cock pulses inside him, as his own length twitches and spurts white
stripes of come over the floor. Nendou’s moaning, grunting low noises of heat
as his hips buck forward in tiny, involuntary thrusts as he comes, and Saiki
can feel it, can feel each surge of pleasure running through Nendou’s body and
the answering spike of electricity in his own, can feel the tension that seizes
tight to bear down on Nendou inside him and the echoed ripple of friction for
Nendou and it’s too much, it’s all feeding back on itself, his orgasm is
stretching impossibly long and he can’t stop coming and for the span of a few
brief seconds everything flickers out and away, even the murmur of strangers’
voices in the back of his head eclipsed by the overwhelming force of pleasure
turned over and over on itself to skid to unbearable heights. He’s a grounding
point, a lightning rod, drawing all the force and heat and friction away and
through the whole of his body; and then Nendou groans, his voice low enough to
resonate through the very marrow of Saiki’s bones, and Saiki gasps a whimpering
inhale as the grip of Nendou’s orgasm fades enough to let his own subside.
“Woah,” Nendou breathes, sounding shocked and appreciative and sated all at the
same time. “Pal.” His arm over Saiki’s shoulder flexes, his weight shifts back;
Saiki can feel the drag of Nendou’s softening cock move inside him, has to
close his mouth hard to hold back the moan at his lips into just the outline of
a whimper.
“Oh,” Nendou says, “sorry” and he’s moving before Saiki can tell him not to,
bracing against the other’s hip and drawing back in a surge of friction that
jolts another shudder of heat down Saiki’s spine and spills the last of his
orgasm across the floor under him. Nendou slides free in a rush, the groan of
sated relief at his lips eclipsing the whine of Saiki’s exhale as his body
tenses around the emptiness left by Nendou’s retreat. There’s a spill of liquid
against the back of his thighs, the slick of Nendou’s come dripping over his
skin from his reflexive movement; but more than that there’s Nendou himself,
leaning back in as soon as he’s free to press himself flush against the back of
Saiki’s thighs and against the curve of the other’s spine. His skin is sticky
with sweat, warm and damp in a way that makes Saiki flinch, and his body is
heavy, the weight of dense muscle on his overlarge frame bearing Saiki down
against the floor made sticky by his own orgasm. Nendou’s hand is sliding up
his side, his fingers dragging over ticklish skin, and his mouth is settling
against the back of Saiki’s neck, his breathing rustling warm against the
other’s hair.
“My pal,” he says, the words idle and heavy with his own distraction as he
reaches out for Saiki’s other hand, as the weight of his palm presses Saiki’s
fingers flat to the floor. “Saiki.” He nuzzles in closer, his nose pressing
against the fall of Saiki’s hair as he works his way nearer, and when he sighs
an exhale Saiki can feel the drag of the other’s lips over his skin.
It’s not a comfortable position. Nendou is too heavy, his weight makes it hard
to breathe, and his skin is sticky everywhere they touch; his cock is pinned
between his own thigh and Saiki’s, the thick heat of it softening to damp
between their bodies. His touch is ticklish, his mouth is wet; there’s nothing
of elegance to any of his movements, just the blind simplicity of idiotic
affection guiding the drag of his fingers, the shift of his hips, the press of
his lips. It would be easy to push him off, to lift him by telekinesis or
apport him across the room; or Saiki could suggest something else for Nendou to
amuse himself with, could summon a distraction sufficient to pull Nendou’s
attention away from the idle pattern he’s mouthing against the back of Saiki’s
neck. Saiki thinks about all his options, considers the possibilities and
compares the benefits and downsides; and then he shuts his eyes, and sighs an
exhale, and turns his hand over to interlace his fingers with Nendou’s.
Sometimes it’s nice to feel normal.
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