Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3424547.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Ishigaki_Koutarou/Midousuji_Akira
  Character:
      Ishigaki_Koutarou, Midousuji_Akira
  Additional Tags:
      Emotionally_Repressed, Denial_of_Feelings, Masturbation, Public_Blow
      Jobs, Situational_Humiliation, Power_Dynamics, Submission
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-16 Words: 2135
****** Honesty ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It only makes things worse that this was Ishigaki’s idea in the
     first place." Midosuji catches Ishigaki in the midst of denial, and
     Ishigaki is honest with himself.
It only makes things worse that this was Ishigaki’s idea in the first place.
It was easier before, when he could seethe and growl from behind the protection
of what Midosuji was making him do. Never mind that he has two years and as
much experience on the younger boy, never mind that he could have quit the club
rather than lingering for what he liked to call abuse; it was still a defense,
some kind of protection from the shadowy want in his own mind. Ishigaki has
always been good at turning away from what he doesn’t want to see, good at
convincing himself of what he wants to believe is true; the problem is when
there is someone who catches him lying to himself.
This time it was Midosuji. Ishigaki had thought he was safe, had thought the
rest of the team had gone home. He didn’t think much about what he was doing as
he curled into a corner of the room and pushed his shorts down off his hips;
another example of avoiding unpleasant truths, he supposes. But when the door
to the clubroom came open to let a smear of sunset yellow illumination in
around Midosuji’s shadowed form, there wasn’t enough time for Ishigaki to feign
any kind of excuse. He had gone still, frozen in horror between panic and
denial of the present moment, and when Midosuji had turned to consider him -
- with his shorts half-off, his cock still unreasonably hard under his fingers
-- the only response Ishigaki could manage was a breathless whimper in
rejection of reality.
Ishigaki had expected, half-hoped, for Midosuji to turn around, to leave and
pretend he hadn’t seen anything like a normal person would have. It was too
much to expect, of course, for Midosuji of all people to act like someone else
might. He had stepped inside instead, leaving the door wide and pouring light
into the room as he came in closer, until the lanky shape of his shadow was
cast over Ishigaki’s form.
“Ishigaki-kun.” It came slow, sticky on Midosuji’s tongue, sounded like a
taunt. “What are you doing?”
Ishigaki couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t make himself move, couldn’t even throw
his free hand over himself to hide from Midosuji’s blatant stare. Even his body
was unresponsive to what it should have done; he could feel panic ice-cold in
his veins, turning the possibilities of the future into desperate focus on the
present, but his blood went paradoxically hotter, his cock flushing harder
against his fingertips as if to draw Midosuji’s attention there.
“Why are you in the club room?” Midosuji had dropped down to a crouch, the
angle still giving him the advantage of height even with the perpetual slump to
his shoulders. His head had cocked to the side, the strange inhuman motion
drawing Ishigaki’s attention, and everything had become clear at once, like
Midosuji’s attention drew Ishigaki’s in turn, swept aside the haze of
inattention that had been his only protection from his own want.
Ishigaki hadn’t thought, beyond that. When he lunged out to grab at Midosuji’s
jersey he wasn’t thinking, didn’t logically plan crushing his mouth to the
other boy’s. He wasn’t surprised when Midosuji had jerked away, breaking his
hold as if it wasn’t there at all, was less surprised when the other had pushed
to his feet to loom over him. The surprise was when Midosuji hadn’t left then,
had just stood staring down at him like Ishigaki was some complex puzzle to be
solved.
Then “You want to touch me,” a statement of fact and not a question, and
Ishigaki had bowed his head and gasped “Yes” with as much certainty as if he
had known, himself, before that door had opened and cast all his self-denial
into painful illumination.
He didn’t have any resistance to offer when Midosuji had turned to the door,
saying “Outside” with so much certainty that it was less an order than a
statement. It’s pointless, with his head still reeling from the realization of
what he wants, the understanding that he stayed because he wanted to rather
than because he was forced to, the knowledge that he’s still so hard he’s
dampening the front of his hastily-rearranged shorts.
There’s no one outside to see them, either Midosuji’s face turned up to stare
into the light of the fading sun or Ishigaki with his head bowed under the
weight of his own desire. It’s late, after all, even their overlong practice
done and the rest of the team members gone home. The bike rack is almost empty;
there’s only Ishigaki’s bike tilted against one side, the bike lock still
holding it safe to the railing in defense of nonexistent thieves.
Midosuji looks around them, as if considering; then he extends a long arm,
points at the bike as if deciding on a means of execution. “There.”
Ishigaki goes. When Midosuji’s fingers close on his shoulder and push, he drops
to his knees, grabs the curve of the lock in his fingers like he’s praying. His
cheeks are hot, warm as if the light is enough to burn his skin, but when he
ducks his head to press against the metal frame the cool does nothing to stem
the fire.
“Ishigaki-kun.”
Ishigaki looks up. He didn’t hear Midosuji move but he’s around the other side
of the bike now, backlit into shadowy featurelessness by the glow of the sunset
behind him. He looks taller than usual, thinner and longer-limbed, the
difference in perspective skewing all Ishigaki’s mental calculations.
“You want to touch me,” Midosuji says again, and it’s less of statement this
time, bordering on the line between a question and childlike confusion.
Ishigaki doesn’t try to speak; he just nods, quick and shattered and desperate.
A hand traces the line of the bike, trails up until skinny fingers can close on
the bike rack itself. “Keep your hands off me,” Midosuji orders, and Ishigaki
wishes he could repress the whimper of gratitude as his other hand hooks into
the top of his shorts and pushes the elastic fabric down by an inch. Ishigaki’s
fingers tense against the bike lock, desperate reminder to not reach out to
hold the other still by force, but he’s leaning in, coming up over his knees in
complete disregard for the way the cement underneath him tears at his skin.
Midosuji doesn’t reach for his hair or his shoulder; he just sets his other
hand against the bike frame, like he’s bracing himself in place, and Ishigaki
doesn’t look up when he opens his mouth to lick against Midosuji’s half-hard
cock.
It’s not fair, like so much else in Ishigaki’s life isn’t fair, that he’s the
one who shudders at the contact, that it’s his blood that jolts into fire at
the way Midosuji tastes. The other boy hisses over him, a weird half-choked
inhale, and Ishigaki can feel the warmth of him starting to turn to hardened
heat on his tongue, but he barely cares. His mouth is hot, his tongue burning
with the salt of Midosuji’s skin, and he’s leaning in closer, twisting his
hands against the lock like it’ll ground him out while he takes Midosuji all
the way across his tongue and nearly to the back of his throat.
Midosuji doesn’t speak. There’s no guidance at all, no hand at Ishigaki’s head
and no spoken commands like those he gives when they’re training. He’s just
standing there, only the resistance of his cock against Ishigaki’s lips to
speak to any appreciation at all, completely passive to the speed and motion of
Ishigaki’s movements. It’s hard to judge his reactions, hard for Ishigaki to
hear the sound of Midosuji’s breathing over the ringing of his heartbeat in his
ears, and in the end it’s easier to let his own reactions guide him. Ishigaki’s
cheeks are flushing dark, the bitter against his tongue turning into raw heat
in his veins to match the burn of self-consciousness, the awareness that their
lack of audience doesn’t mean a lack of danger. His knees are scraping raw on
the ground, he might be bleeding and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care that
Midosuji isn’t touching him and doesn’t care that his hands are against cold
metal instead of sharp-angled hips. His heart is pounding irrationally fast,
his cock as hard as if he’s jerking himself off in time with the movement of
his lips against Midosuji’s length, and maybe it makes it better, he admits in
the hazy honesty of pleasure, maybe it’s the distance between them, the
pressure at his knees and the loom of Midosuji’s shoulders that is setting him
so alight. He’s leaning in too far, the shape of the bike pressing against his
chest and digging into his throat until he’s almost choking, and somewhere in
the hazy distance of his mental landscape he processes that he’s going to take
this bike home, that he’s going to be staring at this frame every single day
during training, the familiar shape a constant reminder of this precise moment.
He doesn’t mean to whimper. The sound he makes is pure desperation, a choking
noise far in the back of his throat, completely selfish and with no
consideration for Midosuji’s reaction. But it makes the other jerk, shudders
through his steady stance like he’s been shocked, and he’s rocking forward,
meeting Ishigaki’s movements so suddenly the head of his cock hits the back of
the other’s throat before Ishigaki can draw back. Ishigaki chokes, his whole
body shuddering with instinctive recoil, but Midosuji is gasping like he’s
actually human and Ishigaki doesn’t pull away. He shuts his eyes instead,
shifts his tongue in a sloppy attempt at sensation, and it feels awkward but
apparently it does some approximation of what he’s aiming for. Midosuji gusts
an exhale over him, leans in farther to cast Ishigaki into deeper shadow, and
Ishigaki pulls away enough that he can swallow instead of choking as Midosuji
comes against the back of his tongue.
Midosuji doesn’t say anything. Ishigaki can hear his breathing, still fainter
than the rushed gasp of his own overheated inhales, but Midosuji doesn’t move
away, doesn’t even move his hands until Ishigaki pulls away. Then he moves,
catching his fingers at the edge of his shorts to pull them back into place,
but Ishigaki is hardly paying attention anymore. He’s ducking his head instead,
unwilling or unable to meet Midosuji’s gaze, he’s not sure which, finally
letting his hold on the bike lock go so he can dig the inside of his wrist
roughly against the front of his shorts. It would be an easy matter to pull the
fabric aside, to give himself the stroking sensation his body is aching for,
but this pressure is better, harder and almost unintentional, almost painful
even as his cheeks burn hot and his breath catches desperate with cresting
heat.
There’s a hiss above him, not quite rejection as much as just a strangely
shaped exhale, and Ishigaki doesn’t need to look up to see Midosuji looking at
him. He can feel the heat of the other boy’s gaze at the back of his neck,
unspoken judgment collecting under his skin like a brand, and he can’t breathe,
he’s flushing infinitely hot with anticipation of what he knows is to come.
Midosuji makes a sound, a low groan of disgust, and Ishigaki’s breath stalls in
his throat, he arches forward to press hard against his arm. The other takes a
step back, like he’s drawing away, and then the inevitable protest of “Gross”
hits Ishigaki’s ears, and everything goes white. He’s coming against the inside
of his shorts, the fabric going damp and sticky as he curls in desperately to
rock harder against his wrist, and he’s whining in gratitude or a plea, he’s
not sure which.
He doesn’t look up after. It’s easier to bow his head to the force of the
presence looming over him, easier to let his breathing steady out of the
stutter of pleasure and into the too-fast gasp of humiliation, the emotion
burning him into something pliant and submissive. Midosuji lingers where he
stands, staring down for what feels like minutes at the top of Ishigaki’s bowed
head.
Finally, “You should have told me, Ishigaki-kun,” and it’s chiding, a reprimand
layered over unspoken threat that drops Ishigaki’s stomach with terror of the
unknown. There’s contact at the top of his head, metal-chilled fingers brushing
against his hair and lingering there while Ishigaki’s skin prickles hot and
cold at once. “You are part of my team, aren’t you?”
Ishigaki shuts his eyes, lets resistance go so all his skin flushes burning hot
with pleasure and embarrassment and submission all together.
When he says “Yes, Midosuji,” he can taste irrevocable honesty on his tongue.
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